I match his wicked smile with one of my own. "You better not abuse it."
"Even if I think you'd enjoy it as much as me?"
I don't dignify him with a response. Instead, I turn and begin walking down the length of the gallery.
"I'll go easy on you," he calls after me. And then, far too quickly, "If you guess incorrectly, then you have to give me a kiss.”
A kiss. All things considered, he could have suggested something far worse. I pause as if considering. Let him think he’s thrown me off-kilter.
“How many guesses do I get?” I ask.
“As many as you want. As long as you pay up every time you’re wrong.”
I can definitely see this game spiraling out of control very quickly. Better place a limit on things.
“Let’s make it a one shot deal.” I tell him. “It’ll be more interesting that way.” Even though I know my odds aren’t good, it’s still better than trusting myself to kiss him a dozen times. “What happens if I’m right?”
“Then you don’t have to kiss me,” he says, grinning. “Unless you want to, of course.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “This bet’s a little one-sided, don’t you think?”
He shrugs. “You’re the one who told me to name the stakes.”
He’s right, of course. And I’ll play along. If indulging him gets me any closer to recovering the pledge money, I’ll do whatever it takes.
"All right," I call back to him. "It's a deal."
The corner of his mouth curls up in that charming little half-smile of his. He spreads his arms wide.
“Make your guess,” he says, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “I’ll be waiting.”
"How do I know you won't change your answer if I guess correctly?"
"You can trust me," he insists.
I'm not sure I can, but this is going too well for me to want to pick a fight. He seems to be enjoying our little game, and I mean to play him for all he's worth.
I continue my stroll down the gallery, scanning the art on either side of me as I pass, looking for anything that jumps out from the others. I'm at a major disadvantage here, that much is certain, but I'm willing to lose this battle if it means ultimately winning the war.
Still, the competitive side of me wants to give it my best shot. I'd really love to see his face when I get it right. My eyes roam over the collection. There are paintings of every style and medium I can imagine, as well as sculptures of clay, wood, metal, even marble.
I stop in front of an oil painting depicting a nude woman lying on a bed of wildflowers. Her arm is curled around her head, her leg slightly raised. It's a very sensual image, and I raise my eyebrow and look back at Calder.
"Interesting choice," he says, moving closer. "I'll admit, this piece certainly has its charms." His eyes roam over the canvas before flicking back to me. "You're wrong, though."
"I never said this was my guess."
"No? I believe you were about to."
"Then perhaps you should exercise a little patience next time," I say lightly, brushing my finger across the end of his nose. "Let me have a real guess, or you forfeit the prize."
The amusement deepens on his face.
"Very well, then," he says, gesturing toward the rest of the room. "Make your pick."
But my eyes fall to the painting beside the lounging nude.
“Is that…” I step forward, peer down at the tiny plaque beside the work. “This is a Ludlam. A fucking Ludlam!”
“Ludlam?”
“Benjamin Ludlam,” I explain. “He’s probably my favorite contemporary artist. He’s freaking brilliant—his work combines modern techniques with a style reminiscent of the Pre-Raphaelites.” I shake my head.
“I can’t believe you have this,” I continue. I’ve heard of Ludlam’s work going for upwards of half a million dollars at auction—though, now that I think about it, that’s probably pocket change for the Cunninghams.
That thought brings me crashing down from my high. Half a million dollars could do so much for the Center. As much as I love seeing this painting in person, I can’t forget why I’m here.
“But I’m supposed to be finding your favorite piece,” I tell Calder sweetly. “Not picking my own.” I brush my fingers against his cheek as I turn and move back toward the Center of the gallery.
I feel his eyes boring into my back as I move away from him and continue my inspections. This collection really is amazing—but I never expected any less from the Wentworth Cunningham, the man who gave us so much support throughout the years. He was truly a man who loved and respected the arts.
I stop the next time in front of a stretch of wall devoted entirely to colorful Pop art. It's an eclectic collection, that's for certain, but it's clear that someone with practiced taste and a refined eye selected these pieces. I stare at a multi-media work depicting a brightly-painted bus with a series of even brighter advertisements pasted to its side.
All the time I’m contemplating my decision, Calder’s eyes are on me. I don’t even have to look—I can feel it. It's like a tickle on my skin, a sensation creeping up my spine. I don't think these particular works would count among his favorites. They're too modern, too strange.
On the opposite wall I spot another glass case, and I wander over to have a look. I know without glancing up that Calder's eyes follow me. I sense them sliding over my body as I move. A rush of pleasure surges through me. It's intoxicating, even this small taste of power, but it's also terrifying. I can’t fuck this up.
I lean over the glass case, making sure Calder has a nice, clear view of my backside. I've always been proud of my ass. If it wins me a few points for the Center, all the better. Meanwhile, I'm perusing the items inside the case. These pieces appear to be crafted entirely of ivory. My eyes lock on one of the larger works, a long curved tusk depicting a scene at sea. On one side of the carving, there's a large ship with a number of men—some scrambling about the deck, others brandishing harpoons. On the other half, a sperm whale rises from the water, its teeth bared at the sailors. It's the sort of scene that a young, adventurous boy would love.
I glance up at Calder, who's come to stand beside me at the case. Instead of focusing on me, his gaze moves about the ivory carvings below us. His face is carefully calm. I'm not sure what to make of it.
He seems to be studying the pieces in the case as carefully as I, but I don't miss the way his gaze lingers on the same work I noticed, the long tusk with the ship scene.