Page 41 of Scarlett and the Big Bad Billionaire
Again my heart did its level best to suffocate me.
“Inksy.”
“Inksy,” she repeated. “Just one name?”
I nodded. “His real identity is anonymous. He’s an urban street artist. He first started with overnight wall murals in public spaces and smuggling his work into museums as pranks. The publicity increased museum attendance, and that raised Inksy’s profile. He’s done stealth street pieces and pop-up art installations all over the world, kind of like graffiti but usually more appreciated. I’m surprised you haven’t seen anything on the news about it.”
“I have now that I think about it. How does everyone know Inksy is a ‘he?’ Maybe Inksy is female.”
“Could be. No one knows for sure.”Except for me.
Scarlett closed her laptop, fully engaged now. “So how does she—or he—stay anonymous?Someonemust know who Inksy is.”
I held up a finger. “This one I can answer—one of Viridian’s specialties is helping celebrity clients maintain their privacy. Inksy probably uses nondisclosure agreements and employs a lot of lawyers.”
“Whyremain anonymous though?” she asked. “Why not take credit for your work? Why paint murals in the middle of the night then sneak away like some kid who’s rolled the football coach’s yard in toilet paper?”
I chuckled at the mental image. “I think Inksy likes surprising people. Not too long ago, one of his pieces was up on the auction block. It had just sold for five million when it suddenly burst into flame.”
Her head jerked in surprise. “Wow. How did that happen?”
“A remote-control incendiary device. He had a back-up painting he sent to the buyer, but it was quite an attention-getter.”
“He must be really good at being sneaky,” Scarlett said.
“Maybe he just wants to create art without drawing attention to himself.”
I stepped back and studied the painting as if I hadn’t created every stroke of it myself.
“It’s kind of like when people post things online hiding behind a shadow account, or going into a curtained confessional booth, or writing books under a pen name. You can express what youreallythink and feel—be your true self—when no one knows who you are.”
“Well, whoever that artist is… he’sreallyhungry,” Scarlett said.
You have no idea, darlin’.
CHAPTERTWELVE
MY FAVORITE MISTAKE
Scarlett
How I’d gotten roped into a conversation about art—aboutanythingwith Gray Lupine was a mystery to me.
I’d fully intended to keep my distance from the man. But he’d basically dared me to catch him stealing from Vivi’s collection, and while I highly doubted he’d try anything while being watched, it was a good idea that he besupervisedwhile here in her house.
I opened up my laptop again but continued to keep him in my peripheral vision.
He moved about the room so silently I wouldn’t have been shocked to learn hewasa cat burglar.
When he turned his back to me to take notes on the paintings on the opposite wall, I let myself peer over the top of my screen at him.
Gray was no longer a SEAL, but he’d clearly continued working out. His wide back tapered to a lean waist. He was casually dressed today in shorts and a t-shirt which showed off long, strong legs and heavily muscled arms that boasted a few more tattoos than I remembered.
I wondered what the new ones signified. Happy times? Bad memories?
Desperate attempts to cope with the horrors of war?
Whatever they meant, they were devastatingly sexy.
