Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
Jasmine
L unch with Dominique ended with a meeting time and place with this Eric Maxim—at an art gallery smack dab in the middle of Coral Gables. It was by all accounts one of the most luxurious cities in Florida. Socialites from all over vacationed there, retirees spent their billions, and new money young bloods blew lottery winnings, inheritances, and lucky break earnings at the casinos, clubs, fashion parlors, and art exhibits held within the city limits.
Most of my clients lived in the area. I knew its streets and businesses well, even though I lived outside the limits of the city next to it. Far less opulent, but my tiny, modest apartment meant most of my money was squirreled away into my savings, as opposed to sunken into overpriced rent. I did grant myself a small allowance for hair, clothes, nails and make-up to keep up my appearance, along with the occasional non-work-related treat. But overall, escorting was a good living that enabled me to live quite well.
Still, I was grateful for Dominique’s opportunity to make a good situation better.
Wearing a pretty dress in a pale pink hue along with my favorite pair of beige Louboutin heels, and scenting of expensive perfume, I had an Uber drive me into Coral Gables around noon and drop me off at my destination. The gallery itself was an architecturally unique building with slants and curves set to the roof and walls that gave it a peculiar shape, yet somehow made it all the more beautiful of a place.
I was in awe as I approached the building. Though I knew of its location there, the Spinel Fine Arts Exhibit and Gallery was somewhere I had only had the pleasure of viewing from the outside, but never traversing within. Many of my clients frequented the clubs and restaurants and social hotspots of Coral Gables, but Eric Maxim would be the first to pull me into these illustrious halls I’d always secretly wanted to see and explore.
All Dominique had told me of this meeting was that I should dress nicely, but not overtly sexy, and to give my name to the woman who would be at the ticket counter since my admission had already been paid for by Eric. To the woman’s credit, she didn’t seem too scrutinizing when I introduced myself. She was a vision of respectability as she looked through her notes, then nodded when she found my name seemingly on a list of pre-approved folk and told me to go on through.
The first low hurdle overcome, I was free to roam as I pleased while I waited for Eric Maxim to approach me based on the recent photo Dominique had sent to him, along with my other pertinent information. I didn’t have any such luxury and had no idea what he looked like.
This situation was an uncommon set up. Normally, if a client needed to meet me to see if we were compatible before moving forward with any arrangement, he would usually FaceTime me. ‘Compatible’ was often whether they found my face and voice attractive, and therefore, whether or not they could see themselves fucking me.
Often, the simplest of intentions were the easiest to navigate.
This Eric Maxim was somewhat of an enigma, however. As I wandered the mostly empty art exhibition hall, eyes drawn from one painting to another, to grand sculptures and puzzling abstract pieces, I wondered if maybe Eric Maxim was an eccentric type for having me out here by myself, simply waiting for his arrival. Maybe he fancied himself a Phantom of the Opera type, watching his unwitting Christine Daaé from the shadows.
The idea made me smile in amusement as I continued on. Though this was technically work and a job, I found myself easily forgetting it as so, and willingly enjoyed the atmosphere of this place which was quiet and unimposing.
Not knowing how long it would take for Eric to make his appearance, I immersed myself in the experience. It had been so long since I’d indulged in any art. The scent of dried paint—oils differing from acrylics, differing from watercolors—was as welcoming as the notion of reuniting with an old friend.
I had not expected to feel so nostalgic. To have the tingle in my palms as though my body knew that it wanted to be once more in the presence of paint brushes, ink pots, and grainy art papers beneath my fingertips. Or the way colors splashed in monochrome or vibrant mixes of pigments, how hard and soft mediums came together to create beautiful, dynamic sculptures.
My browsing brought me to a particular painting and forced me to stop in front of it and move closer with curiosity. It was a naked woman, bathed in a series of decaying flowers. They flowed over her naked form, the desaturated, muted colors of the flowers contrasting beautifully with the rich depth of her brown skin and ringlet curls fanned out around her head. It was almost like the life in those flowers had transferred their vitality into her.
“Exquisite, isn’t it?”
I was startled by the sudden male voice that spoke beside me, but I found myself too enraptured by the painting to look away. “It is. Whoever did the coloring is an expert at blending and contrast. Even the imperfections could be called perfect.”
“Imperfections?” he questioned, his voice as smooth as fine bourbon.
Still enthralled by the exquisite piece of art, I pointed to a particular area and explained what I meant. “The artist uses chrysanthemums, spider lilies, and popover poppies for the flowers. Each has a specific color palette corresponding with it, yet once you start getting to the bottom half of the painting, the color palettes shift just so from the exact hues of the flowers in the upper half, which suggests that the artist probably mixes their own paint colors—the original batch likely ran out, so they replenished with a new batch of mixed paint. The artist got insanely close to the original hue that they used, which is impressive with custom paint colors unless a painter is precisely measuring their paint ratios. The fact that they probably mix their own paint explains why the skin tone is so rich; it’s hard to get that straight from the tube. But it’s also why an imperfection like a mismatched color is actually quite charming. It’s a detail most people would miss otherwise.”
“And yet you caught it immediately, Miss Greene.”
My back straightened with the unexpected use of my name. A shocked shiver ran up my spine, and I turned toward the source.
A man towered over me, even as his eyes remained fixated on the painting in front of us. Towered was not putting it lightly. He was one of the tallest people I had ever seen, with a golden tan to perfectly smooth, well cared for skin that beautifully contrasted with the tailored black suit that he wore. Tailored, I knew for a fact, because nowhere on his sculpted body was the three piece ill-fitted. All of it came together in a picture-perfect rendition of a man and a life well lived if the salt and pepper hair—erring more on the side of pepper than salt—was any indication.
It was when he glanced down at me, though, that I swallowed hard as my heart took flight in my chest. His thick, soft looking hair was styled back from his face, leaving nothing to take away from the clarity of the palest blue eyes I had ever seen.
Fuck…he was breathtakingly gorgeous.
Was this Eric Maxim? Had to be, didn’t it? No one else, aside from the receptionist who’d allowed my admittance, could possibly have guessed my name out of the blue.
Damn . Of all the things Dominique had said about Eric, she did not prepare me for how beautiful a man he would be. Even if you’ve spent years—or your whole life—escorting, it rarely diminished the effect of someone who looked like they were carved from the finest marble with loving sculptor’s hands.
“Mr. Maxim, I presume?” I managed to say after a moment.
I was, of course, a professional, and if I couldn’t even carry on a conversation with a client first meeting, then I had no business trying to carry on a whole evening event with them, either. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, especially not in front of a man Dominique already told me was very particular.
He inclined his head. “Eric,” was his polite correction. “Just Eric. There’s no need to be so formal. We were speaking about the painting. I’m not sure I’d call them imperfections when you have such a high opinion on the outcome.”
I raised a brow and easily slipped right back into our previous discussion. “Imperfections aren’t necessarily things that need to have low opinions. Or fixing. Imperfection is a general state of art. There is art that is perfect, and art that is not. I would say that imperfect art is superior, but I think that would piss off a lot of artists telling them that to their faces.”
He stared down at me for a long, unnerving moment. “You seem to know a lot about the finer details of artwork.”
The way he spoke was direct. Controlled. Almost like there was a comment that he was holding back. Was his statement genuine, or was he mocking me? It was hard to tell.
I returned my attention to the painting. “I know enough to hold a conversation,” I hedged with a smile. “Enough to know about mixing paint and how the flowers used in this painting symbolize death.”
“Ironic, given the subject herself is so lively,” he murmured, his deep voice doing ridiculously arousing things to my body. “That you caught the symbolism is impressive.”
I ignored the latter part of his statement, which almost felt…derogatory. “I imagine she’s taken the flowers’ vitality for herself. She’s so tranquil laying among them even as they’re dying. Like she knows she’s going to be alright.”
“A floral succubus?” he mused.
“Or maybe a witch with an interesting green thumb,” I countered, risking a little humor. “Maybe there’s a reason she cultivates death flowers.”
Eric chuckled beside me, the sound shocking me. I chanced another look up toward the man and couldn’t stop the warmth that tickled the tips of my ears at the fact that he was still looking down at me. Was he interested or did he think I was foolish? I hated how I couldn’t quite get a read on him.
“Dominique told me that you were a bit of an artiste,” he continued, his gaze taking in my facial features, but his own expression giving nothing away. “Admittedly, I didn’t expect much out of the assertion. Many like to call themselves such without any real backing for such a claim.”
I managed, just barely, not to bristle at his comment. “And you can tell that I am one just because I have thoughts about a painting?” I asked saucily, rather than stating what I really wanted to ask. Was it surprising because he didn’t assume a sex worker would know shit about art?
The corner of his mouth twitched…with a smile? Or was that annoyance?
“I can tell by the way you speak about art,” he amended. “There’s a certain tone that people have when they’re speaking on something they’re knowledgeable about, or something they’re passionate about, rather than something they’ve forced themselves to learn for the sake of conversation. You carry the former tone with you. Most of the women in your profession put on a pretense, expecting me to believe it.”
Quiet fell between us after that last insulting remark, and I wondered if this was the reason why he had such poor luck in finding someone suitable as a partner. He started off by saying something that sounded almost like a compliment…only to finish it with a dig.
Not sure what to think of this man, I continued to look at the painting, following the curves of the woman depicted in it, watching how the flowers flowed like water around them. Had Dominique really thought that this man and I were a good match? Spending one night with him for a work event was one thing, but a long-term arrangement with someone who seemed to have a low opinion of others felt like it was pushing a little too hard into the realm of impossibility.
Surely Dominique had made some sort of mistake?
I remained quiet, and moments passed before Eric spoke again.
“I have a showing here I’m sponsoring in a week,” he said in a more formal, business-like tone. “There will be artists from all over Florida, many of marginalized backgrounds and all with immense talent. I respect all whose work will be shown here, and I would like company while their work is being admired and critiqued. I would like that company to be able to engage with the artists, but also myself.” Then, he exhaled a deep sigh. “I don’t need someone who is obviously here being paid for their lip service. That isn’t the point. I want someone who can interact and blend in seamlessly. Do you think you’d be comfortable with that?”
His question made me raise a brow. Was he embarrassed by having an escort mingling with the artists in this venue? If so, he was certainly bold in choosing to hire one while also having specific tastes and requirements.
I immediately wondered if I’d read this entire exchange wrong. Maybe he wasn’t being as open as I thought he was. I had to be right, I was sure of it, that his directness was masking something else. That at the core of things, he didn’t think much of escorts—and thus why he was surprised one might know about art—while still being a man who sought one. It was a contradictory situation I couldn’t make sense of.
Or maybe he simply couldn’t keep an actual girlfriend because he was a condescending jerk, and that’s why he was in this situation.
I said nothing of that observation, and instead, nodded.
“If you want a discreet date, it’s definitely something I can do,” I said, equally businesslike. “Especially around something that I know a good deal about.”
That little tug at the corner of his mouth happened again, giving me no clue as to the emotion behind it. “I thought you only knew enough to know when an artist has mixed their own paint?”
I clicked my tongue. “Maybe a little bit more. I have done my own work, in the past.”
Interest flickered in his eyes. “Yet you guarded the answer to that question close to yourself with deflection.”
I gave a small shrug. “We all have things that are personal to ourselves, don’t we?”
When he didn’t immediately answer, I worried that I might have been too blunt in the way that I spoke to him. At the very least, I didn’t want this meeting to end in a waste of time I wouldn’t see a benefit out of. But when I looked up, he had a faint smile that curved his full lips.
“I think we’ll get along well, Miss Greene.”
I resisted rolling my eyes. This man was going to be a major pain in my ass, I just knew it. “Just call me Jasmine,” I said in a cheeky tone. “No need to be so formal, right?”
If Eric Maxim was taken aback by my impudence, he didn’t let on that he was, and that was certainly fine by me.