Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  “I was really looking forward to seeing you again,” he says quietly, his eyes a darker blue in the candlelight. “Perhaps, after dinner, I’ll tell you about my dream.”

  The Sauvignon Blanc flows freely, and I drink, nervous for what the rest of the evening holds. I think I’m especially unsettled because I’m not sure what my boundaries are with Jonathan. I’m working with him on an important project, and this ongoing flirtation leaves me confused.

  Being attracted to someone who holds such possibilities for my career is complicated. What if I sleep with him? Is that wrong? Will it be contrary to everything I’ve believed about how relationships play out while being an independent woman?

  The way I feel about Max in contrast to Jonathan only confuses me more. Max just wants to be my bestie, my BFF, despite his flirtatious joking, and that only leaves me wanting him more.

  Jonathan brings up Max’s book, mentioning that he’s pleased with the opinions section I just finished.

  I admit that it was challenging to put together what twenty different artists, critics, curators and collectors wrote about Max and his work, but it was worth the effort. Each voice is different and intriguing and adds a lot to the weight of the book.

  Over the course of the dinner, Jonathan progressively loosens up until he’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. He even orders a ginger crème brûlée for dessert, which I can safely assume isn’t part of his normal regimen.

  As we wait for our coffee, he slides his arm over my shoulder and pulls me closer. “Have you thought about me since our last meeting?”

  I blush as I finger the stem of my wine glass and give him a shy smile.

  “Because, believe me, Ava, I’ve thought about you.” His smile is a mix of satisfaction and promise of what’s to come.

  “Good thoughts?”

  “Very good. The kind that keep me up at night.”

  I feel my heart speed up when I note the fire in his eyes.

  “What do you think? Remember what we talked about outside Chaya’s? Do you still want to hear about my dream?”

  In my wine-soaked haze, I nod, smiling. I think I want to hear it.

  There’s a long pause as he swirls the wine in his glass and takes a long sip. “So, picture my office.” He looks at my bottom lip as I bite it and takes a deep breath before looking into my eyes.

  I nod.

  “In my dream, it’s evening. I approach my office and the room is dimly lit. When I step inside, I see you sitting back on the leather couch, waiting.”

  “Waiting?”

  He nods. “For me.” He narrows his eyes as he drags his tongue across his lips. “Your legs are slightly parted, and you have a short skirt on which shows off your tantalizing legs, and I can’t wait to run my hands up and down the soft skin of your thighs. I sit across from you, and you spread your legs very slowly until they’re open for me.

  I blink several times, trying to keep my mouth from falling open. It’s apparent this dream’s definitely not PG rated.

  “You have no panties on and it takes every bit of restraint not to rush things. I imagine getting up, slowly stepping up to where you sit, then sinking to my knees and pushing your skirt up.”

  Whoa. I shift in the booth, trying to relieve the lust pulsing through me. My face is on fire from his graphic description, and I can only imagine what’s coming next.

  “As I approach you, you look at me with a sultry gaze and then tip your head back. Your nipples strain against your sheer blouse as you take several long slow breaths.”

  “Oh, Jonathan,” I whisper, as an image of him sinking to his knees before me floods my imagination.

  “So tell me, Ava, would you have let me pleasure you?”

  I’m stunned, my heart pounding.

  He looks so pleased when I nod.

  “You and me on my couch for hours on end with the city lights before us, and everyone else gone. Think of the possibilities.”

  A faint moan escapes my trembling lips.

  “Shall I go on?”

  I nod, while pressing my thighs together, desperately craving any form of friction.

  And to my great shock, he takes my hand and places it on the front of his slacks. I feel his cock swelling under my fingers. I nervously look around the restaurant but the heavy tablecloth covers everything, and the way our booth’s situated, there’s no way anyone can see what we’re doing unless they perched under our table.

  “Oh, yes. I like your hand on me,” he whispers, gasping as he thrusts his hips a little forward.

  He’s fully erect now, and when I cup my fingers around him, his cock throbs in my grip.

  He swallows hard and clears his throat. “Oh, the things I want to do to you, Ava.” He reaches under the table, places his hand on my bare knee and ever so slowly traces his fingertips up my inner thighs, edging up the skirt of my dress as his hand slides higher.

  “Ahh . . . your skin is so soft,” he says quietly. The tips of his fingers skim across the silk of my panties and I can’t help but shift my hips towards his touch. His features are remarkably calm, despite the building sexual tension. I press my fingers over the length of him again, teasing and taunting.

  Oh my God! We’re in freaking Spago . . . his hand is between my legs and I’m grabbing his cock.

  I down the rest of my Sauvignon in two gulps while he moves my hand slowly down his shaft. At this point, I’m feeling like a femme fatale. Waiters slide by and busboys remove extra plates from nearby tables while my hand grips his impressive erection.

  “So, Ava.” He leans back further into the booth. “Are you pleased to know how much you excite me?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, as with each stroke of his fingers, I fight the urge to spread my legs even further open.

  Oh, Jesus, his cock is even harder now, and my thighs are quivering for the want of his body on top of mine . . . the need to feel him inside of me. I scan the dining room. Surely someone in this friggin’ restaurant knows what’s going on. People can’t be so distracted by their foie gras and New York steak that they don’t notice a man a mere zipper away from a hand job under the Spago tablecloth?

  I look over and see the color rising across his cheeks, but otherwise he looks remarkably composed while his cock bucks and pulses in my grip. He finally presses his face into my hair and whispers hotly in my ear, “I desperately want to make love to you right now, Ava.”

  The wait staff removes the dessert dishes and startles us out of our bubble. Despite my embarrassment, I try ridiculously to maintain enough composure to make up for Jonathan, who’s increasingly distracted.

  I slowly let go of him and slide my hand back to my lap. He finally pulls his face away from my hair and reaches over for his water glass, downing half of it in several swallows. I feel his hand move off my thigh onto his, and hear the rustling under the table as he adjusts himself and takes a deep breath.

  I’m sure Wolfgang would be pleased to know we found the evening so exciting, I think with wide eyes.

  I wish the wine buzz wasn’t fading because I feel awkward right about now. But when I glance over, he looks completely happy and gives me a big sexy smile.

  He runs his fingers lightly over my hand resting on the table and summons the waiter.

  “Check, please.”

  Chapter Seventeen / My Shiny Penny

  The real lover is the man who can thrill you by kissing your forehead.

  ~Marilyn Monroe

  Okey dokey, I think as I compose myself in the restroom. I’m amazed and a little shaken from so much sexual buildup without release. For such a sophisticated guy, Jonathan is rather shocking, and I’m unnerved that his dream got me so worked up.

  When the valets bring our cars forward, Jonathan instructs me to follow him, even though I know my way to the Getty. By the time we pull up to the museum, there’s already a good crowd gathering at the entrance. Not surprisingly, it’s a sophisticated group in elegant attire . . . at least by L.A.’s standards. Before we
reach the entrance, Jonathan pulls me aside.

  “I want you to know, Ava, that I’m not a selfish man.”

  I look up, startled. What’s he suggesting?

  “During the entire drive here, I kept thinking about how you indulge me with your charm and beauty.”

  I give him a shy smile. “You’re too flattering.”

  “I don’t think so. You affect me like no other.” He strokes my cheek. “You’re so generous with me, and I want to make you feel wonderful in all the ways you deserve.”

  I’m overwhelmed and confused by my attraction for him and the expression in his eyes flusters me. The intensity’s unnerving, especially since he understands how to get to me.

  His hands slide along my hips, and I look down and wonder if I should talk to him about slowing things down. But as a large group bustles past, I decide to wait for a moment when I can think clearly without distractions.

  Tonight’s the Spring Event fundraiser for the Getty Museum and the party’s set up in the Sculpture Garden where the latest acquisition, a large Alexander Calder, is featured. The primary-colored shapes of the Calder defy their actual weight as they shift and rotate in the breeze.

  Everywhere we turn, Jonathan knows someone, and he keeps me by his side, introducing me before engaging in various conversations. I like watching him in this setting. He’s so comfortable in his skin, and people respect him, which says a lot in this business. The crowd is on the older side, but I suppose that makes sense; it’s an expensive fundraiser to attend.

  There’s an open bar, but I opt for a glass of mineral water, figuring I should take a little break from the drinking. I want a clear head when surrounded by all these art world intellects. Jonathan introduces me to the Sturridges, who are longtime major patrons of the museum, and they have an animated conversation about the recent Renaissance Masters show.

  After a few minutes, my attention wanes, and I start watching other people’s interactions. To my right is a striking, petite Italian woman with very short salt-and-pepper hair, talking with a tall, older man in a suit. She’s very expressive as she talks and, judging from the grin on his face, he’s delighted by whatever she’s saying.

  Another man joins them and hands each of them a glass of wine. As he turns sideways, I realize it’s Max and my heart jumps. He’s so serious as he speaks. He doesn’t smile, and he uses his hands to gesture in a more careful manner than he usually does.

  At one point, he pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and shows it to the woman. She takes out a stylish pair of glasses and reads what he’s pointing to. She smiles at Max, shakes her head, and puts her glasses in her bag.

  As they continue to talk, another couple joins them, shifting the position of their group. Max is facing in my direction and a bit of panic sweeps over me. Do I want him to see me right now? But as soon as the question enters my head, his eyes lock with mine, and it feels like we’re the only two people on this vast terrace of the Sculpture Garden.

  A second later, Jonathan puts his arm around my waist and pulls me closer, and I’m temporarily distracted. When I look back, Max is staring at Jonathan. Even at a distance, I can see his jaw tense and the dark brooding in his eyes. He looks angry as his gaze travels between Jonathan and me before refocusing on his conversation with the group.

  I have a sinking feeling, although there’s no reason for Max to have an issue with my being here with Jonathan. He might not like it, but he hasn’t given me a good reason not to be with Jonathan. Max and I are nothing more than friends, after all. Regardless, I have an overwhelming desire to clear my head, so I lean into Jonathan and excuse myself.

  I weave my way through the crowd and away from Max and his group. As I come to the edge of the gathering, I head for a stone bench facing the railing with a view of the gardens below. I sit and let out a sigh, grateful for the solitude. I take a deep breath. The air’s finally cooled and feels refreshing as it fills my lungs.

  Since it’s evening, the garden is artificially lit and the effect is eerie. It feels unnatural to see a garden lit up at night. I reflect on how different my life has been since the New York trip. A month ago, I didn’t even know Max or Jonathan; I wouldn’t have been writing an important book soon-to-be published or attending such an upscale prestigious party.

  This month’s been exhilarating, yet I also feel completely out of control.

  Jonathan dazzles me, and I’m not acting or thinking clearly. Max has stolen my heart and left me with a deeply-rooted longing for something that may never be within my reach.

  So, at a time when I should be enjoying the new excitement in my life, I’m as splintered and fragmented as a cubist painting.

  I recall, with a new sober clarity, the scene in the restaurant, and shock hits me once more. Who was that woman lustily feeling up a man she works for in one of L.A.’s most prestigious restaurants?

  What in the hell is wrong with me? I double over and cradle my face in my hands, while resting my elbows on my knees, and let the disbelief wash over me. I’m so overcome with the feeling that I don’t even look up when I hear footsteps behind me.

  A moment later, someone settles next to me on the bench. I part my fingers and turn my head to peek.

  Max.

  He’s studying the garden.

  I resume my original position for a moment, but then take a deep breath and bravely sit back up.

  “Hey,” I say quietly.

  “Hey, Ava,” he responds, still watching the view.

  We both sit silently for at least a minute.

  “So, did you come with Jonathan tonight?”

  “Well, we drove separately . . . but yeah, I guess you could say I came with him.”

  “I see.” He nods.

  But what does he see, I wonder? “Who did you come with?”

  “No one. The Matthews invited me, but the only reason I came is because I knew Lisa Forrester from MOMA was going to be here, and it was a good chance to talk to her again. She’s the curator for the show you got me into.”

  I smile.

  “Jonathan seems quite taken with you.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “No, I’m not surprised that he’s attracted to you . . . I’m surprised you’re responding to it.”

  I remain quiet, intently looking at the garden.

  “I’m going to leave soon,” he says, more to himself than to me. “This isn’t really my crowd.”

  I wonder who his crowd is these days.

  “Hey, let’s go get something to eat.”

  Surprised that he’s willing to leave already, I glance at him. “I’ve already had dinner.”

  “Where’d Jonathan take you?”

  “Spago.”

  “Of course he did. Well, you could keep me company. I’d really like that. Hey, have you ever been to The Apple Pan?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s the anti-Spago—best burgers in town. You have to stand behind people as they’re eating and grab their stool as soon as they get up to leave.”

  I give him a wide-eyed stare. “As fun as that sounds, I can’t just leave, Max. Jonathan doesn’t even know where I am right now.”

  “I’ll take care of that. Come on.” He takes my hand and pulls me toward the party, only letting go when I finally start following willingly. We pass a couple of women in party dresses heading toward the bar. As we get closer, he whispers conspiratorially, “Tell him you don’t feel well or something that he can’t argue with. Girls are good at that.”

  “You’re trying to get me in trouble,” I chide him.

  “Of course I am. I know . . . tell him you have bad cramps.” He snickers, clearly pleased with himself. “That always freaks guys out. Besides, you know you’ll have more fun with me than these rich art snobs.”

  I shake my head. I can’t believe I’m even considering this. It’s so rude to do that to Jonathan, even if he’s busy working the event.

  “Look, let me introduce you to Lisa. I’ll say hel
lo to Jonathan and then you can drop the cramps bomb and make your escape. Then I’ll sneak out after you.”

  “You’ve got this all figured out. What if I want to stay? Maybe I’m having a great time and don’t want to leave.”

  “Yeah, that’s why you were sitting on that bench with your face in your hands.”

  I glare, and as we weave among the groups of people, I struggle to figure out what I really want to do. I’m annoyed that Max can persuade me so easily, but in my heart of hearts, I’d much rather have another L.A. adventure with him. I’m an anxious little moth drawn to his flame.

  We’re almost back to where I left Jonathan when Mrs. Matthews and her husband catch my eye. We stop and Stella smiles at Max and then at me.

  “Ava, how lovely to see you here. Let me introduce you to my husband, Stephan.”

  I extend my hand and smile. “Mr. Matthews, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Ava, please call me Stephan. I’m sure Max told you the good news about being included in the MOMA show.” Mr. Matthews is an older gentleman with a sturdy build, and he pulls off that handsome bald look.

  “Oh, he did, and I couldn’t be happier. Thank you so much to both of you for supporting Max’s work.”

  “Yes,” Max says, sliding his arm around my waist. “And thank you, Ava, for being my advocate.”

  “That she certainly is!” Stella nods with a warm smile.

  We excuse ourselves and join Jonathan.

  “Ava, I was starting to worry about you,” he says, raising his eyebrows while he appears to be summing up Max. His lips turn down into a scowl.

  I decide to alter the details about my conversation with Max, hoping to defuse a conflict.

  “Sorry, I ran into Max and we started talking about the book.”

  “Well, don’t worry, Max. It’s coming along just fine,” Jonathan comments dryly. “I’m really enjoying working with Ava on it.”

  “As am I,” Max quips. “As a matter of fact, we’re spending the day together tomorrow, but you know what, Ava? Let’s just make it a fun day and not do any work at all.”

  I give him a dirty look. Why’s he trying to provoke Jonathan? Am I just the door prize for some stupid pissing match?