The week passed in a blur as the newly discovered Reynolds painting became the talk of the art world. Mona spent hours on the phone with arts and culture reporters who’d seized upon the story in a slow news week. They all wanted to know how she knew there was a Reynolds hidden under the unremarkable Morland painting. All she could tell them was that a visitor to the gallery noted something off about the painting. When she examined the signature, she noticed the flaking paint and followed a hunch. When they wanted to know the visitor’s name to talk to him as well, she had to tell them the truth—she had no idea who he was. He came in, made a comment about the painting and left before she could get his name. The news drew visitors to the gallery. She sold two pieces for ten thousand each.
All thanks to the mysterious man in the three-piece suit.
She’d almost forgotten he’d promised to return in a week. But on the seventh evening she remembered and lingered long at her desk after the gallery had closed. She listened for the bell as she did her paperwork. She never heard it ring. But at five to midnight, Tou-Tou hopped out of his basket and ran through the door to the gallery as if he’d suddenly recalled he was late for a very important date.
Mona rose from her desk and walked as quietly as she could to the office door. She opened it a few more inches and saw the man in the gallery, holding Tou-Tou and stroking his head.
"You have a black cat, Mona,” he said. He wore the same three-piece suit as before. "How fitting.”
"Tou-Tou’s the gallery cat,” she said. Cautiously she approached the man and took Tou-Tou from his arms. She wasn’t sure she trusted him yet, and her cat was the closest thing Mona had to family. "Not much luck but he keeps me company.”
"A cat to be envied then,” the man said.
"Do you have a name?”
"Forgive me. I should have introduced myself last week. Malcolm.”
"Malcolm,” she repeated, liking the feel of it on her tongue. "Any last name?”
"Not at the moment. Was I correct about the painting?”
"You know you were. It was all over the news.”
He shrugged a shoulder. "I pay very little attention to the news. A Reynolds, I assume?”
"It was. Appraised at five million.”
"How much will you get?”
"Fifty-thousand-dollar finder’s fee from the owner. Yours, of course.”
"Why ‘of course’?” he asked.
"I didn’t even like the Morland. It was from his later years, after he stopped producing good work. I only displayed it because I thought it might sell for a couple thousand dollars. You’re the one who told me there was something underneath it.”
"What exactly was underneath it? Have you seen it?”
"The restorer says it appears to be a portrait of Nelly O’Brien. They’ve dubbed the painting The Courtesan. Reynolds even signed the canvas.”
"Ahh, Miss O’Brien. Reynolds painted her several times, I believe.”
"Once more than we’d realized. One art critic believes Morland painted over it during his debt years. Maybe he’d run out of canvases and couldn’t afford more. He put a two-thousand-dollar painting over a five-million-dollar painting. The owner has decided to keep it in the family, but he’s sending me the check this week.”
"Put it toward saving your gallery,” he said. "I have no interest in taking money from you. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
"Thank you, Malcolm.” She sat Tou-Tou down onto the floor. He didn’t run back into the office as she expected him to. Instead, he lay on the floor between her and Malcolm as if he were as much a party to this conversation as they were. "That’s very generous of you.”
"I would like to be more generous with you.”
"Why?” She couldn’t keep the note of suspicion out of her tone.
"I have my reasons and they are very good reasons, but you wouldn’t understand them, not yet. But eventually I will reveal all to you. If you agree to let me help you.”
"Fifty thousand dollars is a good start,” she said. "But I’m half a million in debt. I don’t think anyone can help me.”
"I’ve given you no reason to doubt me.”
"What is it you want from me?”
"May I be blunt with you?” he asked.
"I’d prefer it.”
"I very much wish to fuck you.”
She opened her mouth and said nothing.
"Too blunt?” he asked, a slight smile on his lips.
"No, no.” Mona waved her hand dismissively. "I appreciate the honesty. It’s refreshing. I’m not sure how fucking me can help the gallery, but I thank you kindly for the offer.”
"You must let me finish. But first, may we adjourn to your office? I prefer to discuss business in offices. That’s what they’re made for and they get a little jealous when they’re neglected.”
"Of course. This way.”
She told herself that if he wanted to rape her and kill her, he could have done it by now and done it easily. He’d already proven he could slip in and out of the gallery without her knowledge even when the front door was locked. He was very tall—six foot or a little more by her reckoning, which was half a foot taller than she. Yet he hadn’t so much as touched her. Not even a handshake. And Tou-Tou seemed to like him, not that she’d ever heard of a cat being a good judge of character.
Inside her office, she switched on the little Tiffany-style desk lamp and sat behind her desk. It was a small desk, feminine, with filigrees, and the chair was petite as well. But the chair across from her desk was made for a man of Malcolm’s dimensions. A leather club chair, it fit him like a glove. He seemed the sort of man one would find in an old English club, no women allowed, old boys with money and power discussing politics behind the scenes. She wondered if he smoked cigars. She could smell the slightest trace of cigar smoke on his clothes. It was a masculine scent and not unpleasant in small doses.
"Business?” she asked.
"You’re a very beautiful young lady,” Malcolm said. "I like very beautiful young ladies.”
"Do you?”
"I’m a connoisseur.”
"Are you? Do you have a favorite type?”
"Elegant prostitutes,” he said. "A perennial favorite.”
"You know I’m not a prostitute, yes?” she asked.
"Not yet. But I think you’ll make a fine whore.”
She flinched at the word although he didn’t say it like an insult. It sounded rather nice coming from him. Like a pet name almost.
"You enjoy using women for their bodies,” she said.
"Yes, very much so.”
"Most women prefer to be used for their minds.”
"Foolishness,” he said.
"Foolishness?”
"The mind is seated in the brain, yes?”
"Well…yes.”
"The brain is an organ of the body. Whether I use you for your mind or use you for your cunt, I’m still using you for an organ of your body.”
"You make an interesting point.” The brain was indeed a bodily organ as were the genitals. She could hardly argue his logic.
"You’re sitting on a goldmine, Mona. Literally.”
She blushed. "I’ve never had my vagina called a goldmine before.”
"Perhaps I was referring to your arse.”