Shifters of Grrr 2 (37 page)

For the next two hours, we walked arm in arm, looking and commenting on the paintings and sculptures on display. Ryan pulled me from piece to piece, scrutinizing every detail and leaning on me for commentary on the work, the artist, the treatment of materials. We could have been any couple visiting the gallery, not the self-conscious gallery curator and the reclusive celebrity artist who turns into a fox.

Ryan had a deep knowledge of the art world, but like much of his knowledge, it seemed to stop around the time he became a recluse. With his fancy public school education, he knew much of the Renaissance, the Impressionists, the Pre-Raphaelites. We had an exhibition on Fauvism that engaged him for more than thirty minutes, as he painstakingly examined of every inch of the small canvases. But a photographic exhibition of political street art from the Middle East left him baffled, as did a video projection of two men blowing red-coloured bubbles into each other's mouths through a pink straw, interspersed with extreme panning close-ups of a cactus. To be honest, I didn't really get that one, either.

"How do you survive as an artist when you don't even know what's big in the art world, or what the galleries and collectors are looking for?" I asked.

"Simon takes care of selling my paintings and all the other business details for me. All I do is paint, read books, and hunt in the forest. It's very freeing, Alex. I don't have a thousand contemporaries swimming around in my head. I'm not part of a movement, or a school. When I want inspiration, I head into the woods. As such, my work does not look like anyone else's, because no one else is like me–"

We paused in the door of our main gallery, where we had a permanent exhibition of works from the greatest painters of the last five hundred years. Ryan's gaze swept immediately to the Picasso on the far wall. His reaction was physical. His whole body stiffened.

"Ryan? Are you OK?"

He didn't seem to hear me. He was lost completely.

"Ryan?" I waved my hand in front of his face. He didn't even blink. I followed at his heels as he stalked across the room like a man possessed. He stopped in front of the painting and stared, his eyes narrowed.

I stood beside him, not certain what I should say or do. Was this some kind of fox thing? A shapeshifter trance? I glanced over again, and saw him blinking, his eyes filled with tears.

"Ryan?" I tried again.

This time he heard me. He stepped back, shaking his head, the spell broken. He rubbed his eyes, as though disoriented. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "All my life I wanted to see a Picasso in the flesh. I've seen them in books, of course. I have thousands of art books in my house. But I've never seen one in life before. I've had Simon search for one for my private collection, but they're impossible to get on the black market unless you're a Saudi royal or an American rockstar. I never thought to see one for real. The colours, Alex! It's just amazing."

"I know," I whispered back. "The first time I came to this gallery, it stole my attention. The way he uses shape to convey every side of an object, as if he's reaching back in time and forward into the future at once. Sometimes I come here to eat my lunch, and I just sit and stare at it, wondering about the mind behind such a work."

"Don't tell anyone that I ..." he pointed to his eye.

I laughed. "You mean that you got a piece of dust in your eye? No, Ryan, I won't ruin your street cred, as long as you don't tell Matthew I eat in the gallery."

"Deal," he took my hand, clasping it in his own, the heat of his touch radiating through my arm, up through my body, clutching at my chest. "Thank you, Alex. Thank you."

Eventually, I had to say goodbye to him and head back to the office. I had so much to do to prepare for the exhibition, and Ryan decided I'd be safe enough inside the gallery. "Marcus could hardly come in here with all these people about," he said. "I'll be back at 7pm to pick you up. Give me the keys and I'll get out of your way."

I backed away, shaking my head. "I'm not giving you my car."

"Why not?"

Did he even have to ask?

Ryan set his mouth into a firm line. "Fine. I have other ways of getting around."

"Ryan Raynard, if you shift into a fox within the walls of this gallery, I shall never forgive you. What are you going to do?"
 

"I want to walk around a bit, explore Crookshollow in the daylight, feel the pavement beneath my feet again," he smiled. "Perhaps I'll find a restaurant for dinner."

"I'd like that," I smiled. He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, the hot echo of his lips lingering long after he'd stalked from the room.

***

NINE

There was so much that needed to get done in order to have the exhibition ready for the opening in two weeks. I forced myself to forget Ryan for a few hours and focus on my work. At four PM, we closed the west gallery, and I supervised the installation team as they packed down the kinetic exhibit in preparation for hanging Ryan's paintings. It was no easy feat. The exhibition was moving on to a London gallery, which meant that
every single
paper windmill had to be individually wrapped in tissue paper and packaged so as not to bend or squash them. I had taken my laptop in with the intention of catching up on emails while I supervised, but when it became clear we weren't going to be able to leave until midnight, I grabbed some paper and tape and joined the fray.

We didn't finish packaging flowers until nearly nine PM. When I swiped my way out of the door, I saw Ryan waiting for me, leaning nonchalantly against a pillar as if he'd only been standing there a moment. He'd changed his clothes, and now wore an exquisite pair of black jeans and a leather jacket. A pair of designer sunglasses perched on his head.

"You look ..." I struggled to find the words. He looked smoking hot, more like a rockstar than a famous artist.

He gave me a brilliant smile. "I decided if I was going to take the brilliant Alex Kline out for dinner, I should look worthy of her company."

I blushed. "I'm sorry. Things took longer than they were meant to. I never want to see another paper pinwheel for as long as I live. How long have you been waiting? Do we still have a booking?" I asked him, my chest swelling as he grabbed my hand and started pulling me toward the street.

"I haven't been waiting long," was his reply. A cab waited on the pavement, the engine idling. Ryan held the door of a cab open for me.

"What? No limo?" I joked. "In the movies, billionaires always drive around in limousines."

"A limo seemed awfully tacky," he replied. "I won't stay rich if I spend all my money on frivolous indulgences. You're talking to a guy who used to slum it in Belfast, remember?"

"With all due respect, there's slumming it, and then there's
slumming it
. Actual poverty versus what spoiled rich kids do when they've read too much Hunter S. Thompson and want to be rebellious." I settled myself into the seat. "That leather jacket must have cost a pretty penny, Mr. Slumming It."

"And I don't regret a single cent," he replied, as he bent down and kissed me.

The kiss shocked me, but as soon as his lips were against mine, I was completely under his spell, his smell and touch intoxicating me. I opened my lips and he slipped his tongue inside my mouth, probing into the warmth. He lifted his hands to my cheeks, pulling my face against his, forcing himself deeper. I tried to wrap my arms around his torso, to pull him into the cab, longing to feel the strength of his muscles pressed against my skin, but the door was in the way.
 

He pulled away. I leaned back, struggling for breath, my mind racing.
Why has he stopped? Does he not want me? Am I so terrible that even though he hasn't seen a woman for ten years, he is completely turned off by me?
 

I hid my disappointment behind anger. "That wasn't fair."

He grinned at me wickedly. "No way, it was completely fair. I'm just making certain you have all the facts before you make your choice, Alex."

"What choice?"

He hopped into the seat beside me, and nodded to the driver, who pulled out into the street without a word. Ryan lowered his head toward me and whispered, so the driver couldn't hear, his breath tickling my ear. "I heard you this morning, and I respect your needs. You want to be able to choose your mate, to be in control of your destiny. That's what frightens you about me and what I've told you – you fear your choice has been taken away. Well, I am giving you back that choice. You may take me as yours, or reject me, and I will not force anything upon you. You did not ask for any of this, and I respect that. But, I want you, Alex, and I am used to getting what I want. I aim to show you what a life with me might be like."

I jammed my hands under my legs, and closed my eyes. It was so hard to think when he was right there beside me in the car, the scent of his skin mingling with the leather of the seats. I'd only known him for two days - it was far too soon for me to say whether he was...a
mate
. I tested the word under my breath.
My mate
. It was so primal, so protective, so much better than "boyfriend". It felt almost...
natural.

I shook my head. I barely knew the guy. Sure, it felt as if I'd known him for years, because I'd lived and breathed his artwork for so long, but Ryan was not his paintings. He was infinitely more fascinating, more confident, more seductive...
 

It's your choice,
his words echoed in my mind. He was giving me what I wanted. So, I would give him what he wanted – a chance to win me over.

The cab pulled over. Ryan grinned at me. "We're here." He quickly paid the driver, jumped out of the cab and came around to open the door for me. I stepped out, my head spinning as if I'd already consumed a few glasses of wine.
 

I was surprised to see we hadn't stopped in front of a restaurant. Instead, we'd parked at a small, log cabin-style home, at the end of a quiet street bordering Crookshollow forest. The front path was decorated with fairy lights, and comical witch figurines and ceramic cats peeked up from between the garden rows.

Ryan marched right up to the door, and raised his hand to knock, but before he could, the door swung open, and a petite woman of about sixty pulled open the door. She wore several long black wool shawls and dangly crystal earrings that brushed against her shoulders. Her jet-black hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a loose bun, wisps of it dangling free, framing her kind face and piercing, intelligent eyes.

"Well, well," she drawled, her hand on her chest. "Ryan Raynard, as I live and breathe. You give an old woman a heart attack, calling out of the blue like that, and then arriving two hours late for dinner. I thought I'd be six feet under before I saw you outside the walls of Raynard Hall again."

"I thought so, too." He smiled at her in a tender way. I glanced between them, wondering who she was, and why they seemed to know each other. Why had he brought me here to see a strange old lady?

Ryan stooped down and embraced her, instantly becoming lost in her swathe of black shawls. She patted his back, then pushed him away. "That's enough sentiment from you. I don't want your lady friend to get the wrong idea."

He snorted, and she threw back her head and laughed. She turned to me, picking up my hand and holding it between hers. "You must be Alex," she said. "Come in, come in. Ryan has told me all about you. I'm Clara. I imagine he's told you nothing about me."

"Absolutely nothing at all," I replied, feeling instantly at ease around the woman.

"That is like him," she laid a hand on my shoulder and led me deeper into the house. It was like no house I'd ever seen before. The dark wood walls were nearly completely obscured by all manner of art and ephemera; beautiful impressionist paintings hung next to postcards from Las Vegas dive bars and framed paintings of happy-looking people in strange costumes. I peeked into a cosy looking living room, and spied a Ryan Reynard original hanging over the fireplace. Dark, antique furniture was crammed into every corner, every surface crammed with candle stubs, crystals, old leather books yellowed with age, and realistic statues of foxes and wolves leaping and howling. I leapt back as a black cat jumped down from a velvet-covered settee and streaked across the hall.

Clara squeezed my shoulder. "Don't mind Clarence. He's always jumpy around strangers. There was a little boy living next door who used to pull his tail, and he's never quite got over it."

"I hope you gave him a stern word, Clara," said Ryan. "We can't have a young lad thinking that sort of behaviour is okay."

"Oh," she smiled, her eyes dancing. "Don't you worry; I gave him more than a word. Come through here – I've set up for you outside. Alex must be starving." Clara led us out a back door. Outside was a wooden porch overlooking a picturesque garden that faded into the dark wood beyond. Fairy lights lined the path to a wooden gazebo entwined in wisteria, beneath which a small table had been set with candles and silverware for two. Champagne chilled in a silver carafe on one side of the table. On the other, steam poured from beneath a silver dish, warmed with the flame of a small candle placed underneath.

"This is beautiful," I whispered. My stomach rumbled loudly. Clara was right- I
was
starving.

"I thought you'd like it," Ryan replied. He pulled out a seat, and gestured for me to sit. I did so, gingerly, not wanting to upset the delicate tablecloth and posy of flowers beside my place.