Page 94 of No More Secrets

Fine with him.

“Think Mom will be upset we’re selling?” he asks.

“She doesn’t care. She’s probably left the country,” Lily says. He agrees. He wouldn’t put it past their mom to escape somewhere they wouldn’t extradite her back to the States.

“Actually, she hasn’t. We found her.”

“What do you mean ‘we’?” Lily asks.

“Don’t be mad, but I hired Sophie to locate her.”

Lucas looks at Olivia. “Where the hell is she?”

41

Charlotte studies Alexander Stingel’s painting on the wall,Lust, her pièce de résistance during last night’s exhibit. The half-shrouded woman done in vibrant violet and crimson is as seductive as she is mysterious. The artist’s lover. Her almond-shaped jade-green eye, the one that is visible, holds a secret. Slightly parted lips breathe words for the artist’s ears only, leaving the admirer to wonder what she’s whispering. Flaxen hair spilling over a shoulder like a golden river covers a naked breast, aroused and perfectly upturned. She envies the woman. To be young again, desirable. If she hadn’t sold the piece, she’d consider keeping it for her own collection, adding it to the one she’d inherited from her mother, hidden away from her husband until recently. As for the rest of Alexander’s canvases, she’ll have everything sold by the end of the month. She’s that good, and Alexander will be that much wealthier and more famous thanks to her.

In the few short months her gallery’s been open, she’s found flipping art worth tens of thousands more electrifying than the years she spent flipping million-dollar homes. Wining and dining art enthusiasts and their pocketbooks, matching buyers with the perfect pieces she has in her possession or can acquire on their behalf. The chase is what satisfies her, not the actual deal. It’s what drove her to amass millions selling real estate, which she safely tucked away from her husband, Dwight. That miserable wretch would have spent her hard-earned cash before the ink dried on the sellers’ contracts.

Countless times Charlotte has wished she could go back in time and bitch-slap some sense into her younger self. Wake up and smell the pocket fuzz in Dwight’s Kmart-brand khakis. The guy had no money, didn’t come from money, and didn’t know how to keep it when he got his hands on it. No wonder her father, Gilbert Dayton, wrote her out of his will. She would have, too, if their roles had been reversed. His failed attempts at running for Congress aside, Dwight was an embarrassment to the family. He embarrassed her.

Her mother, Val, thankfully took pity on her after she’d divorced Charlotte’s father and he passed. Charlotte inherited an ungodly sum from her, basically setting her up for several lifetimes. She’d never wanted for anything except this one thing: her own fine-art gallery. A dream she’s had since she was a child and her father slammed it down. Within five years’ time, she predicts she’ll have locations in Paris, Florence, Sao Paulo, and Singapore, the art capitals of the world.

Granted, she’s a little late to the art scene, given her age and thin book of connections, but nothing has stopped her before, and starting from scratch only makes her that much thirstier. She built her real estate empire from nothing but a license. She can do it again with art, so long as she doesn’t make more mistakes.

Marrying Dwight had been a mistake. Killing Benton St.John was inexcusable. She hadn’t planned that. But what’s done is done. She can’t take either back.

“Charlotte, I’m heading out.”

Charlotte pulls herself from the lure ofLustto see her assistant thrust her arms into her Fendi sweater, a knockoff. The stitching’s wrong. Wafer thin, Priscilla towers in her Valentino pumps. The girl weighs less than Charlotte’s tote and lives in a rundown flat in Hell’s Kitchen she shares with three other women, and takes modeling classes in the evenings. She aspires to walk the runway for Dior and Versace, as do all the other brainless twits she’s hired. They’re beautiful girls, which counts for something. She can’t have ugly engaging with her clients.

“Would you like me to lock up for you?” Priscilla touches up her lipstick, a deep, dreadful rouge.

“Thank you, no.” She’s expecting someone, a buyer who wishes to remain anonymous. His representative is due shortly to handle the transaction forLust’s companion painting,Betrayal. Alexander painted his lover lying on her side, nude, her back to the viewer. A male hand rests on the sensual curve of her hip, his fingers depressing the flesh, pulling her into him. Veins line the back of the hand. His bent leg protrudes between hers. It’s left up to the admirer as to whom the hand belongs, the artist or another man. The piece is even more arousing than its counterpart.

“Have a good night, then.” With that, Priscilla departs, and Charlotte is alone.

She retreats upstairs to her office, a glass box stabilized with cables and balanced on beams. From her desk, she can see every corner of the gallery. She loves everything about her space, the blond-hickory planks and the buttery soft walls. The way the light from the setting sun spills across the floor. She especially loves that Dwight will never set foot in this gallery. The only downside is she’ll never see her children again. But she did her best raising them and taught them the skills to survive. The world is bloodthirsty. To succeed, they need to play just as mercilessly.

At the top of the stairs, Charlotte hears a noise, heels treading on hardwood. A woman stands where she just was. Her back to Charlotte, she studies Alexander’s painting.

Her 7:00 p.m. She’s early, but no matter. A sale is a sale, and Charlotte intends to close the deal tonight.

Returning to the gallery floor, she manufactures her best smile and approaches the woman with the confidence of one who’s in control. “Beautiful painting, isn’t it? Alexander Stingel is one of my most gifted artists. His paintings don’t just capture light. They reflect and absorb. He’s a true master with color.”

The woman turns to Charlotte. She doesn’t smile. “Hi, Mom.”

“Olivia.” Charlotte can’t hide her shock. “What are you doing here?” She hasn’t been hiding, not really. But she never told them where she landed. Didn’t plan to either.

A smile appears, and it isn’t warm. It’s brittle with betrayal and disappointment. “We have an appointment.”

Unless she’s hosting an exhibit that’s open to the public, visits to her gallery are by appointment only. She serves a very exclusive clientele and doesn’t want lookie-loo tourists off the street tarnishing a reputation she’s been working meticulously to build. The art world is ruthless. She must play by their rules and make her own if she wants any credibility in this industry.

Then it hits her. There is no seven-o’clock appointment. There will be no sale. “When did you get in? You should have called.”

“Would you have invited me in if I didn’t have an appointment?”

Charlotte smiles through pursed lips. Olivia wouldn’t have been able to walk in. There’s a keypad on the door. The only reason Priscilla left it unlocked was because Charlotte was expecting her buyer’s representative. Which was a ruse, and that twit of an assistant who set up the appointment fell for it.

---