The British Billionaire's Baby
CHAPTER 1 – The Artist and the Earl
THE BRITISH BILLIONAIRE'S BABY
By Cristina Grenier
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Monster Media LLC
CHAPTER 1 – The Artist and the Earl
It was perfect.
Unable to keep herself from smiling widely, Gabrielle Arnold gazed at the paint-streaked canvases before her with no small amount of pride. She’d been working on this piece for months and to finally see the culmination of her efforts was, as always, something worth waiting for.
The canvases sat before her, a three foot by five foot stretch that she had used her bare hands to cover in a myriad of colors and streaks. Though the piece seemed abstract by nature, Gabrielle had put thought into every detail, resulting in a well-balanced work that brought together several of her favorite themes: Freedom, passion, and diversity.
She herself was covered in the paint she liked to use from head to toe. Though she had specific clothes she was supposed to wear while she painted- old, used garments – she wasn’t beyond working in whatever she was wearing when inspiration struck her. This evening, she had ruined an old college t-shirt and a pair of dark wash jeans perhaps eight years old.
It was well worth it.
Clothes could be replaced – but the feeling that came from seeing her creativity personified – that was priceless.
“Oh, darling, that’s spectacular.”
She turned to see her long-time friend Tristan as he stepped into the room from the landing. As always, she was struck by the figure he cut – over six feet tall, clad impeccably in a black tailored suit with a red tie, his long dark hair plaited down his back and tied with a ribbon. The way he dressed was a bit archaic, but Tristan could afford not to give one whit what people thought of him. The successful interior designer had long made a name for himself and did as he pleased – in the most flamboyant of fashions.
In his hands he carried a wooden tray upon which sat a steaming muffin and a cup of coffee. It was around seven in the morning, and Gabrielle had been working all night. She, of course, hadn’t noticed the hours fly by. It was often like that when she lost herself in her work. “The lines are so crisp. And I like that you started with the epicenter here.”
Tristan set the tray down on a nearby table, fairly gliding over to the canvases to take a closer look. Gabrielle grinned as she watched him, unable to keep from thinking that it wasn’t quite fair that a man a foot taller than her could move with such inherent grace. Then again, she was sure that Tristan’s legs would probably look better than hers in heels – if he didn’t strut his stuff with twice the efficiency.
Ah the trials and tribulations of having a companion who attracted more men than you did. Bending, over, Tristan peered at some of the smaller details of the piece, his honey-colored eyes approving. “I think I like this one better than the last one.”
“’Devoted’?” Gabrielle inquired, wiping her forehead with the back of a hand and thusly smearing paint all over the last part of her body not already covered in it. “But I love ‘Devoted’.”
“Of course you do. So do I. This one just has a certain something...special.” Turning, Tristian snorted at the sight of his paint-covered friend. “Oh dear, Gabrielle. You’re in desperate need of a shower.”
“Food first.” The young woman punctuated, drifting towards the table where Tristan had set her food. She did her best to wipe her hands off on her jeans before touching his precious hand-picked ceramic mug. Judging by the expression on his face, she had done well. At any rate, he didn’t break out into hysterics as she took her first sip of life- giving coffee. As she picked up her muffin as well, Tristan sank into a chair across from her – it had been thankfully covered with a drop cloth to save the expensive fabric from Gabrielle’s creativity.
“So is this one going into the selling lot then?”
Gabrielle rolled her eyes as she took another bite of her muffin, thanking God for lemon poppy seed. “They all go into the selling lot, Tristan, but you know good and well no one wants to buy them.”
“That’s not true, sweetheart. We just need to get your name out there. These things take time.”
“Right.” Gabrielle chuckled indulgently. “I think at this point we’ve both accepted that I’m going to be a starving artist for the foreseeable future.”
In fact, Gabby had gone through only a relatively short time under the impression that she might make any kind of fortune as an artist. When she’d gone to school, her father had warned her that majoring in something like pre-law or pre-med would be to her best interests. Art, he’d repeatedly told her even before they had lost contact, was no honest way to make a living.
Of course, at the time she’d been young and impulsive – too headstrong to take seriously the opinion of a man who’d only just started to try to get to know her after her mother’s untimely death. She’d majored in painting and never looked back.
It was during one of her pre-requisite classes that she’d met Tristan. He’d been modeling for the Nudes course and while most of the girls in the class were busy drooling over the lean muscles of his physique, she’d been trying not to laugh at the obvious eyes he’d been making at their professor - a distinguished but still handsome man twenty years his senior.
They’d bonded over speculation on the professor’s type, and even after ultimately finding that he was married with children older than they, their friendship had continued. Tristan had been there through the phase when she’d been convinced that her paintings would make her a star and in the lull afterward when she’d realized that trying to make a living as an artist in Manhattan was easier said than done.
Tristan was everything she wasn’t – successful, moneyed, and completely, utterly flaming. Even meeting the love of his life – a brooding architect by the name of Phillip who followed his husband’s lead - hadn’t changed his addiction to nights out and a fast-paced lifestyle. Though he was a full five years older than Gabby, she was sure his heart was younger than her, which contributed to his being one of the most amazing people she’d ever known.
He was kind enough to let her make her studio in the yet undecorated attic of his duplex in midtown. Gabrielle lived out of a one bedroom in Harlem that was barely bigger than a closet and even that was jam packed with supplies she used for painting. Though she knew it might be cheaper to move to one of the outer boroughs, she couldn’t bring herself to leave the intoxicating hustle and bustle of the city.
If that meant she had to pull a few shifts at a nearby café to make ends meet, then so be it. She had been born and raised here, and she was sure her mother would roll over in her grave if she gave up on her dream and left.
“You know, I’ve been talking to Phillip about this wine bar in SoHo. They’re looking for up and coming artists to put in their space.”
Gabby finished the last few crumbs of her muffin before draining the remainder of her coffee. Though the caffeine gave her a nice little jolt, she knew it wouldn’t be long before her body crashed after a long night of work. Rent was due soon and she was going to have to pull some late hours at the café to make sure she had the money.
“Well, as always, let me know if it works out, but you know I’m not expecting miracles.” Setting the mug back down on the tray, the young woman took another look at her finished piece. She already knew what she was going to call it.
The Escape
. Beyond the painting, an antique mirror that Tristan was in conflict over rested against the wall and her own image was reflected back at her.
He was right. She was in desperate need of a shower.
Her caramel hued skin was flecked all over with paint in every color of the rainbow. There were even spots in her long hair, pinned in a haphazard knot at the top of her head. Her t-shirt was, without a doubt, ruined beyond repair, and her jeans could perhaps be salvaged. Though she was on the cusp of thirty, Gabrielle had yet to see signs of the wrinkles that her doctor and lawyer peers complained about. Her unique gray colored eyes were one of her mother’s lasting legacies and, thankfully, she didn’t have to worry about an expanding figure when most of her money went to rent.
Her small waist was set off by a chest that had begun to develop far too early for her comfort but had stopped before it had become completely ridiculous at a reasonable C cup, and though she would have loved to squeeze into the size four that Manhattan socialites seemed obsessed with, she had to settle for the eight that her hips dictated.
She wasn’t a woman who obsessed over manicures, pedicures, or the latest blowout. Gabby was happy if her copious tresses cooperated with her at all and she might own one bottle of dried out nail polish in an indistinguishable color. In short, her work consumed her, and despite Tristan’s efforts to take her to a spa and give her reprieve, Gabby would much rather wallow in oil paints and forget to do her laundry. She was, as Tristan had quoted many times, a hopeless case.
Which didn’t bother her in the least.
Unlike her companion, she wasn’t out to charm everything with a Y chromosome. Any man that Gabby dated very rapidly found that her only true lover was the canvases that haunted her dreams. Though she’d had a few affairs, none had lasted very long, and all of them had left her partners scratching their heads in confusion.
She was her own woman – a strange enigma that even other artists had a hard time understanding – and she liked it that way.
“Are you working today?”
Tristan chuckled at her inquiry. “Every day. My first appointment is at two this afternoon.”
“Isn’t Phillip coming back from Belfast this evening?”
“You remembered, for once.” Standing, the man crossed the room to her, searching for a clean place on her forehead before planting a fond kiss there. “Are you coming to dinner tonight then?”
Gabrielle frowned. “End of the month’s coming. I told Teddy I’d work at the café tonight.”
If anything, Tristan’s scowl was even deeper than her own. “You know I don’t like you working there. Theodore is a degenerate and they don’t even serve coffee, for the love of God.” Sticking her tongue out at him, Gabby merely shook her head. “A Paycheck is a paycheck.”