Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
O ver the weekend, Clay had taken her out to dinner, and Saskia couldn’t help keeping an eye out for Hugo.
The exclusive, expensive restaurant was just the kind of place where he’d want to be seen by all the right people.
He would throw himself at everyone who was anyone, in case he could somehow use them later.
Those two or three nights she’d planned to sleep with Clay had turned into five. By Monday morning, Saskia knew in her petrified little heart that she couldn’t stop.
He’d said he wanted a mural relating to art, in whatever way San Holo wished to portray it. How could she resist? But despite telling Adrian she’d take the commission, she had yet to tell Clay about San’s decision.
She claimed she was still scoping everything out for San, taking pictures so she could tell him what the space was like.
With a new client, she usually made up her mind right away.
She could tell whether she’d be able to work with the person.
And she’d never once considered telling them who she was.
After five nights with Clay, the fact that she wasn’t being truthful weighed heavily on her. This thing with Clay was so different from any other client she’d ever had. But then, she’d never wanted to sleep with any of them.
On Sunday, Adrian texted her a few times.
Have you told him yet?
Are you stalling?
Have you changed your mind?
Adrian didn’t call her, but the texts were pressure enough.
After another night with him blowing her mind, then this morning’s elaborate breakfast of bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, and fried tomatoes that reminded her of a full English back home, she didn’t know how she could say no. She didn’t want to say no.
But she wasn’t sure how she could say yes, with all her lies choking her.
When the door of Clay’s apartment opened and an unfamiliar man walked into the loft, Saskia jumped like a frightened rabbit and almost knocked over her juice glass on the breakfast bar.
“Sorry,” Clay said. “I should have warned you. I saw him coming on the monitor and opened the door for him.” It had been automatic to push the button on the end of the bar to unlock the door. “Saskia Oliver, this is Gareth Tate.” He clapped his best friend on the back.
Her shock clearly fading, Saskia bounded from the barstool and stuck out her hand. Before Clay could say that Gareth was just dropping off some contracts for him to sign, she jumped in. “You must be one of Clay’s artists. What’s your medium?”
Clay tensed. He’d told her only part of the story the other night—that his friend’s parents hadn’t appreciated his art.
She obviously didn’t realize Gareth was that friend.
Or that his art was a closed subject. Back in university, Gareth had been a prolific painter.
Clay had even helped him mount a show for his work.
It hadn’t gone well. No, that was too mild.
Gareth’s work had been trashed. The lighthearted, artistic Gareth had disappeared after that, turning into this buttoned-up, executive-style man before them.
Even his rich, coffee-colored eyes had become a simple brown.
But Saskia was already going through a litany of artistic endeavors. “Sculptor, metal artist, potter, painter?”
Clay thanked heaven that Gareth didn’t freak out. Instead, he flapped a hand as if he were trying to ward off everything she said. “Oh no, I don’t paint anymore. I’m Clay’s lawyer.”
She looked first to Clay, then back to Gareth. “Oh,” she said with obvious disappointment. “So you used to paint, but don’t anymore?” When Gareth didn’t answer, she asked, “Why did you stop?”
Clay cringed, having no idea how to avert this disaster. He wasn’t a helpless man, but he felt helpless now.
Gareth shrugged his wide shoulders beneath the tailored suit jacket. “Long story. The art world just wasn’t for me.”
She tucked her chin, gazing at Gareth as if she were a cat trying to figure out why he didn’t immediately bend down to scratch her ears.
“Really?” Then she puffed out just a sound.
“Hmm.” She looked him up and down, from his short lawyerly auburn hair to that buttoned suit jacket to his shiny loafers.
“Because you’ve definitely got that artist vibe about you. ”
Having seen her take in his appearance, Gareth admitted, “I dabbled in college.”
She touched him, just a sweep of her fingers across his forearm. No one had seen Gareth’s artwork since their university days. He’d hidden it all away, taken back everything he’d given Clay to put in the show. Clay was pretty sure he’d destroyed it all.
But Saskia was so enchanting. Whatever Gareth felt in that touch made his tension melt away. She cocked her head again, as if the careful animal in her scented that Gareth wasn’t a threat and that maybe he was about to give her a treat.
She asked softly, “Do you display it in your house just for you to see?”
Clay felt jittery, his gaze flashing between the two of them. Gareth would walk out now.
Instead, his friend smiled. A real smile. Not a trapped smile. A smile that reminded Clay of the Gareth of ten years ago. When he’d been a happy artist instead of a staid lawyer. Then his friend shocked the hell out of him by saying, “No. It’s all in a storage unit.”
Clay barely stopped his jaw from hitting the floor. How had he simply assumed Gareth had gotten rid of it all, even as he mourned its loss?
But Saskia, that amazing woman, had drawn it out of him. She was incredible. A miracle worker.
She blew Clay away yet again by saying, “I’d love to see it sometime.”
Then Gareth did the most staggering thing. He pulled out his phone, scrolled through the contents, and finally said, “I have pictures.”
Saskia stepped inside his personal space to look at his phone.
Clay couldn’t move. He wasn’t merely astounded—he was completely dumbstruck.
Not just by Saskia and how she’d gotten Gareth to open up in less than ten minutes, but by Gareth himself.
Clay wanted to horn in on their moment, to gaze at the photos.
But he stood back watching, when normally he would never have allowed himself to be a mere observer.
All the time, he’d honestly believed Gareth had burned all his paintings. But Clay saw the truth. Gareth couldn’t bear to destroy his work. His heart and soul lived in those paintings. He was finally seeing the true Gareth again after so long. The one whose art still inhabited him.
Saskia said on barely a breath, “This is amazing.” She knew art. She worked for San Holo.
Clay couldn’t stop himself. He had to see the painting Gareth had shown her.
He barely swallowed a gasp.
It was the self-portrait. But a completely disjointed self-portrait—the nose in the wrong place, the eyes too far to the left, everything off-kilter. It was this painting the critics had trashed.
Clay could still remember the comments.
Do you think you’re van Gogh or Picasso?
This is just mimicry.
The artist is merely blending other people’s styles. He has no style of his own, and I doubt he ever will.
But Saskia knew none of that. “Wow, this is a self-portrait, isn’t it?” She looked at Gareth as if she saw him in a way Clay hadn’t for years. “Looks like you felt all twisted up about which direction your life should take—law or art?”
She was spot-on.
It was how Gareth had sometimes felt back then, beneath the happy-go-lucky facade, forced into law school by his parents but wanting only to paint. With Clay pulling him in the other direction, wanting him to put his art out there.
Saskia saw it all in only one self-portrait.
Stepping back, she surveyed Gareth, her face glowing. “This is brilliant. Why aren’t you doing this?”
Gareth shrugged again. “Because I’m a lawyer.”
She laughed that beautiful laugh. “Well, you need to dump the day job and get into one of Clay’s studios.” She turned to Clay, her smile as brilliant as Gareth’s self-portrait. “And you need to find a new lawyer.”
He expected Gareth to fob her off, but his incredible artist friend said, “You know, you make me think maybe it’s time to try again.”
Clay wanted to hug her, kiss her, grab her up in his arms and whirl around the room with her.
Here was a woman he could be with for more than a few weeks, a few months, or even a year.
Here was a woman he could fall for.
Clay turned to her the moment the door closed behind Gareth and the contracts. “You’re amazing.”
His statement stunned Saskia. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that Gareth hasn’t talked about his art in ten years. I didn’t even know he’d kept all his canvases.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean?—”
“You just did an incredible thing.” His voice dipped low, as if emotion had overtaken him. “He even said he’d think about painting again.”
His big, warm hands cupped her face, his lips on hers. He kissed her with fervor and yet with reverence, then whispered against her mouth, “Thank you for doing that for him.”
She had to back off a step. “I didn’t do anything but look at his paintings.”
Clay guided her to the couch, pulling her onto his lap, his arms wrapped around her. “Let me tell you what happened when we were at university. Then you’ll understand what an extraordinary thing this is.”
She heard the ache in his slow tones and saw it in his eyes, which had gone a paler shade of blue. “He was such a fantastic painter. That self-portrait was the tip of the iceberg. He was happiest when he was working on a new painting. But his parents wanted him to be a lawyer.”
She ran her hand through his hair. “He’s the friend you mentioned the other night, the one whose parents didn’t like his art?”
He nodded. “They said he’d never make a living as an artist. That he’d be, quote, a starving artist, unquote, and they wouldn’t pay for a starving artist to go to university. That if he wanted a Harvard education, it was to be at Harvard Law, like his father.”