"You were meant to do this," he said softly. "You'll see."
"Why me?" she asked. "Millions of women in this country, millions in yours … why me?"
"Millions of paintings in this world. Only one Mona Lisa. Billions of women in this world. Only one you, Mona Lisa St. James."
Then he left her in the office, blushing and shivering and undeniably aroused. She'd just agreed to become a prostitute to save her gallery.
Something told Mona that somewhere out there, her mother was proud of her.
Olympia
Malcolm had picked a good day for a tryst. Sunday was the gallery's shortest day-open only from one to five. After she closed The Red, Mona went shopping. She didn't need much-a velvet choker, a flower for her hair, clean white sheets for the bed, all easy to find. At her apartment she showered and shaved and waxed until she was as smooth as a marble statue. Malcolm hadn't told her to remove her hair, but Olympia had no visible body hair in Manet's painting. Mona should have asked him what he preferred. She knew he would have told her had she asked. A shameless man, he'd made her feel rather shameless. In fact, the whole conversation with Malcolm had been rather dignified. She hadn't felt embarrassed or ashamed. It felt like a business transaction, which she had appreciated.
After all, she was a businesswoman.
She was glad Malcolm had given her instructions for what to wear and how to wait for him. It made it easier. No second-guessing. Before dressing to leave her apartment, she stood in front of her full-length mirror and examined her naked body. She wasn't thin exactly, certainly not skinny. She had breasts larger than her frame but no man had ever complained about that. Her legs were her best feature, if she did say so herself. The face? A straight nose, full lips, high cheekbones, high forehead, which is why she wore blunt bangs. The verdict? She'd make a passable Olympia and a very fine whore indeed. She was getting used to that word. In fact, she was starting to like it. It gave her a thrill to think of herself that way. A goldmine, that's what Malcolm had called her body. A goldmine. Who wouldn't go digging if one were sitting on a goldmine? Only a fool.
She could only hope she wasn't fooling herself.
Mona dressed in a long breezy skirt, sandals, a white bra, white panties, and white cotton top. Her usual casual summer uniform. The streets were humid when she walked to the gallery four blocks away and by the time she unlocked the door, she was sweating. It was a relief to step into the air-conditioning. In her office, she caught Tou-Tou sleeping in the leather club chair Malcolm had sat in.
"You know better than that," she said to Tou-Tou, as she scooped him up and set him on the floor. "Company only. You have your own bed."
He looked at her, affronted, as if to say "How dare you judge me? I know what you're doing here … "
Or perhaps she was merely being paranoid. Tou-Tou followed at her heels as she went into the back storage room. She switched on the floor lamp, as the room was windowless but for the single skylight above the bed. This had always been her favorite part of the gallery. It was full of odd and gorgeous clutter. Here were the strange paintings her mother had loved but could never unload. Erotic paintings mostly. A woman in a red dress with one strap dangling off her shoulder, a bare breast exposed. A naked couple fornicating on a boat while the ship sank and sailors drowned. A lady in Victorian garb whipping the corpulent ass of a naked man with a branch of holly. All good company for such a liaison as Mona's tonight.
She wondered if the paintings would give Malcolm any ideas.
In addition to the paintings, antique furniture was scattered here and there-a red velvet fainting couch, a cheval mirror with an ornately carved frame hidden under a white sheet, a Rococo-style chair with carved wood arms and red and gold striped fabric. They were for parties, special events. When she was a little girl, Mona would come here after school and nap on the fainting couch, dance in front of the mirror, sit in the Rococo chair and read her little school books, while her mother in the other room hobnobbed with artists, art critics, art lovers, and anyone else who wanted to come in from the rain.
And, of course, there was the brass bed. It had been her bed as a girl growing up in her mother's apartment. She'd lost her virginity in that bed and taken Ryan's in it as well. Her memories of that bed, in that bed, were potent ones. After tonight it would hold even more memories.
She prayed they would be good ones.
Funny, the last night she'd slept in this bed was the night her mother died, the night her mother had made her promise to keep the gallery, no matter what. And now she'd keep her promise in that bed. She only hoped her mother would understand. Mona looked over her shoulder at the portrait of a handsome, randy old duke naked from the waist down with his penis poking inside the squirming girl on his lap.