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“People keep telling me that nerds will rule the world one day, if they don’t already.”
“I guess you could say that.” Darkness flickered across his face before the smile returned, bringing a cheeky glint to his eye. “I don’t suppose you want to show me any of your paintings? If they’re half as good as your pizza, I’m betting you’ll be the next Picasso.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said, knotting her hands in her lap.
“About being Picasso or about showing me your work?”
Part of her balked at the idea of showing him her art—of showing anyone her art—but his face was totally earnest. His interest in her work appeared genuine, and besides, what harm could it do?
This is New York, not some tiny hick town that thinks a woman’s body is a product of the devil.
“I’m no Picasso, let’s be clear about that.” She pushed up from her chair and motioned for him to follow. “Come on, my work space is through here.”
Rhys’s presence filled the air around her as they walked, his steps mirroring her own. He said nothing as she pushed open the door to her bedroom. Her mattress rested on the floor since she hadn’t bought a bed frame yet. The quilt she’d been using as her duvet was draped over it, creating a white puddle of fabric around the edges of the mattress.
Early evening light filtered into the room, highlighting the stack of canvases that she’d leaned against the wall. She’d brought ten in total. Eight complete and two works in progress—though she hadn’t touched a brush to them in over six months.
The canvases had been a requirement for the portfolio portion of her interview at Ainslie Ave, the gallery where she now worked as an assistant and acted as a mentee slash intern to Sean Ainslie himself.
“These are just experiments,” she said, reaching for the first two in the stack. One was a vivid fall landscape and the other depicted a young student hunched over a writing desk. She’d modelled the girl on her sister, painting her long blond locks in wild swirling strokes, mimicking the fury of the student’s pen scratching across paper. “They’re nothing special.”
“Do you really think that?” His eyes never left the paintings. They darted and scanned as though he was committing the images to memory. She watched for some sign of judgment, but he simply stared at the paintings in a way that felt fiercely intimate.
And terrifying.
“This one was from my abstract phase,” she said, brushing off his question. The third canvas was a garden, but to the untrained eye the angular swipes of green paint could be anything at all.
A swamp monster, perhaps.
“And this one was a gift for my mom.”
Her mother had a thing for roses and her garden back home was filled with them. Wren had painted her a small canvas for their guest room. It showed a single American Beauty bloom, just like the flower that had won her mother first place in the county fair a few years back. It’d hung on the wall until Wren had sneaked it out one night after “the incident.” Nobody seemed to have noticed its absence.
“You’re very talented,” Rhys said, his gaze finally traveling back to her. “You’ve been blessed with some creative hands.”
“I’m sure my parents would rather I’d been blessed with a head for numbers.” The words came out stinging with truth. “My sister is going to be a doctor, so by comparison art is probably not the job they would have chosen for me.”
“But you’re working in a gallery, too?”
Wren dropped down onto the floor and sat cross-legged. After a moment, Rhys followed her. The rest of her canvases sat against the wall, facing away from them like a group of children who’d been sent to the naughty corner.
“Yeah, I’m an assistant for an artist who has his own gallery. I organize his appointments and manage his calendar. I also greet people who come to meet him at the gallery.” She toyed with the end of her long silk skirt, twisting the fabric around on itself. “Then I get to paint in his studio and he gives me critiques and tips. Plus, I learn about how the gallery is run and get to watch him with potential buyers. Stuff like that.”
“And you think you’re not an artist,” Rhys scoffed.
Con artist, maybe.
“It sounds weird to call myself that.” She shrugged. “I guess it’s a leftover doubt from my family always nagging me to get a real job and work in an office. Like you.”
“Working in an office does not mean you’ve made it in life.” He leaned back on his forearms and surveyed the room. “Trust me.”
His large form was so appealing laid out that way, a dessert for her eyes. All that sculpted muscle and sexual magnetism made her body thrum. And here he was, on her floor right in front of her. A gift for the taking.
Debs’s words floated around in her head: You won’t regret it. Sex is a very natural and healthy part of life.
She’d tried to enjoy sex with Christian, but it had been very repetitive. Her ex had only ever wanted to be on top and had complained when Wren had suggested they try other things. It was something he’d thrown back in her face when he’d discovered her secret paintings.
But something deep down told her that Rhys would be different. That being with Rhys would be different.
“You’re looking at me very intently, Wren.” His lips wrapped around her name in the most delicious way.
“I am.” Tension built inside her, filling her chest and stealing her breath. “Is that a problem?”
“No problem. I was only wondering if you’re planning on making a move.”
Was she? Shit. She’d told herself she had time to get to know him before she acted on her attraction, and then she’d cut herself. Now they were here. And she desperately wanted to find out if her theories about him were true.
“If you’re not...” His brown eyes were lit with fire. “I will.”
Please. Please, please, please.
She opened her mouth to respond when a crash shattered the quiet, halting her words. The stack of paintings behind Rhys had slipped, put out of balance by her removing the heavier ones that had been holding them in place.
“I’ll get them.” She scrambled to her feet in an attempt to prevent him from getting there first, but she accidentally leaned on her injured hand.
“It’s fine, I’ve got it.” He reached for the paintings, his frame stilling suddenly.
Wren’s face filled with heat. She didn’t need to guess which painting he’d discovered.
“Wow.” The word was so filled with shock that it made her stomach twist into a knot. “This is...”
“I wasn’t going to show you that one.” She walked over to the pile and started replacing them against the wall, flames licking her cheeks.
He held the painting in his hand—the one that had been the cause of her troubles back home and, most ironically, the one she secretly thought of as her best. It was of a woman, her legs open and her head thrown back in ecstasy. Eyes closed. Lips slack.
The shades of pink and red and brown blended together, raw and earthy. It was intensely sexual, so much so that Wren wasn’t sure how she’d painted it. At the time her brush had moved as if of its own accord. The painting wasn’t hers; it belonged to someone else. To something else.
“Please give it to me.” She held out her hand, hating the way her voice trembled when it should have sounded cool and unaffected. But those were two things that her tender heart had never been able to master.
She was always affected by what other people thought.
“Please,” she demanded, this time louder.
Rhys handed her the painting, a strange look on his face. It wasn’t outright disgust, as had been Christian’s expression. But she couldn’t handle even the mildest form of judgment right now. Not about this.
The only reason she’d even brought the damn thing with her was because Kylie had mentioned that Sean Ainslie had a thing for nude portraits.
Now the damn thing was humiliating her again.
“I think you should go,” she said, fighting back the wave of shame as memories assaulted her.
You’re depraved, Christian had said when he’d discovered this painting along with the twelve others in the collection. All nudes, all women. You’re a sexual deviant and you’re using me as a cover.
It wasn’t true. She had simply been fascinated by the idea of female sexuality. Enamored by it from an artistic standpoint...not that anyone in her damned hometown would understand that. All they had seen were things that should be hidden away.
“Wren,” he started. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not ashamed,” she lied. “I would just prefer it if you left now. Please.”
He hovered for a moment, his eyes, which had darkened to almost black, flicking between her and the canvas that she held tight to her chest. Protecting herself or the painting, she wasn’t sure.
“For what it’s worth, I think your paintings are incredible,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Thanks again for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.” Her voice was a whisper as he walked out of the room, leaving her alone to ponder why the fates had decided yet again to use her art to humiliate her.
“Maybe you should take a hint,” she muttered to herself as she placed the remaining paintings back where they belonged. “Listen to your parents and get a real job.”
She would. Just as soon as she figured out what had happened to Kylie, she would head home and enter the real world.
3 (#u90755d5e-b73a-5b41-8407-b1eb3366a897)
WREN SAT BEHIND the sleek chrome-and-marble desk that crowned the entrance to the Ainslie Ave gallery. Her boss was expecting a potential client for a private viewing, so he was locked away in his studio preparing, which left her with a few precious moments of solitude to do some digging.
Hopefully, the chance to snoop would not only yield some valuable information but also help her to keep her mind off Rhys. And how he probably thought she was a nut job after the way she’d ordered him out of her apartment last night.
She cringed. The whole evening had been going so well. They’d had a great rapport and she’d gotten definite vibes of interest from him. Heated glances, an invitation to make a move. Then she’d blown it.
“Rookie move, Livingston,” she muttered to herself as she clicked out of Sean’s calendar. “You don’t think before you act.”
It was a criticism that had been handed to her over and over by her parents. Most of the time it followed, “Why can’t you be more responsible, like your sister?” Wren had never been too good at plotting out her moves before she made them. Often guided by impulse, she’d landed herself in hot water on a few occasions and had earned herself a bit of a reputation—unfairly, in her opinion—for being a wild girl.
She wasn’t wild. Irresponsible, perhaps. Spontaneous, definitely. But certainly not wild in the sense that they meant it back home.
Not that anyone believed her.
Shaking off the well-worn thoughts, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Her self-loathing could wait. She’d been working here for exactly three weeks now and all her preliminary searches had turned up zilch. Well, unless you counted a snarky online review of an exhibition Sean had run two years ago...which she didn’t.
Sliding down from her stool, she padded quietly across the showroom floor. The place was silent save for the swish of her skirt against the polished boards. The other two interns, with whom she shared reception duties and a cramped studio space, were painting today. She’d gotten to know them quite well in the last few weeks—thanks to the assistance of her amazing chocolate brownies—although she could tell both girls believed Sean Ainslie was a god among men.
The paintings in the showroom had been switched around this morning after Sean’s conversation with the client. He’d since selected a shortlist of works that he thought would suit the client’s needs. The rest of the paintings were locked away in some specially designed climate-controlled room to which Wren had not yet gained access.
Sean Ainslie came from money; she knew that for sure. His wealth wasn’t due to his art, although he’d had moderate success with a collection of paintings depicting the burned-out carcass of the iconic New York yellow cab. Yet the paintings he had ready for viewing were entirely different in feel and style.
Wren studied a smaller canvas, which showed an ice-cream cone melting in the sun. The painting had a slight cubism feel to it, the shapes on the waffle cone exaggerated and angular. Sharp. The vibrant colors seemed at odds with Sean’s darker, grittier pieces.
“Why were you drawn to that one?” Sean’s voice echoed against the high ceilings and bounced around, causing Wren to jump.
“It’s different from your other works.” Wren pressed a hand to her chest and felt her heart beat wildly beneath her skin. Sean unnerved her, especially his ability to sneak up on her out of nowhere. “I was wondering what inspired it.”
“I used to visit Coney Island with my grandfather when I was a kid.” He came up behind her and stood close. Too close. “Everything about that place was so...plastic. It felt unreal to me, even back then. Like it was something I’d made up in my head instead of being a real place.”
The scent of stale cigarette on his breath made Wren’s stomach churn. She tried to subtly put some distance between them by pretending to look more closely at the painting. “I’ve never been there.”
“Don’t bother. It’s a cesspool.”
“Right.” She nodded.
“Have you got the coffee on?”
“Yes.” Taking the opportunity, she stepped away from him and returned to her post at the front of the showroom. “I’ve also put out the croissants. Mr. Wagner should be here in five minutes. Would you like me to stay in the room in case you need anything?”
Please say no, please say no, please say no.
Sean’s thin lips pressed into a line as he considered her question. The scar on his left cheek seemed to twitch as the muscle behind it moved. “No, leave Mr. Wagner to me. The last thing I want is him getting distracted by a beautiful young woman.”
Wren forced her expression to stay neutral, despite her lip wanting to curl at the sleazy way he was looking at her. “Very well.”
“Feel free to get some work done in the studio, but don’t go home. I’ll need you to clean up once Mr. Wagner has gone.”
“Of course.”
She retreated before Sean could make any more requests...or comments about her appearance. He seemed to do that on a daily basis. Wren certainly wasn’t averse to compliments, but her skin always seemed to crawl whenever he was around.
The other interns—a blonde named Aimee and a girl with a Southern accent named Lola—were painting in relative silence in the studio. Their stations were crowded with paints and tools, like chaotic rainbows of creativity. Her section, in stark comparison, was spotlessly clean.
If only her mother could see that for once she had the cleanest workstation in the room.
Sadly, this wasn’t due to a newfound love of tidiness...but more because her Muse had refused to show up. She’d taken on more reception duties to avoid her creative block, but Sean would expect her to produce something eventually. After all, she should be having the time of her life with an opportunity so many other artists would kill for.
Supposedly, anyway.
“Looks like it’s just you and me, old friend.” Wren stood in front of the canvas, which was mostly blank except for an angry-looking smudge in one corner. She laughed to herself in the quiet room, the sound rough and insincere. “And with friends like these, who needs enemies?”
Neither Aimee nor Lola glanced in her direction. But before Wren had a chance to pick up a brush, the sound of talking floated down from the showroom. Sean’s client had arrived, which meant he would be occupied for some time. That gave her a window of opportunity to check out the storage room and some of the other rooms at the back of the gallery where she didn’t normally go.
Tiptoeing out into the corridor, she listened to make sure that no one was coming her way. The storage room was at the very end of the building—which had once been a mechanic’s workshop that had lain abandoned for several years until Sean had purchased it. The storage room had been tacked on to the structure and fitted with a keypad to limit entry. Wren hadn’t yet been able to come up with an excuse that would allow her to request access from Sean.
She stared helplessly at the blinking keypad. It seemed strange to lock up a storage room so tightly. Even if it housed valuable paintings, why were the interns kept out? It didn’t make sense. Wren had worked in a small gallery a few towns over from Charity Springs. Sure, small towns were different from the Big Smoke, but she’d always had access to the gallery’s stock.
What had she been thinking turning up here without a plan? For the first time in three weeks, Wren felt the stupidity of her decision weigh on her. A naive part of her had assumed it would be easy to show up here, figure out what had happened and run back home, evidence in hand. Ready to reassure her friend that she would have justice, after all.
“That’s because you don’t think before you act,” she muttered to herself. Again.
“Wren?” A female voice caught her attention. “Are you free? I have a question.”
Wren spun to find Aimee peering out of the studio, her fair brows wrinkled. “What’s wrong, Aimee?”
“I need to put a note into the shared calendar about my day off this week and I couldn’t get in. Then I tried to reset the password and now I’ve locked us all out.” She threw her hands up in the air. “I don’t know why computers hate me so much.”
