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I hate that I still feel overwhelmed by him.
To calm my nerves, I smooth a hand down the front of my fitted Chanel dress as I take in the art on the walls behind him.
Aaron’s collages serve as a reminder.
This is my world.
Not his.
I nod, relenting. “Right this way.”
Chapter Nine
Emmett
The girl is bold, I’ll give her that.
She has my full attention.
I can’t remember the last time someone dared to give me unsolicited advice. Most people know better. Employees at GHV have been fired for less.
The way she spoke to me…the spark in her eyes—it was admirable to say the least. I get the impression she could face down the devil and walk away from the encounter with little more than soot stains on her clothes, but as much entertainment as that encounter would provide, I’d hate to see it. I happen to enjoy what she’s wearing. Her short black dress hugs her petite frame tightly and does a fine job of revealing her long shapely legs.
She’s walking slightly in front of me, leading me around the gallery.
The experience is surreal.
I know my place in the world; I learned it in infancy. My father is the eighth richest man in the world depending on the day and the markets. I’m untouchable, beyond reproach. People cower at my feet. Grown men shiver in my company, and it’s not because I’ll run to Papa if they do something wrong. I’m the one they fear. I’m worse than he is.
If this girl knew better, she’d be running instead of walking. She’d deliver an apology to me on behalf of her gallery and beg me for my business. She’d yield on bended knees with a quivering bottom lip.
As we walk, I recall her demand that I drop my designers, and I have to fight another smile. Her entire speech was unexpected to say the least. It was like hearing a lion’s roar come from a kitten’s mouth.
A kitten, yes. Something about her is distinctly feline and fierce.
She turns back to assure herself I’m still trailing after her, and I’m granted another peek at her striking eyes, notable not only because of their color, though the pale green is quite rare, but because they’re curved up at the edges in such an alluring way.
She stops in front of a large abstract red and white collage with newspaper clippings that are hard to read from where I stand at a slight distance, trying to take the piece in. More than that, I have a hard time peeling my eyes off her to actually take in the art.
She gives me a moment to settle in front of it before she begins to speak, her tone no less confident, her chin as high as ever.
“This is one of Aaron’s most compelling pieces. It’s mixed media and newsprint on canvas. It’s approximately seven feet by five feet, signed en verso. Though it might not be obvious at first, the collage mirrors Picasso’s Guernica and is meant to be a powerful anti-war symbol. The large swathes of red portray the suffering wrought by violence and chaos. If you step closer, you’ll see that layered among the red paint and paper are newspaper clippings Aaron has managed to collect, all from April 26, 1937—the day Guernica was bombed by Germany during World War II. If you’ve seen Picasso’s work, you might recall that there is newsprint on the painting as well to reflect how Picasso first learned of the massacre.”
I nod. “As a Frenchman, I know the work well. He painted it in Paris during the German occupation. I’m sure you’ve heard the story of when the German soldiers first encountered the painting.”
Her green eyes spark as she shakes her head.
Ah, a chance to tip the scales a bit. I can’t resist.
I take a step toward her, keeping my voice low. “In 1940, the Germans occupying Paris decided to make an inventory of all bank vaults in the city, and Picasso was summoned to the Banque Nationale du Commerce et de l'Industrie where he had two vaults next to Henri Matisse’s.”
She nods as recollection dawns. “Yes, of course. He saved countless works from being destroyed during the occupation. Renoirs, Cézannes…”
I nod. Good girl.
“Picasso showed the soldiers the contents of his vault, and after he deceived them and said with confidence that the paintings housed within were worth next to nothing”—her lips curl into a smile at hearing the delicious lie—“the investigators decided to visit Picasso’s apartment, where they came across a photographic reproduction of Guernica. Legend says the soldiers inquired about the painting, asking Picasso, ‘Did you do this?’ to which he replied, ‘No, you did this.’”
Her eyes widen in understanding.
“Your story gave me chills,” she admits, looking down at her arms where the hair is standing on end.
I’ve had nearly the same reaction, though purely because of her.
