Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  I chuckle and watch.

  “What are the guy and the blonde fighting about?”

  “Hell if I know. She keeps trying to seduce him, but he’s not into it. That’s why half of her clothes are off.”

  “Well, it looks like she may have convinced him.” He has her up against the couch with her skirt pulled up.

  The scene cuts to a brunette who has her arms full, and she’s fumbling with the door handle.

  I nudge Max’s shoulder. “Uh oh, here comes the other woman!”

  “Don’t do it; don’t go in!” Max yells.

  But this is a soap opera, so of course the woman goes in, and when she sees her man with the blonde, the stuff falls out of her arms. The man sees her just before she cries and bolts out the door.

  Suddenly, we both tense up as it hits us that we have lived this moment. Our life as a Spanish soap opera.

  How lovely.

  Max turns off the TV.

  We lie there another moment in silence. Finally, I find my voice.

  “Just for the record, I’m much better looking than that broad.”

  Max lets out a long sigh. He strokes my arm gently and cups my face with his hand.

  “Well, we may have been a soap opera, but now I’d like to think we’re more like a fairy tale.”

  “Does that mean we’ll have a happily ever after?”

  “That’s my plan. I hope so. I want to,” he whispers before pulling me into a kiss.

  We’re hungry, so we grab an early lunch in a nearby café, and since we still have a few free hours, we take a cab to the Miró Museum. It’s in a beautiful setting on a hill overlooking the city, and the modern architecture sets off his work. Max’s mood lightens as we move from room to room, taking in all the great paintings and sculptures. Miró’s work always feels happy to me, so I’m glad we chose this as our outing.

  We’re almost out the door to return to the hotel when Paloma calls and asks if Max would be willing to do another interview right before the show. It means he would need to leave by five-thirty, which is when I’ll be getting ready. He rolls his eyes, but agrees anyway. Ultimately, we are here to promote his work, and he’s lucky so many people want to talk to him.

  We get back to the hotel just in time to secretly kiss good-bye. I take a shower in my pretend suite before the glamour brigade shows up.

  “Do you do this for all your museum guests?” I ask Paloma, as the hairdresser flurries around me.

  She scoffs. “No! Frankly, artists and their teams usually are not the most attractive people . . . but you and Max are young, fresh, and so beautiful that it becomes another story. It may sound ridiculous, but everyone is even more interested in the art and coming to the museum because you two represent the best of hip American glamour.”

  “Really?”

  She nods before answering her cell phone.

  I have to stay on the makeup artist not to be so heavy handed, but by the time he’s finished and Paloma zips me up in my dress, I feel like a princess on her way to the ball.

  We head down to the car and leave only a few minutes later than what we’d intended.

  During the drive, Paloma says, “You’ll be asked about the dress. Remember it’s Antonio Avendano.” She looks down and runs her finger along the guest list. “I will introduce you to the most important people throughout the evening.”

  She gives me a curious look. “You are flushed. Ava, do you feel okay?”

  “Yes, I’m just nervous. This is a big night for Max. I hope it goes well.”

  She smiles warmly. “You have nothing to be nervous about. You both charm everyone you meet, and you look gorgeous.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not used to this kind of attention.”

  “Really? I’m surprised to hear that. I would have imagined you always get a lot of attention.”

  I sigh. This woman always knows just what to say.

  When we arrive at the museum, my door opens to an explosion of camera flashes. Even though Paloma warned me about the photographers, I’m still stunned. She leads me inside, and when we get to the landing at the top of the stairs looking down over the main gallery, I stop. Paloma is called away, so I have a quiet moment to observe the spectacle.

  The gallery is filled to the brim with men in tuxedos and women in colorful evening gowns. I squint and the scene becomes a swirl of color and light, a living abstract painting. Part of me wants to stand back and observe, but a much bigger part of me is anxious to join Max.

  Even though we’ve had a glimpse of Max’s popularity in Spain, it is still a sight to behold. I scan the crowd, looking for him. There’s one particularly crowded part of the gallery, and sure enough, he’s right in the middle of the action. Max talks and gestures to a shorter man with a beard, but he lifts his face and our eyes meet, as if there’s a magnet drawing him to me. Without a word, he smiles, ignores the man, and walks my way.

  I should meet him at the bottom of the stairs, but the sight of him in a tux, clean-shaven and tan takes my breath away and my knees grow weak. There’s absolutely no doubt he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I gather my nerve, grip the railing, and start my descent.

  He reaches the base of the stairs before I do and waits. The spark in his eyes and seductive smile tell me my look for the evening is a success. As I come to the last step, he takes my hand and pulls me to him, kissing me lightly on the cheek.

  “You’re a vision,” he says softly, as he takes it all in. “So beautiful.”

  “You aren’t half bad yourself.” His tuxedo has a modern narrow cut, and he’s wearing a collarless shirt open at the neck.

  “I’ve never seen your hair up . . . It’s glamorous. You look like a movie star.”

  There are several photographers that take a number of shots before Max pulls me into the party. As he works his way to Diego and the group, the crowd parts, and it feels as if all eyes are on us.

  “You’re staying by my side tonight,” he whispers authoritatively as he leans into me.

  I arch my eyebrow, but don’t say a word.

  “I’ll stay professional and not give up the game, but I need you with me, Ava.”

  I smile, feeling grateful . . . not just because he needs me, but because he’s learned how to simply tell me so.

  A waiter brings us tall flutes of champagne, but we don’t drink much. I want to stay alert as we take it all in. People swarm around us, and he handles being the man of the evening well, and graciously accepts congratulations and compliments about his work.

  Despite standing side by side, we end up in conversations with other people a number of times. Calculating women wait for those moments, and they almost pounce on Max. The first one, a tall black-haired beauty with too much makeup irritates me greatly as she keeps touching him while she talks to him. At one point, she hands him a slip of paper and he smiles and sticks it in his pocket. I resist the temptation to bitch-slap her. I do have to remind myself that no one knows I’m his woman.

  But, after the fifth round of Spanish hotties slipping him business cards and small folded pieces of paper, I lose my cool and glare as he tucks the latest scrap away.

  I look at his hand as he pulls it out of his pocket. “Are you starting a collection?”

  He lifts an eyebrow and gives me a provocative look. “Jealous?”

  “I guess tonight it’s my turn. So, what are you going to do about it?”

  He cocks his head to the side, smiles, and points to my beaded clutch. “Open your little handbag.”

  I purse my lips and open it.

  He pulls the wad of phone numbers from his pocket, shoves it in my bag, and snaps it shut.

  I’m bewildered. “Why’d you do that? Do you expect me to start the Max Caswell fan club? ’cause it ain’t gonna happen, buddy.”

  “No, not the fan club. Those are for your collection. See, when you get bored with me and start to lose interest, you can pull out that pile and be reminded that some people still think I’m muy caliente.
” He grins mischievously.

  For a flash, it reminds me of the way he was. He was such a player, surrounded by beautiful women and art groupies everywhere he went.

  “Hmm, well I can safely say that I’ll never need to be reminded how hot you are. But thanks for the thought.”

  “Anytime, Angel.”

  As much as I don’t want to leave his side, near the end of the reception I excuse myself to go to the restroom. We still have the dinner ahead of us, and all I really want is to get my man back to the hotel and peel him out of his tuxedo.

  I breathe a sigh of relief as I head back and find Max talking to an older gentleman. Watching him subtly fend off the aggressive senoritas is wearing me out. But I’m still about twenty feet away when Paloma darts over to him, whispers something in his ear, and drags him to the back of the room and inside a doorway.

  Oh, no she didn’t!

  I hurry after them as fast as my high-heeled sandals will allow. The entire way, I imagine what I’ll do to her. I could pull out her gorgeous mane of hair a chunk at a time or whip off my sandal and stab her repeatedly with my spike heel. Death By Manolos the papers would say.

  I can’t believe she pretended to be my friend while ignoring him, all the while scheming how she would conquer Max. Not gonna happen while I’m around. She has no idea who she’s dealing with.

  Logically, I know Paloma thinks Max and I aren’t involved. But she also knows he’s serious about a girlfriend. Besides, there’s something creepy how she hasn’t shown this kind of interest in him until I disappear. It’s very underhanded.

  But just before I storm through the door, I stop. There’s something about the way she presses him against the counter at the far end of the room that makes me immobile. A wave of nausea hits me. I have to handle this carefully.

  I look quickly around the room that appears to be a type of pantry or event kitchen. There’s another open door much closer to where they’re standing. I tiptoe down the hallway and pause just outside it and catch a glimpse of them in profile.

  Her voice is raspy, wine soaked, and brash.

  “Do you like me, Max?” She runs her hands across his lapels.

  He puts his hands on her shoulders and gently pushes her back.

  “Sure, Paloma, you’re really great. But, you know, I think you’ve had a bit too much wine. Let me get you some coffee.”

  “I’m fine,” she huffs. “But I need you to do something for me. I’ve been good to you, haven’t I?”

  I notice his whole body stiffen. “I thought you said there was a problem. What do you need me to do?” His tone is wary. If he only knew how worried I am about her answer.

  “I need your help distracting Diego and Andres so I can sneak Ava out early. I can’t wait another moment to seduce her.”

  Okay, not expecting that. I clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle my gasp. I already have one foot in the door, but I pull it back and stabilize myself from falling over.

  “You’re going to seduce Ava?” The tops of his ears turn bright red.

  “Yes, I want her in my bed.”

  “Your bed? You want to sleep with Ava?” I almost don’t recognize his voice, it’s so layered with disbelief.

  “What do you not understand? I want to possess her, consume her. She is glorious.” She stops to take a deep breath, and Max folds his arms across his chest.

  Oh, good God, the pictures flying through my head are class A, girl porn. So that’s why she ogled my breasts during the fitting. My suspicions were right—her look wasn’t comparison, but sheer hunger. Pieces of the puzzle are falling into place, the stroking, the back rubbing, the whispering in my ear. She must have wanted me all along.

  Hot tamale Paloma is hot for me. In another place or time, that may have actually turned me on a little, but certainly not now with Max growing agitated.

  Paloma gestures dramatically with her hands. “She’s so delicious. I must have her. So, will you go occupy Diego and Andres so I can take her somewhere private?”

  “Ah, I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.” His voice sounds very tense and edged with anger.

  “Why not? Do not be that way, Maxfield. You’re an artist. I thought you would embrace the passion I have for Ava.”

  She pauses and considers him. “Ah, I see the look in your eye. You must want her too? How could you not? So, we could share her, yes?”

  She did not just ask him that. I don’t think so, girlfriend, we don’t share. Come on, Max . . . Tell her . . .

  He takes a moment to think. The pause is a little too long for my taste, but then he squares his shoulders.

  “Well, thanks for the offer, but you can’t have Ava because she’s mine.”

  I can’t even be mad that he just spilled the beans about our relationship. There’s an unwavering strength in his statement that’s incredibly satisfying.

  “Yours? She’s your lover?”

  “Yes, but she’s more than that. She’s my life, and I don’t share her. She’s also going to be my angry girlfriend when she finds out I told you we’re in love. We were advised to be professional at this event and keep our private lives private.”

  Paloma slams her fist on her hip. “What idiot dictated that? You’re an artist with paint, she with words. You should be out for the whole world to see.”

  “That’s what I said,” he grumbles.

  “Donde es los cojones! Go out there and claim your woman. Kiss her in front of everyone, and then take her to your hotel and make the passionate love to her. This is Spain! We are a passionate people . . . We expect such things.”

  She throws her long mane of hair over her shoulder and walks out of the room with a flourish.

  Max stays behind just long enough for me to sneak into the room. When he sees me, he blanches.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Every word.”

  He considers me carefully. “Are you mad?”

  “Mad that you spilled the beans about us? Not when you consider the circumstance you were in.”

  He smiles. “Yeah, well, you can bet I won’t leave you alone with her again.”

  “See, and all this trip you were worried about the men hitting on me, when it was a woman who really wanted me.”

  He arches his brow and runs his hand over my hip. “Yeah, everyone wants you. This is what I get for having such a sexy girlfriend.”

  “So, are you going to take me back to the hotel and make passionate love to me?”

  “You bet.” He pulls me into his arms and I get the big kiss. And although we aren’t doing the tongue tango in front of everyone, it’s still great.

  Thank you, Paloma.

  Although it’s our last evening in Barcelona, the need to be alone in our suite is overwhelming. But the museum has booked the private room at Casa Calvet, one of Barcelona’s best restaurants, located in the Placa Catalunya, one of Gaudi’s buildings. So, despite our yearning, we attend the dinner, our last formal obligation of the trip. There’s still an excited buzz from the show, and everyone’s festive. We aren’t the only ones thrilled the opening is such a success.

  Max maneuvers the seating around so I’m next to him. There are about a dozen of us around a long table in the softly lit private room. When the wine is served in fine crystal goblets, Max proposes a toast.

  “I’d like to thank Diego, Paloma, Andres and all of the new friends we’ve made during this amazing experience. I’m so proud to have my work in your world-class museum. We’ve been treated with great hospitality during our time here. We’re enchanted with Barcelona and hope to return soon.”

  I look around at the candle-lit faces, and am satisfied to see the smiles from Max’s speech. Max slides his hand across my back before resting it on my shoulder, his fingers lightly caressing me.

  “Finally, I’d like to thank this wonderful author, my girlfriend, Ava, for her support. This trip was even more amazing because she shared it with me. I love you, Ava.”

  “I knew it,” someone whis
pers.

  “Ahhh,” another says with a sigh further down the table.

  He raises his glass higher. “Salud!”

  “Salud!” echoes through the room as everyone joins in the toast. Max gives me a devilish look and kisses me hard before he settles back in his chair.

  My eyes drop to my plate as a blush moves across my cheeks. But when I look up, Diego is grinning with a knowing look and raises his glass again.

  “To love!” he exclaims, and we all laugh happily.

  I don’t know what I feared, but thankfully, there’s no fallout from Max’s announcement yet. For a moment, a feeling creeps up my spine as I remember Paloma’s conversation with Travis. Have we blown bigger opportunities for me with our big reveal? Is that why Max’s manager, Dylan, was so insistent that we remain professional? I feel a wave of concern, but fight to force it out of my mind. After all, there’s not a damn thing I can do about it now, and ruining our last remaining hours in Barcelona would just add to the feeling of loss.

  With all the colorful conversation, the dinner goes by quicker than I would’ve imagined. At the end, when we finally say our thank-yous and farewells, Paloma is the last to say good-bye. Her smile is almost shy as she takes my hand.

  “Friends?”

  “Of course,” I respond warmly, pulling her into a hug. “Thank you for everything. You took such good care of us, Paloma.”

  She gently kisses me on each cheek before stepping in front of Max and grabbing his lapels.

  “As for you, Señor, you better take good care of her.”

  “I will,” Max says to assure her.

  When we get back to the room, there are candles lit and a bottle of champagne chilling. There’s a card next to the bottle with a single letter P.

  “Now, that’s a good PR person.” Max laughs. “That Paloma is one of a kind.”

  “Yes, well, as she said, the Spanish are passionate people. I’m actually glad she knows our secret.”

  “No more secrets.” He smoothly opens the bottle and fills the two flutes before handing me one.

  I lift the glass. “To you, Max . . . your art, your vision. I don’t know when I’ve ever been more in awe of you than I was tonight.”