Fearless (The Story of Samantha Smith #1) (28 page)

Sun peeking through my drapes and the smell of eggs and toast woke me up in the morning.

Was I still dreaming?

I heard dishes in the kitchen.
 

That meant last night hadn’t been a dream! Unless some Breakfast Bandit was on the loose in my neighborhood, I was pretty sure I was safe.

I had to pee, but was afraid that if I moved, I’d break the spell, and all of this really would disappear.

Luckily, a few minutes later, Christos walked into my bedroom holding a plate of steaming eggs and a glass of orange juice. He was down to his shirt and boxers. He looked stunning. Because he was in my bedroom, in his PJ’s.

“You didn’t have any trays. I considered dragging your kitchen table in here, but I thought that’d wake you up,” he joked.

“It’s perfect.” Everything really was.

He sat on the edge of the bed and handed me the plate. “Knife and fork.”
 

I took them and he set the OJ on my night table.

“Where’s yours?”

“Kitchen. I’ll go get it.”

He returned and sat on my bed. We ate together.

“I would’ve made bacon or sausage, but couldn’t find any in your freezer. But I can tell you like your ice cream.”

A nervous smile stretched my face tight.
 

“Who has nine pints of ice cream?” he asked.

This subject needed to be changed quickly. It was then that I noticed the gigantic pile of scrambled eggs on his plate. “Do you have enough eggs?”

“Huh? Not really,” he smirked. “Let me know if you need any help with the ice cream. I’ll make quick work of it after these eggs.” He plunged a forkful of steaming eggs into his mouth and grinned while he chewed.

Problem solved. Subject avoided.

“Are you still my mentor?” I asked before forking some eggs into my mouth.

He reached over and took a swig of my OJ. I liked that we were sharing it. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because of all those nasty things I said yesterday on the hike.”

“It’s okay.”

I could see that it was only sort of ok. “I’m really sorry. I was being a bitch. I don’t know why.”

“You’re forgiven.” He chewed on some toast.

When we finished eating, he took our dishes away. I heard him washing them in the sink. I snuck into the bathroom to pee and change into fresh underwear. When I came out of the bathroom, he was lying casually on my bed, hands behind his head.

I really liked the look of him on my bed.
 

“What?” he smiled.

“Nothing.” I sat down next to him, and scooted over until my hips were against his. I wasn’t so bold as to cuddle with him like I had during the night.

“What are you doing today?”

“I don’t know. Homework?”

“Bummer.”

“Don’t you have mentoring things to do?”

“Nope. I sold a shit load of paintings last night. I don’t have anything on my calendar. For weeks.” He cocked a grin.

I sneered at him. Same old Christos. “I totaled the numbers up in my head. You made a pretty penny. Kamiko said you’ll get half?”

“A bit more. Fifty five percent.”

“Holy crap, Christos. I think you can exit graduate school whenever you want.”

“Yup.”

“So why don’t you? Don’t big name artists end up going to L.A. or New York, or someplace like that?”

“Oh, there’s some charity case at the university I’m helping out,” he said magnanimously.

My first thought was Professor Childress.

“Yeah, she’s totally into art and shit, and still needs a mentor.”

“Christos!” I smacked his chest, which felt like granite. I think I hurt my hand. “Ow! What are you made of? Marble?”

He chuckled. “So you want some mentoring today?”

“I don’t know, I’ve got accounting and sociology homework up the butt.”

“Why don’t you leave the boring classwork where it is currently, up your butt, and let’s have a field trip.”

“You are so bad! Asking me to blow off schoolwork!”

“Hey, I’m your art mentor. Not your accounting mentor. What’s it gonna be?”

I smiled at him questioningly. I hadn’t missed a class all quarter. Despite a rocky start, I now had A’s in all my classes. I could spare a day off, right? “Ok. Who showers first?”

“Ladies first.” He grinned.

I hoped out of bed and into the bathroom. I shut the door but didn’t bother to lock it. I was disappointed he didn’t try to come in. He was a total gentleman. Of course, when the suds ran down my naked body, I couldn’t help but imagine his hands sliding down my skin instead.

When I came out of the bathroom in a t-shirt and boxers, toweling my hair, he sat on my bed, reading my accounting textbook.

“There’s some good stuff in this book. I might have to borrow it.”

“You like accounting?”

“Someone’s going to have to manage my money. I may as well know what they’re doing with it.”

When he put it that way, it didn’t sound so bad. I nodded, brows arching.

He smiled at me. “You’re pouting at me again.”

“I wasn’t pouting!”

“You were, just now! You looked totally cute.”

I threw the towel in my hand at him. “Go shower.”

He didn’t bother to close the bathroom door. I was so not going to walk right in. I considered it about, oh, a dozen times, but finally opted out.

He came out a few minutes later, towel around his waist, hair damp and mussed. He had the perfect five o’clock stubble, having not shaved that morning.
 

I really, really, really times ten, wanted to jump him. It would be so, so easy to pull his towel off. Not that I hadn’t seen,
ahem
, his goods, already. But not in private. Not in my frickin’ bedroom!

“What’s with your ‘Fearless’ tattoo?” I asked.

“Just what it says.”

“Duh. I was hoping for some elaboration.” I motioned a big circle with my arms.

“It means ‘Don’t be afraid to take risks, go after what you want in life, otherwise regret will consume your soul, and you’ll kick yourself on your death bed.’” He winked. “I would’ve tattooed the whole thing, but I didn’t think it would all fit. My shoulders aren’t that broad.”

I made a sarcasm face. “There’s something to be said for brevity.”

He darted his eyes toward his crotch and thrust his pelvis at me. “Who you calling brief?”

I rolled my eyes and Oed my mouth. “You are triple bad today, young man. Get dressed before I call the cops.” I threw his t-shirt at him and walked out of the room.

When he came out of the bedroom, we walked down to my car together.

“Wanna take my bike?”

“No way am I going on the Suicide Ride any time soon, cowboy. We’ll take my VW. Where are we going, anyway, Mr. Mentor?”

“On a time machine.”

“What? You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“Then we’re definitely taking my car. I won’t risk falling off your bike and getting stuck with the dinosaurs or something.”

Two hours later, we pulled into the round-about entrance to the parking lot at the Getty Center in Los Angeles.
 

We had to take a crowded tram up to the hilltop museum from the massive subterranean parking garage below. Tourists were everywhere, even in November. Southern California seemed like a perpetual vacation to me.

The view from the top of the hillside was incredible. You could see all of Los Angeles. The museum was immense, and made of huge cut stones.

When we reached the main entrance to the museum proper, Christos held his hand out like a butler.

“Welcome to the time machine.” He flashed his dimples at me, as always, but in a gleeful boyish way I’d never seen on him. I could tell he loved this place.

“Is this what you meant last night when you told Brandon I had a busy day today?”

He grinned. “I suppose it is. So come on, the ancients await our presence.”

Christos guided me around the museum, starting with ancient greek statuary and art. We worked our way forward in history. He had so many stories to tell about the artists who’d made the paintings and sculptures, like he knew them personally. It was obvious he lived and breathed art.
 

I was overwhelmed by it all. At one point, we stopped in front of a painting by Rembrandt Van Rijn that I recognized.

“This painting is nearly four hundred years old. But if you look at it closely, you can clearly see the brush work. If you know what you’re looking at, you can understand exactly how Rembrandt laid down his oils. It’s the closest thing anyone will ever get to a Youtube video of something that happened in the 1600s.”

“Are you saying it’s like one of those how-to drawing videos they have? But from four hundred years ago?”

“Pretty much. If you know what to look for.” He smiled at me like he’d just showed me his secret stash of buried treasure.

“Wow, that’s amazing, Christos.” He had a way of making everything amazing and fun.

After we left the galleries, we had a snack in the outdoor cafe. It overlooked the west side of Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean beyond. It was beautiful.

A cool breeze blew through my hair. “I love this place,” I said over a bite of kiwi-covered fruit torte we’d bought at the snack bar. “I never want to go back to Washington D.C. Who needs presidents when you have the Pacific?”

“My sentiments exactly.”

When we returned to the underground parking lot, Christos asked, “Mind if we stop in Beverly Hills? I need to hit up a gallery on Rodeo Drive and do some glad-handing with the owner.”

“Beverly Hills? Mind? Hell no!”

We drove down Sunset Boulevard, passing tons of mansions and dozens of trendy clubs. It was unbelievable. We finally arrived in Beverly Hills. The actual 90210 Beverly Hills. Was I going to see movie stars? I’d never seen one in real life.

No movie stars, but plenty of expensive cars and expensive clothes.

The art gallery, called Spada, was immense. The paintings were just as big. Some canvases looked twenty feet wide and ten or more feet tall. They were abstract, colorful, and chaotic.

A really tan middle-aged guy with super white teeth, expensive slacks, and a silk dress shirt walked up to us from behind a huge circular desk in the middle of the gallery.

“Franco! I didn’t expect to see you here on a Sunday!” Christos said.

“Hey Christos!” Franco chuckled. The two men hugged and clapped backs. “Good to see you, young man! I heard about your show last night. Selling out already! You’re dad would be proud.”

“Well, it was only two-thirds pre-sales. I had to schmooze most of the evening to close the rest of them.”

“Two-thirds?” Franco scoffed. “What a tough night you had,” he said sarcastically. “Who’s your lovely lady friend?”

I blushed.

“This is my friend Samantha. She’s an artist. Samantha, meet Franco Viviano.”

“Oh, artist, huh?” Franco sounded impressed. I blushed more. We shook hands. “If Christos is shopping you around already, you must be amazing. He has an eye for talent, am I right?”

Oh crap, how was I supposed to respond to that? I was in way over my head. “Uh, thanks?”

Franco laughed a gravelly laugh. “She’s as modest as you are. Well, make sure you give me first crack at her paintings, Christos. I’ll get her top dollar.
 

“I’ll do that.” Christos wrapped his arm around me and squeezed me affectionately.
 

Holy crap! What the holy hell? What the what WHAT? I’d never painted in my entire life!

“And it won’t be any of that chicken feed Charboneau pays.” Franco cocked his head at Christos. “You’re going to bring your next show up to L.A., right? Your dad’s never complained about sales with me.”

“Not at all,” Christos agreed casually.

I think Franco’s smile had suddenly turned shark-like. I glanced at Christos. He didn’t seem phased. This was Christos’ world for sure.

“Have a look around you two,” Franco said. “I need to oversee an installation in Brentwood in about thirty minutes. But the gallery will be open until four. It was a pleasure meeting you, Samantha.”

Franco walked into the back. An assistant, a gorgeous woman in her twenties, took over the desk. I imagined she was one of Franco’s saleswomen. She looked like she could be a movie star, or a model, but I’m pretty sure she wasn’t.
 

“Hey, Victoria,” Christos said, waving at the beautiful assistant.

Victoria waved back. “Good to see you, Christos!”

“Wow, Christos,” I marveled. “You know people everywhere we go!”

“Ahh, it’s nothing. My dad’s been selling through Franco since the nineties. I’ve known the guy for years. Franco’s been to my grandad’s house a bunch of times. He’s always bugging him to paint again.”
 

“How come your grandfather doesn’t paint anymore, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“It’s a long story. Some other time?” Christos flashed an uncomfortable smile. The story would have to wait.

We looked at the paintings in the gallery. They were all abstract, very different from the realism in the Getty Center.

“This is the kind of work your dad paints, right?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

I walked to the next painting. “Where are the price tags?”

“This is one of those ‘If you have to ask, you can’t afford it’ galleries.”

“I couldn’t afford anything of yours! How much does this stuff cost?”

“A lot more.”

“Well, like how much?”

“Add a zero on the end of everything I sold last night.”

My jaw dropped. “What?”

He nodded. “Yup.”

“These artists make in the millions?”

“Tens of, sometimes.”

“Holy bank heist, Batman! That’s a fortune!” I realized I was talking too loud, and hunched my shoulders, peeking around to see if anyone was giving me the stink eye. Luckily, the gallery was almost empty on a Sunday afternoon. Victoria didn’t seem to notice.

“Don’t worry, Boy Wonder, I’ll protect you from the evil gallery owners,” Christos smirked.

I suddenly felt like both of us had spent far too much time around Kamiko and her cartoons. I laughed and leaned into Christos.

“Let’s hop in the Batmobile and round up dinner,” he suggested.

“Wait, you’re letting Robin drive the Batmobile, Batman? Has that ever happened?” I gasped.