The Jewel of His Collection

by Fae Mallory

  Stripping for him was one thing, but showing her work was a different level of intimacy. She’d bared her body for him, but if she showed him her paintings, she’d be baring her soul. There was no way she’d ever change her mind about doing that. “Do we have your final approval?”

  His expression flickered with what looked like disappointment, but the look was gone before Violet could be certain she’d seen it at all. “You do.”

  “Thank you.” Violet sighed and cracked her knuckles as Ian turned to leave. She had work to do.

  Chapter 3

  “Thank you. You may go in now.” Violet handed the pair of tickets back to Mr. Charles Grant and his much-younger wife after checking their names against her master list and stepped to the side to allow them access to the Madden exhibit as she pressed her clicker twice to track attendance.

  The idea to host a preview night prior to the exhibit’s official opening date had come to her in the shower, and it was rapidly proving to be the best idea she’d ever had. In the art world, tremendous prestige came from being the first to discover a new artist or gallery, and she’d guessed that those same people would be happy to pay a hundred fifty dollars a head for the privilege of being among the first to see seventeen of Hunter Madden’s paintings. Judging by the wealth on display tonight, she could have easily doubled the price.

  In all the years she’d worked at the Owensport Museum, she’d never seen more than a dozen people in one room at a time. Now, it was all she could do to keep a tally of how many people were in the exhibit space at any given moment with more people waiting outside as Leroy attempted to enforce order and keep them within fire code.

  It looked like Violet had a success on her hands.

  Waiters circulated through the museum’s lobby, passing around champagne and hors d’oeuvres provided by the catering business that Martha Elliot ran out of the town’s only bed-and-breakfast. Thanks to the exhibit, she was booked solid for the next twelve weeks, and while she’d offered to donate the food, she rescinded her offer when she learned Ian Carlisle was picking up the tab.

  “He’s got the money to burn,” she said practically when Violet voiced quiet disapproval at the thought of asking him to pay for something Martha wouldn’t have otherwise charged for.

  “That doesn’t mean we should take advantage of him,” Violet protested, feeling oddly protective. In the six weeks since he’d given her final approval of the exhibit, she’d barely seen him, but the checks had arrived promptly and with no argument. Ian was a man of his word, and it was wrong to exploit his generosity.

  The older woman gave her a sharp look. “Honey, you’re not getting ideas about Carlisle, are you?”

  Violet bit her lip, wondering what Martha would say if she knew she’d already taken her clothes off for him. “Of course not.”

  Martha patted her shoulder. “That’s good. You’re a sweet girl, Violet, but you have to be realistic.”

  In the end, Martha allowed herself to be persuaded to give Ian a ten percent discount on her usual prices, and Violet decided to count it as a victory. The older woman was currently sequestered in the museum’s kitchen, an outdated space in the basement. An upgrade was on Violet’s wish list, and if tonight was any indication, she’d soon be able to afford to spruce up the entire museum.

  Surrounded by men and women wearing clothes that undoubtedly cost more than her car, Violet felt very much like a country cousin in her high-necked gray swing dress. Although she’d dressed it up with a chunky beaded necklace, no one would ever mistake her for a member of the art world’s elite, their glamorous wardrobes dazzling her eyes.

  “I think I should have dressed up more,” an aggravated voice said in her ear.

  Distracted from her head count, Violet turned to see a sandy-haired man dressed in crisp khaki slacks, a plain white shirt, and a solid green tie standing at her elbow.

  His rounded face cracked in a winning smile as he held up a press pass. “Paul Hallar, Owensport Gazette. You’re Violet Fabre, right?”

  “That’s me,” she agreed, giving him an apologetic look as she turned away to check another pair of tickets. Although the Gazette’s scope was limited, Violet had considered it impolitic not to at least invite them to send a reporter to the preview night since she’d invited half a dozen metropolitan newspapers to cover the event.

  Paul whistled. “Quite the crowd. I don’t think I’ve been in here since my high school field trip.”

  “Owensport High? What year did you graduate?” she asked. Although Paul didn’t look familiar to her, it was possible they’d gone to school together.

  The year he named put him three years ahead of her own graduating class. Telling him as much, Violet added, “We probably passed each other in the hall every day.”

  “I apologize if I ever tripped over you. I was a klutz back then.” His rueful smile made her chuckle. In this crowd of wealth and privilege, it was nice to meet someone ordinary like her.

  Pulling a notebook from his pocket, he asked, “So, can you tell me why Hunter Madden is such a big deal?”

  Even though she’d memorized her talking points in advance, it was still hard to balance her responsibilities to her guests with providing Paul with the information he needed for his article. More than once, she realized that she’d forgotten her clicker, and only sticking her head into the exhibit space for a quick head count assured her that she was maintaining order.

  “Most of his paintings are held by private collectors,” she told Paul after a brief explanation of Madden’s life and work. “The general public has never really had the opportunity to view a collection of his work until now.”

  “And how did the museum acquire the paintings?” Paul asked.

  Only the fact that she’d anticipated such a question allowed Violet to keep a straight face. “The paintings are part of Ian Carlisle’s private collection. Mr. Carlisle, who maintains a residence in Owensport, was generous enough to allow the museum to exhibit them.”

  As though her words had summoned him, Ian chose that moment to step into the museum. Clad in what looked like the same jeans and black shirt he’d worn the first time she met him, he should have looked underdressed and out of place. Instead, his aura of confidence elevated the casual outfit, making him look supremely elegant while making everyone clad in designer attire look like they were trying too hard.

  Catching her looking at him, Ian gave her a friendly nod, his face darkening as he looked past her. Violet half-turned to see Paul watching her and realized that she’d been so busy admiring Ian that she’d temporarily forgotten he existed.

  “I’m sorry. I was distracted. Could you repeat your question?” Martha’s words of wisdom echoed through her head, and Violet reminded herself to be realistic. Ian Carlisle was out of her league, and she needed to remember that.

  “And what does Carlisle get out of the loan?” Paul repeated. “I see how the museum benefits, but not how he does.”

  Violet sunk her teeth into her tongue, the pain distracting her from embarrassing memories. Satisfied that she wasn’t blushing, she said, “The museum is a valuable community resource, and I’m sure that as a local resident, Mr. Carlisle is invested in its success. Also, as someone with an appreciation for art, he knows how moving it can be to see an original. I’m sure he wanted to share that feeling with the community at large.”

  “Right.” Paul gave her a searching look, and Violet mentally ran through her last answer, wondering if she’d revealed too much.

  Glancing around the crowded lobby, she saw Ian coming her way, people automatically moving to clear a path for him. “Fortunately, you can ask him yourself.” As soon as Ian was within range, she introduced him. “Mr. Carlisle, this is Paul Hallar from the Gazette. He has a few questions about your collection.”

  At her introduction, Ian’s face lost its thunderous aspect, and his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I thought we agreed that you’d call me Ian,” he chided.

  “Ian,” she repeate
d, silently pleading with him to take Paul off her hands. In her distraction, the line to get into the exhibit was backing up, and this was not a crowd that was accustomed to waiting.

  He gave her a smile that felt somehow intimate, and Violet fought the urge to fan herself. Then he nodded briskly at Paul. “Have you seen the exhibit yet, Mr. Hallar?” he asked, inviting the other man to fall into step behind him.

  With Paul occupied, Violet was able to devote her full attention to her guests, and the line moved at a steady pace. As people exited the exhibit, Violet allowed new arrivals in, careful not to let the exhibit become overcrowded. Even as she kept a tally of the comings and goings, she strained her ears to hear what people were saying. Although most of the conversation focused on the paintings themselves, several people commented positively on the unusual presentation.

  “I’m going to have to come back just to soak it all in,” one tall brunette remarked to her companion. “The whole space has such good energy. I think Madden would be pleased.”

  Hearing that Hunter Madden would approve of her work made Violet’s spirit soar. Her own muse might have left her, but at least she could still make a meaningful contribution to the art world.

  “I think you have a hit on your hands.” Violet jumped as Ian’s voice caressed her ear. She was so attuned to him that it seemed impossible that he’d be able to sneak up on her, but someone he’d managed it.

  “What did you do with Paul?” she queried when she saw that the reporter wasn’t with him.

  Ian’s eyes flashed. “I made sure he had some good quotes and offered to show him the egress. The last time I saw him, he was trying to persuade your guard dog to let him back in.”

  In spite of herself, Violet snorted with laughter. “Clearly he’s not familiar with the work of P.T. Barnum.” She chuckled, thinking of the showman’s clever crowd-control device. It was impossible to feel too sorry for Paul since a reporter should recognize that egress meant exit, but she still felt a duty to defend him. “You should be nice to him. He’s just trying to do his job.”

  “He’s a philistine,” Ian informed her. “Besides, you only pawned him off on me because you didn’t want to deal with him yourself.”

  “I’m busy,” Violet reminded him, giving a group of approaching ticket holders her most professional smile.

  “You’re going to have to get used to talking to the press,” he advised her.

  “Not calling them philistines is probably a good starting point,” she said sweetly.

  Instead of smiling at her teasing reproof, Ian glowered at her. “You seem quite intent on defending Hallar.”

  “We went to high school together,” Violet explained. With the exception of Ian’s personal collection, Owensport wasn’t exactly a hotbed of artistic activity. She couldn’t blame Paul for not being an expert. He was a reporter, not an art critic.

  “If I see him again, I’ll send him your way.” Ian’s words sounded more like a threat than a promise, and Violet frowned as he stalked off, his shoulders tense.

  Disquieted by the encounter, she concentrated on being a consummate professional as she funneled the remainder of the ticket-holders through the exhibit. By the time the last stragglers completed their walk-through, her face ached from smiling, and both Paul and Ian seemed to have disappeared.

  Wanting only to take off her shoes and slip into a hot bath, preferably accompanied by a glass of champagne, Violet instead turned her attention to the trio of reporters who’d traveled up from New York and Boston to cover the opening. Without the distraction of trying to manage the crowd while answering questions, she felt that she acquitted herself much better with them than she had while talking to Paul, leaving her cautiously optimistic of a good write-up. Madden’s name alone would attract plenty of attention, but good reviews could only help her quest to save the museum.

  Finally, it was over, and Violet set to work cleaning up the detritus of the party with Leroy and Martha both pitching in. She’d extended the museum’s operating hours in anticipation of crowds, and the last thing she wanted to do after tonight was to have to wake up early to clean before opening.

  “I think that went very well,” she said as she collected discarded plastic champagne flutes.

  “They certainly ate well.” Martha nodded with satisfaction at the decimated trays of food.

  “Some guy tried to slip me a hundred bucks to let him skip the line,” Leroy grumbled. Everything that came out of Leroy’s mouth tended to sound like a complaint, so Violet didn’t let it dim her spirits.

  “Did you take it?” Martha asked.

  “Of course.” The burly man shrugged.

  “Leroy!” Violet’s laughter belied her scolding tone. Considering how little the museum could afford to pay, she didn’t really blame him for taking the bribe. If the exhibit took off like she was anticipating, a raise was definitely in order.

  Leroy glared at her. “If people want to waste their money to dress up and look at a bunch of paintings that they could look at tomorrow for twenty bucks, I’m not going to stop them.”

  Violet held up her hands in surrender. “Forget I said anything. Just don’t tell me about any of your other side ventures.”

  Raising the museum’s twenty-dollar general admission fee had crossed her mind. Now that they had the Madden paintings, there was finally something new in the museum that would justify charging a premium, but Violet couldn’t bring herself to do it. Other than Ian, Owensport wasn’t a particularly wealthy town. She couldn’t price the museum out of the average inhabitant’s comfort zone. Art was inspiring. Maybe having access to the Madden paintings would inspire one of the town’s children to pick up a brush, and in another twenty years, people would come from all over the world to see Violet exhibit that child’s work.

  Once she’d dreamed of having people travel to see her own paintings, but Violet was a realist. She was no Hunter Madden, and she never would be. The most she could hope for would be to discover the world’s next great artist. That wouldn’t be so bad. Without collectors and curators, there would be no market for artists. She could still make a contribution, even if it wasn’t the one she’d dreamed of.

  Eventually, they restored the museum to order, and Violet headed home for a well-deserved bubble bath, a half-empty bottle of champagne stashed in her purse. With a groan of relief, she slipped into the tub with her cell phone in hand to check her messages. Smiling, she scanned through the messages of congratulations from her parents, who’d opted to give the opening a miss even though she’d offered to comp their tickets, and older sister, who’d had her children record a brief message of them blowing noisemakers to celebrate since she lived in Texas.

  When she reached the third message, she nearly dropped her phone into the tub. “Hey! It’s Paul. I got your number from Leroy. Great exhibit! Want to get coffee sometime?” Closing her eyes, Violet tried to conjure up a mental image of Paul and frowned when she came up with little more than a hazy image of sandy hair and a green tie. Apparently she’d made more of an impression on him than he had on her.

  Even if Paul wasn’t particularly interesting, he was clearly interested in her, and that was a novel enough experience to make Violet beam senselessly at the bathroom ceiling. Paul was a nice man, and his interest was flattering, especially since she couldn’t remember the last time a man had looked at her appreciatively. Her strip show for Ian didn’t count, since he’d clearly been unmoved by the experience. With a rueful smile, she admitted to herself that she’d be far more excited if Ian had texted her to ask her out for coffee, but she was a realist. Paul was interested in her. Ian wasn’t.

  Taking a swallow of champagne, she typed “Thanks! I’d love to. How about Sunday morning?” Not meeting at a standard dating time would take away some of the first date pressure, and it would give her time to do a quick Internet search and verify that he wasn’t a serial killer.

  Since it was three in the morning, she didn’t expect to hear back from him immediately, and s
he let the phone drop to the floor as she sunk into the bubbles up to her chin. She’d had a successful opening night, and she had a date. Tonight was a good night.

  * * * *

  Ian slouched behind the wheel of his black BMW and watched as the crowd around the museum slowly dissipated. The Madden exhibit was clearly going to be a massive success, and he mentally patted himself on the back for his own involvement. Much as it pained him to have his paintings flaunted before strangers’ eyes, the satisfaction of working with Violet made up for any discomfort.

  He’d taken a risk when he rejected her initial design out of hand. In truth, there’d been nothing wrong with it. If he’d approved it, the museum would still have had a successful exhibit, but he didn’t want to see her copy his own ideas about displaying art. Violet was an artist herself—even if she’d forgotten that fact. He wanted to see what she was capable of, and she hadn’t disappointed.

  The only thing he regretted was that he hadn’t been able to talk with her more about the choices she’d made for the exhibit. His initial plan was to be much more involved with its development, but his responsibilities to his company had interfered. The financial department had turned up some anomalies, and tracking down the source was taking up far too much of his time, meaning that he’d been forced to push his pursuit of Violet onto the back burner until it was sorted out. Even in the midst of the mess, he’d been determined to attend the premiere, envisioning a private celebration with Violet afterward. He wanted to hear her talk about his paintings after surrounding himself with her design.

  When he stepped into the museum to see her wearing yet another colorless tent, Ian had to swallow a curse. Tonight was her moment to shine, and she’d again opted to fade into the background. It was obscene. Briefly, he toyed with the idea of offering her Geminids in exchange for control of her wardrobe. He’d burn every hideous tent dress she owned and put her in something that would showcase her voluptuous figure. Something slinky and electric blue would set off her eyes and let him appreciate her inviting curves. Violet wouldn’t be able to fade into the background then. Every eye would be on her, appreciating her beauty just as much as her talent for design.