Work of Art ~ the Collection (56 page)

“He was very upset when I saw him. He looked like hell and was checking out of the hotel. Did something happen? Do you want me to talk to him?”

Two arms wrap around me from behind, and Max pulls me against him. My heart skips a beat and I grin. Adam raises his eyebrows suspiciously. Katherine, on the other hand, lights up like a Christmas tree.

“Hello, Maxfield,” he says, eyeing Max’s arms around my waist.

In contrast, Katherine smiles at Max warmly.

“Adam, Katherine,” Max says casually.

“Ava, let’s talk about this another time.” He takes Katherine and turns toward someone who’s just entered the booth, while Jess turns to talk to Brian.

If Max feels slighted, he doesn’t show it. He kisses me lightly.

“How was your interview?”

“Fine. He was very organized, so it went quickly. It’s for a piece about a number of artists, so he didn’t need to go into great detail.”

He puts his arm over my shoulder and leads me down the aisles. I notice every group we pass recognizes Max. When we reach the meeting area at the center of the show, he stops and turns to me. “So, is Adam upset about something?”

“He saw Jonathan checking out of the hotel last night and thought he looked upset, so he asked if I’d seen him.”

Max scowls. “What did you tell him?”

“Just that I had seen him briefly.”

“Yeah, and Adam looked
thrilled
to see me too,” he adds sarcastically. “I know he’s your stand-in dad and I respect that, but it’s not like you’re sixteen and have no idea what you’re doing.”

I can’t resist teasing him. “Do I know what I’m doing? Is it smart to fall in love with a crazy artist?”

“Yes, when the crazy artist is crazy in love with you.” He pulls me in his arms and kisses me with abandon in plain view of the art world . . . dealers, curators, publishers, art groupies, and his watchful peers. This simple gesture will spark countless questions, destroy many fantasies, and tell the world unequivocally that I’m his love. I kiss him back, showing he’s my love too. He may be a wild and brilliant mess, but damn it all, he’s mine.

Chapter Fourteen / With Georgia’s Blessings

I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way–things I had no words for.

~ Georgia O’Keeffe

“I
t’s really all about the act of sex as art.”

“Excuse me?” I sputter.

The six-foot Chinese beauty throws her waist length hair over her shoulder and waves her hand toward the row of oil paintings. “Dane photographed himself performing sexual acts with twelve different women, and then painted these abstractions from the photographs.”

“Really?” I feign interest, when all I really want to know is how a woman of such insane proportions finds clothes that fit. She’s dressed head to toe in black, and when she turns sideways she practically disappears. She opens a sleek, black, leather notebook.

“Yes, we’ve already sold seven of the series. He’s so hot right now.” She lowers her voice and says, “He’s an excellent investment.”

I’ve wandered into this booth during another visit to the art show, and she’s misidentified me as a customer. I pull out my exhibitor badge, put it on, and try not to smirk. Too bad Max isn’t here. He’d love to hear her talk about investments.

Max has to work the rest of the afternoon, meeting collectors and other industry people Dylan’s lined up. So, I’ve taken the opportunity to wander the show alone and see what the other artists are showing.

I determine that Dane Rush is an opportunist, and his gimmick seems to be working if the paintings really are selling—you never know for sure. I thank Tamara, exotic saleswoman extraordinaire, and work my way down the aisle.

Next, I see the work of an artist named Carolina Rossmore. I find her paintings particularly interesting because they’re done over black and white photographs. Her technique leaves a bit of the photograph bleeding through, which makes for an interesting juxtaposition.

On the next aisle, I discover an Italian sculptor with marble and bronze abstracts of elegant curved shapes joined together that I find lyrical and appealing. I resist the urge to run my fingers over the dips and swirls of the forms. The salesperson is already dealing with someone, so I have plenty of uninterrupted time to enjoy his work.

Everyone’s busy with the business of selling art, which is the complete opposite of what drives the creation of art, and I wonder about the struggle for the two to coexist. Even the most purist gallery owners find themselves making compromises to make a sale and keep their doors open for business, while the artists have to clear their mind of the reports they receive on what is selling to be able to follow their heart instead.

Max seems to balance the tug and pull of being true to his vision, yet still dealing with the business side of marketing and sales. It’s another reason I find him remarkable.

I smile. Max is never far from my thoughts, and I’m still a little off-kilter from the dramatic turn of events in our relationship. It’s hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours ago I ran to his hotel room in the dark, not knowing if I’d have the courage to express what I felt for him. After so many crossed messages and so much bad timing, do we finally have fate on our side?

After the show closes at six, a group of us walk to the opening reception for Art Santa Fe at the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. Adam talks with Nick Castallani, and I join them to say hello. Adam smiles widely when he hears I’m being considered for another project, and I can tell by the focused and intense way he speaks with Nick that he respects him. I hope that’s a good sign moving forward.

A couple of enthusiastic collectors, who are sponsors of the show, have cornered Max, so I leave him to navigate his way through that conversation. Joe motions for me to join him and Jess at the bar.

Although Joe hasn’t made a sale yet, there’s some interest, so he isn’t discouraged. Jess says she won’t be satisfied unless she sells at least four of her paintings this weekend. We all know this is ambitious, but Jess does everything big.

After about an hour of wandering the crowd and making polite conversation, I take a few moments to check out the museum. It’s an intimate, well-designed place, and to have a museum solely dedicated to a single artist’s work has an incredible impact.

I wander from room to room, taking in O’Keeffe’s colorful paintings. Some are abstract, but even the figurative tends to be simple subjects like an open flower or a stark landscape. One of her more unusual subjects is a cow’s skull, which has become one of her iconic symbols of New Mexico.

Although the subject matter is minimal in content, the richness of the color and style is overwhelming. I wish every gallery room had a chaise longue to lie back on so I could let the sensuous color swirl around me and sweep me away.

I’m alone in one of the last rooms when Max finds me.

“Here you are. I thought I’d lost you.”

“No, I just wanted to check out the museum. I was done making small talk.”

“These shows are torture . . . too many people over too many days. By the end, I feel like I’ve lost my mind.”

“You could’ve fooled me. You always seem right at home and so comfortable talking to everyone.”

“It’s a facade I’ve built up after years of practice. I may be good at it, but it doesn’t mean I like it. By the way, who was that big red-headed guy you were talking to with Adam?”

“Nick Castallani from Rampart. He wants to meet me for lunch tomorrow to talk about a project.”

A dark look crosses his face, but then it’s gone. “Really? Why don’t I join you?”

“I don’t think so, Max. That wouldn’t be professional, and you know it.” I raise my brows and give him a stern look, so he knows I won’t tolerate trouble.

“Well, pardon me for not trusting publishers around you.”

“Gee, thanks. So, you don’t think my talent warrants him hiring me?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. I guess I’ll try harder to tame the jealous beast inside me.”

I take his hand. “You should, because I only want you, Max. You told me you love me, and I love you, and I’m not letting anything or anyone get in our way.”

I turn back to the art on the gallery wall. He hugs me from behind and kisses my neck, as I continue to study the painting.

“Do you like O’Keeffe?” His lips graze my shoulder.

“Yes, it’s curious though. On the surface, she was such a tough woman, but her work is so soft and feminine. Do you like it?”

“I’ve never been much of a fan, but I’m seeing it anew tonight. I wouldn’t say it’s feminine, as much as sensuous. I mean, this painting here reminds me of you.” He runs his hands down my sides and rests them on my hips.

My eyes wander over the waves of soft color blending into each other. “Really? How does it remind you of me?”

“You really want to know?” He pauses, and I wonder if it’s sexual, because O’Keeffe’s work is certainly noted for it. I can feel his breath on my neck, and his fingers press firmly into the flesh at the swell of my hips.

“Yes.” I lean back against him.

“Okay, but this isn’t really museum talk.” He kisses me right behind my ear before lowering his voice. “This painting is how I see you between your legs. I could run my fingers over the painting’s colors and feel you opening up for me.”

I imagined his thoughts would go along those lines, but hearing it stirs me to my core. I gasp as heat flows through me.

“Damn, Max.”

“Do you want me to tell you more?” He runs his tongue along the edge of my ear before taking the lobe between his teeth and gently biting.

“Please, handsome, more.” I squeeze my legs together.

Still hugging me from behind, he pulls me tighter against him, and his errection presses along my back. He leans closer and whispers in my ear, “When I went down on you last night, I was in heaven. And now, looking at how erotic this painting is, makes me want to run my tongue over you and inside you again.”

Desire is charging up all my sensory nerves, especially the ones between my legs. “You’re getting me all worked up,” I whimper.

He takes a ragged breath and continues as he points at the painting. “You’re the soft pink, and see that dip at the top? That’s where I’d start with my tongue, then curve along the blue while I slide my fingers inside you.”

He gently bites the slope of my shoulder. “Last night, I loved feeling you come undone, the way your fingers wound through my hair and pulled me closer.”

“Oh,” I moan. “You’re wicked to do this here in this holy place.” I push my backside against him, and he grinds his cock against me.

“Holy,”
he whispers with a sigh. “And what are you doing to me, Ava? Just being near you like this is driving me crazy.”

The thrill from his words pulses through me and takes my breath away. This is so new—the idea that we’re lovers—and he wants to be this sexual with me.

“My legs are shaking, and I’m not sure how much more of your seductive advances I can take.”

“But I’m not done seducing you . . . I’ll hold you up,” he whispers, as he slides an arm around my waist. “I want to talk about this image some more. See the violet part at the bottom?” He turns my focus back to the painting as he snakes his other hand under my blouse and softly circles my breast before pinching my nipple.

My breath quickens, and the colors vibrate off the canvas and swirl around us, intoxicating me.

“That is the deepest place my tongue can go, and I slide it back and forth and kiss every part of you.”

I press against him and close my eyes, imaging him between my legs with his mouth on me. His words create a hunger that can’t wait to be fed; we’re in a public place.

“We’ve got to stop this . . . what if someone sees us?” I ask halfheartedly, but our backs are to the door.

“They’re making a big presentation up front, no one’s coming back here.” Now both his hands are under my shirt, his long fingers pulling on my nipples.

My head falls back against his shoulder. “Oh Max, you’d better stop. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

Thank God no one else is in this room, because they would be in for a shock. I moan and sway, looking up at the painting completed decades ago by a hard-looking woman with a passionate heart. I’m falling into the sensuality of Georgia’s world.

“Fuck,” Max gasps, as he grinds harder against me. “I want you baby—I don’t want to wait.”

My heart thunders in my chest, and I press my thighs together.

“I need you now. Screw the party—let’s go back to the hotel before I’m too far gone to drive.” His low voice has an edge to it.

“Isn’t there somewhere we can go here?” My breath is ragged and my lust impatient and unyielding.

He takes a step back from me, and I turn around. “In the museum? Are you serious? After what happened in the studio, I would never even consider it. No way,” he says, disbelief etched across his face.

I grab his collar and look into his eyes. “This is completely different . . . we’re together now.”

He studies me with narrow eyes and tension in his stance.

I take a chance and press my case. “Didn’t you say earlier that fucking can be good too?” I lean into him, my hot breath on his neck. “We’re in an art museum, Max. Don’t you want to fuck me here?”