by Faver, JD
ART OF DECEPTION
J.D. Faver
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Copyright 2011 © J.D. Faver
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, events and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
For more information, please direct your correspondence to:
http://www.jdfaver.com
*****
Without limiting the right under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, distributed or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
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~Dedication~
I would like to thank my dear friend, author Tara Manderino, for her help, encouragement and support. Writing is a solitary pursuit and, other than the voices in our heads, it’s a blessing to have a good friend who hears voices of her own.
J.D. Faver
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CHAPTER ONE
Max held the fat paintbrush like a sword and attacked the canvas with slashing strokes. More Cadmium Red...and, yes! A dab of pure Ultramarine right there for contrast!
She waggled her hips and shoulders in time to the music and then stepped back from her easel. Nora Jones sang inside her head via her MP3 player...and Max was dancing…
Indirect light poured in through the bank of windows on the north side of her studio, bathing the painting with an iridescent glow.
This canvas thrilled her. It was an ambitious effort. Big, over six feet square, and bold.
Her agent was in love with the painting. Of course, Willa saw dollar signs whenever she looked at Max’s work.
Lately, Willa had been marketing her paintings through high end decorators on the premise that Max could paint to order.
One designer, some big deal named Jon Claude Donnell, had commissioned the first two abstracts. Max hadn’t met him. She preferred to remain a semi-recluse and let Willa collect the checks on her behalf.
She could never promote herself the way Willa did, nor with such amazing results. Max could be the hermit artist, painting in her tower, while Willa was the dragon in the moat. Not having to face the world kept Max out of trouble.
Her thorny nature and acerbic tongue couldn’t alienate anyone as long as she locked them up here in the loft.
She hummed a little as she stuck the brush in the empty pickle jar she used as a holder, glad this painting was commissioned and not on spec.
She shook her hips in time to the music. Stepping away from the huge canvas, she tilted her head as she critically eyed it for balance and line.
“Hello?”
She whirled, letting out a little yelp when she saw the tall, dark-haired man standing in the open doorway. Glancing around for a weapon, she grabbed the nearest thing at hand.
The man stifled a laugh when he spied the palette knife she brandished. “Sorry, Miss. I didn’t mean to startle you. I knocked several times, but you didn’t answer. You were dancing.” His smile faded as he looked beyond her to the painting.
Heart pounding, she slipped out the ear buds, letting them dangle around her neck, all the while regretting her habit of leaving the door open for her friends to wander in.
“So you barged right in? You terrified me. Just who the hell are you, anyway?” She emphasized her words by pointing the palette knife at her uninvited guest, even though her hand still evidenced a slight tremor.
Unfazed by her threatening demeanor, the man grinned at her, his dark eyes alight with mirth. “I’m Jon Donnell, head of the Claremont Design Group. I’m looking for the artist, Max Foster. Is he in?” He shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his pale tan slacks and turned to stare at the six foot painting supported by her easel.
So, this is the guy. The source of my checks. And he’s a member of the boy’s club. She smirked and crossed her arms across her chest. Welcome back to the same old chauvinistic art world, baby girl!
The upscale designer gazed around her loft, his eyes taking in all the canvasses stacked against the wall. He didn’t show a flicker of emotion.
Probably not impressed by my puny abilities.
She cleared her throat, trying to appear indifferent. “What do you want with Max?” Another macho man here to minimalize women in art. Max felt her back teeth grit together. Just like Malcolm Reed.
“It’s about his work.”
Her heart fluttered in her chest. Did he want the checks back? “What about it?” she snapped.
“This Max Foster guy is phenomenal. He’s amazing. His potential has barely been tapped.” The man turned, making a quick visual search of the loft. “Where is he anyway?”
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 lo
vingly 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 pro
bably 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.”