Art of Deception (Contemporary Romance)

by Faver, JD

  “Where is Max? Has he decided not to join us?” he asked.

  Max couldn’t bear to refer to herself in the masculine gender. “Max was painting this morning,” she said. “Max loses all track of time. When Max is painting everything else ceases to exist.”

  She inhaled deeply, rationalizing that she hadn’t actually lied about that part.

  The waiter brought their food. Max leaned back so he could slide the oversized serving of seafood with marinara pasta in front of her. She had a momentary vision of the sauce landing in her lap and vowed to be extra careful with her new dress. She picked up her fork and stabbed it into a shrimp.

  Jon smiled at her, his eyes warm and inviting. “I must admit, I’m disappointed that Max couldn’t make it, but I appreciate that he’s concentrating on his work. An admirable trait for an artist.”

  Willa interjected a little laugh. “Oh, Max has amazing powers of concentration. It’s all about the painting. What was it you wanted to talk to Max about?”

  Jon’s dimpled grin clutched at Max’s insides. “I want to sponsor a one-man show for him at a major gallery.”

  Max almost spewed out her mouthful of shrimp. She clasped her hands together over her mouth and swallowed it whole. “A show? That’s wonderful. I can’t wait.” A gurgle of excitement spiraled around her insides, threatening to choke her if she didn’t get to stand up and scream.

  Willa skewered her in place with a meaningful glare. “Yes, I’ve always wanted a show for Max.” She returned her gaze to Jon, cleansing her brow of the squelching frown. “What is your interest in Max’s work, Jon?”

  Jon tore his gaze from Max’s face and turned to Willa. “It’s always exciting to discover a truly talented artist. Max paints from such a strong masculine point of view. I want to mentor him. I plan to use this showcase to introduce his work to all my past and current clients and make sure the entire Houston art world is made aware of Max’s genius...Men of Vision: Jon Claude Donnell presents Max Foster.”

  Max swallowed. Men of Vision?

  “That’s so generous of you, isn’t it, Millie?” Willa nudged her under the table.

  “Yes, very generous.” Max nodded mindlessly, recalling the hand puppet Willa had mimed. Masculine viewpoint, indeed.

  He picked up his glass and took a sip of wine. “Max doesn’t have as many completed abstracts as I would like. I think he should paint a few more to strengthen his portfolio.”

  Max narrowed her gaze, ready to let him have a piece of her mind, but caught Willa’s pointed glare and thought better of it.

  “But what do you expect in return, Jon.” Willa placed her perfectly manicured hand on his arm and leaned toward him. “How can we make this event beneficial to you as well as Max?”

  “I’d like to have exclusivity. You’re his agent, but I’d like to be the only designer he works with. I’d like to be aligned with him, shoulder to shoulder. I can see myself designing whole projects around his art. Does that seem fair?”

  Willa had asked the question but he directed his response to Max.

  “That seems fair to me. I’m sure Max will be excited about it,” Willa said. “What do you think, Millie?”

  Her heart beat pulsed in her ears. She shook herself out of her stupor. “Max is currently working on a project with a designer named Oleg Cantwell. What about that?”

  Jon’s brows drew together in a frown. “I know about the Cantwell commission, but in truth, he wouldn’t have learned about Max if I hadn’t worked with him first. Cantwell is always looking over my shoulder. He’s never had an original thought in his life. After Max completes this work, I would ask that he not work with any other designers. I can keep him as busy as he wants to be and I’ll guarantee the rates will be astronomical.”

  “Oh, I like the sound of that.” Willa bounced slightly in her chair.

  Max tried to control the tremor in her voice. “What about gallery sales?”

  “Not a problem. Max can paint his heart out and sell through any other venue. He can sell online or through a gallery. I want to be the only designer with exclusive access to Max for commissioned works.”

  Willa looked encouragingly at Max.

  She took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, I’m sure Max will agree to your request. It will be an honor to work with you as the exclusive designer.” She put another bite in her mouth although her appetite had vanished the moment he’d said the word show.

  “Are you sure?” Jon asked. “Don’t you need to talk to him first? You could call him.”

  Willa shrugged her elegant little shoulders. “There’s no phone in the studio and Max hates to be interrupted while painting.” She took a sip of her water. “I’m completely confident when I assure you that Max will be happy with this arrangement.”

  Max quirked her dimples at Jon, hoping her smile covered her confusion. How could this sexy man be a mentor to Max Foster? She hadn’t fared too well under the guidance of her former mentor, Malcolm Reed.

  He nodded absently, staring at Max. “I’m leaving town tonight. I’ll be gone all weekend. Can you confirm with me Monday if Max agrees to the arrangements?”

  Willa glanced from Jon to Max and back again. “Certainly, Jon. I’ll call you. I’m sure Max will love your ideas for an exhibit of his work, but I’ll talk to him and call you Monday morning.”

  Max took a cue from Willa and leaned closer to Jon, inhaling his crisp masculine scent. “Tell me about the gallery. Where do you plan to hold the show?”

  He gazed into her eyes, seemingly lost in the denim blue depths. “Gilman Galleries. Cherise Gilman has a gallery in the Heights and one in Galveston. I thought we could use the one in the Heights. It’s central and she has an affluent clientele.”

  “I know Cherise,” Willa said. “I’ve attended her openings in the past.”

  “I’ll provide for the catering so it will be first class all the way.” He turned to Willa. “I’ll invite everyone of note in Houston. We can select a date far enough in advance to allow Max adequate time to produce a few more abstracts.”

  Max pursed her lips before breaking into a wide grin. “You really do like those abstracts, don’t you?”

  “They’re phenomenal,” he said. “I like his representational work as well, but the abstracts are unique. Very bold and masculine. I can’t wait to meet this guy.”

  Max and Willa exchanged a smile.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Max was buoyant, more than floating. She was aerated, like a freshly opened bottle of champagne. The lighter than air feeling lasted the whole time Jon walked with her and Willa to the Jetta.

  Willa gave him air kisses and ran around to the driver’s side.

  Max offered her hand, which was immediately enfolded between his. He stepped forward and kissed her cheek, his scent surrounding her with the intimacy of his presence. She gasped and stepped back just as Willa tooted the horn.

  “I’ve, ah...gotta go.” She fumbled for the door handle.

  “Let me get the door.” He reached around her, still invading her turf. His hand lightly stroked her forearm as he held the door open.

  His touch brought a tingle to her skin. Max drew in a breath and turned too quickly to the car, bashing her head on the door frame before she managed to seat herself. Thankfully, Jon was staring at her legs and missed her display of grace and poise before he closed the door behind her.

  Willa pulled into traffic, hooting. “What a flirt you are Max. I’ve never seen big, tough Jon reduced to a puddle before.”

  Max rubbed the sore spot on her temple. “I’m just thrilled that he wants to sponsor me in a show. I’ve dreamed of having my own one-man show. I can hardly believe it.”

  “I don’t mean to burst your bubble, sweetie,” Willa said, “but how are we going to produce Max for the opening?”

  “I’m Max. I’ll just show up on opening night and start shaking hands.” She pretended to be greeting someone. “Hi, I’m Max Foster. Yes, I’m the artist. Oh, you like my work?
Thank you. How nice. Sex change operation? No, I’ve always been a woman. Why do you ask? You heard I was a male. Ha ha ha.”

  Willa glanced at her and shook her head, looking doubtful. “Point taken. I guess that’ll work, but it will be terribly embarrassing for Jon. He’s convinced that Max is channeling testosterone into his paintings. After he spouted off about Max’s masculinity, do you really want to slap his big ego down? As soon as the arrangements for the show are set in stone, I think I should tell him. Gently, of course, so he can change the name of the show.”

  “When is the right time?”

  “Right before the show so he can’t throw a wrench in the works. Leave it to me. I’ll find a way to let him know without humiliating him. It doesn’t pay to make enemies.”

  ~*~

  A red-tailed hawk circled overhead, searching the ranch below for his breakfast. Puffy white cumulus clouds banked the horizon, counterpoint to the clear blue central Texas sky. A spring shower the night before lent the air a damp earth smell. The only sound was the regular tempo beat by eight hooves slowly making their way down the fence line and the occasional squeak of leather as the well-oiled saddles moved with the riders.

  J.C. Donnell’s chest filled with a surge of pride as he rode along side his only son, Jon. It wasn’t a significant moment or a big event that swelled the old man’s heart. It was only one of many small acts of caring performed by his son. He’d driven in from Houston the night before to help his father ride fence instead of hanging out with his sophisticated friends or going on a date with some young lady.

  J.C. had always figured that his son would be taking over the ranch someday. Until

  Jon saw it the same way; he’d just keep on keeping on.

  “What are you smiling about, Dad?” Jon asked.

  Jon had his mother’s brown eyes and J.C.’s big, athletic frame. His love of the land gave J.C. hope that Jon would wake up to the value of ranching as a way of life.

  “I was picturing you on your first horse, son. Remember Big Man?”

  Jon made a noise in the back of his throat. “How could I forget? He tossed me in the dirt enough to last a lifetime.”

  “Big was the gentlest horse on the ranch. You just couldn’t stay on him.” J.C laughed, blue eyes crinkling in his deeply tanned face.

  “That was a big horse for an eight-year-old, Dad.” Jon shook his head and grinned.

  J.C. glanced at his son’s hands, protected in sturdy leather work gloves. An artist’s hands. He’d lined the walls of their Hill Country ranch home with Jon’s paintings. J.C. understood why Jon had opened his own design firm and turned his talents to satisfying his rich client’s tastes. What he couldn’t understand was why Jon had quit painting.

  “Have you been seeing anyone special recently? Your mother told me to ask.”

  “I had a few dates with one woman a while back. She owns art galleries in the Houston area. She’s pretty and smart enough, but she wasn’t a keeper.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing really,” Jon removed the Stetson shading his eyes and wiped his brow with a bandana. “On the surface, we had a lot in common, but when it came to values, we were totally different.”

  J.C. shook his head. “So you broke another heart?”

  “No way. It wasn’t serious. She was fun to play with, but I couldn’t imagine her as the mother of my children. She thought of me as a possible business acquisition.”

  J.C. grinned, shaking his head. “And you told her the big man couldn’t be roped?”

  Jon settled the Stetson back on his head and shot his father a sideways glance. “When the time comes, I kind of thought I’d be the one to do the roping.”

  “Too bad, Son. You need to be thinking of settling down. Your mother wants grandkids.”

  Jon grinned at J.C. “Funny you should say that. I just met someone who made me start thinking about the future.”

  J.C. made a scoffing sound. “It sounds like you think you’re going to find a girl with home town values in that big slick city. She ain’t there, son.”

  “I don’t know, Dad.” Jon shrugged. “For a minute, I thought I could see forever in her big blue eyes.”

  ~*~

  Max immediately threw herself into her paintings. She enlisted her older brother, Merrick, to help build stretcher frames for her future canvasses.

  Merrick was an architect and an avid sailor. He let her know in no uncertain terms that he would rather be spending his leisure time on the water than in his baby sister’s loft.

  He was tall, like Max, with lean muscles stretched over his frame. There was a strong family resemblance starting with denim blue eyes and dimples but Merrick’s skin was deeply tanned from years of sun exposure and his dark blonde hair was washed with almost white highlights. He had just finished ripping one-by-fours down to one-by-twos.

  “So, Max, how big do you want these stretcher frames?” He tossed the last plank onto the pile he’d created.

  “Don’t care. I’m more concerned about quantity at this point. You build it and I’ll paint on it.” She had covered her giant commissioned work to keep sawdust out of the tacky paint. She stretched her arms wide and stood on her tiptoes. “About this big.”

  He arranged two pieces of wood on the table saw and measured a four-foot length. “Is Willa selling your paintings by the yard or something?”

  She giggled. “Or something. This is a great opportunity for me and I need to crank out the big boys because the rich people who will be buying them have big places with big walls.”

  “Gotcha.” He cut four pieces the same length, mitered the ends and fitted them together. “How come the sudden interest in painting abstracts? Anyone can throw paint on canvas but it takes a real artist to look at something three dimensional and recreate it on a two-dimensional surface.” The nail gun punctuated his speech as he constructed the frame.

  “On the contrary, big bro. It takes a lot of talent to make something non-representational reach out and grab you.” She took the broom and started gathering piles of sawdust in an attempt to control the accumulating debris. “I’m not too excited about the abstracts, but I’ll get to show some of my representational work as well. Maybe there will be some buyers who appreciate the other side of Max Foster.”

  “I like the smaller ones, Max.” He turned and gestured with the nail gun. “Especially that one.” He indicated a misty seascape featuring a sunrise.

  “Why am I not surprised?” She grinned and swept the pile of debris into a dustpan. “If it doesn’t sell at the gallery, it’s yours. I need it for the show to demonstrate that I can handle water.”

  Merrick slanted a mischievous grin at her. “Handle water? That’s my specialty. Why don’t we take a break and I’ll take you out for a sail in the bay?”

  She frowned at him. “Get busy. I need a dozen more canvasses to make my show a success.”

  He saluted with the nail gun. “Aye-aye, skipper.”

  For the next hour Max cleaned the loft to the tempo of the nail gun, drill and table saw.

  When he had finished, a stack of stretchers were piled against the wall. “What next?” he asked. “I mean after you get me a beer and I take a break.” He dusted off his clothes and spread his frame over the length of the futon. Like Max, he had a distinct aversion to shoes and preferred to go barefoot whenever possible.

  She handed him an ice-cold bottle and plopped down on a stool beside him. “I need you to attach the quarter round and help me stretch the canvas. I can do it by myself but it would be so much faster if you could hold off on your sail for a while and give me a hand. How about it, big bro? Pretty please.”

  He took a long gulp of cold beer. He smiled at her affectionately. “Sure, I’ll help you. Just remember me when you’re a rich and famous artist.”

  Working together, they measured and cut the quarter round and nailed it securely to the frames. Max rolled out the canvas and cut it to size. They spent the rest of the afternoon stretching c
anvas and stapling it around the back of the frames.

  “I’m done,” he announced. “You should be able to paint your little heart out for some time to come.” He began coiling his extension cords.

  She hugged him and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks a lot, Merrick. I know you hate to give up any of your sailing time. I appreciate the sacrifice.”

  He brushed off her thanks. “I know you’ll pay me back by busting your butt to crew for me when I’m racing. By the way, are you dating anybody now?” He grinned, planting his hands on his hips. “Mom and Dad gave up on me providing them with any grandchildren, but you’re still in the will. Any prospects or are you still playing hermit?”

  “Nope. My prospects are pretty slim. If I haven’t found someone by the time I’m thirty, I’ll opt for an anonymous sperm donor.”

  He raised his eyebrows, looking quizzical. “I don’t seriously think you’d have any problem finding a willing participant if you’d bother to look. You’re a hottie, Max.” He ruffled her hair irreverently before he resumed gathering his tools.

  She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms across her chest. “You’re one to talk, Merrick. You’ve had so many great girlfriends over the years. If you’d let someone catch you instead of running off to sailboat races all the time I could have nieces and nephews by now.”

  “Nah! What kind of woman wants a man who goes sailing whenever he can squeeze in a few hours of leisure time and leaves his socks where they fall. I built a decent house, but it’s not exactly a showplace because I only use it for sleeping. Blondie’s the only girl who really gets me.”