Masterpiece (7 page)

“I’m hanging up now, Fleur. And you can tell Elle Parker
that I’m not opening my door. So she
can get that little hot librarian ass back to New York where it belongs.”

“Hot librarian?” It sounds like Fleur’s smiling.

“Whatever. Bye, Fleur. You have a nice evening now. And tell my brother
the next time I see him I’m going to kick his ass.”

“But I
told
you, he had nothing to do –”

I end the call, turn my phone off and take another big swig of whiskey. That’s what I’m going to do tonight: get wasted.
Maybe, later, I’ll paint a picture
.

Fuck.

A hundred thousand dollars each? No fucking way. I don’t believe that for a second. And even if I did, I still probably wouldn’
t go for it. My brother Caleb, the wanderer of the family, took up
fly-fishing a few years ago
. He got
practically religious about it and one day thought, hell, I could make a living doing this. He took tourists out and showed them how to catch a few fish that they’d take home and mount on their wall in Detroit or some fucking place. Then the whole thing started to lose its shine. Caleb got sick of dealing with assholes who ended up fishing his favorite river almost
dry. He hasn’t been fishing since.

Anyway, I don’t want people knowing about my paintings
because I don’t have any urge to please a bunch of assholes. I really don’t care if people like the art or not. That’s not why I’m doing it.

I’m enjoying my peaceful buzz so much
I completely forget the librarian is supposed to be on her way to my house. But then I notice the shittiest car I’ve ever seen driving down the dirt road that’
s
only usually used for ranch vehicles; it’s bumpy as hell. This doesn’t bother the driver of the car though, who’s driving slower than I’ve ever seen a person drive a car. You could easily walk faster than she’s driving.

I can see her
now. The determined expression. The tied-up dark hair and
those ridiculous black
-framed glasses.
Someone needs to untie all that hair and grab handfuls of it.

After the five or so minutes it takes her to drive fifty feet, she pulls up in front of my house, kills the engine which sputters a couple times before dying, and steps out of the car with her pointy high-heeled city shoes.
The sight of those shoes
– fuck knows why – makes my cock stir.

My hat is down low over my eyes and I raise my head enough to glare at her from under the rim.
When she sees me sitting watching her she blushes a little, and smoothes her clothes self-consciously
.
As she does this,
damn
, my cock rages to full, throbbing life. I didn’t fully appreciate it at the rodeo but she’s got a
killer little body under all those city clothes. C
urvy all the right places.

She starts walking over to me, wobbling as she makes her way over the rough ground. Something about the combination of her awkwardness and her sassy little stride has me all fucking worked up. Good thing I’m still wearing my leather chaps, which’ll mostly hide how massive
my cock has suddenly become. Then again, who cares if she notices? The sight of my
enraged hard-on might be enough to unsettle her and spook her back on down the road.
“
Excuse me.
Max Cash?”

I don’t answer her right away.
I want to watch her squirm a little.

“Um, Mr. Cash, I wondered if we could talk. I’m –”

“
Elle Parker.
I know.
I heard you were coming.”

She adjusts her glasses.
“
Oh.
Yes. I’m
so sorry to barge in on you like this, but I really wanted to talk to you about your --”

“Come on up.”

I could tell her to fuck off, which is what common sense is telling me to do. But I’ve just had an idea.
A very good idea.
Shit, maybe I
am
a fucking genius.

I find myself wanting to see what she looks like without those glasses, and with her dark hair long and loose.
I
decide I wouldn’t mind checking out what all those curves look like without the buttoned-up clothes hiding everything from view.

“I, um … well, I –”

I decide to lay on some charm. “Can I offer you a whiskey?”

“Um. Okay.”
She sits in one of the carved wooden chairs and I pour her a
generous helping. The girl could obviously use some loosening up. Especially if I’m going to have any luck at all talking her into what I’m about to suggest.

Because she’s perfect for what have in mind.

Absolutely perfect.

Chapter Eight

Holy freaking hell.

This is
insane
.

It’s
him
. Seriously, this guy could
have stepped straight out of my erotic dream. He’s such a dead-ringer for my fantasy cowboy i
t’s freaking me out a little, if you really want to know. How could I have
dreamed
him before I even
met
him? That kind of thing
just doesn’t happen.

But it has.

And if I thought his brother Travis was rugged, well, Max Cash takes rugged to a whole new goddamn
level.
He’s tall and wide-shouldered and built like a wall of muscle.
A dark-haired,
gorgeous
wall of muscle. We’re talking movie star good looks. The kind that could easi
ly be cast in a Brad Pitt movie. Or an erotica novel.

      
And the way he rode that
bull
. Jesus.
Then the way he got
thrown off
that bull and rolled away just in time and almost got crushed. But then
he strolled over to the side of the ring and walked off into the crowd, like it was just any other day at the office.

I mean, we’re talking alpha on
steroids
.

And Fleur’s trying to tell me
this
is the artist who painted those incredible paintings?

I don’t know what to say about any of this. Except that if it’s possible to be in love with someone you’ve never actually met or spoken to, then I am.

Somehow I made it down that death-defying dirt road without driving my crappy car into one of the Grand-Canyon-style potholes, to this to-die-for modern log cabin surrounded by green pastures and rocky mountains, which is just about the most picturesque place I’ve ever seen. And now my dream man is
sitting there, all cool and borderline asshole-ish – which I can almost understand considering I just bowled on up to his front door without any warning.

The whole thing is too much. I’m almost speechless.

Almost.

But there’s
no time for weakness. Or weak-kneed,
star struck
adoration. This guy looks like he gets plenty of that from women. The last thing I want to be is another one of his groupies. I’m here to pitch a business proposal that could make us both rich. I need to keep my eye on the ball.

Not on that crazy-thick dark hair. Or those midnight-blue eyes rimmed with thick lashes. Or that sinfully-perfect mouth.

Or that jaw and neck and shoulders that could be photographed and put into some textbook about outstandingly perfect male specimen examples.

Or those –
yes
– leather riding
chaps.

Or those ridiculously muscular thighs and that huge …
oh Jesus
.

I need to concentrate on what I came here for.

So I sit in the chair he offered me. It
looks like it might have been carved by someone who carves stuff. With an actual knife. It looks like the kind of thing you could get splinters from, but I try to ignore this. I mean, if Max Cash can get thrown off an enormous
, angry bull and not worry about it I’m sure I can handle a splinter or two.

I take a sip of the (very large) cup of whiskey he poured for me. Not a glass, a cup. One of those tin mugs that you actually see cowboys in movies drink out of when they’re sitting around the fire playing their harmonicas. In actual fact I’ve never drunk whiskey before in my life and it’s basically like drinking liquid fire. It burns all the way down my throat and I try not to but I can’t help it: I cough. A lot.

He’s just watching me and he’s got this almost-amused look on his face, like something about me is mildly entertaining to him.

When I finally stop coughing he says, “All right?”

“Oh, yeah.” I try to sound nonchalant. “Fine.” I take another sip of whiskey just to prove to him that I can drink it without having a coughing fit. Which I do. Barely.

I notice as I look out at the landscape while I drink a little more of the whiskey – it definitely grows on you once you get used to it – that the
sun is starting to go down. I’m not looking forward to navigating those big-ass potholes in the dark so I guess I better get down to business.

“So, Mr. Cash,” I begin, but before I can he starts laughing. And hell, if I thought he was good-looking when he was being serious and asshole-ish,
damn
. The sight of his smile and the sound of his deep, relaxed man-laughter makes something in me melt a little.

“Seriously?” he says.

“What?” I’m just trying to make it clear that I came here for business-related reasons and nothing else.

“It’s Max,” he says, still smiling. “Just call me Max.”

“Oh. Okay.” So I start again. “Well, Max, the reason I’m here is that I saw a few of your paintings at Fleur’s house and I was wondering if you have any more.”

He doesn’t answer me right away. He’s watching me in this way that makes me feel like he’s seeing right through my clothes.

Like I’m completely naked.
Like the dream …

The thought, of course, makes me blush, but I try to remain calm. I try not to think about
how good it felt wh
en the dream man looked at me. And how good it feels, now, when Max Cash looks at me.
Or what would it feel like if
he
kissed me, like the dream man kissed me, right where –

Oh, god
.
My panties go wet just thinking about it.

No.

I need to stay focused. I’m
glad
I’m fully clothed, I remind myself. Just imagine where one might get splinters if one were to sit in thi
s chair without a protective layer.

“So, what was I saying?” I ask him.
“Oh, yes: I was wondering if you have any other –”

“Yeah. I do.”

“You
do
?”

“Yep.”

“Exactly … how
many
… would you say you have
?” I know I’m being pushy but this is such good news to me that I
just
have
to know.
He has more!
There’s hope for me and my
fledgling business yet.

“A hundred or more,” he says. “Probably closer to two.”

“Two …
hundred
?” Oh my god.
That’s ten freaking exhibitions’ worth.

“Give or take.”

“Are they
here
?” I can’t contain my excitement.

“Yeah, they’re here.”

“Can I …
please
…
see
them?”

He takes another drink directly from the bottle of whiskey. Then he says, “No. There’s not much point in it. It’s just something I do when I’m alone and I prefer to keep it that way.”

What?
No?

I launch into my rebuttal.
“But, Mr. Cash – Max
…
I really think you should reconsider. See, I’m in the process of starting up a new gallery in New York City, in Soho, and it’s going to be
the
place to exhibit. Fleur’s going to exhibit with me in January and
I’m going to not only put her on the map but also make her very rich. And, see,
I was hoping to find someone for October and you’re just perfect.
Perfect.
I was just so impressed with the paintings of yours I’ve already seen and I would really love to see a few more, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m sure I can get you a price you’d be
more than happy with if you’d just reconsider –”

“Nope. Sorry about that, but I’m not interested.”

“Not
interested
? But Mr. Cash –
Max
– how can you not be interested in one point four million dollars?
At the very minimum.
And that’s just for the first exhibition. If you were to have more, people would know you by then and you’d get much more.
”
I’m just thinking about the marketing possibilities here: smokin’ hot rodeo hero who’s also secretly a genius painter. It doesn’t get much better than that.

He smiles.
Smiles.
A smug smirk to be more precise.
With one perfect eyebrows raised.
“You’ve already done the math? Isn’t that counting your chickens just a little early?”