I’ve never heard this story, and I’m charmed. “So, you were his manager, shaping his career and whatnot?”
“Yeah, until the cleaning lady stepped on him. Just like Van Gogh, his life was short, but remarkable.”
“So, if you could go back in time and live any artist’s life, who would you choose?”
“Back how far? Like Andy Warhol’s time?”
“Any time, you could be Michelangelo during the Renaissance in Italy.”
“Yeah, right. How long did it take him to paint that ceiling on his back?”
“Fussy artist.” I turn toward the camera and shake my head. “He turns down being one of the great art geniuses from history, because his arms might get tired.”
His eyes light up as he raises his index finger. “I know! Theodore Geisel.”
“You mean Dr. Seuss? Cat in the Hat? Sam I Am? Are you toying with me, Caswell?”
“Seuss was a genius! Oh, the Places You’ll Go! is one of the best books ever, and the art’s trippy.”
“True, but that’s still an unexpected choice. I was thinking you’d pick Francis Bacon or someone upbeat like that.”
“Well, the thing about Seuss is that his books kind of messed me up as a kid, but in a good way. Besides, think about it . . . do you know a kid in America who wasn’t influenced by his work? Get ’em young, I say.”
“So, I see you pay attention to the demographics of your fan base.”
He shrugs with a crooked smile. “Doesn’t every artist? If they don’t, they should.”
At the end, I toy with him in a provocative way.
“Let’s talk about the lifestyle of a contemporary artist living in L.A. I hear you live quite the life, Mr. Caswell.”
He narrows his eyes and smiles crookedly. “So they say. Are you implying that I’m that kind of artist?”
I flip my hair over my shoulder. “The kind that invites women to see your etchings? No, but should I?”
He makes an exaggerated, sexy face.
“There’s your warning ladies.” I roll my eyes, cross my arms, and walk toward the camera again. “The man seems insatiable. But, lucky for us, the same can be said for his appetite to create thought-provoking art. Check out Unspoken Truths to learn more about Maxfield Caswell and his work.”
I turn back toward him. “Thanks, Max, for letting us into your very private studio.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiles broadly as he picks up his paint brushes. “Now, please tell these guys to leave so I can have my fortress of solitude back.”
“Fortress of solitude? What a grand name!”
“Hmm . . . why don’t you stay behind and we can rename it.”
“I just might.” I turn and wink at the camera.
“Cut!”
“Was that all right?” I ask the director.
He looks at Max and they both roll their eyes.
“Was that really your first time on camera?” he asks with a skeptical look.
“Yes, why?”
“Well, I can promise you, it won’t be your last.”
That evening, Max takes me out to celebrate at Bonne Foi. We’re giddy from the success of the shoot, so over French food and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, we talk about our hopes and dreams, not just for his book and my career, but for the other adventures we’d like to share.
Remembering my conversation with Aunt Ann, I ask him about Paris, and he lights up. By the end of his Parisian stories, he promises me that one day soon he’ll take me to the City of Light.
After dinner, we get into the car. He grins while he starts up the engine. As we drive back to his house, I shift in my seat so I’m facing him.
“You were amazing today, Max . . . with all those people in your studio and the chaos of the shoot, you managed to be as charming as ever.”
“Just charming?”
“What were you going for?”
“Hot . . . I wanted to be hot,” he says playfully, as he pulls up to his security gate off the highway.
“Oh, well, that’s a given, handsome. You can’t avoid being hot even when you try. You’re hot when you’re happy, sad, aggravated . . . even angry. This is just something I have to deal with 24–7 . . . all that unbelievable hotness.” I run my hand along his pants and stroke his muscular thigh suggestively.
“That hot?” he asks, laughing softly.
I slide my hand between his legs and slowly tease upward. “You know, it’s not fair that I have to deal with getting scorched from all that heat. It’s damn distracting. The want is overwhelming . . . we’re lucky that I haven’t spontaneously combusted by now.”
He quickly parks and hauls me out of the car. “Don’t combust before I get you upstairs. I have special plans for tonight, and these plans require every lovely inch of you to be intact.”
He leans into me, and I feel his erection—the unmistakable proof that he’s as turned on as I am. “Special plans?”
“Just you wait and see. After I undress you and carry you to our bed, you’ll find out just how charming and hot I can be.”
The following week, Dylan calls with surprising news. Taylor and Tiden and ArtOneWorld are so pleased with the interview footage, they would like to send me to Barcelona for Max’s show. They have several events planned, including a book signing and a large reception for the opening of his exhibition. They’ve already had interest in Unspoken Truths from several of the local TV stations, but now that we’re both coming, they think our playful banter will make for good airtime. It would be a fast trip—only five days, two of which are travel days.
“But, Dylan, I can’t ask Adam for any more time off. At some point, he’s going to get fed up, and I can’t do that . . . I owe him everything.”
“It looks like it’s time to do some soul searching, Ava. Timing is everything, and opportunities like this may only come along once. If this is the direction you want your career to go, frankly, you’d be a fool to pass on it.”
“I know . . . What should I do?”
“Talk to Adam. Explain how you’re feeling. I’m sure he already sees the writing on the wall.”
The next day, I supervise an installation in Los Feliz, and when I return to the gallery, Brian calls me over. “Hey, Ava, while you were gone, a guy came in looking for you. Here’s his card.” Brian hands me the high-design business card.
Travis Williamson
Senior Vice President Development
ArtOneWorld
I run my finger over the fancy foil embossed logo, then look back up at Brian. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“He wanted to talk about the interview you did with Max. I didn’t know what he was talking about. What interview?”
“Oh, last Saturday they shot a thing at Max’s place to promote the book. I can’t imagine what this guy wants to say about it.” I hold up the card. “This looks like he’s a top executive.”
Brian raises his eyebrows. “He sure had something on his mind. He walked through the gallery and we talked for a while. He knew a lot about art.”
“Well, I’d hope. Their new network is about art.”
“Yeah, but that isn’t always the case with the executives. Thomas tells me about stuff like that all the time. But, regardless, he sure asked a lot of questions about you.”
Butterflies take flight in my stomach. “Me? What kind of questions.”
“How long you’ve worked here . . . what type of work you do. A few personal things too. He asked if you were married.” He scrunches up his nose. “That was kind of weird, now that I think of it. I shouldn’t have answered him.”
“Married? Why would he want to know that?”
“Hell if I know . . . but he did say you were very appealing on camera, and he’d like to meet you. He promised me he’d email me the interview after it’s edited.”
My mind spins, trying to imagine what this Travis wants. I haven’t talked to Adam yet about Barcelona, and I can’t disclose more to Brian until I do. To calm my mind, I grasp o
nto the most logical explanation I can conjure.
“Well, Dylan told me the publisher wants me more involved in promoting the book. Maybe he’s just making sure I’m stable.”
Brian shrugs. “Well, call him, girl, and find out!”
I take a long look at the card before I tuck it in my pocket. “I will. Thanks.”
I tap my fingers on the edge of my desk while I wait for my call to go through.
“Travis here.” He has a rich, smooth voice.
I take a deep breath to steady myself. “Hi, Mr. Williamson, this is Ava Jacobs. Brian told me you stopped by our gallery to talk.”
“Yes, Ava. Thanks for calling me back. I came by to invite you to our launch party for ArtOneWorld.”
My eyes widen and I grip the phone tighter. He came by to invite me to a party? None of this makes sense. What executive does that?
I hope he isn’t hitting on me. That’s the last thing I need. “I’d be honored to come. When is it?”
“In a few weeks. I’m going to hand you over to my assistant. She’ll give you the details and get your contact information, so we can send you the formal invitation.”
“All right. Thank you, Mr. Williamson.”
“Travis, please. And, Ava, I’m really looking forward to finally meeting you in person.”
After Travis’s assistant and I share information, I hang up, remembering what Dylan had said about my job at the gallery and my future . . . the writing is on the wall.
I’d sure love to see this wall of mine and read exactly what the writing says.
Chapter Nineteen / Delete Contact?
Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.
~ Joan Crawford
Being in love both speeds life up and slows it down. It seems like Max and I were just curled up on our bed in Santa Fe, and I blinked my eyes and now we’re nestled together in Malibu.
I arrived last night after work and a long drive along Pacific Coast Highway. By the time I got here, we were so hungry for each other that we skipped dinner and took our time christening the sheets on his grand four-poster bed. Now it’s Saturday, and after sleeping in, we’re famished. We tumble out of bed and head to the kitchen to make pancakes.
I have on my rose-colored satin cami and tap pants, because I want to entice him. I use every opportunity—trips to the refrigerator, reaching for a dishcloth, or rinsing off my hands—to brush against him. He arches a brow and gives me a crooked smile, but doesn’t do anything until he finally loses it. Then he takes the skillet off the burner, corners me against the kitchen island and grinds into me.
Happy Saturday, I think gleefully. This is the best sleepover ever!
We polish off a big stack of pancakes along with bacon, juice, and big mugs of coffee. When we finish, we sit back with our feet up and our bellies full.
The sound of the ocean echoes throughout the kitchen, and I’m completely content until his phone rings. The screen flashes—Vanessa. But what’s aggravating is the photo accompanying the name. Vanessa’s low-cut tank top barely covers a hot pink bra overflowing with breasts as she glows on the screen in all her art slut glory.
“Nice bra. Be my guest.” I push the phone over to Max with a humorless smirk.
“Ava . . .” He talks in an irritating paternal voice, which raises my aggravation to an impressive level.
“What?” I snap.
“Just because they call, doesn’t mean I answer.”
I fold my arms over my chest.
“Who is she?”
“No one that matters. We hooked up a few times.”
I feel nauseated. It’s not that I didn’t know there were a lot of women—I just don’t want them in my face. I was enjoying my stay at Camp Caswell until the previous campers popped up.
“None of those girls ever meant a damn thing to me. You know that.”
The horrendous ring tone finally shuts off, only to be replaced by a different one.
I growl. “Great, strike up the band, here comes the parade.”
He runs his hands through his hair and squints. “No, that’s my voicemail prompt.”
I turn away and look out the window. This isn’t my favorite sleepover anymore. Is this what it will always be like whenever we’re together? Will I always be wondering if some art slut is going to intrude in our little bubble?
He suddenly picks up his phone, runs his finger over the screen and sets it back down in front of us. Vanessa’s voicemail plays back on the speaker.
Hey, Max-o. It’s V. I’m disappointed in you. This is the third time I’ve called, and you haven’t called me back. What’s the deal, baby? We have so much fun. Someone told me you have a girlfriend now and are out of the game, but I know better . . . my Max with a girlfriend? Ha! I don’t believe it!
His eyes look empty as she talks, but he cringes at the girlfriend comment.
All right, I’ve gotta go. Call me . . . last chance, baby.
He picks up the phone and taps delete on the screen before he lowers it back to the table.
That was a gutsy move to play that message without screening it first. I want to trust him, even in the face of this morning’s curve ball.
I feel somber. “So . . . how many girls are in there? And do you have pictures of all of them?”
“A lot. I took their pictures when I got their numbers. Otherwise, I’d never remember them. I’ll delete them all right now. It won’t stop them from calling, but at least their picture and name won’t taunt you.”
I grab the phone. “I want to see the pictures first.”
“What will that accomplish, other than pissing you off?”
“I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”
He takes the phone from me, touches the screen a few more times and hands it back to me. “Here you go, glutton.”
Asandra is a gorgeous African-American girl with light skin, long curly black hair, and huge brown eyes. Bibi, a brunette, is licking her lips. Carmen, an exotic beauty, looks like she stepped out of the wild. Two blondes, one with blue eyes and one with brown come next. By the eighth girl, I’m extremely weary. I definitely don’t want to make it to S to look at Sheila, the blonde goddess, again. Disgusted, I give up, and hand him the phone.
“When does my picture come up? Ava should’ve been between Asandra and Bibi.”
“You aren’t in that folder.” He hands the phone back. It’s the drawing he did of me—the one Jess showed me in his studio right after he disappeared. My name comes up as My Ava. My empty heart fills up a little.
“You are my girl, Ava. Only you.” He watches me carefully, but I give nothing away. He stands and extends his hand. “Enough of this. Come on, let’s get dressed and take a walk on the beach.”
I look up with a blank stare that hides the wilting ego of my jealous heart.
The surf is gentle today, and we let the water wash over our feet as we walk. We’re almost to the end of the beach where the rock formations jut out.
“Are you okay? Let’s talk about it and get this cleared up.”
He’s calm and focused. I’m glad he gave me some time to sort through my thoughts. He’s right, we need to have this conversation and be done with it.
“I think the part that bugs me the most is that haven’t you deleted them already. I knew you must have had their numbers . . . but why are they still there?”
“It’s a logical question, and my answer may sound lame, Ava. But honestly, I’ve been so focused on you, and my life now, that I hadn’t even thought about it. The few times one of them called, I just shut the phone off and pushed it out of my mind. I left the phone at the house, but I promise you, deleting them will be the first thing I do when we get back.”
I turn my face toward the sun, and when I turn back, his expression is sad, yet determined.
“I wish I could erase my past with them. But even as I delete every last one of those girls, it won’t change the past, and it won’t sto
p them from resurfacing. We may run into them when we’re out or at an opening. Hell, I’m sure we’ll run into Jonathan too.”
“Well, your calm logic is lovely, Max, but let me remind you that you’re the most jealous man I know. If our situations were reversed and it was a string of old boyfriends calling, how would you handle it?”
“Fair enough. I’d probably have gone off the deep end by now—once again proving that you’re superior in every way.” He smiles sweetly. “But, you know I’m working on it, and as long as we stay focused on our present and look toward our future, out past relationships won’t matter.”
“You’re right.” I step closer and pull him into a hug. I’m so impressed with how he’s stayed calm, acknowledged my anxious feelings, and done everything he could to reassure me. I remember that he took his meds last night.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
“Thanks?” He tips his head with a puzzled expression.
“For staying calm and reassuring me.”
He holds me tighter. “You’re the only one for me, Ava. I want you to always be sure of that.”
When we kiss, a large wave rushes forward, the water pushing and rising just below our knees. But despite its pull as it returns to the ocean, we’re steady.
We’re almost back to the house when Max pulls off his T-shirt. “Let’s take a swim.”
“But it’s cold!” I’m a wimp when it comes to cold water.
“Yeah, but you’ll get used to it and it feels great. And I’ve already fired up the hot tub for when we get out.”
Apprehensively, I take off my clothes. Max drags me into the surf and I howl and fight him the entire way. When the water’s up to our waists, he lets go and dives into the water. As he resurfaces, he laughs and shakes his head, sending water drops flying everywhere.
“Fantastic! Come on, go under!” He grins from ear to ear.
I dive toward him and come up right in front of him, shivering. “You’re so mean! Damn, it’s cold!”
Work of Art ~ the Collection Page 46
