On the Brink (Vol. 1) (The On the Brink Series) (5 page)

Chapter
Nine

Since
I didn’t teach on Fridays, I put in a full day of transcription work, and then
headed home to dress for a fundraiser at the Museum of Fine Arts. Although
fundraisers were good networking opportunities for artists, the ticket prices
were usually too steep for my budget. But a regular at Absinthe had given
Duncan tickets, so we were about to spend the evening rubbing shoulders with
the movers and shakers of Boston’s art world.

I
dressed carefully in my favorite little black dress. A sleek, shimmering
snippet of Armani, it had been a lucky find in one of Boston’s many secondhand
shops. Deciding that my thick, wavy hair looked as good as it could, I added
funky silver earrings and completed the look with subtle lining and shading of
my eyes, my best feature.

Handsome
in his black tie, Duncan waited impatiently for me to finish getting ready.

“Done
primping yet?” he called from the living room. “We’re already fashionably
late.”

“Coming,
daaahling,” I responded in my best imitation Carol Burnett. “Perfection takes
time.”

I
rounded off my preparations with a final mirror check, and then stepped into
the living room and struck a pose.

“You
and that dress are a lethal combination. Is my tie straight?”

“You’re
good. We’d better start walking to the subway soon.”

“No
subway tonight. We’re splurging on a taxi. My treat. It looks like it might
rain again, and I refuse to let the weather destroy our mutual gorgeousness.”

“A
brilliant idea, but I’m paying for the taxi on the way back, okay? Now that I’m
making a decent living, no more sponging off my best friend.”

“Don’t
be ridiculous. You, a sponge? Remember when you won that painting award in
school, and insisted on spending the money on a week in New York for both of
us?”

“Of
course I remember that week. We stayed in a dingy hostel near Union Square and
walked for miles. Mostly Midtown and Chelsea. Gallery after gallery.”

“Remember
the night we tarted ourselves up and drank martinis at the Waldorf? Feeling as
though we’d walked into a time machine that had taken us back to the
nineteen-thirties?”

I
smiled at the memory. “We should go to New York again sometime. Or Vegas. Maybe
in the spring.” I squeezed Duncan’s shoulder affectionately. “After I type my
way out of my current financial black hole. We deserve it.”

“You’re
on, Jules. Let’s make it happen.”

As
we sped toward the Museum of Fine Arts, I gazed out the taxi window, and
watched the silhouetted trees and twinkling lights of the city flash by. In the
arcs cast by streetlights, bursts of colorful October leaves revealed
themselves, and clusters of people strolled the sidewalks, enjoying the warm
fall evening.

Arriving
at the Museum, we entered the brightly lit atrium. The evening was in full
swing, the space packed with the usual glittering mash-up of socialites,
financiers, curators, and gallerists, spiced with a handful of Boston’s more
prominent artists. Their collective chatter echoed against the glass, marble,
and steel of the modernist space, blurring into a single continuous noise.

Circumnavigating
clusters of people, I caught sight of a tall, unmistakable figure standing
alone, examining a large Chuck Close painting. His flawlessly fitted tux hinted
at the lean, muscled form beneath.

“Remember
the yummy man I told you about from my building?” I whispered to Duncan. “Check
him out. Standing by the Chuck Close. Tall, dark hair, all around gorgeous.”

“You
weren’t kidding,” Duncan murmured. “He’s easy on the eyes. Nice tux, too. Looks
like a Brioni. Wait a minute. I think I recognize him. Isn’t his name Craig
something-or-other? Made billions in biotech and real estate? Produces movies
on the side? Evidently he’s a patron of the arts as well.”

Unlike
me, Duncan recognized people wherever we went. His bartender-trained memory for
names and faces and his knowledge of the latest gossip combined with his
caustic sense of humor ensured that any evening out with him would be replete
with stories and laughter.

“What
do you know about him?” I asked. “The girls at work say he’s a serial
womanizer. Moxie has a crush on him.” I hadn’t told Duncan about crashing,
rain-soaked, into Craig Manning, and drying off in his suite. I told myself
that I was saving the story for the next evening we spent at home on the couch,
drinking wine, swapping stories, and laughing together. But the truth was that
I needed to let my embarrassment fade a bit before being up to joking about the
experience with my best friend.

“Not
much, really. Supposedly straight. Definitely on all the most-eligible-bachelor
lists. Enough of a media target that you probably shouldn’t believe at least
half of what you hear. Let’s get a drink.” Moving toward the bar, he caught the
bartender’s eye. “Two Belvedere martinis. One with a twist, one dirty.”

Tattooed
and with multiple uncomfortable looking facial piercings, the bartender looked
like an art student making a little extra cash. He knew his job
though—our martinis arrived quickly, chilled to perfection.

“Not
bad,” Duncan said, taking a sip. We made our way out of the crush around the
bar, toward the less crowded end of the atrium.

“Juliana!
Come here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

I
immediately recognized the warm, throaty voice of Elsa Nielsen. Elsa was one of
a handful of prominent Boston art collectors who enjoyed discovering and
purchasing the work of emerging artists. She was also a relentless networker.
Preparing to smile and make small talk, I turned around and found myself facing
not only Elsa, but also Craig Manning.

Elsa
made introductions in her usual flamboyant manner.

“Juliana
Weston. Duncan McNeill. Craig Manning. Juliana’s a painter—very
interesting work. Duncan’s a faaabulous photographer. Both in my collection, of
course. Craig, darling, you need no introduction. You’re almost as famous as
Mark Wahlberg.”

Close
up and seen without rainwater in my eyes, Craig Manning was less perfect, but
more gorgeous than ever. My trained eyes spotted the faint white line of an old
scar on his right cheekbone, and a second, similar scar just above his left
brow. The bridge of his nose was ever-so-slightly asymmetrical, as if it had
been broken at some point.

Given
his athletic appearance, I decided that he’d probably played sports in school,
acquiring a few scars along the way. His smile twisted into a pair of dimples,
just to either side of well-sculpted lips. And a lovely smile it was, though it
didn’t reach his eyes.

Holding
my eyes with his intense blue gaze, he took my automatically proffered hand,
the light touch sending a thrill of sensation all the way to my toes. Maybe it
was my imagination, but he seemed to linger a bit before moving on to shake
Duncan’s hand.

“Juliana.
Duncan. Always a pleasure to meet Elsa’s discoveries. As we all know, she has
an amazing eye.” His voice, low and velvety, was as distinctive as the rest of
him.

“Shameless
flattery,” Elsa laughed, “but I expect nothing less from you, charmer that you
are.” Someone called her name, and she vanished into the crowd, calling out a
promise to return “after catching up with dear Bootie.”

“I’m
going for another round,” Duncan said. “Jules, I know what you want. Craig, how
about you?”

“Vodka
martini, thanks. With a twist.”

“Excellent
taste,” Duncan said with a smile before darting into the crowd around the bar.

I
repressed a wave of annoyance. Duncan, as usual, was doing his best to set me
up with an incredibly attractive man. What Duncan didn’t know—because I
hadn’t gotten around to telling him—was that this particular man most likely
considered me a dizzy idiot. I resolved to maintain my dignity, and show Mr.
Manning that I was more than a comic interlude.

“Thanks
again for letting me dry off in your suite yesterday,” I said politely.

“It
was the least I could do. Can I ask you a direct question?”

Anticipating
a teasing, superior jest about rain, raincoats, or soaking wet women, I replied
with a smile. “Sure. Ask away.” I prepared myself to react graciously, to prove
that I could take a joke.

“Are
you seeing anyone?”

His
question surprised me. But I masked my surprise and responded firmly. “Not at
the moment. Dating isn’t really my thing.” He’d made his move quickly and
decisively. Maybe Sara was right. Maybe he was a playboy.

“It’s
not mine, either, but I’d like very much to have dinner with you. There’s a new
French restaurant in the Back Bay that’s getting excellent reviews. Perhaps we
could check it out together some evening this week.” He smiled disarmingly.

I
had to give him credit. He was smooth. “I can’t,” I replied, suppressing an
unwelcome twinge of regret. “I’m scheduled to work every night this week.”

A
look of frustration crossed his face. “Let me make myself clear, Juliana.
Obviously, you’re a beautiful woman, but beyond that... there’s something about
you. You intrigue me. I’d like to get to know you, to talk where we don’t have
to yell to hear each other over the hubbub. Pick a date, time, and location,
and I’ll be there.” He was persuasive. Not to mention scorching hot. Part of me
wanted to have dinner with him, but I reminded myself that there were enough
challenges in my life already, without adding any man—let alone a wealthy
playboy—to the mix.

Just
then, Duncan returned with our drinks. His timing couldn’t have been better.

“Maybe
some other time. I’m just really busy this month,” I replied, taking my
martini. “Thanks, Duncan. Craig, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find Elsa. She
promised to introduce me to Genevieve DuBois, whom she thinks might be
interested in my paintings.”

Escape
made, I glanced back. Although still talking with Duncan, Craig was watching
me. Our eyes met for an instant before I turned away. Removed from the
immediate force of his presence, I breathed more easily, and my heart returned
to a normal pace. I silently congratulated myself, pleased that I’d held my
own.

But
maybe I was being overly cautious. After all, it had been years since I’d felt
a significant attraction to any man. Craig Manning had been nothing but kind to
me, and part of me regretted refusing his dinner invitation.

I
pushed the thought away. I might have solved my money problems for the moment,
but my life was still a mess. I needed to focus on myself. I needed to push my
painting career, and figure out if I could make it work. And if I couldn’t, I
needed to move on to pursuing other career options. Looking for Mr. Right
wasn’t on the agenda.

Resolving
to avoid the tempting Mr. Manning for the remainder of the evening, I proceeded
to locate Elsa. I found her on the far side of the atrium.

“Juliana!
I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You must meet Genevieve DuBois. Genevieve
has an extensive collection of Boston painters from 1930s Expressionism to the
present. Genevieve, meet Juliana West, one of my favorite contemporary
up-and-coming painters.”

Tall,
angular, and draped in Donna Karan, Genevieve wore her platinum hair in a
flawless chin-length bob. She had a polished, sixty going on fifty look, and I
couldn’t tell whether to credit good genes or an amazing plastic surgeon.
Probably a bit of both. She smiled warmly, as Elsa fluttered away, probably to
make yet another introduction. No one worked a crowd better than Elsa.

“Wonderful
to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about your work from Elsa. And from
others, as well.”

“And
I’ve heard so much about you. And your collection, of course,” I responded,
trying to contain my excitement. Genevieve was a trendsetter. If she liked my
work, others would follow.

“The
collection is my passion. It represents the best of Boston painting over the
past hundred years. My late husband’s father began it, and I’ve added a few
works every year for nearly forty years now. When I’m gone, the Museum will get
most of it—aside from a few small bequests to friends and family, of
course.”

Instinctively
liking her, I responded. “Elsa’s told me how amazing your collection is. Many
years from now, when the Museum gets it, I’m sure it will be an important
addition to their collection.”

“Not
so many, I’m afraid.” Genevieve smiled conspiratorially. “This old girl is
older than she looks. Come on, guess my age.”

“Sixty-two?”

“Not
even close. I’m a tribute to my plastic surgeon. Not to mention the lovely man
who does my Botox. Why, at this point, I’m nearly as much of a work of art as
anything in my collection.”

I
found her irreverence charming. “Good for you. I hope I look half as good as
you when I’m sixty-whatever.”

“You
have good bones. Classic features. You’ll be fine, unless you insist on smoking
or tanning yourself into a piece of jerky, of course. Like Anne Summers, poor
thing.” Genevieve lowered her voice, and gestured at a middle-aged woman
standing near the bar. “Look at that leathery hide. Years of roasting herself
to obsession, on one of those dreadful silver reflective things. Basted with
oil like a Thanksgiving turkey. Tanning disorder, I call it. Remember, there’s
only so much Botox can do. And of course, don’t get fat. Nothing ages a person
like rolls of fat.” She shuddered.