CHAPTER EIGHT

 

After she’d hung up, Jon realized he was clutching the telephone receiver and grinning like an idiot.

Courtney, his intern, was staring at him with her skinny, drawn on eyebrows raised almost up to her hairline.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, Courtney.” He strode out of the office and into the outer area of the design firm. Lesser designers occupied cubicles and shared a communal worktable. Jon spoke to others, nodding and smiling as he made his way to the elevator. In the underground parking garage, Jon made eye contact with someone he’d rather not have seen at all.

Oleg Cantwell, who had a small office on an upper floor of the same building, was just getting out of his car. He made a grimace resembling a smile in Jon’s direction, both of his chins creasing with the effort. He opened his mouth as if to speak but Jon silenced him with a wave of his hand.

“No time to waste, Cantwell,” he said. “I’m on my way out.”

“You said it,” Oleg countered. “I didn’t.”

“You’re such an ass,” Jon said.

“Be that as it may, you’re artistic style is waning and my star is shining bright.” Oleg’s nasal twang hummed through his words. “Old hat.”

“You’re mixing metaphors,” Jon said. “And I’m quite a bit younger than you.”

“But my designs are fresher. Wait until you see the painting Max Foster is doing for the Unger house. The boy is pure genius.”

“You’ve met Max Foster?” Jon stopped in his tracks. Oleg suddenly had his full attention.

Oleg’s eyes looked like raisins in freshly risen bread dough. “Of course. He’s a great fan of mine. The dear boy has a wee bit of a crush on me.” Oleg took on a conspiratorial tone. “But, of course, I’m in a committed relationship.”

“You should be committed,” Jon said. “You’re delusional.”

“When you see the phenomenal painting Max is creating for me, you’ll just pass out.” Oleg ducked his head and pretended to feel faint, fanning his face with both soft, ivory hands. “You’ll be so jealous.”

Jon considered a moment. “Nope. Not a bit.” He pushed past Oleg and climbed into his vintage vehicle.

He couldn’t be bothered with mundane trifles when he was on his way to pick up Millie. Still, he’d be glad when the painting Max had promised Cantwell was delivered and the relationship between the two could be permanently severed.

~*~

Max was watching for Jon and when he entered the parking lot, she pushed out of the glass door.

He stopped the T-Bird and swung the door open for her. “Good Morning, Millie.”

She slid onto the seat and closed the door. His scent enveloped her, making her feel warm. She thought about his arms around her last night, when they were dancing, when they were kissing. She smiled at him.

“Did you sleep well,” he asked.

“Like a dead thing,” she replied cheerily.

“Me neither.” He gazed at her and chuckled before putting the T-Bird into drive and pulling out into traffic.

They chatted during the brief ride to the Houston Design Center, an area clustered with design studios and artsy shops catering to the design trade.

He pulled into his reserved parking space under the design firm. They walked-hand-in hand to the elevator and rode up to the ground floor office.

When the elevator doors silently opened, she gasped in surprise. The elegant foyer looked like a theatre set. The reception desk was manned by a sleek young woman wearing a telephone earpiece like Madonna. The polished black marble desk surface sported brushed nickel hardware.

Max felt woefully underdressed but Jon didn’t seem to notice.

“This way.” He steered her through the double doors. “Here’s the conference room and the individual designers have offices in the back. This is my office.” He stood aside for her to enter.

A young woman with spiky black hair and thin brows drawn in black was seated at a drawing board.

“This is Courtney, my intern.” Jon gestured toward the woman. “She’s doing post grad work at the University of Houston. Courtney, this is my friend, Millie.”

Courtney glanced up from her work and gave what passed for a smile. She must have been trying for the anorexic look because everything about her was thin including her blood-red lips and the magenta cats-eye glasses.

Max gave her a finger wave as Jon drew her into his office. It was the complete opposite of the lobby. Everything was antique, light-colored and looked too fancy to sit on.

“This is your style?” Gay! Absolutely gay.

“Think middle-aged River Oakes matron,” Jon said. “Her husband is on the golf course and she’s here spending his money. This room is for her.”

“I’m sure they all adore you.” She turned in a complete circle, taking in the whole room. “It’s really pretty, like I would imagine Marie Antoinette’s boudoir.”

“Ouch!” he said. “Come back to my studio.” He led her through another door. This room was filled with a mélange of projects in progress. Color swatches and books of wall covering samples were strewn about, along with fabric and paint samples. A large rectangular work table dominated the center of the room with three renderings spread out on top of it.

Jon stepped back as she moved closer to his art work.

She picked up the nearest, a scale drawing of a grand salon done in shades of grey with black, white marble veined in greenish grey and oiled bronze fixtures.

The next was a child’s room, all gauzy in peach and cream. She smiled when she saw that he’d drawn the head of a young curly haired tot in one corner.

In the third, he’d drawn a dining room with a mural at one end. His drawing depicted a Tuscan hillside viewed through tromp l’oille arches.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I can see why you think my loft needs a little work.” She turned to him with a smile. “Where are the abstracts?”

“I don’t do abstracts. I’m not an artist,” he said.

“Yes you are. These are beautiful. I love the child’s face. Who is it?”

“It’s Annie,” he said. “This will be her room.”

“Lucky Annie,” she said.

“Sit down,” he directed. “I want to know everything you like.”

“I’m very fond of pistachios and tin roof sundae ice cream.” She took a seat on one of the black leather stools pulled up to the table. “I like to go sailing although I haven’t gotten to go in a while.”

“What’s your favorite color?” he asked as he seated himself beside her.

“I like all colors,” she said, “except, of course the color of my refrigerator. It’s kind of seventies funk awful.”

“Everything old is new again.” He took a ring of paint samples with gradations from dark to light and fanned it out in a circle. “What are your first choices when you look at this color wheel?”

“Everything. It would depend on the application. I like all the colors in the rainbow. If you’re talking about a normal house, it would depend on what room it was used in. What colors do you like?”

He grinned at her and sorted through the samples. “I like these colors. This is the blue of your eyes.” He held a strip close to her face. “And this is the color of your hair, a dark gold between amber and honey. Here’s the color of the skin on your cheek, just a little more peach than the rest of your face.”

“Let me do you.” She took the paint samples from him, sorting through the browns, searching for a rich chocolate with a warm flame searing it. She held up several samples and set the ring on the table. “You’re not in there. They’re too flat.”

“My eyes?”

“The paint samples.” Suddenly shy, she felt his intense scrutiny. Her mouth went dry. “So, this is where you work your magic?”

“Here and on site. I visit the proposed project site first and talk to the client. When there are two people involved they frequently have completely different visions. My ideas may not be what they have in mind at all. If someone wants a bubble-gum pink and black vinyl bedroom, I put my reservations aside and deliver their dream. They’re paying for it, after all.”

“That must be hard to do,” she said.

“Not so much now. It was at first, but I’ve adapted to the process.”

Max raised her brows. “Adapted? I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.”

“It is if you value your career and want to succeed.”

They eyed each other warily. She considered the adaptation process and how she was moving away from painting what she liked, toward painting what brought higher sales. She liked the paychecks but wasn’t so sure she wanted to adapt. Perhaps the adaptation process was what had led her down this path strewn with lies and half-truths. It had been her own reluctance to confront Jon’s initial assumptions that brought her into the mire.

Jon broke into her thoughts. “Where did you go to school, Millie?”

“I got my MFA in San Marcos.”

“You majored in Art?” At her nod he said, “Me, too. I went to The University of Texas.”

She suppressed a shudder. Austin, the scene of her greatest acts of stupidity. “Why aren’t you painting?” she asked.

“I guess I wasn’t good enough.” His voice was suddenly almost a whisper. “Why aren’t you painting?”

A deep crimson blush crept up from her neck. “I do, every now and then.” She found she had to look away from the intensity of his gaze.

“I’d love to see your work sometime.”

Max almost giggled thinking about the work she’d already shown him. She gave him an amused glance. “I’m here to see your work.”

“Pick a color you’d like to see in the loft and we’ll get started.”

“The likelihood of me investing any real money in that place is practically nil, but I’ll humor you. I like blue.”

“Great. Now we just have to figure out which blue you prefer.” He reached for the ring of paint samples again. After a short time she’d selected several shades of blue and a couple of accent colors.

“Okay, I’ll admit that these are pretty colors and they look good together.” She made a fan of the strips of color. “How do you move from a few color chips to a three-dimensional living space?”

“It’s just the beginning. Next I make a computer generated plan of your place to scale. I can take some measurements the next time I’m there.”

The tingling started at the back of her neck again. Next time.

He gave her a tour of the entire office and introduced her to some of his associates. With each encounter she was more and more aware that she was having a bad wardrobe day.

To his credit, the immaculately dressed man giving the tour didn’t seem to notice.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he suggested, leading her outside onto the sidewalk. A short way down the pavement, a maze of shops specializing in decorator furnishings and accents formed a mini specialty mall.

As he held the door open for her a tall, obese man pushed his way in. His fine, ginger-colored hair had thrown in the towel and was rapidly deserting his face, leaving a broad expanse of speckled forehead. “Hello again Jon Claude,” he said. “And who is this scrumptious creature?” His Texas twang was underscored with an adenoidal reverb.

“Someone much too fine to make your acquaintance,” Jon responded. He gestured for Max to go through the door and followed close behind.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“That,” he growled, “was Oleg Cantwell, professional bloodsucker and mindless fop. His only value to humanity is as an organ donor.”

Max grinned up at him. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“He’s the only reason I lock my office when I leave. He’s always trawling for my clients and looking at my projects for some semblance of inspiration.” He raised an eyebrow and asked, “By the way, has Max ever met Oleg Cantwell?”

“Never.”

“And, may I ask if Max happens to be gay?”

She guffawed indelicately, and then recovered her composure.

“That answers my question,” he said. “Although I don’t know if I find it comforting.”

“Where are we going and could you slow down?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought I’d take you on a walking tour of the Design Center. There are all kinds of shops to browse through so you can look at many different styles. Then I’m taking you to lunch. Does that sound like a plan?”

“I’m in,” she said. I only have a dozen more paintings to create.

Surprisingly, she enjoyed the experience of browsing through a mélange of shops teeming with furniture, accessories and objet d’art. She thought her enjoyment had more to do with Jon than with the tour.

“People really buy this stuff?” she asked.

“Absolutely. See anything you like?”

“I like this glob of glass.” She lifted a colorful paperweight from the top of an antique wooden desk with pigeonhole cubbies.

“Very discerning of you,” he said. “It’s a hand blown glass millefiore paperweight. It was made in Italy in the mid eighteen hundreds.”

“It’s lovely. The colors are so vivid.”

“Is there anything else that catches your eye?”

Max grinned mischievously, pointing to a large, gauze draped, gilded and grandiose object. “I’m crazy about the swan bed.” She directed his attention to opulent, flowing bed linens set into the back of a carved gold and white swan. The mattress was ensconced between the wings with the swan’s neck curving to form the headboard. A gilded tiara adorned the swan’s head and sheer drapery flowed to the floor.

Jon crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed the bed. “I can see you there.”

She turned to look at him. “Do you now?”

A mischievous grin lit his face. “I can tell you have some unfulfilled fantasies and I’d love to help you explore them. I have some fantasies of my own.” His deep voice dropped to a whisper, sending a shiver skittering down her spine.

She drew a shaky breath. “What fantasies do you have?”

“My fantasies involve finding someone special to live them with.” The expression on his face caused several of her internal organs to melt together.

She cleared her throat. “What a romantic.”

“Guilty. Let’s grab lunch.”