Chapter2
952 Words
Her quest had been a simple one: get attached to someone of heavy means who also boasted of a wealth of connections, and use them to promote her paintings.
She was broke and could barely afford rent, so she could not afford to stay curled up on her sofa every night. She had planned to get into a place with ‘money bags’ but she had lucked out when she stumbled on Mr. Jones while he planned this gala.
But her worries were unending, it seemed. She frowned at the pictures on exhibit. Only a few were paintings. There were more photographed images than paintings, and even the images were quite creative.
She felt her heart sink to her stomach. Making a large profit had been a pipe dream already. Now it seemed the competition was tougher than she had expected. Besides, according to Mr. Jones, a percentage of sales were to be given to the poor. But even a-day old baby could tell that would never happen.
She had agreed to give ‘the poor,’ which was definitely Mr. Jones’ private pocket, more than 60% of her sales, and his greedy grin had accepted the deal before his voice did.
She searched the walls dutifully, until she found her paintings. One of them was of a faceless and unclad woman sitting in the sun. It was quite sensual and powerful, but she couldn’t count on anyone in this room uncovering the deep work and creativity that had gone into it.
Her eyes darted to the picture beside it to see how she stood against the completion, but someone coughed behind her.
She swiveled around sharply. The second her eyes laid on him, the hair on her neck stood on end.
It was him: the most eligible man in Bristol!
The pictures did not do him justice at all. He looked divine in a beige-colored suit with white criss-crossed stripes. The fabric was heavy and seemed to shine with a deep tan.
If she was told that the suit cost a million dollars, she would believe the fable. Besides, Matt O’Brien had a million dollars, she was sure. And boy, he did look it! His hair was black and fell around his chin in rich waves.
He was clean-shaven and his eyes were brown like a mix of chocolate and milk. He was tall with broad shoulders, and his shirt outlined his well-toned abs. His legs…
“You are in my way,” he prompted, and she jerked back to reality where she was ogling a stranger.
“Oh!” She exclaimed and jumped out of the way. He moved around her and stood right in front of her painting.
Her eyes widened. Did he like it?
“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” she suddenly found her voice.
“They are,” he muttered, but did not turn.
She hesitated before asking again. “Do you want to buy any?”
He turned to her slowly now. His eyes brushed over her as he seemed to take her in. It was a lot of work but, though she bristled internally under his gaze, she managed to remain calm.
“Why? Did you put money in them?”
“Oh, no.” She giggled foolishly. “I created some.”
“Hmmm…” His brows rose, and he turned to glance at some of the photographed pictures. “So what are you?” He asked finally. “A creative director, a fashion designer or a model?”
She beamed. “Are those my only options?”
He turned back to her. “Are there any others?”
“Well, couldn’t I, perhaps, be behind one of these paintings, for example? Wielding a painting and making artful strokes?” She wanted to sound flirty with the way she emphasized strokes, but she felt foolish instead.
His mouth twitched in amusement.
“What is funny?” She asked.
He frowned. “Did you not just c***k a joke?”
Her brows rose, but it was a while before the import of his question dawned on her.
Did he just stereotype me? She wondered.
Suddenly, her surprise transformed to pained anger. She did not go through all of this trouble to get into this gala only to be stereotyped by some snobbish nepo-man.
She turned to her second painting, a painting of a man drowning in a little river. “That is me: Dee,” she gestured to her signature. “I painted this piece after my father died.”
She turned to the one before them, the one he had been staring at.
“That is me too. I am also the model there, actually. I captured myself with an old camera, painted it and added the sun,” she explained. Then she turned to him. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance!”
She walked away very quickly, feeling an unexplainable pain in her chest.
Matthew watched the angry sway of her hips as she disappeared. He had always prided himself on his ability to read people at first glance.
He had taken one good look at the brooding Jane in the paintings, at her red dress, her tattoo of a butterfly, her expensive jewelry, and thought: ‘here is a sad broad with too much money to spend, and looking to splurge to feel better.’
As it turned out, her name was not Jane to begin with.
He released a heavy sigh and turned back to the faceless painting of the unclad woman. His eyes followed the expert brush strokes and the merge of colors, and he nodded appreciatively.
“So what could ‘Dee’ stand for?” He wondered.
- Writer
