Chapter 21
Willow
Lina blows kisses goodbye, and I return them with a smile. The second the doors close, Leo backs away, letting me go. There’s no one to perform for now.
I rub my chilled arms and stride to the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of tea? Do you have work to do?”
The kettle is light, so I set about making a fresh pot. His shoes scuff the floor, a dull sound that alerts me to his whereabouts, yet even with that awareness, a bolt of surprise fires through me when I turn and he’s there, leaning over the counter, intent.
“It’s Saturday. We’ve still got some daylight hours left. What’re your plans?”
“No plans, really,” I answer.
“No plans to meet up with Geoff?” His eyes light with amusement. Cocky amusement.
“After your reception yesterday, I doubt I’ll hear from him again.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say, based on his smug expression, he’s quite pleased.
“His loss. If you’ve no plans, I’m keen for a tour of your studio.”
“Really?” I set the kettle on the stove but flick the gas off. “You don’t strike me as the art type.”
“Is my flat not decorated to your liking? I’ve got sculptures.”
He’s got two Greco-Roman black onyx bust reproductions and monochromatic artwork in modern black frames. “I doubt you picked those yourself.”
He grins. “Guilty as charged. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to see your art.”
“Well, I received a notification that the shipment from Italy arrived. You can help me unpack it. On one condition.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“These are the pieces I’m planning to show to the agent. You’ve got to be honest with me. If you think it’ll flop in London, you’ve got to tell me. If it’s total shite, don’t spare my feelings.” That’s something Orlando and Scarlet would do. “It’ll be much worse if the agent arrives and turns right back around because he thinks?—”
“Let’s go. Get your shoes on.”
Nerves light my stomach. My hands cool and the desire to change plans comes out of nowhere as if a dragon arose and instead of shooting flames, the monster shot doubt straight into my veins.
This is one dragon I must slay. I step back into his bedroom and into the closet where I placed my stuff.
Not everyone will like what I create. But someone out there will.
Foremost, I create for myself.
Haters teach. Either constructively, so I improve my art, or by strengthening my skin.
Leo is not a hater. I’ll read the truth in his eyes. That might hurt more than anything he says, but I don’t paint for everyone. My style might not be what he seeks. And that’s okay.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I jump, palm pressed against my sternum. “You scared me.”
“Wanted to see what was taking so long. Do you have enough room in here?” He examines the walk-in closet. It’s a slightly smaller mirror image of his closet.
I didn’t pack most of what I own. There’s a ton of unused hanging space and drawers I haven’t used. “It’s good. I’ll spend some time organizing and make it neater in here.”
His closet is color coded, with the hanging clothes separated in sections by color, whereas mine has yet to be sorted. I ran out of hangers, so there’s one trunk that’s open against the wall that’s a haphazard mess.
He disappears, and I slip on a pair of trainers and bump into his chest as I exit.
“Forgot to give you this.”
The black credit card in his hand reads Willow Gagliano.
“My assistant said it was better to give you a card with the name on your identification. Since there’s no reason for you to legally change your name…” He holds it out, waiting for me to take it. There’s no need to legally change my name because this is temporary. “Use this for anything you need.”
“You know, I have some money. You don’t need to pay for everything.”
“My wife should have a credit card I supply. Take the card.”
I take it from him and absentmindedly slide it in a back pocket. “Ready?”
Silence descends. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, per se, but I can’t stop myself from wondering why a weight has settled on my chest. Is it the discomfort with financial matters? The reminder that this is an arrangement with an as-yet-undetermined end date?
He’s wearing jeans and a loose long sleeve t-shirt with the outline of bullhorns on the back, UT on the pocket, and frayed edges along the sleeves. Instead of his odd-looking cowboy boots, he’s also in trainers, and while I know he’s quite a bit older, this look shaves years.
In our Saturday outfits, we could be mistaken as friends from university, rather than an influential arms dealer and the young art student he’s mysteriously befriended.
“The workstations aren’t far away at all, are they?” he asks as I open the door to the brick building that might be mistaken as a refitted warehouse.
“Nope. How long have you lived here?” I ask.
“In this flat? Four years.”
“Where’d you live before?”
“A different flat.” He extends his arm, holding the door for me. The worn brick floor bears a sheen from age and polish, and my shoes squeak, a shrill sound in the mostly vacant space. “Is it quiet like this because it’s a Saturday?”
“Yes.” I unlock the door to my studio. It’s a one-room space with three spacious windows with iron grids on one wall. My paints are in boxes on the floor, and the dry brushes are put away in leather wraps. Cleaned, damp brushes gather in glass jars, handles down, tops airing.
“I’ve ordered some pieces for storage,” I tell him. “I thought about shopping in the area but figured it would be easiest to find what I want online.”
“So, this is where the magic happens?” he asks, traversing the space, slowing when he arrives at my easel and the work in progress. It’s a flurry of reds and oranges. Another piece, one filled with blues and grays, leans against a wall. “Angry?” he asks, pointing at the reds. “Sad?” He lifts an eyebrow and gestures to the blue painting.
“Something like that.” I like how he immediately interprets the pieces with emotion. To me, modern art is all about communicating the human condition. “Not everything I paint is a reflection of me.”
“Have you ever read The Picture of Dorian Gray ?”
“No…haven’t heard of it.”
“Oscar Wilde. I read it in college. But there’s a line in there… Something about every portrait is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.”
“Huh.”
“Do you agree?”
“I suppose there’s some truth to it.”
“And if it’s true in a portrait–”
“It’s true in an abstract piece…or landscape,” I finish for him.
“You said there’s a shipment to pick up?”
“Yes. I think the front desk has it.” Although I’m not as sure I want him to see my art now.
“Where’s that?”
“In another building.”
“Well, let’s go.”
When we return with the pallets on a wheeled trolley, he’s shaking his head. “I can’t believe you thought you’d get this on your own.”
I hadn’t, actually. There are normally lots of people milling around.
“You planned on asking Geoff, didn’t you?”
“I met Geoff twenty-four hours ago. If you keep mentioning him, you’re going to make me believe you’re jealous.”
He narrows his eyes, and I’m torn between backing up or stepping forward and showing him he has no reason to be concerned. I’m attracted to him, and for now, he’s the only one I want.
“We need tools to open this. I’ll be back.” The door closes and the lock clicks. He locked me in here.
He might believe such behavior is normal, but I don’t. We lived in a small Italian town, and the family maintained order. Crime was rare. At least, I never heard of crimes. Papa never locked me in a room.
Maybe it’s London that breeds fear? Or perhaps the syndicate isn’t as good at maintaining harmony? The dead man Leo spoke of supports that theory. The news shook Lina.
If I’d brought a mobile, I would call Scarlet to get her take.
When the lock clicks again, he’s carrying a bag that he drops on the floor with a heavy thud.
“It’s not jealousy. It’s self-preservation. We’re playing a role, and it’s important that our acting convinces everyone around us.”
“Got it,” I say, feeling sufficiently chastised.
He waltzed back in and picked right up where we left off. What does that say? He’s offended at the notion he could be jealous?
He takes the back of a hammer and pops open the top of a crate. One by one, he helps me pull out the canvases, the products of my university years.
He backs up, hands on his waist, studying them propped up on the floor, resting against the walls.
“You’re talented.”
Joy floods my cells, drowning all the negatives.
“Truly, you are. This is what you should do with your life.”
“That’s what Orlando says, but it feels pretty fantastic to hear it from someone else.”
“If I had a sister, I would do everything I could to support her dreams.” He side-eyes me. “Orlando’s young. If he were older, you would’ve had a more potent ally.”
He’s thinking of my situation, where I had few options and needed to beg a stranger.
“What’s your family like?” I want to learn more about him. This might be an arrangement, but we live together. We’re lovers. I’ll never forget him; of that, I’m quite certain. I owe him so much.
“They’re good people.” He crosses his arms over his chest and moves to a landscape painting I did of the sun setting over the ocean. It’s not the modern style I gravitate to, but it was required for my portfolio class. “I need to return to Texas, and they’d love to meet you. Think you can get away?”
“Tell me when.”