Art of Deception (Contemporary Romance)

by Faver, JD

  Since then, he’d been working alongside his father and rarely had time to think about Houston...about the debacle at Cherise’s...about the people who had made a complete fool of him...until he was alone in his bed, staring at the ceiling and aching to hold the woman he’d called Millie.

  Jon stole a glance at his father. J.C. rode shotgun, his elbow hanging out the window. His bright blue eyes constantly roamed over the landscape and the livestock, taking in every detail of his beloved ranch.

  J.C. pointed to a place down the fence line. “Pull in up ahead under those cottonwoods, son,” he directed. “My big Charolais bull broke through the fence in that little draw.”

  Jon nodded absently as the truck lurched through a dry creek bed.

  J.C. winked at him. “You know how it is when a bull has his eye on a particular little lady? Nothing’s going to stop him.”

  Jon made a noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I know all about that.”

  J.C. chuckled. “I imagine you do.”

  Jon shook his head. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I used to think I was pretty smart when it came to women, but I’m beginning to realize that I’m a complete idiot.”

  J.C. skewered him with a glance. “This is about your little Millie, isn’t it?”

  Jon ground his teeth together as he put the truck in gear and turned off the ignition. “She lied to me. All the time I was falling in love with her, she was lying to me.” He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “I wasn’t even allowed to know her real name until Saturday night when it all came out. And she didn’t have the decency to tell me to my face, so I don’t know if she ever planned to let me in on her little secrets.”

  Silence filled the vehicle after Jon’s passionate outburst. He sat, frowning as his fingers clenched and unclenched around the wheel, a storm still raging in his soul.

  J.C. started to say something but then clamped his mouth closed.

  Jon felt a bit better to have had his say. Better to get it out. He huffed out a sigh and climbed out, slamming the door behind him.

  J.C. exited the truck, coming to stand beside his son as he jerked the tailgate down with a bang.

  “She’s an artist, Dad.” Jon pulled on his leather work gloves and took the roll of wire from the bed of the truck. “She has more talent than anyone I’ve ever known first hand and I don’t know why she wouldn’t want to admit it to me.” He dumped the wire beside the damaged section of fence. “If I could paint like her I’d be right out there letting everyone know.”

  J.C. followed with a toolbox. “I can’t imagine anyone painting any better than you.”

  Jon gave him a sharp look. “The difference between me and Max Foster is that I can paint what I see and she can paint what she feels. She’s a genius. She’s living on a whole different planet from me.”

  “Maybe that’s why she did it,” J.C. said quietly. “Maybe she didn’t want to live on a whole different planet from you.” He. squatted down to examine a fence post. “Hand me the wire cutters, son.”

  Jon considered the possibility that she didn’t reveal her identity because she thought it would matter to him. Did it matter? Surely she couldn’t think he was such an egomaniac that he would envy her talent? He expelled a long breath and shook his head again. He had no idea what she was thinking.

  While they repaired the fence, Jon told his father about being taken in for questioning concerning the burglaries.

  “I listened to Dean’s story about his ex taking him for everything and how he needed a fresh start. I didn’t think a friend would deliberately try to wreck your life.”

  “That’s not a friend, son.” J.C.’s grave expression betrayed his feelings about his son’s experience. “Is this arrest on your record?”

  “The police questioned me, but I wasn’t charged with anything. They don’t put you in jail for being an idiot.”

  “I think you’re being pretty hard on yourself,” J.C. said. “It sounds like you were just trying to give a fellow a leg up. You didn’t know he was a crook.” He removed his hat and wiped his brow.

  “It sounds simple when you say it,” Jon said. “How come I feel like I’ve been played for a fool times two?”

  “Let the cops deal with the burglars. What did the little lady have to say for herself?”

  Jon hefted the remains of the bale of wire into the bed of the truck. “I haven’t talked to her.”

  J.C. shook his head and grinned. “Now that makes perfect sense.”

  ~*~

  Max curled up with her duvet in the middle of her new bed. It was located in the spot suggested in Jon’s drawings, right under the skylight.

  She wished he could see how good it looked all put together. He would see it, she told herself. When the time was right, he’d come through the door and admire his handiwork.

  In the meantime, she was using the swan bed as her command post. When she nuked a meal, she crawled onto the bed with her plate or bowl to enjoy her simple fare. When she washed her laundry in the basement, she brought her clean clothes there to fold before stacking them in neat piles on her dad’s old army foot locker.

  Now, she doodled in her sketchbook. She’d written Jon’s name in several variations and colored in the loops.

  Willa banged on her door and was admitted.

  Max returned to the swan bed and picked up her sketchbook again.

  “Good for you.” Willa ditched her shoes and climbed up onto the bed beside Max. “It looks like you’re back to your old self. It’s great to see you sketching again.”

  “I’m just doodling,” she said. “I don’t seem to be able to find any inspiration.”

  “How about this?” Willa tossed a check on the bed.

  “What’s this?” Max’s squeaked out. “This is huge!”

  “It’s a check from your friend and mine, Cherise Gilman. Since all the newspaper coverage she’s been selling your paintings like snow-cones in July. She actually made nice and was begging me for more.”

  “I thought the story about the burglaries and my near arrest would kill any interest in the rest of my work.”

  “Not so,” Willa said. “It’s a pity you didn’t kill someone. The public would be knocking on your mom’s door trying to buy your kindergarten finger paintings off the fridge.”

  “Willa Beth!”

  “I came to pick up a few more of these paintings.” She gestured to the dozen or so canvasses left propped against the wall. “The Cherise Gilman Gallery is looking kind of bare.”

  Max glanced around the loft, trying to remember the paintings that remained. “You’re kidding. These were the ones I didn’t think were good enough for the show.”

  “Well, bring on the B-team because your work is hot right now.” Willa turned her wide-eyed gaze on Max. “Do you realize how important timing is? Carpe diem. Seize the day, Max. Grab it with both hands.”

  “You can take anything you think is worthy.”

  “And you have to get back to work,” Willa said. “Oleg Cantwell is asking about the painting I hyped. And we need more stock at Gilman’s. The Max store is running low.”

  “I get it,” Max said. “You can lay off the metaphors.” She glanced at the blank canvas sitting on her easel. “I’ll hit it tomorrow.”

  The next morning, Max borrowed Sherman’s vehicle. She drove to an art supply store and bought a large roll of primed canvas and a couple of tubes of her favorite gel medium.

  Next, she drove through the motor bank and deposited her gigantic check. She stared at her balance and wondered how this vast fortune would change her life.

  Willa had said her work was hot.

  Max was doing what she’d always wanted. She was painting and being recognized for her talent.

  Somehow it didn’t feel as good as she’d thought it would.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Jon looked back over his shoulder to see J.C. waving goodbye to him as he headed out in the truck to the copse of trees close to
the house.

  “It’s great to have your help, son.”

  “You can count on me.” Jon yelled. He would make sure that his parents had an adequate supply of firewood as well as taking care of a couple of trees that had fallen during the winter months.

  He stopped the truck close to where a brook trickled over a bed of smooth rock. He loved this little wooded area. There were birch and a few maples scattered among the oaks and mesquite.

  Arranging his equipment nearby, Jon shed his shirt and pulled on leather work gloves. He yanked the cord on the chainsaw. The sound ripped through the silence of the copse of trees and startled a covey of quail from the underbrush.

  Jon watched them take flight, squinting in the dappled sunlight. The beauty of his surroundings filled his chest with a lonely ache. He longed to share this sight with someone who would appreciate it. He longed to share it with Max.

  Resolutely, he began to cut the fallen trees into manageable lengths. The sun filtering down through the branches overhead felt good on his bare shoulders.

  He spent most of the morning ripping into the fallen trees. He brushed wood chips out of his hair before taking the axe from the back of the truck. Splitting logs released a lot of his pent up anger. He wasn’t even sure who he was angry with any more.

  “Max!” He said her name out loud as he swung the axe. He was angry with Max, but he was still in love with Millie. Sweet, naïve Millie. She loved him.

  How did Max, the brilliant artist feel about him? It was Max Foster who’d opened her door with her bathrobe clutched around her shoulders. It was she who’d screamed his name when they made love in his shower.

  Jon loved her beauty and passion. He loved her sweetness and her...lies! He loved the bullshit she’d fed him. He loved the way she’d made him feel.

  He felt used and he wasn’t sure why. She’d gotten her art show. He’d have given her that anyway. He was willing to give the show to Max Foster when he thought Max was a man and when he’d thought that Millie was in love with him.

  Jon brought the axe down again with satisfaction.

  The business he’d built up from nothing was now dead. He imagined that the designers who’d been working for him had their resumes out, whispering that they’d left Claremont after the scandal; that they were trying their best to distance themselves from him and his disgrace. And other designers, like Oleg Cantwell, were scrambling to ingratiate themselves to his former clients.

  He’d have to go back eventually, if only to clean out his office and sell off the fixtures.

  His parents had been right all along. Ranching was the way of life he was meant to live. And he couldn’t expect a city girl like Max to be content with this out-of-the-way haven.

  He blinked. Where had that thought come from? He wasn’t even speaking to Max Foster, let along proposing to her.

  After loading the split logs into the truck bed, he drove back to the house.

  Jon stacked the newly cut wood and placed the old, seasoned logs on top. When his tasks were done he used his shirt to brush off stray bits of sawdust and wood chips before entering the house.

  “Come in the kitchen, Jon,” his mother called. “You didn’t come back for lunch. I was worried about you.”

  Jon gave her a look. “Mom, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m a grown man.”

  “That’s what your friend Millie said when I called you my boy.” Carla’s eyes twinkled with warmth.

  “She did?” Jon smiled through the stab of pain.

  “I made you a couple of cold meatloaf sandwiches to hold you over until dinner. Wash your hands. You can sit right here in the kitchen and keep me company.”

  Jon pulled a stool up to the countertop and bit into a sandwich. “Thanks, Mom,” he said. “I didn’t realize I was so hungry.”

  “Your daddy told me about your falling out with Millie,” Carla said. “I’m so sorry, Jon. I hope the two of you can work it out.”

  Jon shrugged and continued eating.

  His mother’s eyes searched his. “For what it’s worth, I thought your Millie was a real nice girl.”

  “Max, Mom. Her name is Max Foster. She lied to me about her name.”

  Carla smiled, her brown eyes twinkling. “Millie or Max, it doesn’t matter what her name is. That little girl’s in love with you.” She turned to stir something simmering in a shiny stockpot sitting atop the six-burner gas range.

  Jon tried to sound casual as he asked, “What makes you think so?”

  She turned back to him, an amused grin on her face. “I’m a woman and I can tell. Why don’t you give her a call?”

  An unintelligible frustrated explosion of sound erupted from his throat. “She’s the only female in the western hemisphere without a cell phone glued to her head and she doesn’t have a land line either. Besides, I wouldn’t know what to say to her.”

  “You could tell her how you feel,” Carla said.

  “I don’t know how I feel.” He shoved the last bite of sandwich into his mouth.

  “I think you do,” Carla said. “It’s okay to tell her that you’re mad at her, or disappointed or whatever. But she must feel awful, not knowing at all how you feel.”

  “I figured she was laughing herself silly at my expense.” Jon’s expression darkened. “She did a good job of making a complete fool out of me.”

  “Do you think that was her intention?” Carla’s steady gaze made Jon feel uncomfortable. He hadn’t considered how Max might be feeling.

  “I don’t have any idea what her intention was,” he growled. “I just know the outcome.”

  “Tell me what’s standing between the two of you right now, beside the distance.” Carla rinsed his plate and slid it into the dishwasher. “I mean, other than your pride.”

  Jon stared at his hands, digesting his mother’s words.

  “Telephone for you, son.” J.C. brought the handset to the kitchen and placed it on the counter close to Jon’s hand. “It’s a female.”

  “Nobody knows I’m here,” he said.

  “Somebody does,” Carla pulled J.C. out of the kitchen to allow Jon some privacy.

  He took a deep breath and picked up the receiver.

  “Mr. Donnell? It’s Courtney.”

  “Courtney, how did you find me?” It had been almost two weeks since he’d pulled his disappearing act.

  He heard her nervous giggle. “It wasn’t easy. I checked your rolodex.”

  “What do you want?” He sounded snappish even to his own ears. “I mean, what can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Donnell, there are so many people trying to get in touch with you. I have a list of clients who want you to design a project for them, but I didn’t know when you’d be back so I haven’t made appointments and they just keep calling so what shall I tell them?” She finished a bit out of breath.

  Jon blinked. He replayed everything Courtney had said as though decoding a foreign language. His business wasn’t dead? Everyone hadn’t jumped ship?

  He cleared his throat. “How...how are things?”

  “Busy! Everyone is slaving away to finish projects so we can be ready when you get back. It looks like we’re going to be very busy.”

  “Next week,” he said. “I’ll be back next week.”

  “Okay, Mr. Donnell,” she said. “I’ll start taking appointments for next week.”

  He hung up, feeling dazed. He’d thought his career as a designer was over after the art show debacle.

  He wasn’t even sure he wanted to return to Houston. There were too many unknowns waiting there for him.

  ~*~

  Merrick motored out of Galveston Bay under a clear sky with the wind kicking. Bobbing in six foot swells, he watched Willa and Max rigging the crisp white sails. He’d bought a new set for the racing season. He was breaking them in and training his crew.

  He chuckled as he watched Max solemnly instructing Willa in her duties.

  His first boat had been a Sunfish. Then he’d graduated to catamarans. Ma
x had always been his willing crew. They’d had some mishaps on the smaller boats, sometimes landing them both in the drink with the boat on its side. But Max had usually been a good sport, helping him right the boat and bail out the hull, as necessary. He could always count on her.

  And she could always count on him.

  Merrick’s mouth tightened, thinking of Jon Donnell. He wished now he’d pounded him harder when he’d had the chance.

  Max and Willa had their heads together. They were working as a team. It was important for his crew to work like a well-oiled machine.

  The thirty-six-foot Beneteau offered greater comfort than the smaller boats, and it required more skill to sail in a regatta. Turning a bigger boat around a race course was like choreographing a dance, only you were dancing with the wind.

  “Would you like some help?” he offered.

  “We’re doing fine, big bro,” Max said. “Just back off and let us do this.”

  Willa and Merrick exchanged a glance. He sensed it was important for Max to accomplish this task without his assistance. He stood close, spraying lubricant in the stainless steel track of the mast and rubbing off the excess with a soft cloth.