Freezing sweat clung to Oliver’s body in a vice-like grip, as he recalled the scorn his father rained upon him during his few personal visits. He paced across to the open window, inhaling deeply as he struggled to rip himself free from the shards of the past. Jesus, what sort of father tries to have his son institutionalised?
To some, it might seem ironic that he should be so generous to a country where he spent such an unhappy childhood, but Oliver didn’t like to think of others suffering.
He forced his mind back to the present.
“Tonight’s opening painting Butterfly Lovers is a significant artwork,” the auctioneer continued, glancing down at his notes.
Oliver didn’t have to read his words to know that what he would reveal was a shallow rendition of the truth. Only two people in the world truly knew just what Butterfly Lovers meant.
He glanced around the room thinking Ruby might have come, hoping with all his willpower she hadn’t.
TWO
He forced himself not to betray the turmoil of emotions jack-knifing through his body as the massive painting was carried to the makeshift podium.
The butterfly theme had held so much promise. He’d never really bought into Ruby’s tales about the transformative power of art to heal. But back then privately he’d hoped her optimism might rub off. With her by his side, and by owning the painting, perhaps he could shed a skin, free himself of his deformed past, re-emerge in a new skin. Undamaged. Someone nearing perfection. A better man. The sort of man Ruby deserved.
He’d been a fool.
Oliver’s spine stiffened. He’d intended to keep it...her...forever. But even good intentions couldn’t make up for a lifetime’s inability to commit. He moved towards the terrace, widening the distance between him and the painting. He would no longer succumb to the painting’s potent power to remind him of his failings.
“Created specifically for Oliver over seven years ago by struggling contemporary artist CG Tombly—only Oliver could have foreseen its financial potential.”
Oliver’s brow furrowed. The suggestion he had acquired the painting for commercial gain, rankled him. If he wasn’t such a private man he might have told the crowd the truth. He’d made the mistake of talking candidly once before—a mistake he wouldn’t be making again.
In its place he’d created a new habit—a habit of keeping his emotional life to himself, one he wasn’t about to break. Soon the painting, and the painful memories of the only woman capable of making him feel, would be shed and he could devote himself to less painful obsessions.
“As always, Oliver’s timing is impeccable. The painting’s value has rocketed in the same soaring capacity as the palatial hotel Oliver’s company has recently constructed in Dubai–so high it almost touches the gods.”
The auctioneer flung his hands into the air to accentuate his point. “Oliver Hart,” he said, nodding in his direction and pointing to his towering 6-foot, 2-inch frame, “never does anything small.”
Oliver thrust his hands in his pockets and glanced out the window refusing to look at the painting as the bidding began.
In a few fist-clenching minutes it would all be over and he could get on with his life.
His gaze drifted to the sculpture garden, lying beyond the pool, alighting on a solitary bronze sculpture by Brancusi. The modernist interpretation of Hercules holding the world on his shoulders, with its roughly hewn egg shaped sphere symbolizing earth had always appealed to him.
Balanced precariously on a towering sculpted wood base, the odd shape and the large crater severing the middle of the sphere challenged conventional notions of perfection and reminded him of humanity’s rawness.
As his gaze lingered over the sculpture it occurred to him that repairing his scars, so deep that no relationship he started ever endured, required a Herculean effort.
No wonder the painting had failed.
But he still wanted to believe, as the ancient Greeks had, that art had a powerful ability to transform lives. He only hoped that selling the painting finally fulfilled this purpose. Perhaps then the painful memories that still haunted him could be turned to good.
He turned and fixed his gaze upon the audience. Who would be its new owner he wondered as the opening bid of one million was made. Would it go to Don Hermes, the impotent pharmaceutical giant, standing just ahead of him, or some other equally innocuous purchaser? Or would some anonymous bidder calling from China, Europe or the Middle East be the lucky buyer?
“$12 million? Do I have $12 million?” The bags under the auctioneer’s eyes shifted as he tilted his head forward, and peered under his glasses.
“A small price to pay,” he continued, his gaze briefly flickering to Oliver, “for a painting personally commissioned by a man who defies every category and transcends every cliché: a man with tremendous gusto and creative generosity.”
The auctioneer’s eyes flew to a scantily dressed blonde hovering hopefully next to Oliver. “A man who has yet to be pinned down.”
Oliver caste her a dismissive look and moved further toward the back of the room.
“$12 million we have,” cried the auctioneer’s assistant, nodding vigorously as he pressed his iPhone firmly to his ear.
Oliver’s heart lurched as the bidding began.
“$13 million,” the assistant taking telephone bids shouted, raising his hand.
“$13.2 million.” The auctioneer’s eyes darted between the phone bidder and two men determined to claim the painting as their own.
Explosive tension hovered as one of the two remaining bidders turned their attention away.
“$13.5 million! At $13.5 million the painting will be sold,” the auctioneer warned. He suspended the gavel in the air, pausing as he scanned the room.
“$17.4 million,” came a guttural, low growl from the front of the crowd.
A record price!
The room fell silent under the weight of the bid, then buzzed with irritatingly discordant voices, their murmurs of awe and envy a rising tide of white noise.
Oliver’s eyes darted to the front row. Over $14 million? The price was ridiculous. Someone must want it desperately. But who and why?
He was acquainted with the deep pockets of unbridled obsession. He understood intimately the seductive power of the painting.
But this was crazy bidding.
There had to be a compelling reason surpassing the usual appreciation of an art-lover. At that price it could hardly be an investment buy.
So that left...what?
Oliver paced the back of the room in agitation unable to see the face of the man who had placed this latest bid. He caught a glimpse of the woman next to the anonymous bidder as she shook a sexy spill of sun-kissed curls down her back. The familiar gesture sent shockwaves to his heart.
It couldn’t be.
Her head turned slightly.
Oliver stood still, as if immobile, as if turned to stone.
Ruby Diaz.
His Ruby.
THREE
A symphony of emotions crashed through his veins as he saw a possessive arm snake around Ruby’s waist and realized with horror the identity of the serpent she was with. Oliver threw back his shoulders, his muscular jaw tilted forward in defiance as he looked at the nauseatingly familiar figure.
Carlos Torres, the New York based, Mexican banking magnate and the-soon-to-be owner of Butterfly Lovers.
He could not let his painting—their painting—fall into her lover’s clutches—a man as unscrupulous as he was deceptively charming.
Oliver’s overactive mind raced with scenarios. He could draw from his own accounts the money for the earthquake fund—adding to the millions he had already donated.
But he knew with chilling certainty he was powerless to flout protocol, to bend the rules, to manipulate the outcome to suit his own desires. He knew only too well that once the auction had started, Butterfly Lovers could not be withdrawn.
“At this price, we’ll sell,” the auctioneer’s eyes
swept the room for any last bids.
The muscles in Oliver’s chest tightened as he saw the auctioneer’s gavel ascend into the air.
He watched helplessly as Carlos pulled Ruby toward him and folded her into his arms. The bitter taste of jealousy flooded his mouth.
The gavel sank toward the sounding block with freeze-frame inevitability. A splintering crack as wood met wood confirmed it was over with chilling clarity.
Oliver’s hand tightened into a closed fist, crumpling the Butterfly Lovers catalogue into obscurity.
His heart rate pulsated making his chest feel as though it was about to implode, as Ruby turned and he watched with shock the way she wilted under Carlos’ dominant presence, the light of passion missing from her eyes. She seemed sad and vulnerable—and the Ruby he knew was neither.
Something was wrong.
His rational mind thundered a warning. Don’t get involved.
What business was it of his if she wanted to make a life with that snake? None. Not ordinarily. But Ruby wasn’t ordinary. Accepting and accommodating maybe, but something told him there was more to their union than met the eye.
He clenched his fists and cursed softly fighting against the impulse to save her from a big mistake. Playing rescuer would invite complications he didn’t need.
Especially now.
What he needed was a distraction. What he needed was uncomplicated sex—not to reignite a obsession. Ruby had already proven herself capable of breaking his heart mercilessly.
Not so with paintings and sculptures and his beloved butterflies, he mused, forcing his thoughts back to his collections. Once possessed they would never leave without his consent. And he could never make them cry. His jaw clenched as bitter memories of his parents’ feuding pounded in his ears. His mother’s heart-wrenching cries once heard, never forgotten.
He must not be distracted. He must not allow Ruby to get close. Obviously she had engineered Carlos to buy the painting, knowing full well how it would torture Oliver. She tortured him all those years ago and it was clear she intended to continue the onslaught. She could have that damned painting, he mused as unwelcome, undesired, uncontrollable passions, long forgotten but now unbridled, threatened to escape.
He rested one shoulder against the floor length window, his attention locked on Ruby as she freed herself from Carlos’ clutches and fluttered through the swelling crowd toward the patio.
She possessed an innate and natural elegance that caused his glands to salivate, wetting his appetite in open defiance of his will. Her legs screamed danger—their long, slender length accented in scorchingly sharp stilettos that threatened to kill.
Kill his resolve. Kill his self-control. Kill him all over again.
He reached for a glass of whiskey from a passing waitress. He rocked the glass from side to side and studied the rough ice-chunks crashing through the amber liquid, then knocked the drink back, drowning his conflicting emotions.
Like a moth drawn to light he savored the way her floor length, silk dress clung to her lithe figure, her hibiscus red dress shimmering under the halogen lights like the wings of a newly emerged butterfly.
The way the vibrant color of her dress contrasted so deliciously with the flock of black cocktail dresses and designer dark suits everyone else favored brought a smile to his lips. Ruby had always stood out from the crowd.
Walk away, stay away. The voice in his head pitched high and shrill like an ambulance siren, as he fought an instinctive need to free her from a bad mistake.
The irregularly cut crystal pressed into his fingers as he gripped the glass. His life had rapidly become complicated.
He craned his neck as he momentarily lost sight of her, searching over the sea of heads and glittering diamonds.
Like the shards of ice in his glass, his hardened intention to stay detached was fracturing.
Plastering on a face of extreme nonchalance, he pushed determinedly towards her through the crowd as she stepped onto the patio and gazed forlornly up at the stars.
Why the hell was she with a dickhead like Carlos.
Glancing at his watch, Oliver wondered if he could find out what he needed to know in less than 20 minutes?
MAGNETISM
Rivers of joy will follow attractions to drop on the ring
~ Aniekee Tochukwu Ezekiel ~
FOUR
Carlos had been determined to purchase a work of art. He had demanded Ruby come. Instinctively every bone in her body wanted to refuse, but he had insisted. He hadn’t mentioned the name of the artwork, and she hadn’t asked why it was so crucial she be there.
‘Why?’ was not a question that either Carlos or her family condoned. The rules hadn’t changed and the message was clear; be a good girl and do what you’re told.
Ordinarily she might have bitten back, but with her father so ill and her family facing financial ruin, now was not the time. They needed Carlos’ money.
And Ruby always gave priority to other people’s needs. The Diaz’s had given her a home when nobody else wanted her. The only thing that mattered now was repaying their kindness.
But Carlos had played her like a fool. She swallowed her pride and the resentment of once again being used for other people’s pleasure.
Her breath clung to her lungs as she walked toward the pool and filled her belly with deep gulps of the sweet fragrant air. There was no escaping her past.
Not now. Not here. Not in the home of the man she’d tried so hard to avoid.
Ruby turned around to make her way back to Carlos’ side, knowing he would be furious if she was absent for long. Her mind was churning as a large muscular male blocked her path. She reached out her hand to avoid a collision.
A glittering frenzy of electrons surged through her body as her fingers connected with a crisp white shirt covering a far too muscular chest. Heat radiated through her in a wild, impulsive flood as firm hands gripped her upper arms.
Ruby froze. She didn’t have to look up at the handsomely rugged face capping the majestically tall frame. Her body knew instinctively. Every muscle in her lithe frame quivered, the remembrance of their intimacy all those years ago permanently etched in her muscular memory bank.
Painting a smile onto quivering lips Ruby took a deep breath. For years she’d dreaded this moment.
“Hello Oliver,” she said with just enough frost to make sure he knew she didn’t care.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Oliver murmured in a deeply derisive voice.
Against common sense her gaze met his. She could tell from the gleam of hard ruthlessness which brought a sharper intensity to Oliver’s eyes that he still blamed her for running out on him all those years ago.
But then he’d never understood the hold her family had over her. He’d never understood how much she strived for their approval. He’d never understood how they’d made her give up the only man she’d ever loved.
How could he know how deeply she’d grieved? She never told him. And now, after all this time, she doubted he cared. For some reason she never knew, family meant nothing to him.
He never talked about them. Not once.
Ruby willed herself to give away none of the turmoil coursing through her. She forced herself to study his far too ruggedly gorgeous face with veiled, unreadable eyes. She pressed her lips together, ensuring no excitement softened the mouth that had once possessed his in passionate, mindless enchantment.
“It’s better we don’t see each other Oliver,” she said, feeling a tug of remorse, as the all too familiar heavy load of guilt squashed her heart. She wished she could tell him the truth, that everything he believed about her was a lie, but opening up and self-pity wasn’t her style. Masking her insecurities with a cloak of aloofness was a much better defense, especially now.
Besides he’d hurt her too.
He left her emotionally well before she left him physically. She’d never forgiven him for abandoning her, preferring his aggressive pursuit of acquisitions and his relentless, and
at times ruthless hunt for more and more wealth.
All to prove that he was worthy.
She’d been seduced by his commanding presence, his blatant masculinity, his overpowering protectiveness. In his arms she’d felt secure, adored, safe. Which was why his withdrawal came as such a shock.
Oliver was a lone wolf. A lone wolf she wasn’t about to trust again with her heart. Even if her family would allow it. Which they wouldn’t, she mused biting down on her lip.
Even if fate allowed—it was too late. The past was the past and revisiting it now would only make things worse. Carlos was their golden boy, the chains of connection locked in powerful family alliances.
He released his grip but stood firm. His eyes narrowed, his gaze unwavering. Around them music pulsated, and people laughed, but she was trapped with him in exploding silence.
Ruby felt a frisson of danger run down her spine as he towered over her. Not close enough for her to object but close enough to feel sparks ignite between them.
She stepped back, widening the space between them. She didn’t want to feel what she felt. She couldn’t feel what she felt. She wouldn’t feel the magnetism that united them and branded her as his.
FIVE
For years she had not allowed herself to think of Oliver. She’d deleted all the photos of him from her hard drive, disciplined herself not to Google his name or surf the Internet for images, knowing that the only way to forget him was to try and erase his memory.
But that wasn’t easily done. The papers were always full of his successes—both in business and in bed. Clearly she had never been good enough. Not that it mattered now.
“I don’t want to see you.” She paused for extra effect, needing to rock his arrogant, determined, unflinching bravado. “I’m with someone else.”
Flight of Passion: True romance and the obsession for love Page 2