I frown. “No.”

Does he not even realize which artist he’s come here to see?

“Aaron Pavlicek is the artist-in-residence here tonight.”

His dark eyes assess me. “I see. And Mattea Perrotta? What does she do?”

“What doesn’t she do?” I retort, not even bothering to curb my passion for his sake. I’m not giving him advice so much as bludgeoning him with it. “Her abstract paintings are a balance between masculinity and femininity, the unconscious desire, and the female body. They’re evocative and timeless. In her most recent collection, she attempted to reinterpret mythological characters through the lens of contemporary female narratives, and she succeeded handily.”

There’s a beat of silence after I’ve finished, and I feel like a fool for rambling on like that. His gaze studies my face, slipping briefly down my body, quickly enough that had I blinked, I would have missed it.

Then he simply nods. “You’re hired.”

My jaw drops. “I—that’s not what I do.”

“Are you sure?” He seems almost amused. “You seem adept enough.”

It’s barely a compliment, but it’s enough to throw me off balance. “I’m not a personal consultant. I work for the gallery.” I motion toward the art on the walls. “My responsibility is to sell the works we have here.”

With this remark, he can no longer help himself. He unfurls a deliciously cruel smile before a rich laugh spills out of him. He whispers a French curse before speaking again.

“Please don’t take offense, but you’re doing a horrible job of it.”

My cheeks turn the oh-so-lovely shade of a ripe summer tomato. Embarrassed, I look down until I’m sure some of the red has faded.

I start to step back. “My apologies. You’re right. Aaron Pavlicek has quite a few pieces here that I think are worth your attention—”

“Then by all means, lead me to them.”

He extends his arm, motioning for me to walk so he may follow, and just as I suspected, his initials are handstitched on the cuff of his shirt sleeve. The realization sharpens our encounter, reminding me of the absurdity of this exchange. Emmett Mercier is truly here in Morgan’s.

“Your designers…” I say weakly, trying to remind him of his obligation. “I think they’re waiting for you to join them.”

They are. The three women are still a few feet away, staring at me with narrowed eyes and pinched mouths. Obviously, they’d like me to hand over their client.

Emmett pays them no mind, the weight of his full attention still resting on me.

He tucks his hands into his pockets with relaxed grace. “You’ve just explained to me that they’re a trio of bumbling idiots when it comes to art, and you were rather curt about it, I might add. Now you’re prepared to throw me back to them?”

He’s laid his challenge down at my feet: remain in his company and try to survive or flee and never cease to regret it for the rest of my life.