“Georgia O’Keeffe,” he says almost under his breath.
I narrow my eyes at him. “No, sorry. I’ve never been to an art auction before, and I’ve certainly never purchased an O’Keeffe.”
Stella’s smiling eyes are wide as she takes a long swig of her virgin Bellini. I know what she’s doing. She likes him for me.
“It’s not that,” he says gently, his eyes landing on my mouth. He ever so slightly licks his lips. Good gravy, it’s too early in the day for people to be licking their lips in one another’s direction. “I just remembered one of my clients has run into some financial troubles and has an O’Keeffe that he's expressed an interest in selling. You remind me of it. Someone should buy it for you.”
He blinks at me slowly as I let this sink in. His eyes express a wolfishness as they travel up to meet mine and for the first time I see something real in them. “It would be a wonderful investment for you. If you have kids, a fine piece of art could pay for college, who knows what.”
I straighten myself up. “I work for my money, but thank you.”
He utters a series of apologies in both French and English.
“But that isn’t going to stop me from buying it for you,” Stella interjects. “I bet it would look wonderful in your studio.”
I shoot her a look that says “absolutely not,” and she shoots me back a look that says, “we’re just having fun with a total stranger—relax.”
Fabian smiles at Stella. “That speaks very highly of your friend, if you would decide to give her such a valuable gift.”
Stella raises one eyebrow and dabs a napkin on her lips. “She’s the best.”
Fabian turns to me. “And what do you do in this studio? Are you an artist?”
I shake my head. “I own a spa.”
“Merveilleux! What sort of spa?”
I list off the things on offer, like I automatically do to potential customers. “Swedish massage, mud baths, facial treatments, detoxifying foot baths, hydrotherapy, isolation therapy, yoga, Pilates. The usual.”
Again, with the winking. “Please book a spa day for me, I have not had a decent massage in ages.”
My mouth goes dry when I think of anyone other than me giving him a massage. What is wrong with me?
“It’s in California?” I say.
“Even better. I’ve never been to California and I would love a friend to show me the sights."
I blink at him rapidly and run my hands over my dress to dab the sweat forming on my palms. “I’m not much of a high roller, I’m afraid. I’d probably just take you to In-N-Out Burger and a show at the Hollywood Bowl."
His full-throated laugh sounds like the most sincere thing that has come out of his mouth since I laid eyes on him. “Marry me, belle fille.”
I gape at him before I realize he’s kidding, and all three of us laugh together.
Needing to take the focus off myself, I ask him how he got into the art dealing business. Distractedly, he looks at his watch, and I can't help but wonder if I'm actually a complete bore. Even if I am a bore, it's refreshing to see someone checking a watch instead of a phone.
Fabian seems uncomfortable with my question and I think he’s going to make up an excuse to bug out. I can’t say I blame him; I’m not all that exciting and compared to the women he usually flirts with, I’m probably a 2 out of 10.
Instead, Fabian reaches for two cocktail napkins, removes a fancy looking pen from inside his jacket, scribbles something on the napkin, and slides it across the table to me. I would have thought he could just use his phone to shoot me his digits and a calendar event, but I do sort of like his old fashioned way of doing things.
“The hotel where I’m staying, that is the address. There's a party there tonight, and it has the best views of the fireworks anywhere on this beach—incroyable. I would be honored if you would accompany me, Laney.”
“I, uh, I …”
“Sure, she would,” Stella volunteers. “Just give me all your info, because I’m going to run a background check, of course. I do that for all of her dates. Should only take five minutes.”
Fabian doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Of course,” he says, and writes it out on the back of a business card that Stella hands to him. “Anything for a date with your charming friend. And I will phone my client today about the O’Keeffe and follow up with you.”
Stella is practically giddy with excitement. "Have your guy email me a photo and the amount, and I’ll write you a check.” She hands him her business card, but he doesn't offer one to her, nor does he produce a mobile phone to enter her digits. Now, it's just odd. Does he not have one? Will he have to use the phone in his hotel room to make a deal? Is that what business people used to do before email and mobile phones? I have no idea. Maybe he's just one of those people who likes to unplug from technology while on vacation, I tell myself.
Something strange comes over Fabian’s face but I can’t pinpoint it.
“I look forward to doing business with you, Stella,” he says.
He turns to me, biting his lip. Something almost like regret seems to be clouding his eyes that were charming the panties off me just a minute ago. “And I hope to see you tonight, mon amie,” he says before kissing the back of my hand once more.
Chapter 3
Hugo
I can’t go through with this.
That phony name is ridiculous. The fake French accent was passable, thanks to my own heritage on my mother's side.
I know all this fakery is for the best. It gives these dear women plausible deniability if the feds ever question them about my whereabouts.
But now I'm squeamish about the whole thing. I simply cannot go through with this scheme.
I've never
