With his hand on my back, Fender would admire each one in great detail, standing there for twenty minutes sometimes. Without looking at the man standing to the side, he spoke. “Je vais le prendre.” I’ll take it.

The man nodded then took it off the wall so it could be wrapped and ready for transport.

Fender guided me to the next painting.

“There are no prices anywhere…”

“Doesn’t matter.” He examined the next one with the same interest, his eyes focused the way they often focused on me.

I turned to study his visage, to see the way he appreciated everything on display as if he were an artist himself. “I didn’t realize how much you loved art.” It was a beautiful and unexpected quality he possessed, another sign of softness that contradicted his hardness.

“You’ve seen my home.”

“I thought maybe Gilbert picked everything out.”

“No.” He finished his glass of champagne and held it out in midair, like he would drop it and let it shatter on the floor if a staff member didn’t get there with a tray in time.

But they swooped in and took the empty glass before providing another—like royalty.

Fender moved me to the next painting.

I was more interested in him at this point. The art was beautiful, but after a while, it was hard to remain focused when the pieces started to blur together. “Why do you love it so much?”

He took a drink then licked his lips. “Because it’s history. Because it’s one of a kind. Because it’s evocative like fire. Because it’s priceless.” He turned to look at me, his dark eyes absorbing my face the same way he’d just absorbed the painting. “Because it’s beautiful.”

We walked into a different alcove that showed one of the biggest paintings I’d ever seen. It would take up an entire wall in a museum. Those paintings usually depicted large battles that required a lot of detail, but this was just a portrait of a woman. She stood in a white dress with the sleeve falling down one shoulder, her brown hair thick and beautiful, her eyes downcast.

A man stood beside the painting, but he wasn’t in a tuxedo, so he must be the artist.

The title was on display in front of us, along with the artist’s name.

The Most Beautiful Woman -Alexander Pedrotti-

Fender didn’t look at this painting with the same luster as the previous ones. It was immense in size and quite impressive, but Fender’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, like he wasn’t impressed in the least. The energy around him was different, hostile. His hand left my waist, and he stepped forward. “Je vais acheter votre toile.” I will buy your painting.

The artist stepped forward. “Elle vous plaît, monsieur?” You like it, sir?