Page 74 of Naughty Nelle

“Look! There’s Jennifer Lawrence!” I cried out as I watched her gracefully step out of a stretch limousine, followed by her handsome date.

“Ooh! I’m so in love with her,” cooed Chaz as he inched up the car.

Oh my God! Brangelina!” exclaimed Libby, who was a total celebrity hound.

Wearing contact lenses at Libby’s insistence, I found the gorgeous Hollywood power couple in the crowd. Paparazzi were stepping over each other to take photos. Wow! This wasn’t any ordinary gallery opening. It was the kind that made headline news on Entertainment Tonight. My heartbeat sped up with apprehension and anticipation.

We dispersed as soon as we stepped foot inside the bustling gallery. I didn’t even have a chance to grab a flute of champagne when a familiar angry voice assaulted me.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been here for an hour.”

I spun around. Facing me was Bradley, sticking out like a sore thumb in khakis and a navy Brooks Brothers blazer, in this uber-cool sea of black. While I felt out of my league, I felt grateful to be wearing Chaz’s chic little black dress. It was perfect.

“We just got here,” I muttered.

“Well, I want to leave soon.”

My heart fell to my stomach. Why couldn’t he for once do something I wanted to do? And didn’t he even notice my new dress?

“Okay. Let me take a quick look around and we’ll go.” Damn. Why didn’t I tell him I wanted to stay? Take in the art and hang out with Libby and Chaz.

“Good. I’m going to look for some herbal tea. By the way, the food here is awful and I’m starving. We’ll pick up something on our way home.”

Lowering my eyes, I noticed that two of his fingers were thickly bandaged. “What happened—”

He stalked off before I could ask. A white-gloved server passed by me, holding a tray of skewers. The alternating cubes of grilled meat and veggies looked and smelled delicious. As Bradley faded into the crowd, I grabbed one and savored it. I was starving too. For some nourishment. And affection.

Dozens of intriguing paintings lined the walls of the spacious gallery. I was eager to check them out, but first helped myself to a glass of champagne from another passing server. I took a sip of the bubbly. The zing took the sting out of Bradley’s words. Sometimes, he could be such a jerk. With my champagne in hand, I padded over to the painting nearest to me.

I studied it. It was a self-portrait of the artist PAZ, whose full name was Payton Anthony Zander. Upon entering the gallery, I’d been handed a short bio. He had painted hundred of oils, but his career was tragically cut short by a self-inflicted gunshot at the age of forty-five. A suicide. Such a shame because the artist was truly talented. I admired the rich Van Gogh-like brushstrokes and the juxtaposition of bright colors. I moved on to the next painting. Another portrait entitled Portrait of Delilah at Noon. It was a portrait of the late artist’s beloved wife and muse. An abstract nude. Her captivating, dark-eyed beauty lit up the canvas. Sadly, her infidelity and their subsequent divorce had driven PAZ to his untimely death.

A warm breath curled on the nape of my neck. “What does this painting do for you, Ms. McCoy?”

Startled by the familiar velvety voice, I spun around and almost spilled my champagne. Oh my God! It was Blake Burns. In my six-inch heels, I was nearly eye level with him.

“What are you doing here?” I gasped.

“The artist’s son, Jaime Zander, is my best friend. I want to introduce you to him. He’s the head of the advertising agency that’s doing our upfront presentation.”

“I’d love to meet him,” I stammered, soaking him in.

God, he looked delicious! In head-to-toe black: tight-ass jeans that hung low on his hips, an unzipped leather battle jacket that broadened his already broad shoulders, and a tee that clung to his defined pecs. Sexy black leather boots finished off his ensemble. I quickly shifted my vision back to his face, staying away from anything below his waist. His eyes burnt into mine.

“So answer my question about the painting.”

I swiveled around to take another look. My eyes absorbed the subtleties and innuendos. “It moves me. I can tell the artist was extremely in love with his former wife. There’s so much passion in his strokes.”

“Very impressive and perceptive. You must have taken quite a few art history courses in college.”

“I only took one.” My voice was shaky. “So, what does the painting do for you?”

“It makes me hot.”

A sudden chill ran down my spine and that familiar tingling sensation gathered between my legs. I was heating up. Stay cool. I turned around to face him.

“Do all naked women make you hot, Mr. Burns?”

“Only beautiful ones.” He eyed me from head to toe. “And I must say, Ms. McCoy, you happen to look extremely beautiful tonight.”

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