The Artist's Touch (The Gentlemen's Guild Book 1) Read online

  “I see…” Mr. Carter responded, waiting for Tristan to continue.

  “If you would like, I can escort you to the back and show you the other piece that you have actually won,” Tristan offered.

  “I see, except I like the drawing that I won; it’s the one that I bid on and I’m not willing to exchange it. I’m sorry about the mishap, but I don’t quite see how it’s my problem.”

  You fucker.

  Of course, he wasn’t going to make this easy. Fine, Tristan thought, at this point he didn’t care what it took, he was going to get that drawing back.

  “I understand. I’m willing to return your money to you, so that you can take home the intended piece at no cost to yourself.”

  Money always worked.

  “Who are you? I’m sorry, the only contact I know representing the Guild is Morgan Lane. Do you even have the authority to offer something like that?” Mr. Carter responded, suddenly concerned that someone was trying to swindle him out of his prize.

  “Believe me, sir, I have every authority,” Tristian said firmly, his facial expression leaving no doubt as to his ability to make this decision.

  “I’m sorry, it’s not about the money though. I want this drawing,” Mr. Carter insisted.

  “I see,” Tristan replied, coldly.

  Looks like we will have to move on to Plan B.

  “Well, I’m going to have to talk to the auction company then and see what can be done because unfortunately, I can’t let you leave with that drawing,” Tristan continued, coldly, giving the stubborn man a curt nod before turning back towards the gallery.

  “Young man…” Mr. Carter called after him, “one moment.”

  Tristan didn’t even bother to respond to him, he just turned and raised an eyebrow, waiting for whatever Jack Carter was about to say next.

  “I would be willing to consider giving back the drawing,” he began.

  “What do you want?” Tristan interjected bluntly, knowing where this conversation was headed.

  “I would be willing to consider it, if I could speak to the artist who drew it for a moment.” Tristan was taken aback for a moment; he was expecting a request for money or for some sort of compensation. Not that this was any better; no one knew their identities, especially not their patrons.

  God, because of course he’d just been yelling at Pierce about this, and now, here he was, the one about to break the Guild’s cardinal rule of secrecy. Then again, what choice did he have? He needed to get this drawing back and if that meant revealing who he was to some fan who would do God-knows-what with the information, then that is what he would do.

  “Fine,” Tristan clipped out.

  “Wonderful!” the man exclaimed, his whole demeanor changing. “When can I meet him?”

  “Right now,” Tristan answered, running his fingers through his hair, completely destroying its styled appearance.

  “I don’t understand,” the man replied, perplexed, looking around the hall.

  “Mr. Carter,” Tristan began, his voice as cold as ice, “My name is Tristan Black, or as some in this circle prefer to call me, Titian. I am the one who created the drawing that you won and I am the one asking for it back.”

  Jack Carter just stared at him for a moment, in complete shock at that turn of events. “Mr. Black… Titian… it’s a great pleasure to meet you,” he finally responded, extending his hand in greeting. “This piece… it’s not typical of what I’ve seen of your work in the past few years, but as soon as I saw it tonight… it’s just so moving. The love and happiness that you’ve managed to capture and portray is just astounding. Truly moving.”

  Tristan refused to take his hand or acknowledge the praise of his work. Even though he was the one asking for something, he’d already gone above and beyond all of the rules that were carefully crafted and put into place, all at this man’s request; he would do no more.

  “I apologize. Thank you for revealing yourself to speak to me. I was hoping that by purchasing this drawing I would have the opportunity at some point to make my request to speak to the artist, I just didn’t expect that it would happen so soon or in this manner. I’ve never bid on one before so I wasn’t sure how this all worked.”

  “Mr. Carter, I don’t mean to be rude, so let me explain something to you. That drawing that you have, is of my late mother. I need it back.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry about that. Well…ahh… the reason that I wanted to speak with you is because I have a request,” the old man forged on.

  “I’m going to have to stop you right there. In seven years, I’ve never revealed who I am to any patron, so I hope you appreciate the confidence that I’ve just given you in order to get my mother’s portrait returned to me. I have broken a code, but I will do no more. The Guild has not, nor will it ever take individual requests for work. We have a mission, a purpose, and that is not a part of it.”

  “I see, of course. I completely understand, but if you would just hear me out –” “No, I’ve heard enough,” Tristan responded harshly, the enormity of his recent actions really starting to sink in and the resulting anger seeped out of him. “You said that if I agreed to speak with you, you would return my drawing. I have done so. Now, it’s your turn to hold up your end of the bargain.”

  “I see,” Mr. Carter responded, his expression becoming shuttered, “I see that you will not listen to reason, which means that I’m left with no choice. I said that if you agreed to speak with me, that I might consider returning the drawing. I did not guarantee its return.”

  “Are you fucking serious right now? I’ll just go in there and have the auction company get my drawing back and return your money. Hell, I’ll sue you for it if it comes to that,” Tristan spat, vengefully.

  “Or, you could make me a portrait of my daughter and I will return your drawing with no issue upon receipt of it, and you can keep the money.” Jack quickly finished before Tristan walked away to make good on his threat.

  Tristan stared at the man standing in front of him. For the first time in seven years, he not only revealed his identity to a patron, but was now actually considering creating a piece of artwork on request.

  What in the royal fuck was happening today?

  He ran his hand through his hair again, angry and frustrated, stuck between a bad and an even worse decision. If he refused, who knows how hard it would be to get his drawing back, or how long it might take, especially if lawyers were to get involved. If he accepted, he would be going back on the promise that he had made to himself and the Guild to abide by the set of rules that they had decided on at the start.

  He’s not paying you for the piece, so at least it’s not like you are profiting.

  It was still a request.

  This is the portrait of your mother; sometimes, exceptions to the rule must be made, even if it is just this once.

  Before he could think the better of it, Tristan extended his hand.

  “Fine,” he all but spat. “I’ll draw your daughter, but I will have your word that upon completion of her portrait, you will return that of my mother.”

  “You have my word,” the older man said, taking Tristan’s hand firmly to seal their agreement.

  “She can’t know who I am,” Tristan continued coldly, the potential repercussions of his choice now starting to become clear.

  His secrets couldn’t spread any farther after this moment.

  “Oh, no. Of course not,” Jack agreed. “In fact, I ask that you do not tell her what I’ve done to acquire her portrait; I want her to know about no part of this deal.”

  Tristan stared back, his curiosity only slightly peaked about why Jack would want to keep something like that from his daughter, but it wasn’t any of his business, and he was already far more involved than was a good idea.

  “What is her name?”

  “Elsa,” he responded. “Do you need her information? How will you contact her?”

  With a sharp stare, Tristan pulled out a pen from inside his tux, motio
ning for Jack to give him his auction handout. He scribbled on the paper a date, time, and address.

  “I won’t be contacting her,” he began bluntly. “Have her be there for the audition.” Handing him back the information, Tristan didn’t bother to wait for a response before he turned and stalked back into the gallery to find the devious asshole who had gotten him into this mess.

  By the time he got back inside, most of the crowd had cleared out, including the specific Lucifer he was searching for; Pierce was nowhere to be seen in the giant hall.

  That motherfucker.

  Even though Tristan knew that this whole ordeal was Pierce’s idea of an entertaining revenge for what he had said earlier, as well as an attempt to level the competition for this stupid fucking contest that he desperately wanted to win, Tristan still couldn’t believe that he’d done this.

  What had Pierce been thinking? Hell, what had he been thinking?

  It was his own damn fault for agreeing to the stupid competition – agreeing and then, out of frustration with his own weakness, upping the ante by mocking his friend. After a decade of being friends with the man, Tristan should have known better than to provoke him. The fact was that Pierce couldn’t have known that Jack Carter wouldn’t return the painting; he couldn’t have known that Jack was only there to try to find an ‘in’ with the Guild, to personally request a portrait. He couldn’t blame Pierce for that, no matter how much his anger wanted him to at the moment.

  Although, if Pierce did this to make sure that he wouldn’t submit his mom’s portrait to the competition, then he would have had to have known that Jack wasn’t going to give the drawing back, right? Tristan pinched his temples; trying to get inside Pierce’s head was an impossibility. You never knew what Pierce knew and what he didn’t, whether it was all part of his plan or it just magically worked out in his devious favor; that was the entire reason that Pierce enjoyed life, to keep those around him on edge, always guessing about him.

  Either way, he was going to lay into the bastard, that was for damn sure – if he could just find him.

  “Did you get it back?” Tristan turned, hearing Sloane’s voice approaching from behind him.

  “No,” he responded, his eyes shadowing, “but I will. Where’s Pierce?”

  “I think he left already, something about a hot date…”

  “Dammit,” Tristan spat, pulling out his cell phone to dial Pierce’s number.

  “Also, you should know that Pierce had Bernard come up at the end of the auction and announce that the Guild would be participating in the Met competition next month.”

  “Of course, he did,” Tristan responded sarcastically. Not that he had even thought about pulling out from the competition, especially now; there was no way he was going to let Pierce win this after everything he had just put him through.

  Dialing Pierce’s number, Tristan gave Sloane a nod before walking out of the gallery again towards the museum exit; this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have anywhere near a group of people.

  “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Confidence,” Pierce answered the phone smugly. “How are you feeling about winning that competition now?”

  “What the fuck is the matter with you?” Tristan responded, his voice eerily calm.

  “What! Just a little fun; couldn’t have you getting too sure of yourself,” Pierce paused to laugh. “He seemed like a nice enough guy, the one who won your mom. I’m sure he’ll give her back to you if you ask nicely.”

  “He wasn’t willing to exchange or give the drawing back,” Tristan bluntly informed him.

  Pierce began to laugh on the other end of the line. “Oh, that is fucking rich. Well, looks like we have now both lost an important piece for each other. At least you fucking know who has yours,” he snarled, bitterness creeping into his tone.

  Why did he have a feeling that was going to come up? Pierce was never going to let what happened three years ago go, no matter how many times he’d told Tristan it was ‘all good’ and that he ‘didn’t give a shit about the painting anyway.’

  “Jack Carter has my mother’s portrait and if I’m unable to get it back from him, I swear to God, you will regret the day that you met me,” Tristan threatened darkly before hanging up the phone.

  Let him stew over that for a little while. No need to tell Pierce that he was already working on getting the drawing back.

  Tristan climbed into the black car waiting to take him back to his One57 condo, dialing Morgan as he shut the door behind him.

  “Hey, did you get the drawing back from Carter?” Morgan answered.

  “No. I need you to set up an audition for me – Wednesday of this coming week at three,” Tristan responded, unwilling to elaborate more on what had just happened in the gallery.

  “What do you mean ‘no’? What are you going to do? Why do you need another audition?” Morgan persisted with his questions.

  “Can you set up the audition or not? I’m handling Carter.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do it. Where do you want to have it?” Morgan gave in, exasperated.

  “Same location as last time.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit risky? Using the Plaza again?”

  “I don’t care,” Tristan responded, knowing that he didn’t have a choice. The meeting room and address that he had given Jack Carter were for the plaza. He didn’t want to jeopardize anything by switching the information.

  “Alright, if you say so.”

  “Thanks.” Tristan shoved his phone into his jacket pocket as he got out of the car in front of his apartment building. One57, also known as ‘the Billionaire’s Building,’ stood impressively over one thousand feet tall, overlooking Central Park from West 157th street. Tristan had purchased his penthouse condo back in 2012, for a sum that most would consider staggering; he didn’t care. It was a great location and a great space, and therefore, worth the expense.

  Unbuttoning his jacket, he brushed passed the doorman with a quick acknowledgement, heading towards the elevator. He was the only person on the ride up to the eighty-fifth floor. As the doors opened, he yanked off his tie, unable to shake the frustration over the situation that he’d managed to get himself into.

  Seven years…blown in one day.

  It wasn’t true; nothing was blown, but Tristan had always been the leader; he’d called the shots, proposed the rules, and made sure that the other members of the Guild abided by them. He was the one in charge and he knew that if the shoe was on the other foot, if Sloane or Pierce had done what he had just done, he would have demanded that they leave the Guild immediately.

  Hypocrite.

  Tristan couldn’t distinguish whether it was the word or the door slamming behind him that reverberated through his apartment. The layout was so open that any sound made at one end of the condo would be heard at the other end. The heels of his oxfords clicked across the dark hardwood floor as he walked past the open-concept living room, with its two large modern couches, that then transitioned into the dining room, complete with a table large enough to seat ten guests comfortably. Rounding the corner put him in the fully stocked, modern kitchen, complete with separate wine refrigerator, two wall ovens, and a Viking gas stove. Pulling a bottle of Fiji water from the fridge, Tristan chugged down a good two-thirds of its contents before setting it on the granite countertop. His palms came to rest on the cool stone as he stared out the giant floor-to-ceiling windows that covered the outer walls of the entire apartment, offering him a complete, unobstructed view of Central Park and the city.

  Smacking his right hand down on the counter, he let out a yell of frustration. Stalking out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and down the hall into the master bedroom, he began stripping out of his jacket and shirt, taking them off and tossing them onto the bench at the end of his bed, as if they hadn’t cost him what most people would consider a small fortune. Unbuttoning his pants, he let them fall to the ground – they needed to be dry cleaned anyway. Stepping out of them and walking into the bathroom, he
turned the shower on hot, needing something to relax and clear his head.

  Looking out the window above the countertop in the bathroom, he stared out at the setting sun, his brow furrowing ominously as he contemplated how to handle this entire situation without it coming back to haunt him. When the window began to steam in front of him, he finally climbed into the scalding water letting it burn through him, just as the anger did coursing through his veins.

  Sloane and Pierce could never know about what he agreed to do. He knew that much. Sloane, well, he wasn’t as much of a concern, but Pierce, that fucker would never let this go. Not only would he never hear the end of it, but then there would be nothing to stop Pierce from taking whatever liberties he wanted with the Guild’s popularity – not that he didn’t try to do that already. But, when it came right down to it, he always respected Tristan’s strict adherence to the code that they had all agree upon. A code that he, Tristan Black, the beacon of conformity, had just undermined.

  He was going to get his mother’s portrait back, and he was going to win the competition in spite of what Pierce had done; that would be enough retribution, on Pierce at least.

  Jack Carter, on the other hand, was a completely different story.

  What kind of person would refuse to give back such a sentimental piece that was acquired by accident? That was strike one. Then, after asking to meet the artist, insinuating that he would agree to exchange the portrait, and subsequently refusing to when Tristan had introduced himself, that was strike two.

  He didn’t give a shit what words the man had actually used. The fact was that how Carter said what he did sent a clear message that if he could meet the artist, meet Titian, he would return the drawing. And then he didn’t, and that was unacceptable.

  Each member of the Guild had their own process when it came to producing pieces for their exhibits. They never went into much detail with each other, but the rumors weren’t completely baseless. They all formed physical relationships with the models that they chose in order to capture and portray that depth of emotion that made their work so entrancing and unique. Not that they forced anyone; well, at least he hadn’t, he couldn’t speak for Pierce. The models always had a choice to leave, not that they ever did, but they could have and he would have just picked someone else; if you knew of the Guild’s work, you knew what you were signing up for as one of their models.