turned and looked at me. “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal son.”
I held up my palms in defense. “That title’s getting a bit tired, Bev.” I couldn’t resist my own little dig, knowing how much he hated his name shortened.
“Where have you been? I’ve enjoyed chatting with your girl.” His eyes sparkled with a hint of malice.
“Miranda’s my new admin assistant.”
He looked her up and down and returned his attention to me.
“So, Lachie, will you be bidding tonight? I hear it’s mostly modern art.” He smirked. “I can’t imagine you know your Rothko’s from your Bacon’s.”
My hands clenched into fists. I would have loved to punch that asshole in the nose. Ever since my father fell ill, leaving me to run his business, Bevan Jones had been making snide comments about my lack of experience. Art was no exception.
Miranda’s eyes slid over to me, and then with a hint of a grin, she looked at Bevan asked, “You’re an authority on art?”
He shrugged slightly. “Sure. I like to buy it.”
“And they’re auctioning Bacon’s and Rothko’s tonight?” she asked, sounding surprised.
“Are you kidding?” he said. “They don’t normally auction quality at these events. More like landscapes and abstracts by attention-seeking novices.”
“Do you like that piece?” She pointed at a minimal abstract on the wall by our side.
“Of course. It’s fabulous.”
“Is that a Rothko?” she asked.
He looked at me and then at the large canvas. “Funny, I’m the one who normally asks the questions here.”
“Well, is it a Rothko?” I asked, enjoying myself at his expense, sensing that Bevan didn’t have a clue.
“I’d say it is.”
Miranda looked at me, wearing a subtle but triumphant smile. “It’s not.” She pointed at the canvas. “The blending of color isn’t as seamless as Mark Rothko’s famous works. Anyone who knows his work knows that’s what makes him stand out from the wannabes.”
I wanted to laugh in Bevan’s face but resisted the urge. We already had enough attention. Miranda had really set him up to look like an ass. Not that he needed much help in that department.
“If you’re suggesting it’s cheap, then you’re very much mistaken and your unsolicited views are insulting to say the least.”
“She was only stating a fact, Bev,” I said, allowing a smarmy grin to play on my face.
“She’ll turn you into a dilettante yet,” he said.
Miranda looked at me, her brow furrowing slightly before turning to Bevan. “Mr. Peace doesn’t need me for that when he’s got acquaintances like you.”
Miranda’s sharp reply worked nicely. Bevan’s face soured.
He turned away without another word, and I laughed.
She touched her mouth. “Oops. Sorry. I better lay off the champagne. I’m not sure where that came from.”
“Hey that was gold. And if anyone deserved it, it’s Bevan ‘Bighead’ Jones.” I studied her for a moment. Through those lenses, her almond-shaped dark eyes sparkled with intelligent curiosity.
As we moved away, I whispered, “What’s a dilettante?”
“An amateur who sees himself as an authority on art.”
I punched the air. “Home run. That describes him to a tee.”
She returned a sweet smile, and as the trays came our way again, I took another pair of champagne flutes and handed one to her. “Here you go. At least this way, one of us can have some fun.”
“You aren’t having fun?” she asked.
“These events are all the same. The same dull, superficial conversations. The hand-at-the-side-of-mouth gossip.”
“At least it raises money for the needy. That’s always good.” She pointed at the ceiling. “And the sculptural detail of the dome is mind-blowing. I’ve never been anywhere like this before.”
I nodded slowly as I studied her. My eyes followed hers around the grand ballroom. “You’re right. It is a nice room. By the way, I’m sorry Britney didn’t have something nicer for you to wear.”
Patting the dress, she said, “That’s okay. If I get to keep it, it’ll come in handy.”
“You’ve got me curious, Ms. Flowers.”
“I could use a good potato sack.”
I laughed and looked at her. “You’re funny. In a good, real way. Thanks.”
“There’s no need to thank me. I’m the grateful one, since you gave me a job.”
I felt a twinge of guilt, considering how Britney treated admin assistants like they were disposable.
“Come on.” I gestured. “Let’s check out the amateurish art on offer. All proceeds go to charity, and I wouldn’t mind adding to my collection.”
“To match the fake Monet?” she asked.
I stopped walking. “What do you mean?”
“The still life in the guest room at the estate,” she said.
“Twenty years ago, that yellow painting cost my father over a hundred