"Because even though I possess more knowledge about the art world in my little pinky finger than my boss does in her entire body, I also only possess a bachelor's degree in art history. To be a curator or someone who deals with exhibitions, you have to have experience in the gallery world, which is what my slave labor job is."
"It's too bad you don't know anyone who owns their own art gallery."
Blowing the hair off my face, I said in frustration, "Yes, it is."
We stood there at that odd point in the conversation looking at each other like neither one of us had understood the other one's language. To be honest, I was beginning to think he was from some other planet by the way he behaved, but since he hadn't grown tentacles or extra heads and was getting more gorgeous by the minute, I still liked him, as bizarre as that seemed to someone like me who prided herself on good judgment.
"You could work at one of mine."
And with those seven words my spirits were buoyed once again.
"You have more than one art gallery?" I asked in stunned amazement, jumping over the obvious first question about him having even one art gallery.
"In some of my hotels. The one here in the city might work, wouldn't it?"
He was sounding decidedly clear, which made me think I must have slipped into some dream dimension or lost my mind. "You have an art gallery in one of your hotels in New York and you want me to work at it? As what?"
If he said anything that even remotely sounded like the job I had at the Anderson Gallery, I was going to punch him right in that beautiful mouth.
"I have a curator, but would assistant curator work?"
I understood the words he was saying, but my brain seemed to have short circuited because I was unable to form an answer. Would assistant curator work? Hell, yes!
He was all smiles, but I wasn't so sure. Putting my hand up, I said, "Wait. This all sounds too good to be true. What hotels do you own?"
With a sense of pride, he answered, "Richmont. I assume you've heard of them."
"And you want to offer me a job as an assistant curator at the Richmont in Manhattan?"
"Yes."
"And what do I have to do for this job?"
"Whatever an assistant curator does."
I looked up into those beautiful eyes and wondered if he was just playing dumb or if it was possible he was really that obtuse. "You know what I mean. What do I have to do to get that job?"
Then I waited for it. There was always a catch. As my father always said, "If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is." Tristan's response certainly wasn't what I expected, though.
"You'll have to pass one test. After that, the job is yours."
"What kind of test?" I asked, wary of where he was going with this. I didn't mind taking tests, but something told me he had something else in mind than a paper and pencil exam.
"I want you to tell me what picture I should put up on the wall in my home."
"The one all the way upstate?" I asked, praying that I didn't have to take that drive again tonight. The buzz from the two beers I'd drunk earlier had worn off, and the thought of speeding to the middle of nowhere again didn't thrill me, even if it was with Tristan Stone.
"No. Come with me," he answered as he took my hand and led me to his car parked at the end of the block.
I went as he ordered and let him take me to the Richmont downtown. I'd seen the hotel from the street once or twice, but seeing it from the owner's point of view was an entirely different experience. A valet parked the car as we were shown into a private elevator lined with mirrors that traveled exclusively to the penthouse. I stared straight ahead at the mirror on the elevator door, my gaze drifting down over the figure standing next to me. I noticed he seemed bigger than I'd thought he'd been the other night, with the top of my head reaching only his broad shoulders. His face was placid, and even now as he stood silently staring at the mirror in front of us, he was beautiful with chiseled features and powerful body. But what made Tristan stunning were those deep, soulful eyes. Warm brown eyes the shade of melted milk chocolate I could have spent the rest of time getting lost in. I looked for any sign that the man from Page Six was there beside me, but the Tristan I got to see was still with me. Quiet, but gentle and drop dead sexy.