A few minutes later, I roll up outside a private entrance for the soaring, dark glass tower of the Baine International building on West 57th. A uniformed valet takes my car while a similarly dressed doorman shows me into the modernly elegant lobby.
The place is bustling with suited corporate types and uptight-looking business executives coming and going from the gleaming elevators at the center of the spacious reception area.
I’m out of place in my jeans and boots and rolled up shirt sleeves, my hair loose around my shoulders. As I cleave through the center of the place, a few heads turn in my direction, though whether in disapproval of the rough beast prowling among them or in recognition of the artist with an equally crude reputation I can’t be sure. Nor do I care.
I’m used to being a disruption, a source of contempt as much as cautious curiosity. I’ve made my fortune off disturbing society’s delicate mores and I do it unapologetically, both through my paintings and my various other business pursuits.
I nod at the pair of security personnel posted inside the lobby.
I haven’t met the strawberry-blond female officer in the black suit and earpiece behind the desk, but I know the tall, chestnut-haired man standing on the other side of her. With his military posture and precise haircut, Gabriel Noble wears his dark suit like a uniform, unsurprising, considering the combat veteran’s service time overseas.
“How’s it going, Gabe?”
“Jared.” He nods back at me as he accepts my outstretched hand in greeting, but there’s an added coolness in his sharp hazel eyes. “Mr. Baine told me he was expecting you.”
“Mr. Baine?” I grunt at the formality. Both Gabe and Nick, and Gabe’s soon-to-be brother-in-law, Andrew Beckham, Nick’s attorney, have been guests at my Lenox Hill house and my various clubs and private gatherings in the past. Where Dominic Baine is practically a brother to me, I’ve come to consider Gabriel Noble a friend, too. “Everything all right, Gabe?”
I can tell by the rigid set of his squared jaw that he wants to say something. Hell, based on the flat look in the former soldier’s stare, he may even want to plant his fist in my face.
“Nick’s waiting for you, Jared,” he says, skirting my question. He glances at his female security associate. “O’Connor, will you call the executive offices and let them know Mr. Rush is here for Mr. Baine?”
Her nod is as crisp as a salute. “Yes, sir.”
Gabe gives me another cool stare. “I trust you can find your way upstairs.”
“Yeah, sure.” Whatever’s got his dick in a snarl will have to wait. I’ve got enough problems of my own to deal with, not the least of which being the reason for my in-person meeting with Dominic Baine.
I continue through the lobby to the bank of elevators and ride up to the executive floor. Nick’s pretty assistant, Lily, meets me with a bright smile as I step out.
“Good morning, Jared. How nice to see you. It’s been a while.”
Her friendliness smooths some of my raised hackles. It doesn’t hurt that the brunette knockout is as nice to look at as she is whip-smart and competent. She fills our short walk to Nick’s office with easy small talk, a skill I imagine she’s mastered over the past handful of years that she’s shuttled visitors, colleagues, and adversaries between the gleaming elevators of the executive floor to the immense, windowed office overlooking some of Manhattan’s most expensive skyline.
Nick is on the phone when we reach the open door, but he motions me inside while he wraps up the call.
“Thanks, Lily,” I tell her as she discreetly departs to leave me alone with her boss.
A moment later, Dominic Baine walks around his large desk to shake my hand.
“I’m glad you called today,” he says, his deep voice matching the sober look in his clear blue eyes. “I wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Yeah, about that. Alyssa Gallo came to my house a few days ago. She told me what happened at the rec center.”
Nick gives me a grim nod. “Have a seat.”
I follow him to the conversation area of his office. He gestures for me to take the gray sofa beneath an impressive Jackson Pollock painting in black enamel, while he opts for a leather club chair situated just to the side of me.
“Before we get into anything else, Jared, I have to tell you that the art program’s been a big success at Chelsea. I can’t thank you enough for sponsoring it.”
I wave off the praise, even though I know my old friend isn’t the kind of man to give it lightly. “I’m glad to help. I really admire what you’ve done, Nick. Not only with the first community center in Chelsea, but at all the others you’ve built in the time since. You’re making a real difference in a lot of kids’ lives.”
“So are you.”
I shrug. “Hey, whatever. It’s only money.”
“No, it’s not only money, Jared.” Leaning back in the chair, he studies me over the tops of his steepled fingers. “If it was only money, I could’ve funded the program myself. It’s your vision that made the art classes possible. Your connections in the art community have helped bring in top speakers and instructors from all over the world to teach and inspire kids who’d never have a chance at that kind of opportunity.”
“Your fiancée’s brought in her fair share of talent, too. And from what I hear, the classes she’s taught have been some of the most popular ones.”
He nods, and only a blind person would miss the pride that glows in Dominic Baine’s eyes at the mention of the
