My Secret Master (A Dark Billionaire Romance) (2 page)

3.  Falling asleep in the middle of painting.

4.  Actually
running out
of canvases.

Thankfully, the woman had given me a few larger pieces to work on at my heart's content; huge stretches of canvas that had been left behind from a former showing.

“Do what you want with them.” Veronica had shrugged, sipping what was certainly her fifth cup of coffee. I think it was all she ever drank.

Blown away by the opportunity, I'd propped the large squares on the wall, set up my paints, and begun experimenting. The gallery was starting to look like an actual... well, gallery.

With my art filling the room, I still wanted to finish one of the bigger pieces. It would be perfect for the section that could be seen from the front window.

Dipping my brush, I let the colors guide me, becoming so wrapped up in watching the art come to life. Covered in sweat, splashes of paint, and smelling like turpentine, I was a true mess.

But I didn't care.

This was what I loved, and I embraced it. It was why I wanted to attend an art college in the first place. Growing up, no one in my small town had cared about art. I was mocked by everyone, and I always felt out of place.

Then, one day, I'd found a pamphlet for California College of Fine Arts. Seeing the photos of people—working away proudly—I'd felt an instant kinship.

My decision was obvious.

However, I'd gotten a late start on applying. Gathering the money needed to make a portfolio, and ultimately, to fly out to LA, had been hard work. That was why the past three years of rejection letters was soul-crushing.

But I was willing to scrape by on what tiny money I could manage. I was even willing to endure the snide remarks my family made each time my mother sent me some financial help.

If it got me closer to my dreams, I'd do anything.

Staring at the mixture of black as it bled into green, I didn't hear the door open behind me. I certainly wasn't aware of the crisp, perfectly shined shoes as they crossed the room.

If he hadn't spoken, I might have painted for another hour, unaware I had a visitor at all.

His voice was smooth, rolling like cream and syrup mixed together. “You move beautifully, like a ballerina.”

I jumped, kicking over my color pallet. It splattered to the floor, and his compliment about me moving like a ballerina became a cruel lie. Twisting around, I brushed my hair away, staring at the man who was talking, apparently, to me.

His outfit was darker than the paint on my canvas, a crisp vest over dove-grey sleeves. With skin paler than mine, hair ebony in even the bright lights, this stranger was a perfect combination of colorless tones.

Then I noticed his eyes, and my opinion changed.

They were intense, thoughtful, and bluer than they had any right to be.

Who
was
this man?

“Uh,” I said, feeling very out of my element.

“Forgive me, I saw you working through the window.” He indicated with his sharp jaw, a smile cutting across his face. “I didn't know there was an art gallery here.”

“We're not open till tomorrow,” I said, my voice distant. Shaking my head, clearing the haze and my throat all at once, I refocused on the stranger.
Did he say I moved beautifully?

He frowned, strolling to the side to get a better look at my work in progress. “I see. Will this be ready by tomorrow, do you suppose?”

Blinking, I shifted around to follow him, finally turning to face my own canvas. Peering at it, I wondered what had made him so interested.

It was more abstract than my usual stuff, and while I was enjoying creating it, I didn't think it looked particularly special. “I'm going to try to complete it, yes, why do you ask?”

“Well, I'd like to buy it, of course.”

“What? But it's not done and... and you don't even know how much I'm going to charge for it!” This had never happened to me before, my mind was swimming in dark water.

“It doesn't matter.”

The way he looked me up and down made me shiver. It wasn't a cold sensation, though. Oddly, the ball twisting inside of me was rather... warm.

Get it together!

There was something about this man that was setting me on edge. It had to be more than just his shockingly good looks.

“Whatever you charge,” he said, “I'll pay it.”

Lost, I heard myself speak before I could control it. “
Why?
”

Wrinkling his forehead, the man linked his hands behind his back and eyed me like I'd made a joke. “Why? Because I like it, but more than that, I enjoyed the glimpse I had of watching
you
create it.”

Blushing furiously, I stared around the room. I was trying to avoid gawking at him without being so obvious. “Uh, haha, I see. Well, I'm afraid I can't help you right now. Like I said, we're not open until tomorrow, so if you want to come back then...”

“You won't let me watch you paint?”

I jerked around to meet his even stare. My mouth opened, but no sound escaped. It was such a strange question.

His eyes were serious. I knew he wasn't joking.

“Who
are
you?” I asked.

His smile went sideways, like I'd said something funny. “You're not from around here, I take it.” Before I could respond, my neck heating in a moment of insulted anger, he lifted a palm. “I'm Seth Hart, and you are?”

“Naomi Starling,” I said warily.

“Starling,” he mused. “I like that. Well, Ms. Starling, let me just clarify this. You don't want me here, because you are not open yet. However, you'll be done with your work tomorrow, when I
am
allowed to come by and purchase your art?”

“...Yes.”

He ran his fingers through his short hair. “Perhaps I can make that work. Have a good evening, Ms. Starling.” For a moment, I thought he might bow. I was relieved when he only turned on a polished heel, exiting out the door.

Staring after him, I rubbed at my dirty cheek in wonderment.

Who the hell was that? Was I supposed to know him, like he implied?

I'd encountered some 'characters' in Los Angeles during my time, eccentric people didn't surprise me. But there was something especially odd about such a handsome, well dressed man complimenting me out of the blue.

And on top of that, offering to buy my art without asking the price?

Maybe he was super rich,
I mused. Cracking my back, I sighed deeply, surveying my canvas.
Will he really come back and buy it?

Smiling at the idea, I reached down and grabbed a paper tag. Taping it to the wall, I scribbled with a pen in my messy way, marking the unfinished canvas. It read: five thousand dollars.

It was childish to mark it so high, but it was a small bit of revenge for putting me on the spot like he had. It was crazy to think the piece would sell for that much, I wasn't stupid; I had plenty of other art to sell. I wasn't shooting myself in the foot, not really.

Leaning back, I eyed my work in progress.
Worst case, he doesn't buy it, no one buys it, and I drop the price the next day to something realistic.

Still...

What if he really
did
buy it?

“No
,”
I told myself, laughing. “Impossible.”

Grabbing the paintbrush, I went back to work.

****

T
he morning of the gallery opening came suddenly.

To me, anyway.

Groggy after a late night of painting, I stumbled through my shower and cup of coffee before the reality finally hit me.

Tonight is my show. My show, mine!

Holy hell.

Dressing in the nicest gown I had—a long thing of perfectly smooth black that dipped low and showed off my shoulders and more—I did my makeup as best as I could with my shaking hands.

I was ready in a flash, spending the next few hours fidgeting around my apartment.

Finally, with a deep inhale of air, I gathered my purse and hurried to the gallery space.

The evening was warm, though I couldn't tell how much of that was from my nervous sweating. As I approached the gallery, I saw that the large front window was... different.

Within a few feet, I was able to tell what had changed.

There, in scrolling, curly letters, someone had painted the words, 'Gallery of Wings' and then below, 'the Art of Naomi Starling.'

Seeing this, my grin spread wide. Through the glass, the place was lit up like an orange sky, the red walls adding to the effect.

Pushing my way in, I saw Veronica bent over a table. The tall woman was busily setting up stacks of cards. She turned at the sound of me entering, and we flashed each other excited looks.

“Do you like it?” Veronica gushed, her hands clasping together.

I didn't need to ask
what
she was referring to, I just stepped forward and wrapped the woman in a tight hug. “Veronica, this is amazing! Did you set this all up by yourself?”

“Psh.” She laughed, disengaging so she could finish adjusting things on the table. “It was nothing! You did all the real work, the art looks fantastic.”

“Do you think I'll sell anything?” I didn't want to ask so bluntly, to reveal my fears, but in the moment it had simply slipped out. Biting my lip, I studied the woman's face for any hint of judgment. I only found her crooked smile.

“Naomi, honestly. You're worrying too much. I'm sure you'll sell
something
on your first night. Now, help me with these registration cards. We need them so people can bid on the art.”

Hunkering down, I helped her finish setting up.

We were just in time.

As the evening turned the outside sky into a navy bruise, the warmth of the gallery seemed to draw people in. They lined up, and they didn't stop. Quickly, the place was full.

People strolled around, drinking wine and chattering about what they saw. I was too nervous to listen in, so I hovered by a corner. Someone—maybe Veronica—must have told someone I was the artist on display, though.

Before long, I was smothered in a wave of questions from pure strangers.

“How long did this take you?”

“Have you painted for a long time?”

“What school do you go to?”

“Do you plan to have another showing in the future?”

“What was your inspiration?”

By the end of the first hour, I was dizzy. I swam through the crowd, looking for Veronica. The tall woman was caught in her own sea of people, juggling paper sheets and answering questions.

Ducking my head, I wormed towards a far wall, trying to become invisible. Glancing around, I noticed the little cards on some of my canvases had been filled out with bids. My heart throbbed with the excitement of knowing people were buying my work.

My brain tingled, the memory of the night before tugging at me.

I wonder if that guy, Seth, will come by and purchase the big piece he liked.

I was tempted to go look, to see if it had any bids. Oddly, the sheer chance that it didn't kept me from looking.

The chance that he hadn't...

Stop, don't be weird. You don't even know the guy.
Rubbing my neck, feeling the dampness from the heat of such a crammed space, I sighed. This was no time to ponder if I'd see that handsome stranger again. Already, people were swarming me once more, demanding my attention, making me feel claustrophobic.

And then, just like that, it was all over.

Waving farewell to the last stragglers leaving the gallery, I marveled that I had made it through in one piece. “Bye! Have a good night!” I called out. Locking the door, I promptly sat on the floor. “Oh my goodness. That was insane.”

“Right?” Veronica laughed, flopping across the long table. Her eyes twinkled on me. “But it was fun, wasn't it? How did you like it, be honest.”

I covered my eyes with an arm as the lights above blinded me. “It was amazing.” Sitting up, I gripped the edge of the table. My nose was close to Veronica's, the willowy woman smirking at the clear anticipation on my face. “Please tell me I sold some stuff.”

“Actually,” Veronica started, her expression twitching. It was strange, seeing such delight morph to concern. “There was
one
person who was a buyer tonight.”

“Oh.” My belly clenched with dread. “Just one?”

After everything, to sell so little...

Veronica frowned, her fingers gliding over a stack of papers. “I don't know how to say this. Um, you might have an obsessed fan, or something.”

Knotting my brow, I settled onto my knees. “Me, a fan? Besides
you?
”

“I like your work, don't get me wrong, but this is... different. Here, just look.” With an expression that bordered on dubiousness, Veronica slid a piece of paper across the table.

Grabbing it, I lifted it close and read the form. “I don't understand. This is just a sheet listing all of my artwork.”

“No, Naomi. It's a list of all your work that
sold
tonight.”

We stared at each other, the clarity sinking in like a heavy stone. “You're telling me one person bought everything? One person, they bought it
all?
”

Veronica didn't give an answer, but she didn't need to. This was strange, we both knew it, and it marred what should have been amazing news.

Tentatively, I rolled my eyes down that paper, terrified to read the signature at the bottom. But I had to know, I needed to see the name of the person who would have the money, the desire, to purchase my entire collection.

The name was scrawled beautifully, the practiced penmanship of someone who knew their signature would be read over and over.

It was a name that made my skin prickle.

Seth Hart.

Naomi

––––––––

I
stared into my glass of wine, sitting on the floor of the gallery with a bottle between me and Veronica. She had insisted we celebrate, and I had little in the way of resistance. Veronica didn't seem to care that I was exhausted, she just poured me another drink, stating I deserved it.

Watching me closely, she asked the question that had been burning between us. “You
really
don't know who he is, Naomi?”