Art of Deception (Contemporary Romance)

by Faver, JD

  “Where did you score this treat?” Max tossed a cube of Monterrey Jack into her mouth.

  “Art opening at the Menil. I closed it down.” Willa uncorked the pinot grigio and took a swig before passing the bottle to Max. Willa reached for a cube of Swiss and bit into it. “I love the Menil. Such lovely patrons.”

  Max gulped some of the wine before asking, “What was going on at the Menil? I need to hear some juicy gossip. I don’t have television.”

  “A lot of talk and most of it was about you.” She tore into the foccaccia and scooped a smear of brie onto it.

  “About me? What about me?” She bounced up and down on the futon, spilling a little of the wine on her tee shirt as she moved. She took care of the spill by sticking the wet portion of the shirt in her mouth and sucking on it. “Waste not, want not,” she said with a grin that displayed her dimples to great advantage. “Come on, Willa. You’re torturing me.”

  “Everyone was talking about the hottest young artist to hit the Houston art scene in a decade. And, our newest client, Oleg Cantwell, was raving about your latest painting.”

  Max shook her head, confused. “How could he rave about a painting he hasn’t laid eyes on?”

  “I told him how amazing it is and he dutifully repeated it to everyone he saw. Oleg is an overstuffed parrot. I just have to train him to say the right phrases. He’s like my great big echo.” Willa giggled as she mimed the movements of a hand puppet, and then made the imaginary puppet swoop down to select another cube of Swiss cheese.

  Max swallowed the wine and laughed. “You’re an evil genius, but, if you’re putting words in the mouths of critics, how will I know if my work is improving. I need honest critiques.”

  Willa laughed. “I’ll tell you if you start to suck. You’re like a kaleidoscope, Max. Every time I look at your paintings I see something new.” She licked brie off her fingers. “Your paintings have gone from selling for a couple of hundred dollars to thousands.”

  Max gazed at Willa in admiration. “How did you have the nerve to ask so much for my work? The designers are paying some serious bucks.”

  “Supply and demand. We’re filling a niche,” Willa examined her manicured fingers and then wiped them on the torn bag she had brought. “Find a need and satisfy it. It’s the American entrepreneurial system.”

  Max shrugged. “That makes me feel inadequate, on some level.”

  “Well, get over yourself. This is all part of my grand scheme. We’re moving up in the art world.”

  Max pierced Willa with her direct blue gaze. “Could you elaborate on that part about the grand scheme?”

  “Listen up, Grasshopper. My plan is to place your work in the homes of Houston’s wealthiest art patrons.” Willa affected an expression of supreme boredom. “Dahling, it’s an original Max Foster, don’t ‘cha know?” She waved her hands in a pretentious flutter.

  Max giggled at her antics. “Sounds like a plan but, realistically, how can I hope to please everyone? I can try to guess what someone wants and miss the mark by a mile.”

  Willa rolled her eyes. “There are parameters. The decorators have to spell out their expectations. They work on commission and tack their fees on to your price, so it’s in their best interests to love your work.”

  “Humph! Sounds too easy.” Max drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “I’ve always painted to please myself. If someone likes my work and they get out their checkbook, I can eat.” She rested her chin on her knees.

  Willa regarded her patiently. “Do you think I’d invest so much of my time massaging the inflated designer egos if it wasn’t in our best interest?”

  Max quirked her deep dimples and cocked her head. “As long as I’ve known you, you’ve never made a move without an ulterior motive.”

  “And you’ve never had an ulterior motive in your life, even when we were in kindergarten.” Willa shook her head so that her curls bounced. “People will be buying your work as investment pieces instead of just pretty works of art to go over the sofa.”

  Max pursed her lips and made a face. “Difficult as it may be for you to understand, my materialistic friend, I like those people who find a piece that speaks to their heart and want to take it home so they can see it every day. When they buy a painting it’s a real commitment. The average person doesn’t own a gallery. Pounding a nail over the sofa says that this painting is important and deserves a place of honor in their lives. It sparks some memory or involves a favorite color. Whatever their reason, the painting is special to the buyer and that means a lot to me.”

  “You’re such a mush,” Willa shook her head. “You’d give them all away. You’re so lucky to have me.” Willa drank more wine and tore off a chunk of bread. “I am the teller at the bank of Max. No freebies. And the big designers have to pay extra big bucks because they’re so annoying.”

  Max cleared her throat. “Speaking of designers, guess who made an appearance earlier.” She raised her eyebrows and paused expectantly.

  “No way! What did Jon Claude want this time?” Willa sat up like a terrier at attention.

  “He wanted to see Max. And he took a painting with him. The still life with pomegranates. He said for you to send him a bill.”

  Willa’s mouth had fallen open. She huffed out a little sigh. “Damned right I will!” Her face split into a delighted grin. “Oh, I’m so proud of you. What else did he say?”

  “He wants to have lunch with Max tomorrow to discuss something about his future. How am I supposed to do that?”

  Willa brightened. “Lunch? I’ll call him. Just leave Mister Jon Claude to me. It’s time he learned who the artist Max Foster really is.” Willa stood up and fished around for her shoes. “Put the cheese in the fridge and drink the rest of the wine. Trust me; you’ll sleep like a baby.” She handed the bottle to Max.

  “You’re going to tell him that I’m Max?” At Willa’s nod, she sighed. “I’m sure that will take some of the starch out of him, but I hope it doesn’t end the commissions.”

  “I hope not either. I’ve worked hard to establish a working relationship with Jon. I’ll have to find a way to break it to him without damaging his delicate ego.”

  Max locked the door behind Willa, twisted the cork into the wine and put it into the refrigerator with the remains of the cheese.

  The memory of Jon Donnell’s handsome face caused a little tremor of excitement to swirl through her insides. Max swallowed hard, hoping that he would take the news of her deception well. Knowing that Jon had plenty of local artists to choose from, she hoped he wouldn’t choose to drop her and give his commissions to someone with a hairy chest.

  She turned out the light and gazed at her work in progress by the glow of moonlight pouring down through the skylight. Max wrapped her comforter around her shoulders and sank onto the futon. She fell asleep thinking about how the painting looked washed in moonlight with much of its brilliant color reduced to shades of gray.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jon had barely arrived at work the next morning when his line rang. He set his laptop on the edge of the reproduction Louis XIV table he used for a desk and logged on before picking up.

  He smiled when he recognized the caller. “Willa, I didn’t expect to hear from you. What’s up?” He opened his e-mail and began to scan it, prepared to listen half-heartedly to whatever Willa was planning on maneuvering him into doing for her.

  “Max told me that you wanted to have lunch today,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”

  His attention was immediately focused. “You spoke to him? I want to meet the guy and talk about future commissions, and I have an offer for him. Something big that I hope will interest him. Is he coming?”

  “Maybe. Max is very shy and only agreed to meet with you if I’m there as the artist’s representative. I know a convenient place where we can get together.” Willa suggested a trendy bistro close to Max’s loft. “We can be there at one this afternoon. Max likes the morning light and always paints t
hen. We prefer a late lunch. Does that work for you?”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps he could wrest the artist from Oleg Cantwell’s moist grasp after all.

  “There’s another thing, Willa.” He paused, searching for the right words. “It’s about the girl, the one who lives with Max. Ask her to come along and have lunch with us... with Max.”

  “Why, Jon! Are you interested in Max’s girlfriend?”

  He detected a suppressed giggle, though it was obvious she was covering the receiver with her hand. “I thought she might enjoy it.” He cleared his throat. “She seemed like a nice girl.”

  A little trill of laughter spilled from the receiver. “I’ll ask her. See you at one.”

  He stared at the phone, hoping the girl showed up. He didn’t even know her name but she’d kept him awake the previous night haunting his thoughts and preventing all possibility of sleep.

  Max’s girlfriend. He frowned at that and moved a few papers around on his desk.

  He couldn’t believe this girl made him feel so ill at ease. Her wry sarcasm was something he wasn’t used to. Apparently she didn’t have a clear idea of who he was or maybe she wouldn’t be taking potshots.

  A picture of her in the blue robe with damp hair streaming down her shoulders jumped unbidden into his mind.

  ~*~

  Max experienced mixed feelings when Willa told her she’d been invited to lunch. First her stomach took a lurch as she thought about eating food while looking into Jon Donnell’s sexy brown eyes.

  Then, she rummaged through her stack of clean clothes and realized that her wardrobe consisted of garments more suitable for paint rags than dining at a cool seafood restaurant with a handsome, if stuck-up, designer. She wanted to look her best when she told him that it was she who created the paintings he’d commissioned.

  She ran downstairs to use the pay phone in the lobby. “Willa, come get me. I need to shop.”

  Max was a very simple artist. She lived in a refurbished third floor loft with limited amenities. She didn’t own a vehicle or a phone and her favorite shoes were red Chuck Taylor high-tops. They looked extremely fetching with her cut off overalls and wife-beater undershirt. These garments were accessorized with assorted smears of paint attesting to the wide and varied palette favored by the artist known as Max Foster.

  She met Willa at the curb, jumping inside her Jaunty Jetta as soon as the car slowed down. Max fastened her seat belt tight because Willa never went anywhere slow.

  Willa grinned at her from behind her huge movie-star-in-hiding sunglasses. “I’ve been waiting for years for you to say those magic words, ‘Let’s shop’. I was born to shop.”

  Max nodded. “I thought it best to go to a professional for help.”

  Willa drove to the nearest mall, availing herself of the valet parking service. She disembarked and led Max by the hand into a large retail store. She pushed her past the elegant perfumes on display, beyond the menswear and children’s clothing and through the aisles of tables with advertised specials displayed prominently.

  The smell of perfume wafted on the refrigerated air as Willa rushed her through the glittering aisles.

  A sales woman stood behind the jewelry counter grinning brightly, but Willa ignored her, forging ahead until she brought them to her intended destination: The Young Sophisticates Department. Here the lights were a bit more subdued; showcasing artistic displays with completely accessorized trendy little dresses.

  Willa peered at Max over the top of the giant sunglasses. “You are wearing underwear, aren’t you?” she asked in a stage whisper.

  “Of course,” Max sniffed. “I’m completely civilized, Willa, in spite of what you may think.” She peeked at a price tag and gasped. She dropped it like she’d been scalded.

  Willa pawed through the racks and, at intervals, drew forth a garment to hold up in front of Max.

  Willa led her to the dressing room and demanded she try on the garments she’d selected. One after another Willa passed judgment as Max modeled for her.

  Max gazed at her image, transfixed by what she saw reflected in the mirror.

  Willa peered over the top of her sunglasses. “What do you think? Am I good, or what?”

  Max hugged Willa, crushing her sunglasses sideways in the process. “I’d never have chosen any of these but I’ll have to admit, you nailed it.” She turned around to admire her derriere in the bias cut skirt of a silky blue dress. “I love this one and the peach print is gorgeous. Which one should I buy?”

  “Which one?” Willa looked aghast. “You are going to invest in a few nice garments so you’ll be ready for the next occasion requiring you to look like a well-turned out young lady.”

  “But the cost,” Max protested. “I can’t afford to dress like this.”

  Willa was having none of it. “You can afford it, Max. I’ve seen your paychecks, remember?” They finally agreed on three slinky dresses before Willa dragged her to purchase appropriate and well-fitting undergarments and ended up in the shoe department.

  Willa insisted on the strappy tan Manolo Blahniks because they would go with everything and a pair of black ballerina flats.

  “I don’t think I can stand up,” Max protested.

  Willa grinned at her. “You’ll figure it out.”

  Max wore the blue dress and flats, insisting she would fall on her face if she had to wear heels. She felt Willa surveying her critically.

  “Speaking of faces,” she said, “you need to dig in my bag for blush and a little lip gloss. You might want to try the mascara. You have to look as good as your dress.”

  By the time they were to meet Jon, she was a bundle of nerves. “How do I look?”

  “You look gorgeous,” Willa said, “and may I point out that you told me you couldn’t stand Jon Claude. Remember when you said he was a snotty, pretty-boy designer and you weren’t attracted to him at all. Remember?”

  A flush of warmth rose from her neck to stain her cheeks. “I remember, but I don’t want to look bad even for someone I don’t like, especially when we’re going to tell him my name. He’s seen me at my worst...” She glanced at the dashboard clock. “Aren’t we running late?”

  “We’re running right on time. It’s good to be just a teeny-tiny bit late. We don’t want to be the ones waiting for him, do we?”

  Max rationalized that Willa always appeared to make perfect sense, but her rhetoric would sound demented if spoken by anyone else.

  “And, as for revealing your true identity, let me handle it. On the phone, Jon said something about an offer. He said it was big and I don’t want to alienate him when he may have a huge commission up his sleeve. You can remain anonymous a little longer for the right price, can’t you?”

  Max frowned at her. “I guess so, but I was so looking forward to seeing his face when you tell him.”

  “Just follow my lead.”

  Heads turned when the two attractive women entered the restaurant. All eyes were on them. Max experienced a little flutter in her chest, like she’d swallowed a butterfly.

  Head held high, Willa led the way to the table in the corner where Jon waited. He stood when he spotted the duo.

  Max felt another flutter in her chest when he fastened his dark eyes on her.

  He looked eager, as though she was the main course and he was starving.

  Willa leaned in to deliver air kisses but Max held back, offering her hand to him.

  “I think you’ve met my friend, Jon.” Willa waved her hand in Max’s direction.

  Jon stared at her, openly admiring her pretty face and lithe body in the clingy blue silk dress. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I never learned your name.” He stood transfixed as she blushed under his scrutiny. He didn’t release the hand she’d offered, but she didn’t pull away either.

  “My name is M...” She froze in mid-sentence. She turned to Willa, her face registering distress. Max pretended to cough.

  “Millie,” Willa offered. “Jon, meet my frien
d Millie. We’ve been best friends forever. We met on the first day of kindergarten and we’ve stayed tight ever since then.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off Max. “And you said you’ve both been friends with Max for a long time as well?”

  “Yes,” Max whispered. “We’re all the very best of friends.”

  He raised her hand to his lips and smiled as she colored prettily again before gently withdrawing her hand. He pulled out chairs for them and a waiter materialized immediately.

  After they perused the small select menu and placed their orders, Jon turned to Max. “So, what is this close relationship between Max and you two beautiful women? You’re his girlfriend and Willa is his agent?”

  “No,” Max hurried to say. “We’re friends. Just very good friends.” She gave Willa a cool glance as if daring her to say differently.

  She sipped her tea, aware that Jon was staring at her. She cast him a glance under her long lashes, determined not to blush again. He looked nice and not as stuffy and full of himself as in their previous meetings. She decided she’d been mistaken and he probably wasn’t gay, but how did a straight man learn to dress so well?