Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  “Excuse us.” I give the pissed off redhead in front of him a smug smile.

  I take his hand and lead him through the crowd until we’re on the edge of the dance floor. The music is slow, so I wrap my hands around his neck and hold him close. There’s a lot going on around us, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he focuses his gaze solely on me. He holds me as we move slowly together, and I feel his need, his overwhelming want through every fiber of my being.

  I’ve dressed a little more provocatively than usual tonight—probably from a powerful desire to keep Max’s complete focus on me. We don’t have many moments like this left before I leave.

  And, although I was right when I guessed there would be a lot of beautiful women at this party, I shouldn’t have worried. We’re in our bubble, even with people swarming around us.

  He looks down and smiles. “You picked quite the night to dress sexy.”

  “You like?”

  “I love.” His jaw flexes as he pulls me closer. He looks up for a moment.

  “So what did that fucking opportunist Seamus say?”

  “Nothing I was interested in. And the redhead?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t listening.”

  “As for my outfit, I knew there’d be a lot of distractions tonight, and I wanted to keep you on your toes and wound up.” I bite my bottom lip provocatively.

  “Well, your plan is working. I’m wound up, all right.”

  “I’m wound up too. Just look at you!” He’s wearing the jeans that fit like they were tailored just for him with his fitted black shirt. Between his gorgeous face, height, and perfect physique, he’s everything I desire. “You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.”

  “Ever?” He arches his brows as he waits for my answer. He’s confident about his looks and prowess, and it gets me even more worked up.

  “Oh, yes.” I feel my cheeks color.

  He smiles, leading me in a slow spin before taking me into his arms. “What shall we do about it?”

  “When we get back to Malibu, I’m going to model my new lingerie. I went shopping at Agent Provocateur last week with you in mind. And once you’re good and aroused, I’m going to slowly undress you and run my hands—”

  “Wait a minute, are you wearing it now?”

  “Yes, I am.” He looks so captivated, I imagine he’s picturing what I’m wearing underneath my clothes.

  “Black?”

  “Yes, very sheer and very tiny. My nipples peek out of the top of the lacy bra, and my ass . . . well, you get the idea.”

  He swallows hard as his hands move down low on my hips. “What are we waiting for then?”

  We barely have time to say our good-nights before he ushers me to the car. He drives down Sunset Boulevard a little fast for my taste, but I appreciate the reason for speed. At a stoplight, he turns to me with a dark look in his eyes.

  “I can’t wait. I want a preview.” He gestures to my breasts.

  “Are you sure? We still have a long drive.”

  He nods and hungrily watches my fingers unbutton the first few buttons of my little top. I part the fabric, revealing my breasts spilling out of the most delicate black lace. I can feel the flush move across my chest, and my nipples harden under his gaze.

  “Do you like it?” I whisper.

  “Fuck . . .” He groans and his breathing gets raspy.

  It takes great resistance not to look at his lap. If he’s already aroused, I won’t be able to keep my hands off him, driving or not.

  His fingers tighten over the steering wheel as he shifts in his seat. The light changes to green. Suddenly, he makes a sharp left turn and guns the engine.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Your place. I won’t make it all the way to Malibu.”

  I squeeze my thighs together and tighten my seatbelt, saying silent thanks that my apartment’s only minutes away. Nothing’s hotter than a worked up Max. People complain about the high cost of sexy lingerie, but you can’t put a price on the look of want that my little reveal sparked. My night’s never looked more promising.

  I wake up blurry-eyed. My black bra dangles from the headboard, and my tiny panties hang from the Jane Austen collection in my bookcase. We crashed at my apartment after our night of wild lovemaking. I blink, adjusting my eyes and my mind. The depth of our passion for each other is startling in the morning light.

  I peel myself off Max and look for my pillow. It’s suspended between my mattress and the wall, inches from the floor. Holy hell. We didn’t even drink that much last night. Why is the bed pulled away from the headboard? Max is twisted up in my sheets, and I remember our night of lovemaking. If epic sex were an Olympic event, Max would have won a gold medal for sure.

  I shimmy off the bed and put on my silk robe before heading to the kitchen to start the coffee. While it brews, I splash cool water on my face, brush my teeth, and try to tame my wild nest of hair.

  Before I head back to the bedroom, I rummage through the catchall drawer for an old memento from a kids’ party I attended. Bingo! I rework its shiny surface with a Sharpie and carry it and our coffee back to the bedroom.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him slowly stir to the smell of freshly brewed java. He smiles before he opens his eyes. Oh, but when those brilliant blue gray eyes open, they’re something to behold.

  “Good morning, handsome. Your coffee is on the nightstand.”

  “You’re too good to me, Angel. Thanks.” As he slowly sits up, he looks down at the foreign object around his neck. With a puzzled look, he runs his fingers along the red, white and blue striped ribbon and lifts it up to examine the fake gold medallion.

  “What’s this?” He reads aloud, “Maxfield Caswell, USA, Gold Medal Winner.”

  I give him a playful thumbs up. “You won the gold medal last night.”

  He grins. “Well, it was a team effort. Where’s yours?”

  “We can share. But you get it first, since you led us to victory.”

  I’m tempted to take a picture because of the delectable way he looks as he sips his coffee. Wild hair, naked except for the sheet gathered around his waist, and the silly gold medal dangling from his chest. He’s never looked happier.

  The best part is, he wears that damn thing all day long.

  In the early afternoon, we curl up together on the couch. I’m doing some Internet research on my laptop for a new project Nick has given me, and Max is checking his emails on his iPhone when the front door bursts open. Riley and Dylan tumble in, laughing, and drop their luggage on the floor.

  “Come here, my crazy girl,” Dylan says, and Riley fall into his arms. A moment later, they’re kissing passionately, and it’s obvious they haven’t see us here.

  “Hi guys,” I finally call out, for fear they’re going to start doing the wild thing in front of us. Vivid memories of the dining room table episode are still fresh in my mind.

  Stunned, they pull apart and turn toward us.

  “Oh, hi . . . sorry. I didn’t know you guys were here. I didn’t see your car out front,” Riley says with a gasp.

  “Blinded by love,” Max grumbles under his breath.

  “How’s the wine country?”

  “Perfect,” Dylan replies, pulling Riley closer.

  “Yeah, perfect,” she repeats, smiling.

  There’s an uncomfortable moment where none of us says or does anything until Riley tucks her hair behind her ear. Her hand sparkles, and my breath catches when I realize that she’s wearing a diamond ring.

  “Riley, what’s that on your hand? Is there something you want to tell us?” I smile from ear to ear.

  Riley hesitates. I know my girl. She doesn’t want to flaunt her big news, when Max and I are trying to balance on a high wire and are perilously close to falling. Before all my drama, Riley would have called me with the news right after it happened, but now she’s hesitant.

  She finally holds her hand out. “Yeah, Dylan gave it to me.”

  “You’re engage
d?” Max asks.

  I hear the pain in his voice, and I only hope they can’t. I deflect his anguish by jumping up and giving them both a big hug.

  “That is so exciting, guys . . . the best news! I’m so happy for you.”

  They’re both glowing and they smile warmly. Riley shows me her ring and I swoon. It’s so beautiful.

  Meanwhile, Max has regained his composure and he joins us, hugging them both as well.

  “You two work fast,” he says.

  “Yeah, well, I know what I want, so there was no point in waiting any longer.” Dylan sighs as he takes Riley back into his arms.

  “You’ve always been wise, Dylan. Hold onto her and never let her go.”

  Riley and I exchange looks. I can see her pain for us in her expression, but it can’t overshadow her joy, nor should it. I decide to give them some time alone.

  “Hey, Max, let’s go take that walk we were talking about and give the fiancée and her fiancé time to settle back home.”

  Before we leave, I ask Riley and Dylan to pick a night when we can all go out and celebrate. I don’t want any of my stuff to get in the way of her having a wonderful engagement. She deserves all the happiness coming her way.

  We’re silent as I drive us to Hollywood Hills and park at the base of Lake Hollywood Reservoir, which looks like a little lake in a country setting with towering pine trees shading the paved path. It’s hard to believe we’re only minutes away from Hollywood Boulevard. We get out of the car and slowly walk along the winding trail that runs alongside the water, as joggers and cyclists whiz past us.

  I’m finally ready to face Max and hear how he feels.

  “About Riley and Dylan being engaged . . . I know that was painful, Max. I’m glad you came around and were happy for them.”

  He kicks a small rock and looks off into the distance before facing me again.

  “Yes, it’s painful; I want that for us. I want what they have. I can’t help being jealous. It’s all come so easy for them.”

  I can’t argue with that. They haven’t even had a major fight, just little arguments. It’s been smooth sailing for Riley and Dylan.

  “Damn, they even met after we did,” Max curses.

  “I know, Max, but it’s different. They’ve had an easy time of it, where we had some baggage to deal with.”

  “Ha! Some baggage?”

  “Okay, yeah, a whole train full. Dylan and Riley are charmed. They didn’t have any of that.”

  “I hate them for that,” he says with a growl.

  “No, you don’t. You hate our drama. I wish things weren’t so challenging all the time. Do you ever think it’s not worth all the heartache?”

  He makes a face and rolls his eyes. “Not worth all the heartache? After the intensity of our passion for each other, how can you imagine we aren’t worth the heartache? You must know you mean everything to me.”

  I intertwine my fingers with his. “Oh, my love,” I whisper.

  “Before all this happened, I was going to ask you to marry me. But then I couldn’t because it would have seemed like it was coming out of desperation.”

  “Did Cara say that?”

  “Actually no, I did . . . but she agreed. She wants us to be on strong footing before we take that step.”

  “I’m sure she’s right, Max. You know I want to marry you, but we need to get through this challenge first. Then the engagement will be a celebration, not a fearful attempt to hold things together while I’m gone.”

  He grumbles. “Logical, but completely unsatisfying. How many murky puddles are we going to have to jump over?”

  I look down at our hands as we hold onto each other.

  “Hey, I have an idea. You know how we’d both feel better if there’s a reminder to the world that we’re together?”

  He looks at me, intrigued and hopeful.

  “Why don’t we wear promise rings? I don’t know much about them, but I believe it shows intent—a symbol of the promise we’ve made to wait for each other. It could be something simple like a band, and your name could be engraved in mine and mine in yours. Then everyone would know we’re committed to each other.”

  “You would wear that, do that for me?” He takes me in his arms, tightly holding me against his chest. I feel his heart thundering.

  “Yes, Max, yes. I want everyone to know I’m yours.” I kiss him. It’s a joyful kiss, and he smiles broadly as our lips move together.

  When we part, he grins. “I’ll call the jeweler in the morning!”

  And with that, the cloud lifts, and we’re in the sun again.

  The following week is crazy busy. Max takes me to two TV training sessions with Trent, which ends up being the best idea in the world. He thinks I’m far from hopeless and gives me lots of pointers and advice. My confidence grows with each take we do on camera.

  Max and I spend Thursday evening at my place, figuring out our schedules and booking our trip to Paris. I probably have no business going away for a week right before the move to New York, but Max and I really need the time together.

  Meanwhile, Riley has started bringing home boxes. Because of the engagement and my departure, she’s decided to move in with Dylan. We give our landlord notice. This surreal adventure becomes more real with each passing day.

  So, when Saturday rolls around, I’ve almost forgotten that we have the book signing at The Grove. Luckily, Max is less distracted, and he remembers to bring nicer clothes to wear to the event. Since I live near The Grove, he spends the night, so we’re relaxed about getting there on time.

  When he steps into the living room after his shower, my mouth drops open and I shake my head slowly. He has a jacket over his dark button-down shirt and tailored jeans.

  “What?”

  “You’re so damn handsome. Did you dress up for your fans?”

  He gives me a crooked smile as he pulls his jacket sleeves down. “No, for you . . . it’s always for you.”

  “Okay, well, you’ve just raised the bar. I’m going to change so we don’t look like the odd couple—gorgeous man with frumpy girl.”

  “Oh, yeah, you make sweats look sexy, girlfriend. But, since you’re changing, may I suggest that short skirt you wore Saturday night? I’m in the mood for legs today.”

  “You got it!”

  When we walk into Barnes & Noble about forty minutes ahead of the announced event time, there’s already a line forming. The PR girl from Taylor and Tiden directs us upstairs to a private lounge area next to the manager’s office to meet up with the group that’s already there.

  Dylan and Riley are talking to Jackson and a tall gorgeous African-American woman who we learn is Jackson’s girlfriend, Tasha.

  After the introductions, Tasha turns to Max. “We saw your work at a gallery last time we were in New York. We almost bought a piece, but we couldn’t agree on which one.”

  “Well, did you consider buying both, so you each get what you want?” Dylan suggests.

  Jackson groans. “Thanks, Dylan. Today just got a lot more expensive.”

  “Yes, thanks, Dylan.” Tasha smiles and kisses Jackson on the cheek. “Sweetheart, you talked about getting me a special gift for my promotion, so it’s a win-win.”

  “She’s good.” Max grins, nodding to Jackson.

  “You have no idea.” He laughs. “So, did you guys see the line outside? We like to see that,” Jackson says, his eyes bright.

  “I read about the signing on a number of blogs last night. I think we’re going to have a great turnout,” Dylan says.

  I look out the door, just as an employee pushes a handcart full of our books past, and it suddenly hits me anew. I wrote a book about an amazing artist who’s now my boyfriend. And now I’m a published author about to do a book signing at one of the major bookstores in Los Angeles. Oh, my God! This is huge. My face already hurts from grinning so hard.

  “You’re excited.” Jackson observes my face. His girlfriend smiles warmly.

  “I am,” I say softly, a
s Max pulls me closer.

  Jackson folds his arms over his chest. “You should be. This is a big deal. And this is just the beginning, right, Max? You guys are quite the dynamic duo.”

  “We sound like superheroes. Are you going to help me conquer the world, Ava?” Max teases.

  I laugh. “Of course! Besides, I’d follow you anywhere just to see you in those tights.”

  Sandy, the PR girl, comes to get us. We take our places at the table, as she sets out markers and bottles of water. My stomach flip-flops. Am I ever going to get used to this stuff?

  Max squeezes my hand. “Ready, Angel?”

  “As much as I’ll ever be. But it makes all the difference that I’m doing it with you.”

  “For me too, Ava. That’s for sure.”

  They lift the rope, and the first people step forward.

  Everyone is friendly and polite as they hand us their books to sign. Some act too shy to ask anything; others want to tell us in detail about their struggle to be artists, or stories about other artists they have met. Sandy pushes those people along. The expected art groupies are sprinkled in the crowd.

  One even gives Max her sexy head shot photo with her personal number written on the back. After she finally moves on, I hand it to Dylan, who makes a face, and deposits it in the trash in the back.

  Jess and Laura show up about halfway through the event, as we have plans to have lunch at Marmalade when we’re done. They note the long line and watch us with pride. It warms my heart. We introduce them to Jackson and Tasha, who have to leave for another event.

  The line keeps moving. The weirdest moment is when a middle-aged guy presents Max with a paint-by-number painting of a clown he’d done, hoping Max will incorporate it into one of his paintings. I’m a little worried how the gesture will be received, but Max manages to be polite and explain that his process doesn’t work that way. The guy leaves it as a gift anyway, and Max thanks him graciously.

  In contrast, my sweetest moment comes when a bookish girl, who’s a senior in high school, lingers to tell me that I’ve inspired her to write about art. She shows me her journal, where she has posted pictures of paintings from newer artists she’s researched on the Internet. Next to the clipped and taped copies of the paintings, she’s written about the work.