The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (7 page)

“Mind if I join you?” he said, indicating the empty chair beside me.

I clenched my jaw. “It’s a free country.” I didn’t like anyone to see how I bid, or what I was interested in. It was better to remain incognito if possible, but sitting right next to me he’d be able to ascertain what I wanted.

“Great.” He let my jibe sail past, as if he hadn’t heard, and sat. There was something about him I didn’t trust. He’d obviously been following my tracks too closely for comfort. And I didn’t buy the innocent act:
oh it’s you.
Please.

“I’ve got my heart set on something magnificent,” he said. I gathered the swell of my skirt, and tucked it, facing away from him.

“Wonderful,” I said, my voice heavy with sarcasm. Better he know I was disinterested by his presence.

“The cello,” he said. “Have you seen it? It’s magnificent.” I turned back to him, my heart sinking. He gave me such a penetrating stare it took all my might not to react. Surely Andre wouldn’t have asked him to secure it for the scroll too? Instinctively I knew this stranger was trying to unsettle me. I toyed with telling him to back off, but maybe playing it down would be better with a man like him. They thrived on competition, and it would only encourage him if I acted irritated. He didn’t say the Mollier cello though. I quickly scanned the lots in front, recognizing a German cello… Fingers crossed he meant that one.

I changed tack. “This is an exclusive auction house, Monsieur Black. Were you invited here?” I gave him a chilly stare, but he didn’t cower. His smile widened, flashing those too-white teeth of his.

“Of course I was invited.” He winked. I stifled a groan. They were all the same these young, handsome Americans. They thought a wink here, a slow saucy smile there would be enough to weave their way into a woman’s embrace… Well this
belle fille
wouldn’t be so silly ever again.

“I see what you’re doing, you know,” I said. “And it’s not working.” His attempt to ruffle me was transparent. But my main concern was the cello. I’d promised Andre I’d secure it, and now this imposter was in my way. “This is a very select circle, so watch your step. It wouldn’t take much to have you…barred.”

His lips twitched but he was saved from answering as the crowd wandered in, their chatter accompanying heavy footsteps. I hadn’t seen Monsieur Black on the circuit before. And he was American so there was less chance he was related to someone here, maybe my bluff would make him think twice.

I made a show of saying, “Bonjour, it’s a lovely day for an auction.” A collector I knew took a seat beside me. Raphe shot me a puzzled look, knowing I kept silent when an auction was about to begin and usually ignored everyone so I could watch them behind my sunglasses, Audrey Hepburn style.

“Everything OK, Anouk?” Raphe frowned, perplexed over my effusive greeting. I hadn’t uttered a single word to him before, usually nodding a greeting, or giving a small wave. My striking up a conversation in an auction room had him surveying me as if I’d partaken of too many glasses of champagne.

A smile crept across my face. I could still feel the American’s gaze like a laser on me. To Raphe, I said, “Très bien.”
Very good.
I opened the program and pretended to study the lots, though I had them memorized from my earlier visits, and knew the story behind each one.

The auctioneer stepped up to the podium, and grappled with the microphone before introducing himself. I zoned out, fanning myself with the program, unable to switch off my worry that Monsieur Black was going to bid against me. The scroll and the profit I’d make on selling it would help me immensely, and I wouldn’t let some stranger take it from me.

The first lot was called, and the bidding commenced for an Asian xylophone. It was exquisite, bowed like a boat, its wood intricately carved with roaring dragons breathing fire. It wasn’t my specialty so I subtly studied the people to the left of me, studiously avoiding the American who sat on my right. I watched them tense when someone bid them up, or feign disinterest as they gave the auctioneer the tiniest, almost imperceptible, finger raise.

We were all given numbered paddles to bid with, but most of us used them only once we’d won, so they could record our number to process our payment. They were too obvious, bright white, and showed the competition who was bidding. If you had a reputation for quality buys then there was a chance attendees would bid against you, without having to do their own research on a piece. It was better to be as invisible as possible when you bid.

Thirty minutes later the French cello was introduced. The auctioneer gave a short spiel about its origins. He rhapsodized Mollier, and the maestro’s many accomplishments, drawing sighs of longing around the room.

The bidding commenced slowly at first. I was surprised to feel a rush of cool air, as Monsieur Black left his seat for another elsewhere. Good.

From the corner of my eye I could see the gnarly hand of a painter known only as Ombre raise up. My heart lifted. Ombre’s modus operandi was a few early bids before bowing out to resume drinking the free champagne, and chat to anyone lingering by the bar in the hopes of selling his surrealist artwork. So far the stranger hadn’t bid. Was he toying with me?

A few collectors joined in, heartily bidding, until one of them pulled out with a shake of the head.

I made an effort to act disinterested while waiting for the auctioneer to call it, and on the third count caught his eye and raised an eyebrow in my signature move. A subtle way to bid without anyone knowing it was me. I took the bid up to ten thousand Euros – it was affordable, a downright bargain for such a piece, and what I’d envisaged spending.

“Last bid at ten thousand Euros? Going once, going twice… Eleven thousand next bid.”

I stiffened in response, but raised an eyebrow. There was no need to ponder who was bidding against me; it must have been the American! Typically here to splash his cash and draw attention.

“Twelve,” the auctioneer said taking my next bid. “Thirteen, away from you.”

To the auctioneer, I mouthed, “Fifteen.” If I had to bid him up, I would, and hope he’d stop.

“Twenty, against you.”

Twenty
! I’d expected to buy it for ten thousand! Though it was worth every cent of twenty thousand Euros, sadly my funds were limited and I had to be cautious. I couldn’t let Andre down, and I’d all but secured a buyer for the scroll. Time to let him know I meant business!

“Twenty-one,” I called high and loud, drawing the attention from the crowd. What was he doing to me? My emotions were usually kept under wraps, but with him goading me, my rules vanished.

“Twenty-two, away from you,” the auctioneer called. I wanted to spin on my seat and face my opponent, but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing my face fall when I had to bow out.

I did some quick calculations and knew it was well beyond my savings.
But he was American!
Another beloved piece of French history would be freighted to some fancy summer home on a coast far from here to collect dust.

And poor Andre would wander those cavernous halls, a shadow of bad memories in his wake.

My face reddened. “Twenty-three!” Anxiety gnawed at me – my stomach roiled. I’d send myself bankrupt being caught in a bidding war. It was his flippancy that galled me. Just because he could afford the cello didn’t mean he deserved it.

“Twenty-four, away from you.”

Damn him to hell!
Anger coursed through me, my hands shook, so I planted them under my legs. The auctioneer called it, and looked past me, and then back, waiting in case I bid once more. I worried my bottom lip, clamping down hard, as conflicted emotions tore through me. I hated letting people down, really despised it, especially in business, but going higher than twenty-four would be making a bad choice. It was a little more than I had in the coffers in case I got stuck with the scroll for a while. I slowly shook my head no.

He picked up his gavel. “Last call, for the Mollier cello, a magnificent instrument played by the maestro himself…”

A sob rose in my throat but I swallowed it down.

“Une fois, deux fois, trois fois,”
Once, twice, three times
, the auctioneer closed the bidding. With a bang of the gavel the cello was lost to me. And I would have to explain to Andre that the deal was off. This wasn’t my year, that was for sure. It went to show you could never be complacent in business.

Time slowed, as the other lots were called. I stayed riveted to my seat, until
finally
, it was over. With as much poise as I could muster I made my way out of the auction room, tugging my skirt straight, wondering who my new nemesis really was, and how I’d go about finding out. The melancholy notes of the cello would drift up under a different sky,
if
it ever got played again. Of course, he couldn’t let his win go unnoticed. With his hands deep in his suit pockets he sauntered over to me.

“Who were you going to sell it to?” he asked.

I scoffed. “As if I’d tell a stranger my business.”

“But I’m not a stranger, I’m a friend, a fellow antique aficionado.” He was goading me, and I just couldn’t understand why. For fun? His way of flirting? A way to ease his boredom? Whatever it was, it rankled. This was my lifeblood, and he had bid against me on purpose.

“You
are
a stranger, Monsieur Black –”

“Tristan,” he said.

I sighed and continued: “Monsieur Black –”

“Just call me Tristan; we don’t need to be so formal, do we?”

Now he was telling me the rules? “Do you make a habit of interrupting every time a person tries to speak?”

He reared back, and laughed. “Are you angry with me for some reason, mademoiselle?”

“Are you dense? You knew I wanted that cello. You don’t need it. America has some fine
objets d’art
… Why don’t you hop back on your private jet and go hunt in your own country.”

His lips curved into a wide smile. “My private jet?”

For years, I’d heard men identical to him harp on about custom leather seats, and dinner degustation menus aboard their private planes. Memory-foam pillows, and round beds, and any number of things they boasted about to one-up each other with their vast wealth. Why couldn’t they fly on a domestic plane like everyone else? Their carbon footprints were yeti-sized. “Yes, fly it to America or somewhere else, and leave France alone.”

“I’ve just been to Italy,” he said. “And nothing there compares to what I’ve seen here today… The quality is breathtaking.” He flicked me a loaded stare. Was he flirting with me? Did he think I was a fool?

Women veering past did a double take when they saw him. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. If they’d spent two minutes talking to him they’d know he had no substance. He was an empty shell with a few dollars to his stupid name.
Mr. Black
? Honestly, it sounded like a pseudonym to me.

“You should pull your bid on the cello,” I said, giving it one last try. “You don’t really want it.”

“I only bid on it at the very end, because I knew
you
wanted it, and I couldn’t let the weasel win it from you. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was bidding for it just to upset you. Something about his smarmy face made my blood boil.”

“Wait, you weren’t bidding against me the entire time?”

He frowned. “Of course not! Not until you stopped, and he was set to win it. I couldn’t let him have the satisfaction.”

“But you said you were interested in the cello when we first sat down!” I narrowed my eyes.

“In the
German
cello, not the French one.”

Could I trust this Tristan Black? “Which guy was bidding against me?”

He turned and surveyed the people milling in the bar area, some drinking champagne to celebrate, some to commiserate. “That guy.” He pointed to a guy wearing almost identical clothes to himself. Goddamn it! It was Joshua.

I softened slightly toward Tristan; he’d picked up on Joshua’s vindictiveness and tried to protect me against it. Why Joshua continued to torment me was beyond me. But Tristan had stepped in unwittingly, and no matter what his motivations were, I was grateful for it.

Tristan leaned forward, standing inches from my face. Up close, his eyes were mesmerizing ocean blue. I shuffled backward, not wanting to be hypnotized by his cosmetic qualities. I could see how a girl would fall for his kind. “So I guess we can make a deal, now? The cello is all yours, if you want it.”

“For how much?”
Don’t drop your guard.
Nothing is ever what it seems.

“For the price I paid,” he said, shrugging. “I know you have a buyer for it.”

“Because you were hot on my heels that day?” The red sports coupe driving spy!

He lifted a palm. “Isn’t everyone around here guilty of that?”

Touché. “And that’s it? I pay for the cello, and nothing else?” Usually a deal like this they’d tack on ten percent at least.

He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. The aquamarine of them sparkled. “I wouldn’t rule out a dinner date, but yes, that’s all.”

A smile played at my lips. “A dinner date? I don’t think so.” Tristan Black would have to learn things didn’t just fall in his lap no matter how generous he might seem to any unsuspecting person. There was always an agenda with men like him. Always. And he was choosing the wrong girl if he thought I’d be silly enough to go along with his whims.

“Why not?” He laughed. “I won’t eat you.”

“Very funny.” I wondered what would be a fair compromise. Ah! “Perhaps we can share a drink at the May Gala, if you’re invited that is…?” If he was invited to the gala, then he was connected with someone influential in Paris. It would be a good way to find out just who he really was.

“The gala…” A blank look crossed his features. “Oh the
gala!
Yes, I’ll be there and I’ll hold you to that drink, Anouk.”

Before he could add any more addendums to our deal I said, “Let’s go to the office and sort out the paperwork for the cello.”

We explained to the clerk and she switched our details for the piece. Gustave the security guard called me over, waving frantically, as I was waiting for the invoice to be printed.