Page 64 of Gilded Saint

“Something like that.” I like how he immediately interprets the pieces with emotion. To me, modern art is all about communicating the human condition. “Not everything I paint is a reflection of me.”

“Have you ever readThe Picture of Dorian Gray?”

“No…haven’t heard of it.”

“Oscar Wilde. I read it in college. But there’s a line in there… Something about every portrait is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.”

“Huh.”

“Do you agree?”

“I suppose there’s some truth to it.”

“And if it’s true in a portrait–”

“It’s true in an abstract piece…or landscape,” I finish for him.

“You said there’s a shipment to pick up?”

“Yes. I think the front desk has it.” Although I’m not as sure I want him to see my art now.

“Where’s that?”

“In another building.”

“Well, let’s go.”

When we return with the pallets on a wheeled trolley, he’s shaking his head. “I can’t believe you thought you’d get this on your own.”

I hadn’t, actually. There are normally lots of people milling around.

“You planned on asking Geoff, didn’t you?”

“I met Geoff twenty-four hours ago. If you keep mentioning him, you’re going to make me believe you’re jealous.”

He narrows his eyes, and I’m torn between backing up or stepping forward and showing him he has no reason to be concerned. I’m attracted to him, and for now, he’s the only one I want.

“We need tools to open this. I’ll be back.” The door closes and the lock clicks. He locked me in here.

He might believe such behavior is normal, but I don’t. We lived in a small Italian town, and the family maintained order. Crime was rare. At least, I never heard of crimes. Papa never locked me in a room.

Maybe it’s London that breeds fear? Or perhaps the syndicate isn’t as good at maintaining harmony? The dead man Leo spoke of supports that theory. The news shook Lina.

If I’d brought a mobile, I would call Scarlet to get her take.

When the lock clicks again, he’s carrying a bag that he drops on the floor with a heavy thud.

“It’s not jealousy. It’s self-preservation. We’re playing a role, and it’s important that our acting convinces everyone around us.”

“Got it,” I say, feeling sufficiently chastised.

He waltzed back in and picked right up where we left off. What does that say? He’s offended at the notion he could be jealous?

He takes the back of a hammer and pops open the top of a crate. One by one, he helps me pull out the canvases, the products of my university years.

He backs up, hands on his waist, studying them propped up on the floor, resting against the walls.

“You’re talented.”

---