Sculpting Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 2) (4 page)

But while I found lots of information about the artist's work, there was next to nothing about the man himself - or why he'd dropped off the radar approximately six months previously. It took nearly an hour of scrolling through various websites before I even found a single picture of the man himself.

At home, I pulled the picture back up, this time on my home laptop. "Here's our target," I told to Salem, my black cat, as he came strolling out of my bedroom to come see who had intruded in on his territory.

Crawling onto my lap, Salem gave the picture a quick glance, but it apparently didn't warrant anything more than a single blink of his big green eyes. Instead, he curled up on top of my thighs and buried his face down against my jeans, purring loudly as he lolled back against me and pulled in all four legs beneath him.

"You look like a furry potato," I told him as I scratched him behind the ears. His eyes squeezed into slits at the massage, his purr ratcheting up another few decibels in volume. He apparently didn't mind the insult.

Struggling to keep my hands on the laptop as the large lump of cat on my lap squirmed around, I turned my attention back to the picture on the screen. So, this was Dean Benjamin de St. James, the man that I needed to convince to put his artwork in our gallery.

The face that looked back at me from the screen was strong-featured and serious, glaring straight out at the camera. I guessed that de St. James was in his early fifties, although he wore the years well. He had hair that was mostly gray, faded slightly from its original jet black, but still covering his head - no balding for this artist. He also had a wild beard coming off of his chin, although he'd kept his sideburns and upper lip shaved bare. If I'd seen this picture in black and white, or maybe with a sepia filter, I could have easily been convinced that this was a photograph of an early president.

I'd also found an interview with the man, and reading through his answers didn't convince me that this job would prove to be any easier than I'd feared. de St. James gave short and direct answers, and he didn't sound like the warmest or most empathetic person I'd met.

"It seems like I've got my work cut out for me," I told Salem, putting the computer aside and leaning back on the couch.

Still, I reflected as I brushed my hand over his coat and transferred more black kitty hairs from his body over to my clothes, it could work out well for me. If I failed to convince de St. James to join the gallery, I really wouldn't be any worse off than I was now. No big loss.

If I somehow managed to get him to say yes, however, I'd have the hottest new artist's works on display - and that meant more sales, which meant more commission, which meant that I might finally be able to start building up my dangerously low bank balance.

"I could maybe even afford to feed you the good stuff, not the discount wet cat food," I told Salem, who stretched rapturously at the idea. Not that he cared, of course - he wolfed down any food that I put in front of him, no matter what brand or flavor, as if he was on the verge of starvation. That talent contributed significantly to his seventeen pounds of flabby weight that he hauled around my apartment.

At least I didn't have to worry about him running away. When I opened the front door, he didn't usually even get up from wherever he'd flopped down on the floor. He'd sometimes raise his head so he could look over at me, but that was all the exertion I got from him. No exercise for this feline. Laser pointers, dangling toys, climbing towers - Salem regarded all of them with stationary distaste.

One thing conspicuously absent from the internet, I'd noticed in my searches, was any method of contacting de St. James. I couldn't find him on any social media sites, and he didn't have his own website - not even a blog. Even in the magazine and newspaper articles, there wasn't any mention of how to get in contact with the artist. Some of the articles talked about the man's upcoming art shows (the dates for them were all in the past, I noted), but there wasn't an address, wasn't a phone number... not even an email address!

Clearly, de St. James valued his privacy, and didn't want anybody reaching out to him for cold-calling.

Still, this didn't leave me dejected. This might be the first in a series of challenges, but I was pretty sure that I could find a way around this stumbling block.

I just needed to talk to the right person, someone who would know more about contacting de St. James than the average art buyer.

Trying to not dump Salem off of my lap, I reached out for where I'd dropped my purse on the couch beside me. I rummaged around blindly inside the bag until I found the shape of my cell phone, and drew it out. I scrolled through my list of contacts until I found Onyx's number, and hit the "call" button.

I wasn't sure if he'd answer this late in the afternoon, but I knew that the number rang a phone in the cavernous warehouse that Onyx called his home. Half of the warehouse's huge interior was set aside for his sculpting studio, but the other half served as Onyx's personal quarters. He hid his personal space behind a large folding wooden screen on the times when I'd previously visited the warehouse, so I'd never seen his living area for myself.

A little part of me was dying to find out what Onyx's personal living quarters looked like, but I also knew what kind of trouble I'd get into if he invited me to take a look for myself. That curiosity would end with me sweaty and naked in his bed, probably terminally dehydrated after twenty-four straight hours of lovemaking...

Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing to find out, after all.

As I listened to the phone ring, however, I shook my head, trying to dislodge these treacherous thoughts. Focus on the job for right now! Any wandering thoughts of what Onyx's smooth skin might feel like pressed against mine, considerations of where he could put his incredible sculpting fingers to best use, could come later.

At fifteen rings, just as I was giving up hope and started to lower the phone from my ear, I heard a click.

"Hello?" Onyx's rich, deep voice; he never introduced himself until he knew who was calling.

"Hey, Onyx." A little part of me wondered, as always, whether that was really the man's name. It seemed too perfect - surely, it had to be an adopted moniker? It was the name that I put on the man's checks from the art gallery, so perhaps he'd legally changed his birth name to this single word. "It's me."

"Ah, Rebecca." I always shivered at the way that Onyx said my name; his lips seemed to almost lovingly caress the sound as it came from his mouth. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"No pleasure this time," I stated, pushing down the treacherous little voice inside my head that wondered just how amazing that pleasure could possibly turn out. "Instead, I've got a couple questions about another artist."

"Seeing another artist behind my back?" he asked, putting on a tone of mock injury. "Why, Rebecca, I'm hurt! And here I thought that we had something special between us."

To tell the truth, I really didn't know how to describe whatever amorphous deal Onyx and I actually had between the two of us. Just like my budding relationship with Carter, dealing with Onyx was... complicated, to say the least. When I first met him, he seemed to assign himself the goal of seducing me, and he'd managed to come very close to making it all the way into my end zone on a couple different occasions.

Of course, I knew that Onyx and I didn't have a chance of making anything long-term last between us. He drew me like a moth to a flame, and I knew that, as the moth, going into that flame would be deadly. Still, when he crooked his finger at me, heat in his eyes as he swept his hands over my body and made me come alive, I felt powerless to resist his advances...

And that, I reminded myself, is why I'm calling him, instead of dropping by his studio in person.

"Trust me, I'm not interested in adding another man to my life romantically," I told Onyx. "I just need to know how I can get in contact with this artist."

Onyx sighed. "Always business with you. Who's the artist?"

"Dean Benjamin de St. James."

For a moment, Onyx went silent. When he spoke again, the teasing, seductive note had vanished entirely from his voice. "What about him?"

"He's managed to catch my uncle Preston's eye, apparently," I replied. "Preston wants me to recruit him for the gallery. I tried looking him up online, but I can't seem to find any way to get in contact with the man-"

"You won't," Onyx interrupted. "He is someone who... values his privacy, to say the least." He sighed, and I could picture him shaking his head silently at my naivete. "Look, why don't you come by tomorrow morning?"

Even though the invitation sounded innocent, I was instantly on my guard. "You can't tell me over the phone?"

"I probably could, but frankly, the man's address is buried somewhere in my files, and I don't have the energy tonight to go and dig it out." Again, Onyx sounded like he was telling me the truth - but he might be trying to lure me over...

I shook my head at myself. If Onyx wanted me to come over, he'd just directly tell me all the things that he wanted to do to my body. My ovaries would probably seize direct control of my limbs and walk me straight to his door, ready for him to drive me mindless.

"I suppose that I can stop by tomorrow, after I check in with my new assistant at the gallery," I gave in. "But no funny business, okay? This is about work, not... the other thing."

"And what other thing would that be?" Onyx fired back, the seductive honey-sweet whisper back in his voice.

"You know exactly what it is." I shook my head. "See you tomorrow, Onyx."

"Wait."

About to lower the phone from my ear, I paused. "What?"

"Aren't you going to ask what I'm wearing?"

"Good night," I told him firmly, forcing my trembling fingers to lower the phone before I gave into the combined forces of both temptation, and my raging imagination, and asked that very question. Even as I lowered the phone from my ear, I could hear Onyx laughing, knowing that he'd scored a point in the strange, not fully understood game of seduction that the two of us were playing together.

After ending the call, I looked over at Salem. "I think that went alright, all things considered," I told my cat.

He blinked at me, stretched out his paws - and then twisted double, showing a range of flexibility that made me immediately envious. His little pink tongue flicked out as he began to industriously clean himself.

"Right. I think I could use a cold shower, myself," I said, rising up from the couch.

A cold shower, some warm pajamas, and then maybe a little bit of alone time in bed, my head filled with thoughts of Onyx wearing nothing but a smile...

Chapter Five

*

The next morning, when I arrived at the Halesford Gallery's back entrance, I slid my key into the door - and found it unlocked.

My brain, still half-asleep even after several gulps from the steaming thermos of coffee in my hand, jumped into high alert. Why was the door unlocked? I knew that I'd locked it last night, as I did every night. Had someone burgled the place? Why? What art piece could possibly be worth risking time in prison to steal, when they could probably have bargained me down to a price that made it almost worth buying?

I crept inside, trying to figure out what I could use as a makeshift weapon. I really ought to get a baseball bat and leave it lying near the back door, I considered to myself. Mental note: purchase baseball bat. I didn't know how much a bat might cost, so I added a second note to see if I could get Preston to reimburse me for the expense.

Okay, Becca. Focus on figuring out whether someone's broken into the gallery. I found a pair of safety scissors on the desk in the back room; they weren't the sharpest of tools, but they felt good in my hand. Holding them with the point out, just how I'd been taught not to carry scissors in grade school, I advanced into the gallery space.

All of the lights were turned on. That seemed a little strange to me; didn't burglars like to creep around in the dark? I tried to slink through the gallery, doing my best to stick close to the walls without accidentally knocking up against any of the paintings.

The paintings which, by the way, seemed to all still be present. This burglary was getting stranger and stranger. I moved forward.

Suddenly, I froze as I heard the sound of someone shifting around papers from ahead of me, at the front desk. Someone really was here! I tightened my grip on the scissors in my hand until my knuckles were white from exertion. Should I go charging around the corner, shouting out a war cry, or should I try and sneak up on the intruder?

I opted for sneaking, largely because I couldn't think of a passable war cry. Moving as quietly as possible, I stepped around the corner, safety scissors in hand - and paused as I caught sight of a large, frizzy head of blonde hair bobbing behind the desk.

"Oh, hi!" came the voice from somewhere inside the mop of blonde hair as its owner turned towards me. "Are you Becca?"

I quickly lowered the scissors. It seemed that I'd made a miscalculation somewhere along the line.

"Yes, I'm Becca Grace," I said, taking a cautious step forward. "And you are...?"

I let the question dangle, and the blonde bit. "Oh! I'm Lizzie, Lizzie Henderson. Mr. Halesworth hired me to be your assistant!" She sat back in the chair behind the front desk and beamed up at me, looking completely pleased with herself, like she'd just aced a challenging exam.