Page 17 of The Man in the Painting

CHAPTERSEVEN

Melody

Abram Harden.

If my jaw dropped further for every line I read about him, it’d be hitting the ground at any second.

Did he say he owned a few galleries?

He has twelve massive galleries all over the world and three private museums.

He’s a renowned artist whose artworks have sold for millions of dollars.

Obviously, he’d done that painting of himself in the downstairs living room, and it’s worth eight million dollars, but he refuses to sell.

I can’t believe that amount of money is just hanging on a wall, looking all pretty when it can actually be sitting in a bank account.

He obviously has a lot of money in his bank account if he doesn’t bother about a mere eight million dollars.

He’s a frigging billionaire.

I probably didn’t recognize him because I have zero interest in art or anything at all. I surely don’t have the time to pick out a hobby or extravagant leisure activities like others. I’m busy finding ways to survive.

I click on another article about him.

There’s a picture of him with a gorgeous brunette smiling boldly at the camera. She looks slim and elegant, a perfect fit against his huge structure. One arm is looped in Abram’s, and she’s waving at the camera with her free hand, a true diva.

My gaze slides to Abram, and my throat suddenly goes dry.

He’s looking directly at the camera, his mouth pulled up in that audacious yet detached smirk that looks incredibly sexy on him.

He looks dashing in a navy blue suit that’s tailored to perfection.

He’s the kind of man that would look especially handsome in anything, even sackcloth.

His rich black hair is styled differently than it looks right now, with some steel strands at his temples, but equally gorgeous so that my fingers itch to glide through the rich curls. His eyes seem to bore into mine – those very eyes that held me as a prisoner earlier today.

I think back to the instant my eyes met his enigmatic turquoise eyes. I thought it was a dream.

Who knew that the object of my fantasies would be staring me in the face just when I woke up from a dream about him?

Be mine...

The words slip into my mind, his sexy deep voice resonating painfully in my head.

He said those words with such conviction that my heart stopped beating for a second.

I shake my head, wishing the thoughts away.

The picture I’m looking at now was taken at an award dinner, his third in a row. The article goes on about Abram’s great accomplishments and his beautiful date.

I wonder if the woman is his girlfriend. She’s perfect for the role.

Just the thought left a bitter taste in my mouth.

But why should I care if she’s his girlfriend or not? I barely know the man.

And reading about him now makes it clearer that we’re worlds apart.

---