Art of Deception (Contemporary Romance) Page 2

  “No,” Max snapped. “He said that about Max Foster, the man. He was looking for some brawny, hairy-chested, belching, gland scratching male.”

  “It was a simple mistake. I’ll straighten him out when I see him.”

  “No, don’t you dare.” Max frowned as she stared at the huge painting, a dramatic swirl of golds and reds. “If Mr. Fancy Pants Donnell wants to think a male produced his paintings, it’s okay with me. As long as his checks keep coming, that’s all that matters. I don’t ever have to see him again. As far as he’s concerned, Max Foster is oozing testosterone. I dare you to name the last well-known female artist.”

  “Georgia O’Keefe,” Willa said. “Frida Kahlo.”

  “Living artist.” Max gave her a withering glare and turned to stomp across the floor.

  She stared out the window, remembering when Willa had delivered the first of Jon Donnell’s precious checks. She had unfolded it, tracing the amount with her finger, not quite able to comprehend the numbers.

  The first couple of years out of college had been tough. Now, thanks to Willa’s marketing efforts, she had a cash reserve stashed in her bank account. Living from hand to mouth was not a good thing.

  She had been feeling pretty comfortable up until this Jon Claude character popped in to rub her nose in it; to make her recall the many previous slights dealt by men in art, by Malcolm Reed in particular.

  “Face it, Willa. The art world is male-dominated. In college, all the painting teachers were male. My pottery teacher was a man, too. My only female teacher was in fiber arts.”

  Willa raised her brows. “Fiber arts? As in string?”

  Max had to laugh. “No, idiot. Weaving, spinning and dying, anything to do with fibers.”

  “So, what’s your point?” Willa gazed down her nose, pouting prettily.

  “All the rest of my teachers, the so-called ‘artistes’, were men. They just were so full of themselves.”

  “Hey, girlfriend, you did okay in that male-dominated Art Department.”

  “Yeah, but I worked my tail off for those grades. Even so, I don’t think anyone took me seriously. Once, when the model didn’t show up for my Life Drawing class, the professor asked me if I would pose. I refused, of course, but that was the attitude around there.”

  “Max, you’re gorgeous. Those men couldn’t get past your looks to take you seriously.”

  “They expected me to get married and piddle with painting while juggling carpools and Gymboree.”

  “Your work is awesome. You’ve got so much talent.” Willa crossed to the stacks of canvasses facing the wall. She turned them around, one by one, gazing at each in turn. “I could sell any of these. This one is lovely.” She lifted a painting of a young girl holding a huge bouquet of flowers.

  Max stopped pacing to stand on her tiptoes and gaze wistfully over Willa’s shoulder. “Nobody cares about lovely. It’s my abstracts that bring in the big bucks.”

  Willa set the painting carefully on the floor alongside the others and turned to Max, her face somber. “Don’t be a dope. While you were painting and weaving, I was earning a real degree in marketing and that’s what I’m doing. I’m marketing you, Max. You’re my product. Your success is my success. When you become rich and famous you can paint whatever you like. People will stand in line to buy a Max Foster. In the meantime, we’re building your career, developing your brand. Don’t you think I’m doing a good job?” Willa’s wide aquamarine eyes demanded an answer.

  Max was filled with remorse. She leaned down to give her petite friend a hug. “Willa, you’re doing an outstanding job. I’m sorry I’m being such a baby. I let some fancy designer hurt my feelings and now I’m taking it out on you.”

  Willa reached out to squeeze her arm. “Max, is this really about Malcolm? If it is, you need to let it go.”

  “Easy for you to say.” She scuffed her toe against a blob of gesso that had dried on the floor. “You weren’t branded a liar while someone stole your work.”

  “Malcolm was in your past. Now you’re on the brink of becoming a major star in the art world. That’s your future.”

  Max nodded, staring down at the floor.

  “It’s all about the paycheck, right?” Willa smiled encouragement.

  Max shrugged, releasing a sigh. “Right, because I’m not in the carpool.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  That night, Max soaked in the claw-foot tub in the bathroom she’d created in one corner of her loft. All of her bathroom fixtures were second hand and separated from the rest of the vast space by a paint-stained canvas drop cloth suspended from ancient pipes running like a mad freeway system across her soaring ceiling. Privacy was usually not an issue as her only guests were family or close friends like Willa.

  She hadn’t thought of Malcolm Reed for some time. Was Willa right? Had she overreacted to Jon Donnell’s mistake because of the way her relationship with Malcolm had ended?

  Twenty years her senior, Malcolm, her one-time lover, her supposed mentor, had suppressed her talent to feed his own ego. He always managed to compliment her work in a way that suggested that it left much to be desired but, under his tutelage, she might become a passable painter someday.

  Then she discovered he’d been holding her back and had signed his name on her newest paintings before selling them as his own.

  When she’d protested, no one believed that the master painter had stolen her work. She recalled Malcolm’s condescending sneer as he told the police that they’d had a lover’s quarrel and they’d laughed along with him.

  Betrayed and discounted, she fled to Houston, where her brother Merrick had set up his architectural firm.

  She hadn’t fared much better in Houston’s art world until the ever faithful Willa had taken up her cause. Now Max was allowed to concentrate on painting while Willa dealt with her thorny public image.

  None of this was Jon Donnell’s fault, no matter that his fashionable presence had set her teeth on edge.

  “Damned decorator!” She attacked the dried paint ground into her cuticles with a nail brush. She pulled the plug and rinsed off with a hand held shower head before stepping out onto the faded Oriental rug she’d found beside the dumpster.

  A knock at the door startled her. Who could be calling this late?

  The lofts were located close to downtown in a light industrial area but she had never been afraid. She reached for her over-sized terry robe, tossing it around her shoulders like a cape.

  “Who’s there,” she called through the thick metal door.

  “Jon Donnell.”

  “Oh, guh-rate! What do you want?” She couldn’t hide the sarcasm in her voice. Her question was met with silence. A knot formed in Max’s stomach as the silence lengthened. She couldn’t afford to alienate the man who paid her rent. She unlocked the deadbolt and drew back the safety latch, peering out cautiously.

  The handsome designer’s dark brows drew together in a scowl. He stared at her bare shoulders and the long glistening legs she hadn’t yet dried. The baby blue robe was bunched around her, forming a drape. She could feel his gaze as surely as a touch.

  “Oh,” was all he could say. Something feral flickered deep within his dark eyes.

  His reaction sent a tingle spiraling through her insides. Max adjusted her wrap, clutching it around her shoulders and managing, in the process, to bare a little more skin. She drew a deep breath. “Is there some reason you’re here at this time of night? Don’t tell me this is a social call.”

  He swallowed, frowning down at her. “Look here, Miss, I need to see your boyfriend. Tell Max to come to the door.”

  She took a deep breath and smiled, revealing the dimples her daddy called her secret weapon. “There’s no one here but me.” She affected a dulcet tone. “Wait a second.” She closed the door and slipped her arms into the terry robe, tying it at the waist. “You can come in now.” She opened the door a crack. Turning her back, she led the way into the loft.

  “Would you like something to
drink? I have water, soda or beer.” She could afford to be hospitable to the man who held future commissions in his neatly manicured hands.

  “A beer would be great.”

  Max sauntered barefoot to the antique refrigerator. When she looked over her shoulder, she caught Jon staring at her rear.

  “What do you want with Max?” She handed him the longneck bottle and then twisted the cap off her bottled water. “You can tell me anything you’d say to him. We have no secrets. It’s as though you’re speaking directly to Max.”

  A little smile quirked the corners of his mouth and warmed his gaze. “I want to talk to him about his future. I want to talk to him about his work.” He took a swig of beer without taking his eyes off her. “How old is Max, anyway?”

  “Max is twenty six.”

  Jon raised his brows. “He’s very young to have such a mature vision. His use of color is really evolved.” He used the bottle to gesture, indicating the paintings lining the walls of the studio. “As long as I’m here, may I see some of his other paintings?” His gaze still cruised her terry-swathed body.

  “Sure. Help yourself. Everything is stacked around the studio.”

  She tried to control her excitement. This guy really gets my work. She wanted to talk to him about it, but she also wanted to smack him upside the head for assuming that only a male could have real talent.

  Jon was drawn to the canvasses Willa had turned over earlier. He picked up the portrait of the girl, holding it at arms length, allowing the fading light to spill over her image. He regarded it silently for some time.

  She was unable to contain her curiosity. “What do you think?”

  “It’s beautiful, sort of a Botticelli influence with the blue undertones. This must be his earlier work.” Jon glanced back at her. “It’s much less sophisticated. Almost naïve, yet it’s intriguing. Great portraiture.” He sat it aside and began turning over other canvasses.

  Max bit her lip and thought she might pass out from holding her breath. She followed close behind him, looking with him as he examined her work. She tried to see each painting through new eyes as he might. “Do you like that one?” she asked when he raised one of her favorite landscapes.

  “Yes, it’s an excellent landscape. Great use of color and under-painting, but I don’t see any other abstracts. Where are the abstracts?”

  “There are some. Here, let me show you.” She tried to recall the current location of the few examples she had created for class assignments. She pawed through the stacks and came up with three non-representational pieces.

  Jon gazed at her, looking doubtful. “That’s all? So you’re telling me Max just started exploring abstractionism?”

  “I guess you could say that.” She didn’t tell him that the exploration was initiated when Willa brought his first commission for a large abstract. She couldn’t read his expression. “Max believes the principles of design can be interpreted in any style to produce an acceptable product.”

  “You sound like Max’s agent, Willa. She’s all about the product.” Jon’s dark eyes lit up when he smiled.

  Max experienced a warm rush spiraling though her chest. She could see why Willa thought he was so hot.

  She relaxed enough to draw a breath. “Willa is committed to Max. Her goal is to help Max become famous and successful.” She glared at him and shrugged her shoulders. “They’ve been the best of friends since they played together in the sandbox.”

  Jon’s deep voice sent a shiver skittering down her spine. “Willa’s got her claws into a sure thing. She knows Max is her gravy train and she’s going to ride him all the way to the bank.”

  Stung, a knot of anger formed in her stomach. “Willa is Max’s best friend. She’s always got Max’s interests at heart.” Willa never failed to be her champion. Max couldn’t bear for this man to disparage her in any way.

  “I’m sure she does, as long as Max’s interests coincide with her own. Willa is a sharp girl. She’ll land on her feet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When Max hits the big time, he’s going to want an equally big name art agent. Someone with the right connections to take him to the top.”

  She sucked in an appalled gasp. “Max would never dump Willa. Max and Willa have been together forever.”

  Jon skewered her with a speculative glance. “And you’re okay with that? You’re not jealous of their relationship?”

  Max enjoyed the luxury of a superior smile. “I’m more than okay. We’re inseparable, like...like the Three Musketeers and I don’t mean the candy bar either. We’re totally tight.” She raised her eyebrows and glared down her short nose at him.

  Jon shook his head and quirked a little smile as he continued with his rummaging. “Whatever you’re into. Max must be quite a man to keep two beautiful women satisfied.” He gave her another wry grin. “I’m strictly a one-on-one kind of guy, myself.”

  Max stammered as a flush crept up from her neck. “I didn’t mean...” She took in a slow, deep breath and told herself it didn’t matter if this pretty-boy designer thought she was involved in a three-way with Willa and her male alter ego.

  Jon stole another amused glance in her direction. He lifted an over-sized still life of pears and pomegranates and sucked a long sigh in through his teeth. He set the painting aside and flipped the next one over.

  Max ground her nails into her palms to control the outburst gathering inside her like a thundercloud.

  “This is really nice.” He gazed at a life-sized self portrait she’d done as a class assignment her senior year. “I think he’s captured your inner spark of mischief, except...” He turned to look at her. “He’s got that tiny mole beside your right eye on the wrong side.” He reached out and touched her cheek lightly. His fingertips just grazed her skin, leaving a visceral sensation echoing in their wake.

  His voice was just above a whisper. “I wonder how he got that wrong.” The expression on his face was hypnotic.

  Max felt herself swaying towards him. She jerked away from his touch and cleared her throat. “Yeah, I wonder how he screwed that up.” Her voice dripped sarcasm but Jon didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’ve seen enough.” He picked up the pomegranate painting. “I’m taking this one with me. Tell Willa to send me a bill.”

  She frowned. “But, I have no idea how much that one costs.”

  He grinned at her. “I don’t care how much it costs.”

  Shut up, Max! He’s buying. She bit off what she’d been about to say.

  “Tell Max to call me tomorrow morning and we’ll meet for lunch. I can do big things for your boy.” His gaze skimmed over her body once more before he turned to the door.

  “Yeah, my boy...” She clenched her fists and restrained her desire to throttle this man until he was blue in the face. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. She watched the door close behind Jon and unclenched her fists.

  Max whirled back to her painting. She surveyed it critically. Was it worth it? Did she really have amazing talent? It would be so gratifying to wipe that smirk off Jon Claude’s face by telling him how very wrong he was to assume Max Foster was bursting with testosterone. But what if he was only interested in promoting a male artist?

  She went to the stack of clean clothes piled on top of her dad’s army foot locker. She found a fresh tee shirt and pulled on a pair of panties. Hanging her robe on a hook, she spread her towel over the edge of the tub. So much for housekeeping.

  She looked in the mirror and touched the tiny mole with her finger. Max had painted it on the wrong side because she was looking in a mirror as she painted.

  She tossed a bag of popcorn in the microwave and searched in her fridge for a bottle of water. Hearing a knock at the door, she slammed the refrigerator in disgust.

  If that pompous excuse for a designer was back to taunt her she’d give him a very large chunk of her mind.

  Stomping to the door, she unlatched the deadbolt and safety chain. “What do you want now?” she snarled as s
he threw open the door.

  Willa jumped back as the heavy metal-bound door hit the brick wall. The sound reverberated through the hallway. “Oh, my! I just wanted to see you, Max. Don’t get your panties in a wad. I’ll come back tomorrow.” She swept her luscious hair back from her sculpted cheekbones.

  A wave of relief swept through Max, instantly evaporating her anger. “Don’t be ridiculous, Willa. You’re always welcome. You know that.” Max motioned her inside and swung the door closed. She twisted the deadbolt locks into place, nodding in satisfaction at the mental image of clanging cell block bars that leapt uninvited into her mind. “Make yourself comfy while I serve up my offering.”

  “Oh, popcorn! And here I thought I was springing for dinner.” Willa brandished a paper bag and gestured to the bottle she had tucked under her arm. She stepped out of her peep-toe pumps and dropped her Fendi handbag beside them.

  Max dumped three oranges from a wood bowl in which she’d arranged them, thinking she would find time to paint a still life before she ate them or they shriveled up. She swiped inside the bowl with her hand and dumped the bag of popcorn inside. Max brought the bowl to the futon and curled her legs tailor-style under her.

  Willa tore her paper bag open forming a makeshift serving tray. She shook the contents around to display several kinds of cheese and a loaf of foccaccia bread. “Let’s chow down on this.”