Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“Yes, of course,” she says, looking at me, her body angled in my direction, a silent question in that action. I take her hand and draw it to my mouth. “I’ll be close,” I promise, kissing her knuckles, and I don’t miss the tiny tremble of her hand in mine.
She nods, and I release her, and the way she hesitates in her departure tells me that I’ve taken her “no” to a “yes” and done so faster and easier than expected. But then, there is a reality here neither of us can deny: we really are red-hot together. She departs, and Josh latches onto her arm, touching her yet again, but she never touches him. She doesn’t seem to know that he not only wants to fuck her but perhaps is even in love with her, which, considering how intelligent she is, amazes me. But then, women who don’t return a man’s feelings often don’t see what is there to be seen. I, however, have made my intentions clear. Her naked. Me naked. Lots of sweaty, hot, dirty fucking.
I watch her chatting with one guest and then another, remembering my conversation with the star artist of the night, who I’d met while representing a mutual friend.
“Chris Merit, artist and superstar,” I’d said. “I need tickets to the event at Le Sun Gallery tonight.”
“I didn’t know you were into art.”
“I have a Chris Merit on my wall.”
“Really? You never said a word. But, hey, man. I’m always honored to hear someone chose my work over someone else’s.”
“You’re humble as fuck, man.”
“You sure as fuck are not.”
I laugh, and so does he, but he’s not laughing when I add, “How about a ticket in exchange for a fifty-thousand-dollar donation to your charity?”
He whistles. “I’ll give you the tickets, man.”
“Happy to donate. It’s not a problem or I wouldn’t have offered.”
“All right, then. That’s generous as hell. I’ll call my godmother and arrange a ticket. Or do you need two?”
“Just one.”
“Got it. It’s business, then.”
“I wouldn’t call her business. What do you know about Faith Winter?”
“Not much personally, but my wife and I are the reason she’s in that display. I saw her work in L.A. and had a flashback to her visiting me at Le Sun a good several times a decade ago and with big dreams in her eyes. She’s talented, and it’s clear from looking at her work that she took some inspiration from mine, which I find flattering. She executed her work not only well but with her own style.”
“Most people wouldn’t like that inspiration.”
“Most people are insecure.” He’d laughed then. “Funny side note about Faith. She’d felt like she was betraying her family by visiting me at Katie and Mike’s vineyard. I told her that Katie and Mike not only knew her father well, they knew that I don’t give a damn about wine. She told me she didn’t, either.”
“She didn’t what?” I’d asked.
“She didn’t give a damn about wine, and yet I hear she’s now running her family vineyard, and that, my friend, could be where her dream dies, if she lets it. My wife reminded me how easily that could have happened to me when I inherited my mother’s cosmetic business.”
“Thus you made sure Faith was on the ticket tonight.”
“Exactly.”
“Does she know that?”
“No, and keep it that way. I offered her an opportunity. It’s up to her to decide what to do with it.”
I return to the present, watching Josh’s damn hand settle on Faith’s back as they stand talking with two older, distinguished men. Possessiveness rises in me, and I clamp down on the urge to go break his damn arm, reminding myself that I want to fuck Faith and then fuck her over, not marry her. Irritated at myself, I turn away from her, walking to the Chris Merit displays, admiring his skill, these particular pieces all San Francisco skylines in black and white that of course even a damn near blind eye to art would call brilliant. Interested in Chris’s reference to Faith’s inspiration, I cross the white tiled floor of the gallery to a corridor that has Faith’s name on it, two high, glass-blocked walls creating her walkway.
Entering her display, I find ten or so guests viewing random paintings, and I decide to continue past them to the farthest corner to view from the end of the display forward. At the far corner, I find myself standing alone and studying a painting of the Reid Winter Mansion, rolling hills behind it that most would craft with the brilliant colors of Sonoma’s many grapes, flowers, and trees, while Faith does not. Instead, this work is black and white, a technique Chris also favors, but there are differences between the two. Chris sticks to various shades of gray and whites, but as with this painting, Faith always adds a splash of red. In this case, a bloodred moon.