Reckless Kiss: A forbidden, billionaire romance (stand-alone)

by Tia Louise

  He shrugs. “It’s as close as I could get to your favorite colors.”

  Anger mixes with frustration mixes with annoyance. Deacon says my brother loves me. I want to believe it, but after the way he’s acted since he returned…

  He’s nice then he’s controlling. He’s thoughtful then he’s infuriating.

  “Thank you.” I’m not smiling as I stand and go to the door.

  “Where are you going, Carmie?” Valeria looks at me with concern.

  I look from her to my brother, with his arms crossed. “I’m going to church.”

  “By the waters of Babylon, we hung our harps on the willows and wept.” Father Molina gazes at the stained-glass windows of our cathedral.

  At fifteen, when most kids were defying parental traditions and rules, Father Molina kept me in mass with his subversive sermons. He talked about pushing back against oppression, peaceful resistance, keeping the faith. He appears solemn and reverential, but he’s a fighter.

  “How could they sing songs of joy with invaders in their land?” His eyes return to us, seated in the pews looking up at him. “Because God was their ally. God brings justice to all.”

  My eyebrows rise, and I watch as he goes on about God’s ability to save us from all our troubles. My mind wanders to my own troubles, and I think about what Mamá would say about worry and fear.

  Worry is a story we create in our minds about a future we don’t know. The future is always uncertain, she would say. All we have is the present. She had a little quote about the present being a present… It was a play on words. I wish I could remember it exactly, but it was something about how being in the present is peace.

  Focusing on the now is enlightenment.

  We file forward to receive communion. It’s an older church, not too large, but still it has arched, stained-glass windows the original congregation raised money to install. The pews are polished wood with deep red velvet cushions. It’s dark and solemn with a good Catholic vibe.

  Once we’ve all returned to our seats, Father Mo holds his arms wide over the congregation, speaking in a strong voice. “May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord make his face to shine upon you and give you rest.”

  It happens. Calm filters through my chest, and I close my eyes to receive his blessing.

  A strong clutch on my forearm snaps me out of my moment of zen. The organ plays a joyful exit hymn, and Valeria’s friend Rosalía smiles at me. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Okay…”

  Parishioners file around us heading to the double doors where the priest stands, telling everyone goodbye.

  Rosalía is the same age as Valeria, but she’s much slimmer with a white stripe running down the middle of her black hair. Her dark eyes are excited. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

  I have to think. “Lunch, maybe some painting. I don’t have any plans… Why?”

  She does a little bounce, grinning wider. “Can you come with me? I got you a job… I think.”

  “A job?” What in the world?

  “An art job,” she whispers.

  Father Molina shakes my hand and says something, but I’m too distracted by… what the heck is an art job?

  We’re out on the lawn, and Rosalía turns to me. “The rich old lady I work for wants to have her picture done… A portrait? Anyway, she’s been having all these artists come to the house and show her their vision or whatever. She hates all of them… So I told her about you!”

  She claps, and I’m trying to catch up. “You told a rich old lady I would paint her portrait? I don’t really do portraits, Rose.”

  “Nonsense! You do sketches of people all the time.”

  “It’s not really the same thing…”

  She leans closer, gripping my forearm. “This woman has more money than God, Carm. I heard her say she would pay fifteen thousand dollars for it.”

  My mouth falls open. She has my attention now. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Well, I was dusting the chandelier in the drawing room, and I heard her complaining they were all kitsch, and she wouldn’t hire them if they worked at the Whitney.” She’s not making sense, but I’m doing my best to be patient. “So I very nicely went over and said my best friend knew a very good artist, and I would be happy to recommend her.”

  She pauses, and now I grip her arm. “What did she say?”

  “She said if she wanted her portrait on black velvet, she’d go to the corner gas station and pay somebody five dollars.”

  My mouth falls open again. “She said that?”

  “Oh, that’s not half of what she says. You just wait.” Rosalía shakes her head. “Anyways, I showed her your sketch of Sofia. Valeria sent it to me. It’s so good. You really captured her personality in the eyes, and—”

  “And?”

  “And she said if you came by this afternoon, she’d give you a minute of her time. Very dismissive.”

  “This afternoon?” I feel faint. A fifteen-thousand-dollar job combined with the Arthaus award… I wouldn’t need anybody’s help.

  “I said noon, but she said two.” Rosalía shrugs like it’s no big deal, something I do every day. “She goes to the First Presbyterian church and then she has lunch.”

  “I can be there at two.” I’m mentally flying through my portfolio. “What can I show her? All my pieces are abstracts…”

  “Just show her what you’ve done. It’ll be great.” Rosalía squeezes my arm. “And I told her your name was Angela Carmen. It sounds less Mexican.”

  “It’s not going to change my face, Rose.”

  “Nonsense!” She does a little wave. “You could easily pass for whatever you want.”

  “An American?” Which happens to be what I am.

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Shaking my head, I give her a squeeze. “Thank you. I’ll just show up and be myself.”

  “That’s the best any of us can do.”

  From the back of the Lyft, I look up at the mansion. Is it possible I’m wrong? Double-checking the text Rosalía sent, I verify it’s the correct address.

  “This is it?” I ask, wishing for some mistake. It can’t be…

  The driver points to the dashboard map, and I know it’s right. Reaching for the door handle, I carefully step out onto the sidewalk.

  “Thank you.” I say as the car pulls away.

  What’s going to happen now? I didn’t know Rosalía worked for Deacon’s aunt. I’ve never been to this house. I’ve never even dared step foot through the doors—as much as Deacon wanted me to.

  How small is the world exactly? Sofia would know—because of Disney. Beto would be furious. Straightening my shoulders, I clutch the handles of my portfolio and walk with purpose to the front door. It doesn’t matter. It’s a job.

  How I wish I had that burner phone on me. For all I know, my brother’s tracking my calls.

  “Welcome, Angela.” A statuesque older woman opens the door. “My name is Winona Clarke. You may call me Mrs. Clarke.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Clarke.”

  “If you’ll come this way.” She leads me through a house that reminds me of an old hunting lodge.

  It’s paneled in dark wood, and the floors are covered in Persian rugs and animal hides. The furniture is either leather and brass or wood and tapestry, and everything smells like old money and furniture polish. I imagine that’s Rosalía’s contribution to the home.

  Looking down over the foyer is a life-sized portrait of a man with thick white hair and a conquering expression. A white beard covers his jaws, and he holds a tan cowboy hat. He’s very Texas in his bolo tie and slacks with oil derricks rising in the background. It’s a stately painting, formal and ancient, but looking closer, I see a resemblance.

  It’s Deacon’s grandfather.

  The one who supposedly shot mine down.

  How strange is life?

  “Father always had a flair for the dramatic.” Deacon’s aunt Winnie walks ahead of me, and I watc
h her, wondering what his life was like as a boy here in this stately mansion.

  We’ve never talked about it.

  Winnie is tall and slim with really good hair for an older woman, straight and thick, even though it’s white. She’s elegantly dressed in navy slacks and a filmy, long-sleeved ivory blouse. She has this air about her, a calm confidence like she owns everything. She reminds me of Emmylou Harris.

  “What did you have in mind… For your portrait?” I’m not really sure how this works.

  “Obviously, it should match what’s been done before.” Winnie leads me down the oversized hall to a sitting room. “Father was in the oil business. Brandt was into horses. I’ve only ever taken care of our family affairs, which was more work than both of theirs combined.”

  She sits in an elegant chair with wooden arms and deep blue fabric. I sit across from her on a leather sofa that sinks deep, putting me lower than her. A white cat with black front legs pops out from under it and rubs against me.

  “A backdrop isn’t necessary.” I scoot forward, giving the cat a quick scrub with my fingers as I do my best to sit taller. “Many old portraits are simply figures in a room or standing beside a chair in contrapposto. Think of Michelangelo’s David, Mona Lisa, or even Whistler’s Mother—”

  “I’d prefer not Whistler’s Mother.” She scowls at me. “I’m not that old.”

  “Of course not.” I swallow a laugh at my unintentional gaff.

  “Boots, shoo.” She waves the cat away and stands. “We do have many options here at the house. It would make sense, considering it has always been my purview.”

  “I would suggest a seated pose… Or you could hold an object. Although, you’d want to be comfortable.”

  “You’d want me to sit the entire time?”

  “Or I could work from a photo.” Hell, I think I’d prefer that.

  “I’d expect you to work on it here, so I could oversee your progress.”

  “I can work here.” Any reason to be out of Beto’s house.

  She studies me with blue eyes so similar to Deacon’s, minus the love. “Tell me about your background. What is your training?”

  “I’m a senior at the Roshay studio—”

  “Farrell Roshay?” Her eyebrows rise.

  “Yes. I’ve been there two years now.”

  “How can you afford that?”

  “I’m sorry?” Is that her business?

  “The Roshay Academy is the most elite art school in Texas. How can you afford it? Are you on a scholarship?”

  “No.” I bite back the answer I’d like to give her. I do want this job. “My uncle pays for it.”

  “And what is his profession?”

  “He owns a car dealership.”

  “Used cars, I imagine.” I don’t answer that, and she shifts in her chair. “Did you bring samples of your work? Let me see them.”

  “Of course.” I lift the black portfolio case from the floor beside me.

  It’s a cheap black pleather case I bought at Michaels. I wish it were nicer, but I suppose it’s more about what’s inside that counts. Isn’t that what everybody says? Somehow I think Winona Clarke missed the memo.

  “I see.” She turns the plastic pages, quickly bypassing my landscapes. “Who is this?”

  She pauses on a sketch I did last year. My throat tightens as I look down on the drawing I hastily slid into one of the back transparent sleeves.

  It’s my mother behind her camera. She’s sitting in a position I remember so well, looking at me as if I’m her subject. Her hand is on her leg, and her arm is slung over the tripod. She’s wearing jeans that have holes and are frayed at the knees, and her shirt is a loose navy button-down over a tan tank top.

  Her eyes gaze forward with such intensity, and her ubiquitous black glasses frame her hazel eyes. Long, dark hair streaked with gray covers her shoulders like a cape. She looks like a woman who has done great things. It’s how I see her in my mind.

  Her knowing smile makes me wonder what she’s thinking. Probably something about living in the moment. The small lines around her eyes remind me of how she looked at me when I’d say something amusing or wise for my years, as she’d say.

  It starts me wondering… Maybe Rosalía’s right. I’m not the greatest portrait artist, but something about the eyes captures the spirit. When I look at this sketch, it’s like my mother is right here with me.

  We’re silent, admiring the formidable woman who raised me, who decided I wasn’t going to grow up in this place of bitterness and inherited hate.

  Yet here I am.

  “Who is this, Angela?” Deacon’s aunt asks again.

  “It’s my mother.”

  Her lips purse, and she looks from me to the sketch. “It’s an excellent piece. Can you do something like this for me?”

  Blinking up, I try to understand what she’s asking. “You want me to find what makes you special?”

  It’s possible that came out wrong.

  Her eyes narrow. “I’ll give you a trial period. No promises. If I don’t like what you’re doing, you’re out.”

  It’s my turn to narrow my eyes and study her. “Ten percent up front.”

  “Five.” Our eyes meet, and I hold my tongue. “Impress me, Angela. I want a portrait that causes people to stop and think. Can you do that?”

  I don’t know…

  That is not my answer. I imagine fifteen thousand dollars and moving out of my brother’s house, being independent at last. Being free to do what I want.

  “Of course. You’re stunning.” That much is true.

  Her blue eyes flinch as if she’s trying to decide if I’m being sarcastic. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

  She walks toward the door as if she’s finished speaking to me.

  “Before I go.” I wait for her to stop and give me her attention. “I’d like to have a contract, something in writing that states the terms. We can work out a time frame, signatures—”

  One hand on the door, she straightens her shoulders. It’s a dramatic pose—maybe how I’ll have her stand for the portrait. “I’ll pay you fifteen thousand dollars to paint my portrait the way I like it. Is that something you can agree to, Angela? Or do I need to find someone else?”

  My jaw tightens, and I think about how painting ‘the way she likes it’ might go.

  Then I think of getting my own place. “I’ll agree to it.”

  “Send me the list of supplies you need, and I’ll have everything waiting for you first thing in the morning.”

  She leaves me alone in the room, wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake.

  “It’s like my mother was there, helping me get the job.” I’m at Lourdes’s small apartment, pacing, trying to get my head around what just happened, what it means.

  “So Deacon’s racist old aunt is going to pay you fifteen grand to paint her portrait as she sees fit?” My bestie is on her couch with a bowl of popcorn in her lap. “It’s like that old song.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one about making a deal with the devil for a boatload of money.” She shoves a handful of popcorn in her mouth.

  “You made that up.”

  “What does Deacon think?”

  “I haven’t told him yet.” I’m wondering if I will tell him at all. Hell, I’m not even sure we’ll make it past the first week. “It’s not a deal with the devil. It’s a really neat opportunity. And who knows, maybe she’ll get to know me, and we’ll get to be friends… It’ll be like that other song.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one about love building a bridge.”

  “More like somewhere over the rainbow.” She shovels another handful into her mouth. “That’s what happens when you go to church.”

  “I went to church to get away from Beto.” I cross my arms, looking around her one-bedroom apartment. “I’ve got to get out of his house, Lor.”

  She crosses her legs under her. “Well, you’ve got a big job dropped right in your lap. Time to start s
earching Zillow.”

  “Yes.” I step forward, pointing my finger. “I’ll do the portrait, and then if I get the Arthaus award, I’ll have another twenty grand—”

  “What a life. You go from one high paying gig to another. Next you’ll be jet setting to Barcelona, painting portraits of the queen…” Her voice is dreamy, but I’m right there with the bucket of ice water.

  “Most fine artists are starving.”

  She leans back frowning. “So why do it? With your talents, see if you can find a job with a little more stability.”

  “I could work in design or marketing.” If the very idea didn’t give me a full-body shudder.

  She squints her eye at me. “I saw that. You’d hate a job like that.”

  “Hate is a strong word.” My smile is a little sad. “I should try to be interested in something more stable. It would make my life easier.”

  Sitting forward, she puts the bowl on her coffee table. “Many people work jobs they don’t care about during the day to support doing the job they love after hours. Do that!”

  Dropping onto the couch beside her, I rest my head on her shoulder. “It’s basically what I’m doing now, isn’t it?” My head pops up. “Oh, I stopped by to ask if Juliana can take over my shifts at La Frida Java. Indefinitely.”

  “You did not let him railroad you out of your job. Fuck that ‘my sister is not a waitress’ bullshit.” She imitates Beto in a low, nasal-ey voice like the Godfather.

  “No.” I exhale a laugh. “If I’m going to work on this portrait at Aunt Winnie’s house, I’ll have to work during the day, starting in the morning.”

  “If it makes you feel better, Juliana will be really grateful for the work.”

  “Silver lining?” I stand, picking up my portfolio. “I guess I should go home now.”

  “Listen to me.” Lourdes puts both hands on my shoulders. “Beto’s house is nice, but my couch is open if you ever need it.”

  “You’re the best friend ever.” I lean forward and kiss her cheek. “I’m okay for now, but if he’s serious about keeping me and Deacon apart…”

  Lourdes nods. “I’m here for you.”

  I give her a squeeze before heading out the door. “Love you, bitch.”