Tom reached out and touched the edge of the canvas with the very tips of his fingers, gently, tenderly. But then his hand dropped limply to his side. “I’ve got to sell it,” he said with a sigh. “My landlord is threatening to evict me. He’s a very unpleasant man. He doesn’t understand about art at all—”
The bell jangled as someone entered Vogel’s. Tom stopped talking, looking toward the door. Ellie turned, a smile forming, only to freeze when she recognized the man walking toward her.
Garek Wisnewski.
What on earth was he doing here? It had been a week since the ugly scene in his office, and she’d done her best to put him out of her mind. But she couldn’t help thinking about him every once in a while—like when she’d gone to her cousin Vincente’s house last weekend and saw his daughter wearing the tiny tennis shoes she’d bought her for Christmas. Or when she’d seen the towering gray walls of Wisnewski Industries through the train window on her way to a job a few days ago. Or when she’d looked in the junk drawer this morning and seen the crumpled five-thousand-dollar check shoved in the back that she hadn’t quite been able to bring herself to cash, ruthless businesswoman or not.
Every time she thought of him, she remembered the ugly necklace and his rudeness when she’d returned it, and she grew angry all over again.
She clutched the gallery keys lying on the counter, wishing she’d locked the door. Had he come here to make another crude proposition?
“Excuse me,” she muttered to Tom, moving out from behind the counter.
Tom sidled toward the door. “I’d b-better go,” he murmured.
Ellie restrained an urge to grab his arm and cling to him—she didn’t want to be left alone with Garek Wisnewski. But she couldn’t do that to Tom. Tom was painfully shy around most people, and well-dressed, high-powered businessmen were the type he most dreaded.
Did Garek Wisnewski always wear a suit? she wondered as she approached him. His clothes made a valiant effort to give him a civilized veneer. They couldn’t disguise, however, the grainy texture of imminent five-o’clock shadow on his jaw—evidence of barely restrained, more primitive male tendencies.
Like predation. Intimidation. Domination.
“Good evening, Mr. Wisnewski.” She kept her tone polite, but cool. Not an easy feat considering the way her senses were humming on full defensive alert. She was conscious of her own clothes—a red cashmere sweater with a tendency to pill, a short black skirt, black tights and chunky black platforms. “May I help you?”
He eyed her consideringly—probably planning to give her some more wardrobe advice, she thought angrily.
“I’m just looking.” He turned his gaze to a flat glass case filled with dirt and trash. “So this is ‘high-concept’ art. Very impressive.”
She bristled at his sardonic tone. Few of the general public recognized or appreciated the skill and creativity that went into contemporary art. A lot of people snickered or looked scornful when they first came in. Usually, though, after she explained a little about the piece and the artist’s concept, most viewed the work with more respect.
She didn’t bother to explain anything to Garek Wisnewski, however. Why waste her time? He’d obviously come to mock her. Didn’t he have better things to do?
Apparently not. He moved on and she followed closely behind, glaring at his big hands clasped behind his broad back—he was so bulky, she didn’t trust him not to knock something over. Although he did walk gracefully, she admitted grudgingly to herself, his shoes making almost no sound on the polished wooden floor.
He gazed at an antique water pump resting on a square glass case filled with lightbulbs. Another lightbulb sprouted from the spigot. His eyebrows rose halfway to his dark combed-back hair.
His expression infuriated her. “It’s time for me to close.” She struggled to keep her tone polite. “Perhaps you could come back some other day.”
“I’ll only be a few more minutes,” he told her, then proceeded to stroll around the gallery as if he had all the time in the world. He eyed the various pieces, his mouth curling in the same sardonic smile she’d noticed in his office. He even laughed at Bertrice’s recycled-trash sculpture of a giant cockroach, although he tried to cover the sound by coughing.
He stopped in front of the counter, looking at the painting Tom had just left.
“I’ll take this one.”
She blinked, wondering if she’d misunderstood. “You want to buy Woman in Blue?”