Work of Art ~ the Collection (6 page)

Joe’s right there and finishes the motion, pushing Max right into the cab, swinging his legs inside and slamming the door shut. I give Joe a kiss on the cheek, whispering my thanks, and run to the other side of the cab and slip inside.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

Shit, where’s he staying?
“Max, what hotel are you at?”

I get no response from him, just the empty stare before he rests his forehead on the window. I push him forward and wedge my hand into the back pocket of his jeans. He doesn’t even seem to care that I’ve practically grabbed his ass. But the effort is rewarded with his hotel room key and the sleeve with the room number written on it.

“Gramercy Park Hotel, please.”

When we arrive, I ask the doorman for help getting Max out of the cab as I pay the fare. I get the impression this isn’t the first time he’s had to take care of the hotel guests in this way. He gets Max into the lobby, and luckily, Max walks steadily enough to steer him to the elevators and down the hall to his room. I note that there’s a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on his door handle, and I hesitate for a moment, wondering what nightmare I’m going to face when I get him inside. I take a deep breath and swing the door open.

Once inside, I’m initially distracted by the décor: dark red walls and ebony antique wood furniture with heavy dark velvet couches and chairs.

No badly printed hotel art in this place,
I note. Instead, an impressive collection of black and white photography hangs strategically throughout the suite.

I exhale with relief, noting there’s no naked woman sprawled across the couch or bed. I lead Max to the bedroom and push him down to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s despondent in his movements and still staring straight ahead. He’s starting to freak me out.

I get a bottle of water from the bar area, and fish in my purse for the bottle of aspirin. I open the water and hand it to him.

“Drink,” I command.

After he has taken some water, I push two aspirin in his mouth and command him to drink more. He complies, but when he’s done, he leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and puts his face in his hands while exhaling a long sigh of despair.

I stand back, wondering what to do next. I decide he needs sleep
,
so I kneel down and slowly pull off his boots. He doesn’t help, but he doesn’t stop me either. When I gently pull off his socks, he looks down and watches what I’m doing. I look into his eyes, and see heartbreaking sadness.

“It’s okay. You’ll feel better after you rest.”

Realizing his turtleneck is much too hot to sleep in, I rise and peel the sweater over his shoulders. I look down and my breath catches.

His body’s so beautiful,
I think, staring at the definition along his chest and abdomen.

When I finally get the sweater over his head, his hair is a mad frenzy, and I resist the urge to run my fingers through it. I decide he’d better sleep in his pants, since I’m not going to take them off—for more than one reason. Our eyes meet again, and there’s a curious expression mixed in with his sadness.

He watches me as I remove the layers of decorative velvet pillows from the bed before I gently push him back against the remaining linen pillow and lift his feet up onto the bed. I turn on the bedside lamp to the dimmest setting and shut off the overhead light. The room’s dark now but for a faint glow from the lamp. I can no longer clearly see the expression on his face.

“Goodnight, Max,” I whisper as I turn to leave. I’m halfway into the sitting room when I hear his voice.

“Ava,” he calls.

I stop and hold my breath.

“Ava!” There’s more urgency to his tone this time.

I step back into the doorway of the bedroom. “Yes, Max?”

His hand reaches out from under the comforter. “Please don’t leave me, Ava. Please don’t leave.”

There’s such agony in his voice. I’ve never heard anything so sad—a black arrow to my heart. Knowing he needs me to stay stirs up confusing emotions for me.

I stand still for maybe a minute, my mind racing . . . not sure what to do. It hits me that my experience with Max is no longer a 1940s romantic comedy, but a gothic romance novel. He’s a tortured Heathcliff, but I’m sure as hell not playing his Catherine. He watches me silently, his expression falling with each second passing.

“Okay, I’ll stay for a while,” I finally reply.

“Please sit next to me,” he says, as he reaches for me again.

I pull off my boots and hesitantly climb onto the bed, sitting back against the headboard. His back’s to me and I can’t see his expression, but I can feel his tension.

“Just relax,” I whisper as I push the covers down a little. Instinctively, I soothe him by running my hand through his hair, down his back and over his broad shoulders. As I repeat the motion over and over, I can feel his body settle bit by bit with each pass of my hand.

He’s silent for a few minutes, but finally turns just slightly toward me. “Thank you.” His voice breaks with emotion.

“You’re an angel,
my
angel.” And moments later, his breath falls into a steady rhythm.

I continue to stroke him as he sleeps, realizing I may never touch him again like this, and I try to get my fill of the feeling of being connected to him. I marvel at his physical perfection. His hair’s so soft, such a contrast to his hard shoulders.

I shake my head.
I’m in Max Caswell’s bed touching him while he sleeps.
What a strange couple of days.

I rest my hand in the middle of his back and feel his heat beneath my fingers.
What happened tonight?
One minute he was Mr. Party and the next, a wounded soul. It didn’t make sense, but I know nothing about this side of Max. I lift my hand off his back, and inch-by-inch ease myself off the bed. Luckily, he remains asleep as I tiptoe to the sitting room with my boots in my hand.

I sit for a moment on the couch and realize that I should leave him a note in case he wakes up completely disoriented. I find a pad and pen by the phone.

Dear Max

I’m not sure how much you will remember, but I brought you back to your room after your show last night. You were pretty out of it and needed help from a friend. I hope you don’t mind that I was that person. Anyway, have no concerns—nothing unseemly happened, I just tucked you into bed and left.

Drink lots of water, and hopefully your hangover won’t be too wicked.

Regards,

Ava

I notice a sketch lying on the floor. In fact, there are drawings lying all over the room—some on the floor, some scattered across the desk and end tables. I can’t believe I’d missed them when I came in.

The drawings have the ragged edge from being torn out of a bound book. I set my pad down and take a closer look. They’re all very loose-gesture drawings of a woman. There are loose sweeps of charcoal across the rough paper, some roughly blended. Then layered over are minimal cleaner lines from a dark pencil.

The woman is nude in all the drawings and it feels like the sort of thing done during a life drawing class. They’re beautiful in their simplicity. I feel a pang of jealousy for whoever she is. She got to pose for Max here in his room. With that wave of jealousy comes the resolve to get out of his room and back to my reality.

I go back to my note and add a final line before tearing it from the pad and laying it on his bedside table:

P.S. I like your drawings very much. Who’s the subject?

In the morning, I head to the exposition to oversee the guys packing up the art. I also go over all the details with the shipping company transporting our crates back to California. It’s a relief to know the show’s finally over and it’s been a success.

On my cab ride back to the hotel, I ask the cab driver to drop me off in Central Park so I can take a leisurely walk in the brisk air.

As I wander down one of the many paths that wind through the park, I watch the nannies pushing their strollers, the old couples sitting on the benches and the young people with their lunch bags and sodas. A middle-aged woman takes a picture of her daughter standing proudly in front of the pond. A gaggle of school children in uniforms walk past while their teachers try to keep them on course. My love for New York City swells up in my chest, and I vow to return soon, hopefully next time for pleasure, not work.

I decide to turn down another path when I hear my cell’s ringtone.

Maxfield Caswell.

I’m only half-surprised. He’s probably calling to apologize for last night. I’m curious to see how he’s doing.

“Hey, Max,” I say casually.

“Ava.” He takes a sharp breath. “What are you doing?”

“Um, walking in Central Park. Why?”

“I was wondering if we could meet for coffee before you leave. You mentioned you guys were flying home tonight.”

I’m amazed he’s remembered that detail. “Well . . . I just had coffee,” I say, trying to be playful to lighten the mood.

“Okay, then tea. Where are you in the park? I’ll grab a cab and meet you now.”

I look around for a landmark, impressed at his determination. “I’ll sit on a bench facing the pond at 61st Street, just in from 5th Avenue.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

I pace for a few minutes as my heart races, and I finally sit on the bench.
What’s this about?
I wonder. He doesn’t have to take me to tea. A thank-you call would’ve been sufficient.

Each minute feels like an hour. I finally look up just as he exits a cab on 5th Avenue. He strides toward the pond and flashes that gorgeous smile when he sees me stand up from the bench.

God, he’s beautiful,
I marvel, allowing myself one last swoon before I steel myself for what’s to come. The only thing I’m sure of is I have absolutely no idea what’s going to happen.

“Hi, you want to walk?” he asks casually as he approaches, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets.

I nod and we stroll silently toward the park exit at 59th Street and 5th. The trees are all edged with a brilliant green as their coats of spring leaves are just breaking through. I’m trying to imagine that this silence isn’t awkward, but he gives me a break by finally speaking.

“Thank you for looking out for me last night,” he says quietly, looking down at me.

I smile. “It wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t have to come out of your way to thank me.”

“I know, but I thought we could talk.”

“Sure.” I realize that we’re now heading down 5th Avenue and he seems to have a destination in mind. He rests his hand on my back and leads me into a turn on 55th Street. The fancy doorman at the St. Regis Hotel tips his hat as Max leads me into the elegant lobby.

“We’re having tea here?” I ask, glad I’m wearing nice slacks and a tailored jacket.

“Yes, high tea. Would you prefer something else?”

“Oh, I love high tea, but I wouldn’t imagine it’s your style.”

“See, one of the many things you don’t know about me . . . I love high tea. I had high tea frequently with my mom, and this was her favorite place to go in New York.”

My eyes grow wide.
He’s taking me to his mom’s favorite place for high tea? Why?

The hostess leads us to a low silk-covered settee facing a linen-covered table set with elegant china and silver.

We must look like we’re a couple,
I think, noticing most of the other seating options have traditional tables and chairs.

We sink down into the loveseat with our thighs lightly touching. I open the tasseled menu to choose from a selection of over twenty teas, everything from English breakfast to exotic mango spice.

I pause to admire my surroundings and the frescoed ceiling with delicate painted cherubs floating in a cloud-filled sky, the layers of intricately carved moldings framing each scene.

I could get used to this
.

“Does your mom still come here?”

“No, she passed away.” He looks down and shifts the fork on the table.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
Good going, Ava. Ask about his dead mother. That would explain why he spoke in the past tense, idiot.

“She’s been gone for six years, breast cancer,” he says just before the waiter approaches.

I’m glad for the distraction. The waiter takes our order, and after he moves away Max takes a deep breath and shifts to face me.

“So, I want to apologize for last night. I’m angry with myself for what I put you through.”

Am I going to let him off the hook?
I decide not to. “You’re quite the party boy, Max, and that’s okay I guess, if it’s what you want. But I decided to get involved when you looked like a fool in front of Jonathan Alistair from
Art+trA
. It felt like a career disaster and I couldn’t let that happen to you.”

He grimaces. “I guess I deserve the party-boy line.” He looks down. “But why did you help me, Ava? You don’t even know me, not really.”

Because you are the hottest man I’ve ever spent time with, and I want to be in your bed.
I swallow and take a deep breath, glad my thoughts didn’t escape my mouth.

“Well, I love working with artists. I seem to understand them. And I knew you needed help. It was my natural instinct,” I answer, hoping he believes me.