Page 7 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

I smiled sagely, but on the inside, I was wondering the exact same thing.

And desperately hoping that I would see him again. And soon.

Chapter Four

Mason

After the board meeting adjourned, I headed back to my penthouse condo for a little R and R. Not rest and relaxation—though I was running on only a few hours of sleep. Research and Resources.

My first attempt was the direct approach. It seemed like a logical conclusion that the Galleria owner would know exactly who had displayed my grandfather’s portrait.

I dialed his number and waited. A moment later, he answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Bryce, I was interested in purchasing a portrait I saw at the Galleria show last night.”

“You what?” I could hear him sneering I swear. “Give me a break. That’s way below my pay grade, son. I don’t know how you got this number, but I suggest you call this number—oh, what the hell did I do with that?—ah, here it is. Five, five, five—”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Bryce, but I already called that number and I wasn’t able to get a satisfactory answer. And as far as how I got this number, I’m a man with certain connections.”

He grunted. “You must have good connections to get this number. May I ask who is calling?”

“My apologies, where are my manners? My name is Mason Wilder.”

“Oh, right. I’ve heard of you,” his manner changed. The prospect of money does that to people. “What piece were you interested in?”

“It was an unnamed portrait hanging in the north wing of the Galleria.”

“And my people on the other line couldn’t help you?”

“Well, they said that it was labeled ‘unnamed portrait’ and by a ‘local artist.’ I was hoping you could help me narrow it down some.”

“Ah, I see the problem.” He sighed. “You see, in order for our Galleria to deliver the full quality experience that our patrons demand, we have to charge for display space. However, we do allow local artists, in a small number, to display works that meet with our approval.”

“That’s great. Very generous of you. So do you have this local artist’s name?”

“Therein lies the quandary, Mr. Wilder. You see, we have to recoup our losses on the gallery space for these charity cases somehow, so we offer the artists a choice: Sign over your rights to the artwork, in return for a ten percent take on the profit after sale or put your art up anonymously. Most artists choose the former, but apparently this one did not.”

“So you don’t have any record of who it was?”

“Well, no, we don’t.”

“Someone must have met with this artist, though. Surely there’s someone I can talk to that remembers them?”

“Sheila McGee is in charge of that area, and I’m afraid she’s out of the country at the moment on a vacation.”

Of course she is. Fuck.

“Is there any way I could get her number?”

“I can’t dispense that with good conscience. Can’t your ‘connections’ provide you an avenue to it?”

“I’d prefer to go through a more direct route if possible. Very well, if you can’t pass on her number, then perhaps you can pass on a message?”

“That I can do.”

I gave him my information. He gave me his assurances that he would deliver the message. I had to be satisfied with that.

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