Work of Art
Copyright © 2014 by Ruth Clampett. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
ISBN: 978-0-9893919-3-1
Cover Photography: David Johnston
Cover Design: Jada d’Lee
Cover Model: Michael Senich
Editors: Angela Borda, Janine Savage of Write Divas and Janell Parque
Interior formatting: Robert Reid at 52 Novels
To all the artists…
Thank you for bravely
Showing us what you see
When you close your eyes
I see the world differently
Because of you
Table of Contents
Chapter One / The Artist Emerges
Chapter Two / Paint by Numbers
Chapter Three / Fascination Street
Chapter Four / Reluctant Savior
Chapter Five / Teetering between Euphoria and Terror
Chapter Six / Follow the Yellow Brick Road
Chapter Seven / Well, How Did I Get Here?
Chapter Eight / Move Along
Chapter Nine / On Gossamer Wings
Chapter Ten / Down Dog
Chapter Eleven / Free fall
Chapter Twelve / Stolen Memories
Chapter Thirteen / Get a Clue
Chapter Fourteen / Strike!
Chapter Fifteen / Hello Kitty
Chapter Sixteen / Check Please
Chapter Seventeen / My Shiny Penny
Chapter Eighteen / Ancient Pasts, Uncertain Futures
Chapter Nineteen / Fireworks and Earthquakes
Chapter Twenty / Ain’t No Prince Charming
Chapter Twenty-One / Taking Flight
Chapter Twenty-Two / All that Matters
Chapter Twenty-Three / Missing
Coming Soon
Also by Ruth Clampett
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter One / The Artist Emerges
We are living in a storm where a hundred contradictory elements collide; debris from the past, scraps from the present, scenes of the future: swirling, combining, separating, under the imperious wind of destiny.
~Adolphe Retté, La Plume 1898
“Get the hell away from me, Dylan. I’m not going to kiss that faux-art collector’s ass!”
I look up just in time to see the blur of a man charge into our exhibit pavilion. In his fury, he slams the wall I’m facing with his fist, and I jump up as the row of paintings quiver and settle askew.
The second man, who I assume to be Dylan, is right on his heels, and he glances at me, rolling his eyes as he follows the raging artist into our private viewing room.
Not wanting to miss the drama, I jump up and position myself at the edge of the entrance, just as my boss, Adam, slowly stands and addresses the two men.
Adam has a regal air accentuated by his black turtleneck and tailored wool slacks. His silver shock of hair contrasts with his tan rugged face. Something in the way he carries himself makes him a formidable presence.
He steeples his fingers and turns to his left to study the large abstract painting of wide black slashes across a crimson field. A sudden hush falls over the room.
“Max, Dylan, the show’s just begun and you’re already at war.” He pauses and then smiles at Dylan. “I warned you not to have him at the show. Maxfield doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and there are plenty of fools here who think they know art.”
Dylan’s dark eyes narrow in frustration as he grumbles, “We can’t exhibit at the most important art show of the year and not have our star artist here. Collectors want to meet the artists before they invest.”
“Invest! Fuck, I hate that word!” the artist curses as he throws his head back. “This is about someone buying a work of art to make it part of their life. There should be passion about a relationship with their art. Investing is for buying goddamn real estate or government bonds!”
Although I still haven’t seen the artist’s face clearly, I notice the muscles ripple across his back as he crosses his arms across his chest. He’s tall, over six feet, with strong broad shoulders and a tangle of hair so dark it’s almost black.
He turns back to Adam. “So Dylan serves me up on a platter to this tiny, irritating woman with her face pulled so tight it’s about to snap. She kept scraping her fake fingernails up and down my arms and going on about how she loves my work, while I’m trying to keep my breakfast down.
“As if that isn’t brain-numbing enough, her flaming yippy designer whips open a leather bag and starts pulling out fabric swatches.”
“Why couldn’t you’ve just called me over? Mrs. Stanhope’s husband owns the world’s largest chain of sporting goods stores and a chunk of New Jersey. They spend millions on art every year!” Dylan practically shouts.
“I don’t give a fuck who she is. The nervy bitch told me she wanted me to repaint Dreaming of Daybreak to match her bedspread!”
I gasp in horror, and the room suddenly goes quiet as the three surprised men turn around to regard me. “That’s outrageous. What an insult!” I say angrily, giving the artist a sympathetic glance, but gasp again when I realize this stunning man is examining me intently.
Published pictures haven’t done Maxfield Caswell justice. His eyes are the most extraordinary shade of blue-gray, and his face the perfect chiseled combination of angles accented by full lips. The edges of those lips curl up and his eyes spark as he regards his newfound ally.
“And you are?” Dylan challenges me, probably for stepping out of my lowly station in the business of art.
“Gentlemen, this is Ava,” Adam says, giving me a warm smile. “She’s new to this side of the art world and has much to learn.”
“Sounds like she knows more than either of you.” Max slowly moves toward me. I lower my eyes and feel a blush burn across my cheeks. He gently takes my hand. “Ava, such a lovely name,” he murmurs. “I’m Max Caswell, and I don’t create art to match bedspreads.”
“Of course.” I smile, realizing one of the most important emerging artists—according to the last issue of Newsweek—is holding my hand. I can feel the energy surging around this magnificent man, and his energy flows into me, igniting a fire somewhere deep inside. I realize I’m not breathing, and for a moment, I don’t remember how.
I’d read an exposé on Maxfield Caswell in Art World News, which romanticized the fiery, mercurial disposition of the young artist. Well, clearly they weren’t far off the mark, but they neglected to mention how incredibly charming he is.
As I glance down, I’m hyper-conscious of my conservative attire of a tailored shirt and sophisticated black fitted skirt. I sense the irony that my intention of choosing a work wardrobe to look professional also makes me blend in. If I hadn’t boldly defended this artist, he wouldn’t have noticed me.
The longer he gazes at me, the more aware I become of the absurdity of my instantaneous infatuation. This man is a sensation in the art world, and women like me are expected to fawn over him. I may be a mere gallery assistant, but I
don’t intend to join his fan club. Yes, his art is exhibited around the world, but I plan to make my mark one day too.
Lay off the romantic novels, Ava, I think to myself. Do you seriously think the prince of the art world will sweep you off your feet? But I look at Max and he’s smiling like he has plans for me.
“Adam, would you mind if I borrowed Ava? I want a break away from all of this, and I sense she’s just the one to calm me.” He looks down and winks, and I shift uncomfortably. As Max takes my arm and begins leading me out of the room, I look back, and although Adam looks extremely displeased, he quietly nods. My sheer curiosity keeps me from insisting I stay.
“Do you always get your way?” I ask him with an arched brow as he pulls me along.
He shrugs with a crooked smile. “Pretty much. Grab your coat.”
I take my purse as well, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
Although the aisles of the exhibition are crowded with people, Max seems to clear a path as he quickly leads me away from the scene. I can feel people’s eyes on us, I assume due to Max’s striking good looks and dramatic presence. I realize he must deal with this on a daily basis, and I shudder as I think about that much attention. He picks up speed, and I become entranced by the blur of colors and light from the paintings and sculptures we pass.
“Where are we going?” I ask, as we explode out the exit and into the crisp cold air of New York City.
The sights and sounds of the city are upon us, the jagged skyline of buildings against the vivid blue sky. Even though I’ve been here before, I’m overwhelmed by the sensation; I take in the swirling sound of traffic and voices, the flash of lights and swarm of people walking past. I’m intrigued by the mystery of where this man’s taking me. I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them, I realize Max has stepped forward, hailed a cab and now holds the door open.
“Your coach, madam.” He smiles as I slide inside.
I’m feeling a bit disoriented, as if I’ve stepped into a nineteen-forties romantic comedy and Cary Grant has charmed me into an adventure.
As he leans forward to give the driver directions, I catch his scent, a mixture of soap and a subtle musk of some fragrance I don’t recognize. My insides clench. Damn, he’s good-looking. I focus on the strong line of his jaw and the rough texture of his unshaven stubble. Despite my intent to keep a clear head, I have an urge to scrape my teeth along that jaw, and I press my legs together.
He flops back on the seat and laughs. “We’ve escaped, Ava! We’re free!”
I laugh, surprised to see him so happy. “You’re a bad influence, Mr. Caswell,” I admonish him with a teasing tone. “I’m supposed to be cataloguing paintings right now, not gallivanting off with you.” I tip my head and gaze at him through my eyelashes playfully. Two can play the flirting game.
“Well, to hell with that. Gallivanting is the order of the day. Only the best for my defender and savior.” He lifts my hand to his cheek and pulls it slowly across his face, lightly brushing my hand with his lips before setting it in my lap.
He’s good at this stuff. My heart’s fluttering, and I turn away to gaze out the window, embarrassed.
The cab lets us off on a side street in the Village, and we descend a short flight of stairs and enter a small Italian restaurant with dark wood-paneled walls and soft lighting. A weathered fresco of the hills of Tuscany is painted on the far wall. There’s a gentle muted blend of voices floating through the air, as if the patrons in the restaurant are whispering.
As we step further into the restaurant, the host greets us warmly, and it’s apparent that Max has charmed everyone who works here long ago. They fawn over him like a long lost brother and treat me like his adored queen. I don’t even notice him order, but the servers quickly bring us a bottle of Ruffino Chianti and platters of bruschetta, calamari and antipasto.
This is a break? I think to myself. It’s much grander than I expected and I’m secretly delighted.
Max settles, stretches his strong arms across the top of the booth and watches me intently as I sip my wine and smooth my napkin over my lap.
“So, I’ve never seen you at the show before, Ava. How long have you been working for Adam?”
I hesitate, not sure how much of my story to edit. “Adam offered me a job seven years ago when I was in a tough spot, and he and Katherine ended up bringing me into their family. As a matter of fact, while I finished up my degree at UCLA, I lived in a guesthouse on their property.”
He arches his eyebrows and strokes his chin with his long fingers. “Interesting. So what do you do at the gallery?”
“For several years I’ve helped Sean Kenary run their print studio, but recently Adam’s been getting me involved in various aspects of the business. This is my first time working one of the shows.”
“I wondered why I hadn’t seen you here before. Well, they must think a lot of you.”
“Believe me, the feeling is mutual. I’m not sure what would’ve happened to me if it hadn’t been for them. I owe them a lot.”
He looks at me intently, and I worry he’s wondering about what I didn’t say.
“And what did you study at UCLA?”
“Art history with a focus on contemporary art, and a minor in literature. Literature because of my passion for reading, both classic and current authors, but I also have a particular interest in writing about art.”
He nods and, judging by his expression, he’s impressed. I’m surprised that he’s interested to learn these details about me. Maybe it’s an act, or he isn’t as self-absorbed as I’d surmised.
I decide to change the topic by asking him about his current work. He explains his recent exploration of the influence of technology versus organic inspiration in his work. I hate to admit it, but he’s even sexier when he’s talking about his passion. It’s hard not to be enchanted by him.
“Do you live in L.A. full time?” I ask, trying not to be obvious, while he pours more wine in my glass.
He smiles. “Yes, and there’s a large group from L.A. at the show this year. It seemed as if half the passengers on my flight here were artists and dealers.” He lifts his glass and takes a sip of wine. “I’m staying through Wednesday, but most people are leaving Tuesday after the show closes. How about you?”
“We’re on a later flight Tuesday evening.” I feel a surge of disappointment, wishing I were booked on his Wednesday flight.
Before I know it, we’ve almost emptied the bottle of wine, and the effects have softened all my edges. I’m probably sounding less sharp, but Max doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still engaged in the conversation, and he definitely looks relaxed as he studies me.
“You know, Ava, you have the most beautiful green eyes.”
If he were indeed Cary Grant, at this point in our film he’d reach over and slide my glasses off, loosen my ponytail until my hair cascaded around my shoulders and then let out a low whistle at the way he’s transformed me.
I take a sip of wine and push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Are you going to take my glasses off?”
Max gives me a puzzled look. “Why would I do that?”
“I thought dashing guys like you always took the glasses off girls like me.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Actually, I think the glasses are sexy. You’re rocking the serious art dealer look. It’s hot.” He leans closer. “I like to imagine that professional women who dress like this wear smoking lingerie underneath it all.”
I blink, picturing my demure cotton panties with the tiny bow. I give him a saucy look to throw him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He narrows his eyes seductively as the corners of his mouth curve up. “I knew it.”
He looks very pleased, and I wonder if he knows how much he’s provoking me. I gaze at his full lips and wonder how they would taste.
He leans forward, places his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand. His head tips one direction, then the other. I feel as if I’m being studied for a por
trait.
“What?” I ask, before taking another sip of wine.
“You’re really something, Ava.”
“So are you.” I run my fingers down the stem of my wine glass and hope he doesn’t ask me to explain. Instead he elaborates.
“You’re smart, beautiful and sexy too.”
Is he kidding? I’m doubtful due to the intense look he gives me. I should know better, but damn, this man knows how to unravel a woman. My face is on fire and the flush moves across the top of my chest. I gaze at him while trying to control all the impulses surging through me.
My mind wanders and I imagine he’s leaning back against the booth, his head tipped toward the light while I slowly undo each one of his buttons and pull his shirt open. I start by pressing my lips just under his jaw and slowly burn a trail of kisses across his chest, and down his abdomen. He tangles his fingers in my hair as he holds me gently, his soft moan encouraging me on.
“Ava?”
My eyes snap into focus when I realize he’s speaking again.
“Will you come to my show tomorrow night? You must know Jess. She’ll be there. You could come with her…or of course, you can bring whomever you wish. It’s down in SoHo at ArteHaus.”
“I’d like to go. I’m sure I can come with Jess or even Adam.”
“Give me your phone,” he says, holding out his hand open. “I’ll give you my number and you can call if you can’t arrange it with anyone, and I’ll send my car.”
A thrill shoots up my spine. Am I really going to do this?
I hand him my phone, and when he’s done entering his number, he pulls out his phone and asks for mine. He’s smooth as silk.
I’m programmed in Max Caswell’s phone, I giggle to myself. I wonder how many other girls are on that microchip?
He takes another sip of his wine and looks back up as he slides his phone away. “So what’s your passion, Ava? Working in the art field, or is there something else?”
His question and earnest look surprise me. Is there more depth and empathy to him than I realize? I take a sharp breath, realizing this is the first time in my entire life anyone has asked me this question; not just what I want to study in college or do for my career, but what my passion is, what my heart tells me to do. Dozens of thoughts slide through my mind.
Work of Art ~The Inspiration Page 1