Work of Art ~ the Collection (24 page)

“How about a portrait of Jess in her crazy studio?”

“No, I’m not painting Jess . . . it would make her big head swell even bigger. Hmm, I know . . . who was that artist that painted the naked girls and had them roll around on his raw canvas?”

I have a wicked smile, sensing what’s coming. “Oh yeah, I can’t remember his name either.”

“Well, you could come over and we could do that.”

“Watch it, buster.” I’m playfully stern. “Besides, I’m not allowed in your studio, remember?”

“Oh, I’d make an exception for that,” he says with a mock serious tone.

“Hey, wasn’t this supposed to be
my
painting? I think you should be the one naked and rolling around on my—what did you call it—
raw
canvas?”

“We could do it together.”

I almost choke. “Ahh, you’re getting me all hot and bothered. I’m going to need a cold shower when you’re done.”

“Well, if you had a boyfriend, you wouldn’t need a cold shower.”

“Am I hearing correctly? Is Maxfield Caswell giving
me
relationship advice?” But before he can respond, I quickly change the subject. “By the way, I was at Jess’s yesterday and saw the shelves you put up for her. That was very sweet of you. She also told me that you’re letting her and Laura hold their wedding at your house.”

“Yeah, well I’m not always an asshole.”

“Funny, that’s exactly what Jess said.”

“Besides, I can’t stand seeing that crazy crap all over her studio floor. I have no idea how she gets anything done in there.”

“Yeah, it’s crazy all right. Do you know she asked me to be her maid of honor for the wedding?”

“Is she going to make you wear one of those ugly synthetic bridesmaid dresses?” He knows Jess better than that, but he’s being provocative.

“Hopefully hoop skirts will be involved.”

We laugh together and, as the minutes pass, our conversation rambles. I close my laptop, turn down my lights and stretch out on my bed. My cell phone battery gives me a warning, and I look over at my clock. We’ve been talking for almost two hours. I yawn and burrow further into my pillows.

“Hey, sleepyhead, it sounds like it’s your bedtime.”

“I’ll have you know that I got in bed over an hour ago. But I’m pretty tired . . . so I’ll let you get back to your painting.”

“Okay, Ava, sleep tight.”

There’s a long pause as if neither of us wants to hang up.

“Good-night, Max,” I whisper, my eyes already half closed. “It was really fun talking to you tonight.”

“Hmm,” he hums. “Good-night, angel.”

As my eyes fall shut, a contented feeling descends over me. I’m lured to a peaceful dreamland void of art groupies and bitchy editors . . . just Max, me, and all the warm feelings nestled between us.

The next morning, I wake up in a really good mood. The weather’s great, unusually warm for April. It’ll be nice for our outing to the Huntington Gardens tomorrow. I have to admit, my long conversation last night with Max left me uninspired about seeing Jonathan tonight, but while I take my morning shower, I still plan what I’m going to wear this evening.

That evening, when I pull up to Spago, Wolfgang Puck’s flagship restaurant in Beverly Hills, the attendent drives Jonathan’s car away. He waits as I finish up with the valet. I can tell he’s appraising me, his gaze moving over me from head-to-toe as I approach. As I step up to him, he nods and his face lights up with a smile. I feel a flush work its way up from the top of my breasts, trailing along my neck and up to my cheeks.

“You look lovely, Ava,” he murmurs. He rests his hand on my shoulder and kisses me on each cheek. When we move inside, the host immediately takes us to a table. There’s a floor-to-ceiling glass wall where you can watch the executive chef and team perform their magic in the kitchen.

We make small talk, and after reviewing the menu, Jonathan orders a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. He orders salmon, while I choose scallops, and we agree to share an endive and apple salad to start. I have to admit, his confidence and command are very sexy.

He notices me watching him and peers over his tortoise-shell glasses. “A penny for your thoughts, Ms. Jacobs.”

“Do you eat here frequently? I get the sense that everyone knows you.”

“Yes, it’s one of my favorites.” He tucks some loose strands of my hair behind my ear and gently caresses my earlobe before resting his hand on the table.

A shiver runs down my back.

“I was really looking forward to seeing you again,” he says quietly, his eyes a darker blue in the candlelight. “Perhaps, after dinner, I’ll tell you about my dream.”

The Sauvignon Blanc flows freely, and I drink, nervous for what the rest of the evening holds. I think I’m especially unsettled because I’m not sure what my boundaries are with Jonathan. I’m working with him on an important project, and this ongoing flirtation leaves me confused.

Being attracted to someone who holds such possibilities for my career is complicated. What if I sleep with him? Is that wrong? Will it be contrary to everything I’ve believed about how relationships play out while being an independent woman?

The way I feel about Max in contrast to Jonathan only confuses me more. Max just wants to be my bestie, my BFF, despite his flirtatious joking, and that only leaves me wanting him more.

Jonathan brings up Max’s book, mentioning that he’s pleased with the opinions section I just finished.

I admit that it was challenging to put together what twenty different artists, critics, curators and collectors wrote about Max and his work, but it was worth the effort. Each voice is different and intriguing and adds a lot to the weight of the book.

Over the course of the dinner, Jonathan progressively loosens up until he’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. He even orders a ginger crème brûlée for dessert, which I can safely assume isn’t part of his normal regimen.

As we wait for our coffee, he slides his arm over my shoulder and pulls me closer. “Have you thought about me since our last meeting?”

I blush as I finger the stem of my wine glass and give him a shy smile.

“Because, believe me, Ava, I’ve thought about you.” His smile is a mix of satisfaction and promise of what’s to come.

“Good thoughts?”

“Very good. The kind that keep me up at night.”

I feel my heart speed up when I note the fire in his eyes.

“What do you think? Remember what we talked about outside Chaya’s? Do you still want to hear about my dream?”

In my wine-soaked haze, I nod, smiling. I
think
I want to hear it.

There’s a long pause as he swirls the wine in his glass and takes a long sip. “So, picture my office.” He looks at my bottom lip as I bite it and takes a deep breath before looking into my eyes.

I nod.

“In my dream, it’s evening. I approach my office and the room is dimly lit. When I step inside, I see you sitting back on the leather couch, waiting.”

“Waiting?”

He nods. “For me.” He narrows his eyes as he drags his tongue across his lips. “Your legs are slightly parted, and you have a short skirt on which shows off your tantalizing legs, and I can’t wait to run my hands up and down the soft skin of your thighs. I sit across from you, and you spread your legs very slowly until they’re open for me.

I blink several times, trying to keep my mouth from falling open. It’s apparent this dream’s definitely not PG rated.

“You have no panties on and it takes every bit of restraint not to rush things. I imagine getting up, slowly stepping up to where you sit, then sinking to my knees and pushing your skirt up.”

Whoa.
I shift in the booth, trying to relieve the lust pulsing through me. My face is on fire from his graphic description, and I can only imagine what’s coming next.

“As I approach you, you look at me with a sultry gaze and then tip your head back. Your nipples strain against your sheer blouse as you take several long slow breaths.”

“Oh, Jonathan,” I whisper, as an image of him sinking to his knees before me floods my imagination.

“So tell me, Ava, would you have let me pleasure you?”

I’m stunned, my heart pounding.

He looks so pleased when I nod.

“You and me on my couch for hours on end with the city lights before us, and everyone else gone. Think of the possibilities.”

A faint moan escapes my trembling lips.

“Shall I go on?”

I nod, while pressing my thighs together, desperately craving any form of friction.

And to my great shock, he takes my hand and places it on the front of his slacks. I feel his cock swelling under my fingers. I nervously look around the restaurant but the heavy tablecloth covers everything, and the way our booth’s situated, there’s no way anyone can see what we’re doing unless they perched under our table.

“Oh, yes. I like your hand on me,” he whispers, gasping as he thrusts his hips a little forward.

He’s fully erect now, and when I cup my fingers around him, his cock throbs in my grip.

He swallows hard and clears his throat. “Oh, the things I want to do to you, Ava.” He reaches under the table, places his hand on my bare knee and ever so slowly traces his fingertips up my inner thighs, edging up the skirt of my dress as his hand slides higher.

“
Ahh
. . . your skin is so soft,” he says quietly. The tips of his fingers skim across the silk of my panties and I can’t help but shift my hips towards his touch. His features are remarkably calm, despite the building sexual tension. I press my fingers over the length of him again, teasing and taunting.

Oh my God! We’re in freaking Spago . . . his hand is between my legs and I’m grabbing his cock.

I down the rest of my Sauvignon in two gulps while he moves my hand slowly down his shaft. At this point, I’m feeling like a femme fatale. Waiters slide by and busboys remove extra plates from nearby tables while my hand grips his impressive erection.

“So, Ava.” He leans back further into the booth. “Are you pleased to know how much you excite me?”

“Yes,” I whisper, as with each stroke of his fingers, I fight the urge to spread my legs even further open.

Oh, Jesus, his cock is even harder now, and my thighs are quivering for the want of his body on top of mine . . . the need to feel him inside of me. I scan the dining room.
Surely someone in this friggin’ restaurant knows what’s going on. People can’t be so distracted by their foie gras and New York steak that they don’t notice a man a mere zipper away from a hand job under the Spago tablecloth?

I look over and see the color rising across his cheeks, but otherwise he looks remarkably composed while his cock bucks and pulses in my grip. He finally presses his face into my hair and whispers hotly in my ear, “I desperately want to make love to you right now, Ava.”

The wait staff removes the dessert dishes and startles us out of our bubble. Despite my embarrassment, I try ridiculously to maintain enough composure to make up for Jonathan, who’s increasingly distracted.

I slowly let go of him and slide my hand back to my lap. He finally pulls his face away from my hair and reaches over for his water glass, downing half of it in several swallows. I feel his hand move off my thigh onto his, and hear the rustling under the table as he adjusts himself and takes a deep breath.

I’m sure Wolfgang would be pleased to know we found the evening so exciting,
I think with wide eyes.

I wish the wine buzz wasn’t fading because I feel awkward right about now. But when I glance over, he looks completely happy and gives me a big sexy smile.

He runs his fingers lightly over my hand resting on the table and summons the waiter.

“Check, please.”

Chapter Seventeen / My Shiny Penny

The real lover is the man who can thrill you by kissing your forehead.

~Marilyn Monroe

O
key dokey
, I think as I compose myself in the restroom. I’m amazed and a little shaken from so much sexual buildup without release. For such a sophisticated guy, Jonathan is rather shocking, and I’m unnerved that his dream got me so worked up.

When the valets bring our cars forward, Jonathan instructs me to follow him, even though I know my way to the Getty. By the time we pull up to the museum, there’s already a good crowd gathering at the entrance. Not surprisingly, it’s a sophisticated group in elegant attire . . . at least by L.A.’s standards. Before we reach the entrance, Jonathan pulls me aside.

“I want you to know, Ava, that I’m not a selfish man.”

I look up, startled. What’s he suggesting?

“During the entire drive here, I kept thinking about how you indulge me with your charm and beauty.”

I give him a shy smile. “You’re too flattering.”

“I don’t think so. You affect me like no other.” He strokes my cheek. “You’re so generous with me, and I want to make you feel wonderful in all the ways you deserve.”

I’m overwhelmed and confused by my attraction for him and the expression in his eyes flusters me. The intensity’s unnerving, especially since he understands how to get to me.

His hands slide along my hips, and I look down and wonder if I should talk to him about slowing things down. But as a large group bustles past, I decide to wait for a moment when I can think clearly without distractions.