mouth to light it. Then I handed it over.
She held it between her fingers and took a deep breath, the smoke dancing around her slightly open mouth.
I’d never seen anything so sexy.
She slowly let the white smoke escape from her mouth and nostrils before it rose to the ceiling. She took another drag, closing her eyes like she was really treasuring it. Then she set it in the ashtray and turned to her notes.
“Most women would ask me to stop.”
“Most women have never enjoyed a good cigar.” She turned her papers toward me and showed me pictures of the new paintings she wanted to hang on my walls. “I visited Milan the other day, and I found these. Since you host important clients in this room, I thought we should put our most stunning pieces here.”
I looked at the pictures she’d taken with her phone, but the flash and poor quality didn’t do the work justice. “Bring them here like the others so I can see in person.” The paintings weren’t that important to me, but seeing them with the naked guy was a much better way to judge the impression.
“I can’t do that with these. They’re being housed at the museum. You never gave me a budget, so I wasn’t sure what price range you were looking for. But these are also some of the most expensive pieces in the world.”
The arrogant asshole inside me wanted to laugh. “Money is no object, baby.”
“This one alone is ten million euros.” She pointed to the Monet. “It’s been at this museum for twenty years, and they aren’t willing to let it go for a euro less.”
My Tuscan home was a power symbol, a subtle way to impress and intimidate the men I worked for. There was nothing too expensive or outlandish. “The price is fair. We’ll head to Milan and see the painting in person.”
“Alright. Just let me know when.”
“How about now?”
She was about to take a drag from her cigar, but she lowered it back into the ashtray. “This second?”
“Yes.” I made my own schedule. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted. “We’ll take my plane. We can leave in thirty minutes, arrive in Milan in an hour, and then have dinner before we return.”
Siena wasn’t as suave as she usually was. All of that information caught her by surprise. She knew I was rich, but she probably didn’t realize how easily I could make things happen with the snap of my fingers. Her father had an impressive empire, but it was dwarfed by mine. “Alright. I’ll call the museum and let them know we’re coming.”
The exhibit was closed off to the public, so we could see it in private. Anytime I did anything, I usually shut down the building because I wasn’t a big people person. I wasn’t concerned about being assassinated or kidnapped. I simply liked my own space.
Siena stood by my side, and we examined the Monet masterpiece in silence. The watercolors were breathtaking, and even after all these decades, it was still marvelous. Time hadn’t worn it down, not when it was so meticulously preserved. Most famous artists were penniless and starving, and I always wondered how they would feel about their work being revered—and sold for millions.
Siena was quiet beside me, her black dress stopping above her knees. She wore black stilettos that gave her several inches of extra height. Her posture was always so focused, always so perfect. She seemed like a model rather than an average person. She had more elegance than the Queen herself. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She was standoffish and cold most of the time, but right now, her sincerity was heavy. It was thick enough to have substance, to feel like a physical object. “I wish I could paint.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because I’m terrible at it,” she said with a chuckle. “Trust me, I’ve tried. My work looks like a child’s finger painting. To paint something like this, you need to have a special quality. Whether it’s in the hands, in the mind, or the soul…it has to be distinct. It seems like a lot of famous artists have deficits, but those inhibitions somehow give rise to something unique and beautiful.”
I’d never been a conversationalist, but I loved listening to her speak. With other women, I asked as few questions as possible. Getting to know them was never on my to-do list. The less I knew, the better. “There are other forms of art. Pottery, poetry…”
“Being an art