Chapter 12 #2
“C’mon, Maddy. The world could use more artistic inspiration. You got that, girl.”
He smiled between me and the enlarged images of my past artwork as if he were watching his favorite movie, and I murmured my gratitude.
Then he wasn’t giving me attention at all. The man perused every page. Should I turn on some music, set the mood? Or continue to twiddle my thumbs? My stiletto boots dangled from the high chair like a toddler testing gravity.
“Have you ever replicated older designs?” Omari asked, closing the leather-bound book with a soft thump that echoed through his minimalist apartment. “Or something with an antique inspiration?”
My eyes narrowed. Hadn’t he started to mention this at the DuVall’s event? “I work from the imagination.” At least I did when my moody Black woman figurines didn’t feel so literal. “Antique knockoffs aren’t my style.”
He leaned back in the chair across from me, casual, his gorgeous body sculpted for lifestyle magazines. “Of course. But some collectors, well, they appreciate the illusion of history. Something that appears centuries old.”
My tone sharpened. “Sounds like a lot of work for dishonest money. The only burns I don’t mind, regardless of how cautious I am with a blowtorch, come from that. A blowtorch. Not hawking off somebody else’s designs.”
“Hold up.” His laugh, smooth and slightly amused, wrapped around me like a red velvet rope. But did my eyes un-narrow? Nope. “Madison, I heard around town, not that I’m with NOLA’s gossip mill, that you could use money.”
Dang. This was exactly why I hated my lapse in judgment. I should’ve split assets the way Washington suggested.
“Listen,” Omari said, “I’m not tryna get you to do anything unethical. My clientele is very diverse. I’ll spend ages confirming that a Certificate of Authenticity is legit for them.”
I nodded, still scanning him like a hawk.
The COA was an authentic certificate that listed every sale of a piece, like the art world’s version of gossip receipts.
The paper basically said, Relax, Jessica, this art is real.
And no, the Louvre hasn’t gotten robbed …
again. Most collectors wouldn’t even touch a piece of art without a COA.
It would be a bad investment if the art was part of a heist, and the original owner popped up and said, That’s mine.
Omari rattled off celebrity names, then one wealthy enough to call Warren Buffett a pauper. Dude could buy the moon if it were on auction.
“Yep, that man, Maddy. And then I have those like us,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, I-get-you tone which made me itch to believe him. “Living large-ish, but with mature taste.”
Meh. I think he meant the old me. Living Large. And with mature tastes? A sistah only loved ancient wine.
He rubbed his chin. “They don’t require COAs to prove the piece they’ve bought was legit. My people know the deal. It isn’t old. Hasn’t passed through many hands. Since I told them I’m selling a mood, right?”
Dang. What sort of telepathy caused you to get my love of mood, sir? As if Omari knew he had me, he added, “All they’ve gotta do is check the pontil mark on the bottom. They’ll know it ain’t real.”
I nodded. The pontil mark was a rough spot where the artist broke the glass off the blowing rod. A signature. No two were the same. So, Omari Riche was art-rich. Dude knew my craft very well.
His eyes flicked to mine for a split second. That brief spark made me want to roll my eyes. That smile kept getting to me, kept kicking my guard into a dropped position.
“Check this.” Omari stood up and came behind my chair.
He leaned in close enough that the faint scent of his Dior Sauvage enticed my senses, making me acutely aware of the dangerous warmth of his chest as it pressed against my shoulder.
His lips did a thing with my ear, almost touching, almost crossing the line.
“We start by recreating a couple of Francisco Philippe’s Calla Lily Vases. ”
“None of those are alike …”
“Exactly.” His hands fell onto my shoulders, a sudden, warm pressure, as if asking for confirmation. When I didn’t call him out, he kneaded the tension away. “Just a couple, so it doesn’t seem like we’re working a shady designer brand sweatshop. See?”
I had questions but folded my arms and dipped my shoulders away from those hands.
They had a magnetic pull. But momma was not to be played with.
“Look, I’m gonna go ahead and work on this project with you because I’m a professional, and I need money.
But let’s get one thing straight: keep your paws at home.
Don’t accidentally graze my arm. Don’t get all up in my personal bubble.
I need a five-foot radius and receipts on every reproduction. ”
“You want a contract?”
Hell no. Another man already had me wrapped up in a contract, and all the verbiage was making me develop a tic. “I need you to understand that if you screw me over, you’ll find yourself lost in a swamp. No paddle, no GPS. And I’ma tell the gators where you’re hiding. You feel me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t even chuckle.