Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
C lay was nonplussed for a moment, as though his shock at finding out Saskia had been his lover of last night would somehow communicate itself to Dylan.
Nothing flummoxed him. He was always in command.
Yet Saskia stole all his sense of control.
Mostly because he wanted her. In his bed. Over and over again.
He pulled himself together. “Dylan Beck.” He wagged a hand at his protégé. “This is Saskia Oliver.”
Not wanting to get Dylan’s hopes up, he didn’t introduce her as San Holo’s assistant. He also didn’t want Dylan to do all the dirty work of trying to get her to give up the artist’s identity. That was his job, not Dylan’s.
He saw his mistake when Dylan raised one dark blond eyebrow, speculating on just who she was to Clay. “Nice to meet you.”
“Clay tells me you’re a street artist. In fact—” Saskia shot a glance at Clay. “—he says you’re quite brilliant.”
So Adrian Fielding had told her about Dylan. That was good. Maybe it would help his case in getting her to reveal who San Holo was.
Saskia had no compunction about revealing her own identity. “I’m San Holo’s assistant. Clay is interested in having a mural painted on the outside of the warehouse.”
Dylan said, “OMG,” so dramatically that his chin almost hit his chest. He let go of the partition walls and stepped closer, as if he could scent something of San Holo on her person.
“San Holo is my idol,” he said in breathless tones.
“I want to be just like him.” He whipped his phone out of his back pocket and took only a couple of seconds to scroll, holding up the picture of the street art San Holo had produced the other night.
“Clay and me, we found this. We were the first ones to see it.” His voice rose with exhilaration at being this close to someone who actually knew his idol.
Clay had to clarify. “Dylan found it. He found the fleur-de-lis too.” He turned to Bonnie and Otto. “We’ll let you get back to work.”
As he stepped out of the studio, Dylan and Saskia followed automatically. After a few strides along the aisle, Saskia said, as if it had just dawned on her, “Oh gosh, you’re the one who put the art on social media.”
Sensing no censure, Dylan stood even taller. “I knew right away it was his. Even before we found the fleur-de-lis in the alien’s eyeball.”
Saskia’s smile threatened to bowl over not only Dylan but Clay as well. “San will want to thank you. Because that attention just made the canvas and prints of the street art much more valuable.” She glanced at Clay. “Don’t you agree?”
It was as though she was asking him to pump up Dylan’s ego. He did it gladly. “Absolutely. If no one knows about it, nothing has value.”
As they strolled along the row of studios, Dylan walked backward, his steps almost a bounce. “You can tell me who he is, since you’re his assistant.” He lowered his voice, trying to remain confidential. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Saskia laughed. It was such a beautiful sound, and so genuine that Clay could only like her more. There was something wonderfully carefree about her. He hadn’t felt carefree for a while now, if ever.
With Dylan on tenterhooks, she said, “Okay,” in the same conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll spill the beans.” She beamed a smile at him. “But only because I like you.”
Clay held his breath. Dylan did too.
Until she laughed and shook her head. “Did you both really think I was going to reveal San Holo’s identity?” Her grin took the sting out of her words. “I mean, Dylan, you’re super likable, and I can’t wait to see your art, but some secrets will always be secrets.”
She was laughing again, finding the joke so hilarious that even Dylan laughed, obviously appreciating her honesty.
Clay wasn’t quite there with the kid, who was clearly falling for Saskia—who wouldn’t?
—and wouldn’t give up on unmasking San Holo.
Yet the sneaky way she’d messed with both their heads only made her smarter and sexier in his eyes.
Last night, she’d intrigued him, seduced him.
But here was another side of her, one he appreciated just as much.
No wonder San Holo trusted her to keep his anonymity. She didn’t even mind joking about it.
But Dylan eyed her. “I’ll keep working on you. Someday you’ll tell me.”
Saskia wagged her finger at him without saying a word.
Then the boy burst out, “You have to see my studio. I never had a studio before Clay gave me one.”
Instead of saying she was too busy, Saskia gave the kid a toe-curling smile. “I’d love to see it. And your artwork.”
She enthused over every piece, bringing a shine to Dylan’s eyes. Then she turned to the easel, which Dylan had covered with a drop cloth. He never showed his work until it was finished.
But when Saskia said, “Is this your current piece? I’d love to see it,” Dylan whipped the covering away.
Clay gaped. “It’s a butterfly.” Which was not Dylan’s usual style.
Saskia stroked her chin with thumb and forefinger. “It’s a dragonfly.” She looked at Clay, killing him with her beautiful smile. “But let’s call it a butterfly-dragonfly.”
Dylan merely stared at them both and said in the driest tone, “It’s a cockroach. They can fly, you know.”
Saskia put a hand over her mouth, laughing, not at Dylan but with him. “That’s the beauty of your art. It’s whatever is in the eye of the beholder.”
The perfect thing to say, and the kid beamed his happiness.
Clay couldn’t help nudging Dylan. “I think you’re ready to put your work out there.
” He’d been subtly encouraging Dylan to step out, but though he took his paint cans on nighttime sojourns, spraying walls—in acceptable places, of course—with his elegant graffiti, Dylan was still reluctant to put his real work out there.
Even after their walk around the Mission District yesterday, when the kid had found San Holo’s new piece.
“Take on a wall, Dylan. You’re more than ready. ”
Dylan scoffed. “I tag walls all the time.”
Clay gestured to the artwork in the studio. “But you don’t put stuff like this on any of them. Not your true stuff that shows your real self.”
When Saskia said, “Your stuff is really good. It deserves to be out there,” Dylan turned a full circle, moving slowly, his gaze drifting over each piece of his artwork.
“Yeah, okay,” he said, still tentative but a little more open. “Let me figure out what.”
Saskia pointed at the easel. “What about the cockroach? What’s beautiful about it is that people will see what they want to see. A butterfly. A dragonfly. Or maybe your cockroach is actually going to turn into that butterfly.”
Clay liked her insight and the way she encouraged Dylan. Maybe that was an insight into the kid. He saw himself as a cockroach who wanted to fly. Now he’d see that not only could he fly, he could also turn into a butterfly.
Clay could have kissed Saskia then and there.
She was still encouraging Dylan, just the way Clay had, when a tall, middle-aged man poked his head into the studio. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he said softly to Clay, “Can we talk a minute?”
Clay looked at her, bowed slightly, and said, “I’ll be right back.”
Saskia liked that he hadn’t told the guy to bug off because he was too busy. He’d delighted in introducing her to so many of the artists working here today. And he obviously encouraged Dylan.
There was a lot to appreciate about Clay Harrington.
As the two men disappeared around the wall, Dylan grabbed her arm. “Clay is great, don’t you think.” It wasn’t a question. “He’s helped so many of us. I’d probably be in jail if I hadn’t found Clay and Gideon.”
Though she knew a bit of the story, she asked, “Gideon?”
“You haven’t heard about Gideon?” Dylan rushed on.
“He has this foundation, and he helps foster kids like me. Because his sister was a foster kid when Gideon was overseas in the Army and he lost touch with her. But he found her again. And now he helps us all out. He helps veterans too. He’s amazing. ”
She’d heard of Gideon’s foundation, Lean on Us. But the way Dylan told the story made what Gideon Jones did even more impressive.
“That’s how you met Clay?” she asked. “Through Gideon?”
Dylan nodded expansively, his hair flying. “Clay gave me this studio and helped me get all my tools and supplies. I mean, he is the absolute best.”
The man was totally amazing.
She’d judged Clay negatively merely from reading articles about him and watching podcasts.
But now, after what Dylan had to say, after she’d seen how Clay encouraged the young man and truly seemed to believe in him, she had to throw out all those uncharitable thoughts.
He’d been nothing but a stand-up guy since they’d met.
Sure, he was hungry for the kill, wanting her to reveal San Holo.
But he still managed to be a good guy, one of a kind.
The people here in his warehouse had only incredible things to say about him.
He couldn’t do a snow job on everyone .
Honestly, she couldn’t think of him as a bad guy anymore.
Yeah, there were a lot of people in the art world who sucked.
But maybe Clay wasn’t one of them. She’d known him only twenty-four hours, and a final decision about him, good or bad, would take longer.
But for now, Clay was getting a hall pass.
She couldn’t help saying to Dylan, “When I was your age and just starting out, I wish I’d had a studio space like this for my art.” Instead of the dirty garret she’d lived in with way too many artists.
Clay’s voice came from right behind her. “You’re an artist?”
Damn. She hadn’t heard him move up on her. Turning to him, her voice breezy, she said, “I used to be, but I wasn’t any good. I still do some of my own stuff.” She shrugged to add emphasis. “But I’m a better assistant than I am an artist.”
But Clay had latched on. “I’d love to see your work.”
She stepped back, waving him off. “Oh, it’s bad. Really. I’m a much better assistant.”