Free The Exhibition (An Executive Decision Trilogy) by Grace Marshall

alone. But the smell of fresh coffee was encouraging. Wrapped in his shirt, she tiptoed into the lounge in search of him, hungry for more of him.
    He sat reading the New York Times at the table in front of the window. He was already showered and dressed for business, even though it was a Sunday. For a second, she stood in the doorway watching him, letting the wave of butterflies flutter over her. This man, this very powerful, very wealthy man, singled her work out from all the rest; this man believed her worthy of his attention. He sipped his coffee and sat the cup carefully back onto its saucer. She hadn’t thought him even aware of her presence until he spoke. ‘There’s a robe in the closet,’ he said without looking up from the paper. ‘Go put it on.’
    She obeyed, stripping off the shirt in full view of him before she walked slowly back into the bedroom. When he didn’t look up, the champagne headache spiked in a wave of confusion. The man had been the best host ever last night. He had taken her to dine at Per Se, putting out way more on one meal than she paid for her apartment for six months. Then he had brought her back to his penthouse suite in the Plaza Hotel. She’d never even been to Minneapolis until her senior trip, let alone New York City, so she reacted like a kid at Christmas – maybe a little embarrassing the morning after, but last night he seemed to relish her delight. This morning, he was miles away. Surely it couldn’t be anything she’d done. She hadn’t done anything that he hadn’t suggested or recommended. Perhaps he was just distracted. An important man like Terrance Jamison had plenty of things other than art and artists on his mind.
    She slipped into the robe and joined him at the table. He still didn’t look up. ‘Help yourself to coffee. I’ve ordered breakfast to be delivered –’ he glanced down at his watch ‘– in twenty minutes.’
    She poured herself coffee, then moved to admire the view out over Central Park. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said, her voice breathless with nerves.
    Still he said nothing. So she took matters into her own hands and leaned over his shoulder. ‘What are you reading?’
    ‘The write-up about last night’s little soirée,’ came the reply that sounded neither irritated nor warm. ‘It seems Ms. Emerson has done it again. Even without our little contribution, Americans for the Arts has done very well from her efforts.’
    She studied the picture of Stacie Emerson shaking her hand and offering her the plaque for Outstanding New Artist. Ingrid looked a bit shell-shocked, but Stacie looked polished, at ease, and gorgeous. Her insides somersaulted with a strange mix of envy and hero worship. She owed the woman big time. If Ms. Emerson hadn’t given her the chance to display her work in the gallery for the charity auction, she’d still be just Jim Watson’s little girl who dabbled in the arts in the old barn behind the cowshed, and Terrance Jamison would have taken no notice of her. And yet she couldn’t help it. She would have liked it if the gallery owner had been a little less perfect, a little less comfortable in her own skin. There were several other posed shots with Stacie Emerson and people Ingrid would know if she ran in the same circles. Perhaps they were people she might have had the opportunity to meet if she had joined the other artists for dinner. The little niggle in the pit of her stomach made her wonder if she’d made a mistake by not going along last night, especially when her absence was noted in less than gracious terms in the article. But Terrance Jamison had said he could help her career at least as much as Ms. Emerson. And she had wholeheartedly believed him. Then. Right now she wasn’t so sure.
    ‘How long have you known her?’ she asked, recalling the twinge of jealousy she’d felt at the way he looked at Stacie Emerson, the way he touched her when he’d asked her to join them for dinner.’
    ‘Oh, Stacie and