Chapter 46 #2
“Oh right.” I cleared my throat and tried to find the right words. I was no Basquiat and yet Greer had negotiated a six-figure deal for one piece of art. I’d sold my work before but had never commanded that much. It seemed insane that anyone would pay a hundred grand for my work.
But money was a delicate issue, something I rarely, if ever, discussed, so it would be in my best interest to be subtle about it.
“Why are you paying so much money for a piece from an emerging artist?” I blurted. So much for choosing my words carefully.
He tipped his chin down and looked over the rim of his aviators. “Do you think I’m getting ripped off?”
I shook my head then nodded. “No. I mean…I don’t know.”
Jack gave me an amused smile. “Sending mixed signals, Babs. What are you trying to say?”
I exhaled loudly and cut to the chase. “Are you paying for my name or my art?”
Jack cocked his head and stroked his jaw. “Will it offend your delicate sensibilities if I said both? You can’t separate the two any more than I can pretend that doors didn’t open to me because of who my father is and who has been granted access to my socialite mother’s circle.
“Love it or loathe it, that’s how I got my foot in the door.
Through my family’s connections. That’s why my business ventures garner the buzz that they do.
And the same applies to you. You’re a New York artist with rock and roll roots who lives a Bohemian lifestyle out of choice not necessity.
You personify the entire vision for this hotel.
But …” He held up his finger. “If your art was shit…if it wasn’t as provocative or daring or original as it is, I would have passed. Does that answer your question?”
I guess that was as good of an answer as any.
Even though I didn’t love it, at least it was honest. You could change your name and live your life out of the spotlight all you wanted, but it still wouldn’t change people’s fascination with celebrity culture.
And it wouldn’t change who you were or where you came from.
“Now that we got that out of the way,” Jack said, “I took the liberty of making an eight o’clock reservation at Balthazar for two tonight.” He gestured between us in case there was any confusion as to who would be on this dinner date.
“How very presumptuous of you. You are a smooth operator, Jack Wells. But you’re not my type.”
“Too charming?”
“Too rich.”
He laughed. “What am I going to do with you? You don’t make it easy on a guy, do you?”
“That’s part of my charm.” I smiled.
He rubbed his hands together. “Good thing I love a challenge. If you don’t come, I’ll be the lonely guy eating at the bar. Have you no heart?”
I laughed then found myself nodding and saying, “Okay, sure.”
This hardly seemed like the ideal time to go on a date, with my impending divorce hanging in the balance. Or maybe it was the perfect time. It was just dinner, not a marriage proposal.
Besides, Jack was fun and being with him was easy. The opposite of Thursday night’s dinner with Gabriel.
I gave myself a onceover in the mirror on the back of my closet door.
The silky black mini skirt was from one of my old collections.
I’d paired it with a waistband-grazing cap-sleeved black knit top and strappy killer heels for the win.
My usual winged black eyeliner completed the look.
Despite Xavi’s attempts to teach me the art of creating a smoky eye, I had yet to master it.
At the last minute, I dug out a red lipstick from my makeup bag and painted my lips red. There. Done. I capped the tube and tossed it into my clutch bag just as the buzzer sounded.
I told Jack I’d meet him at the restaurant, but he insisted on sending a car. Maybe he thought I was a flight risk.
“Be right down,” I said into the intercom.
I locked up behind me and gripped the banister as I descended the stairs.
I’d only worn these heels once and now I remembered why.
They were designed to look good, not run down the stairs or sprint up city blocks.
I probably looked like Bambi on ice, but it was too late to run back up and change my shoes now.
I swung the front door open, expecting to see a driver waiting in a town car.
Instead, I got Gabriel in an ancient white V-neck T-shirt, equally ancient black jeans with holes in the knees, and black combat boots with the laces untied.
He was leaning against a motorcycle, smoking a cigarette, looking like the bad boy of every teenage girl’s fantasies.
When did all this happen?
The guy I’d fallen in love with didn’t smoke cigarettes or drive a motorcycle.
God. He looked so sexy.
Had the temperature suddenly risen twenty degrees? I felt all flushed with fever.
I envisioned myself hopping onto the back of his bike and wrapping my arms around him, splaying my hands across his abs, and pressing my thighs against his as he revved the engine and the vibrations shot through my core.
My thighs clenched.
Bad Cleo. Get a grip. Danger is not sexy .
“You ride a motorcycle now?” Between that and the smoking, he might as well have just shot heroin into his veins and called it a day.
He looked me up and down then flicked his cigarette on the ground, crushed it under his boot, and strode over to me.
“You look beautiful.” He wrapped a lock of my hair around his finger and gave it a gentle tug. My breath caught in my throat, but I tried to steel myself against his charms.
The evening sun slanted across his face and cast it in a warm, golden glow that I wanted to bask in. But the ankh around his neck captured my attention. I wanted to rip it off, crush it under my heel, and toss it into the river.
So much for protecting him. It hadn’t been good luck at all.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the other night,” he said, drawing my gaze back to his face.
“I shouldn’t have just crashed your art show like that.
And I have no right to question what you’ve been doing or who you’ve been doing it with.
I gave up that privilege when I walked away.
” He bit the corner of his mouth. Vulnerable, hopeful. “How about a do-over?”
“I’m not sure life works like that.”
“Okay.” He ran his hand through his hair, and I caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his inner bicep before he lowered his arm. “How about a date?”
“I…” A date? “What does your tattoo say?”
He held out his left arm so I could read it: Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground; there are a thousand ways to go home again .
A Rumi quote. “It’s beautiful.”
It reminded me of how he always used to call me his home. How he’d gone out in the world searching for his true self and his purpose, much like I had.
And now here we were again, right back where we started.
Same place, different people.
“You want to date me?” I asked just as the town car pulled up.
“How about we start with coffee?”
I gnawed on my lip, debating. I guess I owed him that much at least. “Okay. But it’s just coffee.”
“Just coffee,” he agreed. “So don’t get any ideas in that dirty mind of yours. I’m not that kind of guy.”
I rolled my eyes. But now he’d put those thoughts in my head again and all I could think about were those pouty lips I’d kissed a thousand times.
The muscles and sinews and planes of his body that my hands used to know by heart.
And how sex with Gabriel always felt like so much more than just sex.
Like a sacred union of heart, mind, body, and soul.
I yanked open the rear passenger door as Gabriel straddled his bike. “Pick you up at ten.”
Without even putting on a helmet, he gunned the engine and rocketed up the street while I stood on the sidewalk, shaking my head.
Was he trying to kill himself?
The idiot was going to get arrested for driving without a helmet. Or maybe rock stars got a free pass , I thought bitterly as I slid into the back seat and took deep breaths, trying to calm my racing pulse.
With Gabriel, coffee was never just coffee.
Pretty sure that’s how I’d ended up in this mess the first time around.
First coffee, and the next thing you know you’re sharing the secrets of your soul.
Not this time though.
All I wanted was closure.