Chapter 12
The city was our playground.
As soon as I’d settled into my crazy new life, my father had taken it upon himself to show me the sights. He took me to Broadway shows and concerts at the New York Philharmonic. Gallery openings and parties at his friends’ summer homes, where he introduced me to other artists and collectors. Always with a hand pressed to my back or an arm around my shoulders. He brought me to hole-in-the-wall bistros and fed me morsels off his plate, dabbed my mouth with white linen between bites and whispered, “You’re the love of my life, sweetheart.”
I’d missed this. For six long years, I had ached for the touch of his hands, for the glide of his fingers through my hair, the whisper of his lips across my cheek, my forehead. Caresses that in isolation would seem perfectly innocuous to anyone watching.
He squeezed my knee in the back of the taxi as we pulled up to the restaurant. Once inside, I recognized his agent, Michelle, and her husband, seated at a large leather-lined booth beside a couple of women artists I recalled meeting my first week in New York.
My father apologized for our tardiness as we slid into the booth. He kissed Michelle’s naturally bronzed cheek and shook hands with her husband, Jeff.
“Paige, you’re looking beautiful this evening.” Jeff stared at my nipples and reached across the table to grasp my hand. I could feel the tension rolling off my father like distant thunder.
“And what a gorgeous dress,” Michelle added.
I smiled at her. “Thank you.”
“Henry,” she said, “as soon as this one has something worth showing, I want you to call me. Any time, day or night.”
“She means in case your talent is hereditary,” teased Jeff.
“Don’t make fun.” She slapped his arm. “I’ve been in this business long enough to know that talent is just as much nature as it is nurture. And it would be a tragedy to see even an ounce of that talent wasted on pointless school assignments.”
My father beamed proudly and curved his arm around me. I leaned my head against his chest. He motioned for the waiter and placed a generous order of wine for the table and an array of dishes, everything from oysters on the half-shell to duck confit poutine.
About an hour into the meal, I was beginning to worry that Kristin and Maddox weren’t going to show. The small part of me that felt guilty for going behind my father’s back thought it might be for the best if they didn’t, while the rest of me was growing impatient.
Two more couples joined us, plus a few stragglers on their way back from a concert. My father was undeniably popular, though it was easy to spot the difference between the people who genuinely adored his work, versus the hangers-on who’d auction their souls just to say they’d had dinner with Henry Monroe.
We were down to the last few slices of prosciutto and cheese on the charcuterie board when my father extended an invitation to everyone to reconvene back at his apartment.
“Yes, please,” said Michelle. “I would love to see what you’ve been working on.”
He laughed softly. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything ready for viewing?—”
“Henry!”
My arm hairs stood on end. I whipped around and caught sight of Kristin in a sequined top and leather pants making her way toward our booth. Behind her strode a tall, blond man in a well-fitted suit. He looked to be around my father’s age, or perhaps a few years older. Handsome and aloof.
This had to be Maddox.
“So sorry we’re late,” said Kristin. “I completely forgot we had tickets to see Hamilton.”
The two women artists rose from the table to greet them. My father’s smile was warm enough, though his brow creased in confusion. Kristin leaned over the table to kiss him on the mouth. It took everything I had not to stab her with the cheese knife.
“That’s all right.” My father glanced my way, his expression wary. He turned to Kristin’s companion. “I thought you were stuck on the west coast all summer.”
“Change of plans,” said the blond man with a heavy Southern accent. “A promising venture turned out to be not-so-promising after all.”
Michelle gestured to the couple next to her to scoot down and make room. Kristin slid in next to her, followed by the blond man. His gaze lapped over me like licking an ice cream cone.
“Now, Henry,” said Maddox, “you know I hate to be kept in suspense. Who is your lovely companion?”
My father clasped my leg firmly under the table. “Kristin, Maddox, allow me to introduce my daughter, Paige.”
Maddox’s eyes widened with what appeared to be surprise, followed by delight, and trailed by curiosity. He extended a hand across the table.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Paige.”
His palm smoldered against mine.
“You, too,” I said.
“Paige, it’s so good to finally meet you.” Kristin caught my hand before I could slide it back under the table.
I bared my teeth at her. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Yes, much better, thank God. I”ve never slept so many hours in my life. Henry, I’m so sorry. I hope you were able to find another model on such short notice.”
“Hold on.” Michelle raised her hand. “I thought you were still using Kristin for your next project.”
My father downed the last of his wine, presumably stalling for time. “Fortunately, I have another?—”
“He’s painting me,” I said.
Kristin gaped at us. “I’m sorry, but what the fuck did you just say?”
Her stunned reaction drew everyone’s attention to our end of the table. I smoothed my lips together to stop myself from grinning at her look of abject horror.
“You were sick,” I said simply. “He needed a model, and I was happy to fill in.”
My father’s hand tightened on my thigh. He wasn’t happy with me, not that I could blame him. I was out of control. Something reptilian slithered under my skin, provoking an itch I couldn’t scratch without tearing myself and everything around me to pieces.
Maddox’s brow arched as if to say, The plot thickens.
“That’s just…” Kristin stammered. “God, I don’t even know. I want to say brave but that doesn’t feel appropriate.”
Michelle leaned forward with obvious interest. “Brave, how so?”
Kristin shot my father a questioning look. “I don’t want to give too much away, but from what I recall, it’s a very intimate project.”
“He”s been sketching me since I was little,” I said.
My father knocked my foot under the table. Tread carefully, baby girl.
“I just don’t think I could do that. I mean pose for my own father…like that. But if you’re fine with it, then that’s what matters.” Kristin waved her hand a touch too flippantly. She was obviously uncomfortable, but she didn’t want to risk alienating me or my father. “Knowing Henry, I’m sure it’s gonna be brilliant.”
A few others chimed in, eager to know more about this shocking new project. My father shrugged off their questions and kept his expression aloof. I snagged the last piece of prosciutto from the cheese board, savoring my triumph, and tried not to think about how well he and Kristin used to know each other.
“Who’s ready for another round?” Kristin asked, reaching for the nearest bottle of wine.
“Actually,” said Michelle, “we were just about to head back to Henry’s.”
“Now, that sounds like an excellent idea.” Maddox caught the host’s attention and motioned for the check. “I, for one, would love to get a look at this painting everyone’s talking about.”