Page 1 of Hard Rock Deceit
ChapterOne
The room was near silent,soft whispers and hushed murmurs falling from each onlooker's lips. Compliments and accolades? Or critiques and snide comments? I could have wandered closer to hear the quiet conversations as the art gallery patrons perused my work. Staying back, I concealed myself behind a pillar, wringing my clammyhands.
I hoped to make it through without drawing attention to myself. My advisor and mentor told me to schmooze and mingle and network, using buzzwords that made me grimace. According to him, people only came to art gallery showings for unknown students on opening night to meet the artist themselves. So they could say,I met her whenand impress their friends. So they could ask about the artist's inspirations and feelings and the meaning behindthework.
I only had to make it another thirty minutes. The art showing would end, the gallery would close, and I could make myescape.
My advisor turned his head and caught my eye. I cringed, butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach. He motioned me to come forward. I shook my head no, trying to resist the urge to run away. He lifted his eyes heavenward, as if praying for patience, before returning to hisconversation.
I'd have to find a better hiding spot. I'd escaped for now, but Professor Ashford wouldn'tgiveup.
I avoided him as he did the rounds, shaking hands, pressing kisses to cheeks and chatting with friends old and new. Ashford was well connected in the art community. I was lucky to have him as an advisor andmentor.
If only he weren't so insistent on putting my face out there. He wanted me to pontificate about my work, to hold an audience, to let each patron inside my head, spilling all my inner thoughts and feelings aboutmyart.
No. I much,much,preferred being behind the camera, not in frontofit.
The place emptied, the stragglers heading tothedoor.
"Hidingagain?"
Ashford shook his head ruefully as he meandered to the far side of the gallery where I'd taken upresidence.
"Not hiding," I replied. "Just not bringing attention tomyself."
"That's the point of theseshowings."
"I thought the art was thepoint."
"The artist and their art cannot be separated," he said. "Someday, you're going to need to talk about your work in public. People want to hear from theartist."
"Is it over now?" I asked. "Canwego?"
Ashford jerked his chin to the side, gesturing. "There's one personstillhere."
I followedAshford'sgaze.
A man with ice blue eyes and longish platinum hair stood off to the side. His hair was as light as mine was dark. He had an almost aristocratic air about him as he contemplated the black and white photograph on the wall. This man wasbeautiful.
"He seems familiar," Imurmured.
"Perhaps you saw him at another gallery showing," Ashford said lightly. "He may be interested in buying. Do me a favor and speak to at least one person tonight,Cassie?"
Sweat dampened the back ofmyneck.
Speakwith him? Speak with a person whose face was so perfectly sculpted it belonged on a runway? What would Ievensay?
"Ask him if he likes it," Ashford said, as if sensing my inner turmoil. He nudged me with his elbow. "Don't you want tonetwork?"
I wanted to be back in my darkroom. I wanted to be behind a camera. The last thing I wanted was to talk to a stranger aboutmyart.
But this man, so beautiful it made my heart ache, was staring at my photograph, intense andfixated.
I wanted to photograph him. I wanted to capture thismoment.
I approached the man on light feet, almost tiptoeing. My veins thrummed with nervous energy. I rubbed at the seam of myshirt.
"Do you like it?" I asked tentatively as I came upbesidehim.
