Twist of Fate

by Faver, JD

  She shifted her weight and took an uneasy breath. “Max is around somewhere.” Why are you here? Deal with Willa, not me.

  Jon Donnell’s eyebrows rose. “Max can’t be far away. This is fresh paint.” He looked at her as though he were appraising a painting. “Are you his wife, daughter?”

  She did a mental eye-roll. Gimme a break! “We’re very close.” She gave him a tight little smile. “Is there a message?”

  He extended a card, stepping close enough for the scent of his crisp, masculine cologne to hit her like a fist. “Have Max call me.” His eyes searched hers, taking in everything about her appearance.

  For the first time, she was aware of how shabby she looked. Sucking in a deep breath to clear her head, she glanced at the card. “Why don’t you call Willa Beth Shaw, Max’s agent? Max doesn’t play well with others.”

  He quirked his head to one side, a dimple appearing beside that damned sexy mouth. “I’d heard that, but I’m not the public. I’m Jon Donnell.” The smirk spread into a wide grin. “I wanted to meet the artist...and his lovely friend...”

  “Alrighty then.” She tucked his card in the bib of her cut-off overalls, her tone an effective dismissal.

  “It’s important, Miss.” Jon Donnell left the loft as silently as he’d entered, the superior smirk still playing with his mouth.

  Max followed the arrogant designer to the door, locking it behind him. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed her worst suspicions. She ran her fingers through the mop of tangled honey-blonde hair and wiped at a dab of burnt umber smeared on her cheek. Great! It looks like dirt.

  The immaculately dressed designer must have thought she was a poor relation of the artist, Max Foster. Some trifling woman, who couldn’t hold a paintbrush if she tried.

  She gave a snort of disgust. “I don’t care what that artsy-fartsy designer thinks. He doesn’t know a thing about the artist, Max Foster.”

  Max picked up her brush again. Willa Beth can handle Jon Claude Donnell. Isn’t that why I have an agent?

  #

  Jon Donnell sped down the freeway in the turquoise ‘55 Thunderbird he’d lovingly and painstakingly restored. After leaving Max Foster’s third floor studio loft, he couldn’t get the girl out of his mind. In spite of the chip on her shoulder, he’d been drawn to her like a bee to the mother lode of honey. She was a real beauty, the natural kind.

  Grudgingly, he shook his head. He couldn’t recall a time when a woman had rebuffed him. This tall, slender girl was defensive, almost rude. Yet her sarcasm had intrigued him more than if she’d been flirtatious

  I should have asked her name, at least.

  He snorted out a laugh. What an outfit! The tee shirt was just a rag, torn across the midriff to expose her waist at the open sides of her bib overalls. He’d had to stifle the urge to reach out and stroke her smooth skin. He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel in remembrance.

  Her faded denim overalls had been ripped off short. Lots of long, sleek leg on display. Her dirty bare feet looked like they rarely wore shoes, but even they were beautiful, slender with high arches.

  When he had first entered the loft, he’d stood watching her dance, transfixed by her natural grace. The light caught her high cheekbones and the fullness of her mouth. Her dark blonde hair was tangled; appeared not to have been groomed that morning.

  Jon was a little surprised that this unkempt beauty could arouse such strong feelings of raw lust in him. On any given day he was presented with a veritable buffet of stunning females who actually cared how they looked. But this young woman awakened some primitive need deep inside him. He wanted to drag her back to his cave and bite her clothes off.

  He blew out a stream of air, puffing out both cheeks. Jon Donnell did not have to chase women. Women chased him. Yet his thoughts kept returning to the female in Max Foster’s studio loft.

  Who is she? She claimed to be close to the artist. How close? Girlfriend? Mistress? Maybe she’s Max’s model. He immediately dismissed the thought. No, Max is an abstractionist.

  An unwilling smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He considered her lean little hard body, thinking she might even inspire him to pick up a paintbrush again.

  He sighed, remembering his short-lived art career after leaving the university. He’d been naïve to think that there was a major market for the landscapes inspired by his parents Texas Hill-Country ranch.

  The dog-eat-dog art world had chewed him up and spat him out. He’d been forced to reinvent himself; leave his country boy image behind and reemerge in another form. Enter Jon Claude Donnell, designer to Houston’s wealthiest sector.

  As a designer he was a major player. His style was unmistakable. His name meant something. Instead of making a big splash in the art world, he could name the next big splash in the art world.

  And this Max Foster had it, that indefinable spark of artistic genius. It was in Jon’s best interest to be the one to ‘discover’ Max Foster, to introduce him to Houston art patrons. He’d already placed two of Max’s works in influential homes, one in the Mayor’s and the other in a world-renowned heart surgeon’s.

  Now, Jon had to jump on the opportunity before someone else did. He grimaced to think it might be that pretentious moron, Oleg Cantwell. Cantwell had commissioned a Max Foster painting after Jon paved the way for him in the exclusive Houston community of art consumers. That prancing ass would be falling all over himself when he saw the canvas Max was working on. It was dynamic, bold, pure genius.

  But the art crowd was fickle, always following trends, flocking to the next big thing.

  A muscle in Jon’s jaw twitched. He’d have to come up with something really enticing to make the reclusive Max Foster want to be aligned with him...something irresistible.

  #

  Max had been stewing since the departure of her uninvited guest. She couldn’t understand how Jon Claude Donnell had gotten under her skin.

  “What a hoot!” Willa collapsed on Max’s futon, giggling hysterically, her mass of strawberry-blonde curls covering her face. “Big Jon Claude Donnell himself came here looking for Max Foster?”

  “Don’t get so excited, Willa Beth.” Max twisted her hair up in a knot before stabbing a paintbrush through it. “He thinks Max Foster is a man.” She looked Willa over critically and sniffed. “You’re such a girlie girl. I’m sure your femininity has never been threatened, has it?”

  “Good God, no!” Willa giggled and wiped a tear of laughter from her cheek.

  “Aha! I didn’t think so.” Max stomped across her cluttered wood floor.

  Willa smiled as Max paced by. “Come on, don’t be grumpy. You’re the one who wanted total anonymity. It was only your name, not your looks. No man would mistake you for a guy.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “Why didn’t you set him straight?”

  Max whirled on Willa, her eyes narrowed. “You should have seen him. He was the picture of elegance; Mr. GQ in his classy clothes. I swear his jacket was cashmere. It was like he’d stepped out of a magazine ad into my lowly digs. And here I stood, looking like a rag picker.” She looked down at her cut-offs and the torn, wife-beater undershirt under the bib of her overalls.

  Willa stifled a giggle. “Okay, Jon always looks like that. He must have Armani on speed dial. But you don’t have a phone, Max. He couldn’t have called you anyway. What else did he do to offend?”

  She felt her back teeth clench together. “I just can’t stand egotistical men. It’s all right that he’s unbearably hot, but this guy is like a freakin’ movie star. He expected a spotlight, or something.”

  Willa nodded. “I see. Jon is too handsome.”

  “Shut up.” Irritably, Max paced to the bank of windows on the far wall and gazed out at the Houston skyline. “It wasn’t only that. He really pissed me off when he just assumed that Max Foster was a man. It never entered his chauvinistic little pea brain that I might be the painter. Same old, same old.”

  Willa sat up straight. “You didn’t insult him,
did you? I’ve worked my butt off to establish a relationship with Jon. It took me a month just to get in to see him. He’s the big cheese around here.”

  Max turned, making a guttural sound in the back of her throat. “No, no, no. I merely kissed his fancy-pants rear like he expected me to.” She ran her fingers through her hair, dislodged the paintbrush and sent it clattering to the littered floor.

  She stooped to pick it up and then used it to gesture with. “I couldn’t imagine why he was here. You’re my agent. He should have contacted you. And then I panicked when I thought maybe there was some problem with the paintings you sold him and I really didn’t want to get into that. I’ve already used some of his money to pay my rent and buy supplies.”

  She picked up on Willa’s amused expression and shrugged. “So I sidestepped the issue.” She threw her hands up in the air and a disgusted sound escaped from the back of her throat. “Okay! I’ll admit that I was being a complete cowardly chicken shit! Are you satisfied?”

  “Don’t worry, Max. I’ll deal with Jon Claude Donnell.” She turned to the mammoth painting on her easel. “This is remarkable.” Willa stood transfixed in front of the large canvas, contrasting its boldness with her petite stature. “If this one doesn’t make Cantwell pee in his panties, I don’t know what will.”

  “You think he’ll like it?” Insecure about her abilities, Max always relished positive feedback.

  Malcolm Reed, her former lover and self-professed mentor, had stolen her work a few years previously and completely destroyed her ego by claiming that her talent was mediocre and that she’d never be anything without his guidance.

  She hated to be so needy, but treasured Willa’s words anyway.

  Willa was the one person who believed in her. She was the one who made the sales and brought her nice fat paychecks. Her opinion had to matter.

  “Thanks, Willa. I appreciate you. I really do.”

  Willa slanted a sly grin at her. “Don’t be intimidated by Jon Donnell. He’s my problem, not yours.”

  “He wants Max to call him, but I’m not going to.” She whirled around, frowning at Willa. “He probably thought I was a man when he first commissioned the paintings. I really like the checks he writes, but this guy might be too gender-biased to work with a woman. You know that I’ve suffered way too much from that issue. We all don’t just paint our nails, you know?”

  “You’re preaching to the choir.” Willa raised her delicately arched brows. “But, you could be right about Jon. Sometimes I feel like he just barely tolerates me. He does have a huge, well-fed ego, but can you blame him? He’s a great big gorgeous hunk and he’s very talented. Don’t you think Jon Claude is a major babe?”

  Max sniffed. “Pretty boy. Probably gay. I certainly couldn’t be interested in a man who dresses better than you do.”

  Willa jumped up off the futon and rushed to the mirror. She fluffed her mass of strawberry blonde curls and adjusted her skirt. “You think he dresses better than me?”

  “You should have seen him inspecting the painting the Cantwell dude commissioned. It seems I’m ‘an amazing talent with untapped potential’.”

  Willa turned from the mirror. She danced around, chanting more to herself than to Max. “He said that? Jon Donnell said that about you?” She clasped her hands together and drew a deep breath. “It’s a start, Max. Jon Claude Donnell thinks you’re really talented and he came all the way out here to tell you so. That’s not a bad thing. It’s what we’ve been working for. Jon said you were talented.”

  “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.”

  # # #

 
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