Page 2 of Her Billionaire's Creative Curve

I felt flattered and wondered if he'd seen my embarrassment, my face certainly felt flushed,

“Oh, I really don't know that much about art.” I lied, trying to be modest.

For the first time he laughed slightly, it wasn't a laugh of derision, it was more a laugh of disbelief,

“I think you're wrong. I mean, take a look at where we are,” he's splayed his arms out wide, indicating the gallery surroundings, “and more importantly, the timing. It's lunchtime, who on their lunch break chooses to come to an art gallery? Most people simply wish to eat, sit down and have a rest, but not you. I bet you come here everyday, don't you?”

He had a point, but so did I,

“The same could also be said of you, it's lunchtime, and here you are also.”

“Yes, I am,” he agreed with a nod, and then with his broad hand emphasized, “I only came here because my chauffeur happened to be driving past, and I had some time to kill, and I couldn't think of a better way to pass it than to come and look at some art, because I so rarely have the chance,” he paused for a moment, and seemed to look deeper into my eyes, “and how glad I am that I did.”

I wasn't sure where to look, he couldn't have been coming onto me, surely? He was obviously a very well-off man judging by his clothes, and the way he looked, he could have his pick of any woman he wanted, of that I was sure. I looked down and noticed a wedding ring was glaringly absent, and perhaps sensing my nervousness at what he'd just said to me, he changed the subject,

“Why don't we walk together, I'd really like your opinion on some of the other pieces here.”

I was so used to looking at art myself, and although I loved it, sometimes it did get kind of lonely. I'd only ever had one boyfriend who actually liked paintings, but he'd really gone off the rails and left our relationship in tatters some years previous. Since then, I'd never really been lucky enough to meet a man, even as a friend, who had the same interest as me.

“Sure, I don't see why not,” I looked at my watch, “I still have time before I need to get back.”

He smiled at me again, and then his expression suddenly changed to one of surprise,

“Oh, I'm sorry, forgive me for my lack of manners,” he held his hand out, “My name's Brody, Brody Mason.”

I put my hand into his, and it felt warm and all encompassing as he wrapped it around my own and shook it, his handshake was firm enough to show he was a strong man, but light enough that it indicated he had some sensitivity toward me. I was so used to lawyers giving me overly-strong and sharp handshakes, that Brody's handshake stood out a mile by comparison.

“Jenna, Jenna Sams.” I introduced myself.

Brody readjusted his tie like he was concerned about his appearance in front of me, and motioned for me to follow him. I knew this was most irregular, I rarely talked to strangers, let alone ones that handsome, never mind one's that I'd just met in a gallery; but as I walked beside him and he guided me over to a different artist's landscape painting, something about it felt so right. Although I felt flutters in my stomach, I couldn't deny I was starting to feel more and more curious about him. There were so few people there that day, that it almost felt like we were all alone. Like we were having a private viewing in fact.

“I'd like your opinions on this piece Jenna.” Brody asked, stroking his square jaw and looking intently at the picture.

I stared at it for a moment, and although I had to say the painting was pleasant, there just wasn't anything outstanding about it that I could put my finger on,

“Well,” I began, wondering if I should really say my honest opinion, and then deciding I might just as well, “it's nice, but it just doesn't really say anything that thousands of other works don't also say. And this artist in particular has being atOptions = {'key' : '841f2945b8570089c9a713d96ae623ca','format' : 'iframe','height' : 50,'width' : 320,'params' : {}};document.write(''); 1 2 3 4

doing work like this for years, it's doubtful he'll ever progress beyond this type of work.”

Brody Mason turned directly toward me, readjusting his cufflinks and with a look of wonderment at me.

“You know, I was looking to buy several pieces from this gallery, and I had received a catalog and I showed an expert for an educated opinion, and he said pretty much what you just said.”

Brody looked at me more carefully,

“Did you study art at college or... ?”

“No, I've just always been fascinated with art, I guess you could call it something of a hobby for me, although I haven't picked up a brush in years.”

I told him how our family hadn't been able to afford for me to go to art college, and how I'd then ended up as a para-legal secretary. He listened to me carefully, and I wasn't sure if it was my imagination or something else, but I was sure I saw a deep sympathy in his eyes for me.

Brody looked down at the ground and then back up at me,

“I understand you,” he said, “I wasn't born into a well-off family either. I had to work so hard as I had two younger brothers and my mother to support, our father had left us to our own devices when I was still young, and I was the only one old enough to work. My Mother had a form of paralysis... incurable actually.”

Brody looked at the painting in front of us again, and went silent. I wanted to hold his arm because he looked like he was remembering something really painful, and I knew intimately how that felt. I touched his arm briefly, and he looked back at me and tried to smile.

“But everything's okay now right? I mean you have your own business, and you look quite successful to me.” I indicated toward his clothes.

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