Page 34 of The Picasso Heist

FUNNY THING ABOUT a piece of art that sells for a hundred and forty-nine million dollars: No one wants to touch it unless they absolutely, positively have to.

Another funny thing about that same piece of art: Although no one wants to touch it, everyone wants it out the door as soon as possible. The buyer, the seller, the auction house—they all have something to gain. Or lose.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the man of the hour, Mr. Enzio Bergamo!”

Charles Waxman is in full smarm mode, standing in the center of Echelon’s lobby, a two-story foyer of polished marble boasting a massive spiral staircase. He has his arms spread wide and turns in a circle on the heels of his wingtips, milking the applause. He’s not a CEO; he’s P. T. Barnum.

As is tradition after a major sale, the entire Echelon staff has gathered on the ground floor, up the stairs, and all along the balconies to welcome and congratulate the high bidder. And as major sales go, this one takes the cake.

Which explains the actual cake that Bergamo has the honor of cutting. But first, he says a few words of thanks to “the distinguished men and women of Echelon” and jokes that he’ll need to sell a lot more dresses now to pay for his new Picasso.

The joke was his but the use of the word distinguished came from me. “Whatever you do, don’t reference their expertise or professionalism or say anything that implies competence,” I told him. Bergamo didn’t have to ask why.

“Not having any cake, are you?”

I jump at the sound of Terrance Willinghoff’s voice behind me. How long has he been standing there? Could he see what I was texting? Could he see who I was texting?

“You scared me,” I say, casually lowering my phone. I take a quick glance around; people are gathered in small groups, talking and enjoying slices of Black Forest gateau. “Oh… no. I mean yes, I’m passing on the cake.”

Terrance, sporting a double Windsor knot in his tie twice the size of the Hope Diamond, looks suspicious, as if we’re not actually talking about cake. “I know what you’re up to,” he says.

Gulp. “You mean you know I’m watching my girlish figure?”

“No, but perhaps somebody else is. And perhaps you’re more than okay with that. Courting it, even.”

“Excuse me?” I don’t have to pretend to act incredulous. If Jacinda had heard him say that, she would’ve dragged him by his ear into the human resources office.

But Terrance is undeterred, on a mission. “Your hearing is just fine, Halston.”

He’s my boss. I work for him. But still. “Are you accusing me of something?” I ask.

“Of course not,” he says.

Liar. I’ll rephrase. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Pierre told me he introduced you to Mr. Bergamo at the auction.”

“That’s right, yes. I asked him to.”

“Pierre told me that as well. Then he mentioned that Mr. Bergamo seemingly took quite a shine to you.”

Do people really still use that expression? I stare at him blankly. “A shine?”

“Mr. Bergamo is under the impression that you are being deprived of your growth potential here. I believe it has something to do with the new security measure that you’re not privy to.”

“I wouldn’t expect to be privy to it at my level,” I say, trying to get ahead of the story.

“Well, good, because we’re not letting clients dictate how we handle things in-house.”

“Of course not. And it’s not as if—”

“Not as if you discussed any of this with Mr. Bergamo? Yes, I understand that. But nonetheless, he is still a valued client, so in the interest of appearances, I’d like you to be present as we escort the painting into his possession after the party here.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“No, it isn’t,” he says. “But it’s going to happen, and Mr. Fashion Designer is going to see that it’s happening because, again, he seems a bit taken with you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. Not sorry.

“May I give you a piece of advice, Halston? There are no shortcuts here at Echelon, and we trade only on our talent and professionalism. Anything other than that is, in a word, unprofessional. Is that understood?”

I nod at Terrance Willinghoff, resisting the overwhelming temptation bubbling up inside me to rip that smug, self-satisfied smile off his face and kick him in the balls.

But that’s the beauty of guys like him. They go through life thinking that women get ahead in the workplace only by sleeping their way to the top. Terrance Willinghoff is a fool, a simp, a misogynist.

But he’s also the one thing I need him to be today.

A mark.