Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss

Meaning sit with him in the backseat of his car? “That’s all right, I’ll take the Métro.” Another safe bet. “I want to stop at the farmers’ market, anyway.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll let you know what Bernard says.”

Piper watched as he headed to the same café where their afternoon started, moving with his usual careful, deliberate grace. Clearly, her hug affected only one of them. But then, did she really expect otherwise?

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_95b5e43f-5663-5a05-9bdf-d8966c652ec1)

WHEN SHE RETURNED from class the following day, Frederic was waiting in the main salon. “We’ve got a meeting with Bernard in half an hour,” he said. “The car is on the way.”

“We?” she repeated, making sure she heard correctly. This was the first they’d spoken since she rushed off last night, and considering her overreaction to his hug, there was a good chance she misheard. “You’re coming?”

“I have to. I’m invested in the search now. Plus, Bernard has a painting he thinks I might be interested in.”

“Oh.” So she hadn’t heard wrong. Her stomach gave a tiny bounce at the discovery. “I’ll go get ready.”

She rushed through the kitchen, unbuttoning her jacket as she went. Frederic worked fast. Sure, he said he would call yesterday, but she fully expected to be dropped in priority when he got to his meeting. He did say he was invested, she reminded herself. Still, the idea that her errand stayed atop his to-do list left her strangely flattered.

Yesterday’s yellow dress was on the back of her chair. Her one good summer outfit. She’d foolishly assumed she’d be shopping in Paris.

Better than jeans and a T-shirt, she reminded herself while slipping the dress over her head. The skirt was wrinkled from yesterday, but serviceable. Only Frederic would know she was wearing the same outfit. Assuming he even paid attention to what she wore. Grabbing her sandals, she hurried back to the salon.

“That was fast,” Frederic remarked when he saw her. He, she noticed, looked as crisp and perfect as ever in his linen blazer.

“You said to hurry.”

“I’m not used to people understanding what that means. You forget, I spend my day with university students. They have a different view of time.”

He opened the front door and gestured for her to step outside. “Shall we?”

Like many of Paris’s art galleries, the Galerie Gaspard Theroux was in the Marais, the historic district, near the Place des Vosges. Piper stepped into the sunshine with a silent sigh of relief.

“I have to admit,” Piper said as she stepped out of the cab, “I like this section of the city much better.” The business district was beautiful but modern. But here... This was the Paris she dreamed about. “The statues in the middle of the street and the cobblestones...it’s all so...”

“Romantic?”

His drily spoken answer made her blush. “I know, typical American, right?”

“Yes, but also no. This is my favorite part of the city, too. As impressive as skyscrapers are, you cannot top classic French design. Did you know this square is one of the first examples of urban planning? Henri IV was ahead of his time.” He swept his arm wide in an animated arc. “It was also one of the few times all the building fronts were designed the same way. See the arcades lining the perimeter?”

He went on, talking about the different sections of the building, architectural and historical details Piper wished she could appreciate. She was far more entertained by the expression on his face. His enthusiasm was obvious, despite the sunglasses masking his eyes. The way he spoke was reverent. So much lighter than his usual tone, which was so serious it bordered on short, she could have listened to him go on forever. Good thing Chef Despelteau didn’t have such a voice. She’d be so distracted by the way the words dripped off his tongue she’d never get any recipe right.

“For an art history expert, you sure know a lot about architecture,” she teased.

There was no mistaking the pink spots peering out beneath the rims of his aviators. “In my opinion, architecture is its own form of art,” he told her. “The gargoyles of Notre Dame, for example. Or Louis the thirteenth’s statue in the park. I appreciate the effort that goes into creating beauty. When I think of this section of the city, especially, and the disasters and wars it has survived, I cannot help but be impressed.

“Come,” he said, taking her elbow, “Bernard’s gallery is on the western side.” Taking her by the elbow, he led her toward the shaded walkway on the far end of the plaza.

Art galleries and antiques stores lined the sidewalk beneath the arch. As they walked, Piper tried to appreciate the various pieces in the windows, but she was too distracted by the lingering sensation on her elbow. Twice she needed to check, even though Frederic released her seconds after touching her.

“Bernard’s gallery is number thirty-three,” Frederic said. “He often keeps the door locked. We might have to ring the bell.”

“A locked store and visits by appointment. You’re right, he is selective about his customers.”

“He can afford to be.”

“Must be nice. Hopefully I make the cut.”

“You will,” Frederic said with a smile. “You are with me.”

Piper spotted the gallery before he did. A quick tug showed the door to be unlocked. As Frederic opened it wide, a bell tinkled overhead.

“Bonjour!” Bernard Theroux appeared from the back of the gallery. He was a tall, slender man with a wispy gray mustache and thinning gray hair that he wore combed back. The moment he saw Frederic, his porcelain features broke into a grin and he began speaking in rapid French, far too fast for Piper to keep up.

“I’m sorry,” he said, switching to perfect English. “I was lecturing someone about being a stranger.”

“And I was explaining how busy work has been.”

“I can vouch for that,” Piper remarked. “He’s hardly ever home.” The comment made her sound like a disgruntled wife. “I mean, he works a lot.” That didn’t sound much better.

Thankfully, the gallery owner was more interested in dragging Frederic toward one of the paintings. “Like I told you on the phone, you are going to love this piece. He’s a new artist out of Prague—I discovered him on my last trip. Wait until you see what he does with shadow.”

“I’m sure it’s spectacular,” Frederic said. “But before I look at anything, Piper had some questions she wanted to ask. About a friend of your father’s.”

Although his sigh said he’d rather talk about the painter from Prague, Bernard turned to Piper. “Of course. Although like I told Frederic, my father had a lot of painter friends over the years. If it was before I was born, I doubt I can help you.”

“He wasn’t only a friend—he was possibly a client,” Piper replied. “His sister thinks your father sold one or two of his paintings.”

She reached into her purse for her cell phone. Patience had emailed her a snapshot that featured one of the paintings. “I’m hoping that a record of the sale still exists. The artist’s name was Nigel Rougeau. The painting would have looked like this one.”

She held out her phone so he could see the image. Instantly, Bernard’s eyes became saucers.

“Dear God, I don’t believe it. This is the painting you’re looking for? This nude?”

“Yes?” Although she suddenly wasn’t sure she should say so. The gleam in Bernard’s eyes made her nervous. “Why?”

“I grew up looking at that woman.”

“You—you did?”

“Yes, she hung in our dining room.”

No way. Piper couldn’t believe her good luck. She’d been prepared to strike out, and here the man was saying he’d seen the painting. “Does your father still have the painting?”

Bernard shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I sold most of the collection when we closed down his house. To pay his expenses. The nude was sold with the others.”

She should have known the search wouldn’t end easily. Still, there was hope. “You wouldn’t know the name of the man who bought it, would you?” she asked.

“I keep records for every painting,” Bernard replied with a sniff.