Why is she here? Perhaps she was a friend of the artist. She stood close to a guy whose body language didn’t seem like that of a boyfriend.
“She’s here! The girl who’s been turning me upside down all week. I’m going to speak to her,” said James. “I feel like I know her.” He raised a brow.
I hadn’t seen James that distracted over a girl before, and that was saying something, because along with cars, fine wine, and art, women were James’s obsession.
Marius, the gallery owner, joined us. “Ah… Mr. Sinclair. So glad you made it.” He shook my hand. “Most of the oils are by Sheldon Sprite, a final-year student at LCCA, except for that enchanting triptych”—he pointed to three panels depicting women in long robes and flowing hair, floating among skyscrapers—“which is by a fellow student, that pretty little thing over there.” He cocked his head subtly at the girl who had my blood running hot.
“Tell me about her,” I said.
“She’s a third-year student. Her work’s pretty out there—not in that Tracey Emin way. There’s only one Tracey.” He chuckled as though it was our personal joke.
Joining in, James said, “There sure is only one Tracey. One wouldn’t quite know where to place that soiled bed installation she’s famous for.”
“Art’s not just about ornament. It’s a public statement—an individual’s take on life,” I said. “The audacity of the work is its appeal, although I prefer Banksy. He makes bold public statements with the skill of a craftsman.”
Marius hung onto every syllable I uttered. I could have described the color of a turd, and he still would have nodded obsequiously. As an avid collector of modern art—most of which hung on the walls of the estates I’d converted—I’d added to his bank balance
“Introduce me,” I said, cocking my head at the beautiful girl.
“Follow me,” he said.
Marius joined the girl who’d raised my temperature. “There’s someone here who’d like to be introduced.” He gestured toward me. “This is Blake Sinclair.” He regarded me. “This is Penelope Green, the creator of that fascinating trio of paintings.” He pointed to the art.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m intrigued by your art,” I said. Extracting my eyes from her beautiful face, I regarded her painting. When I noticed her considerable skill as an artist, she won my immediate respect.
“Thanks,” she said, shifting from one leg to another.
“Well, then, leave you to it.” Marius looked at me. “If you have any questions… or are interested in…”
“I want to buy them,” I said.
Penelope looked at me as though I’d admitted to killing someone. I shook my head. “Is that a problem, Ms. Green?”
“Call me Penny, please.” Her face relaxed a little, although her voice seemed tense.
“Have you got another buyer?” I asked.
Marius responded with a decisive “No.”
Sensing that my offer had startled her, I stepped back, giving her space. “Excuse me for a moment.”
I left Marius alone with Penelope. Artists were known to be precious about their work, and she had every right to feel that way. Her talent was on fine display—brilliant in a way I hadn’t experienced at student shows before.
Talent was an aphrodisiac, as the saying went. However, with Penelope Green, the aphrodisiac wasn’t so much her considerable talent but her natural beauty. That was rare in my circle, where beauty was as manicured as everyone’s nails.
Spying the waiter, I headed over and grabbed a glass of champagne. I took a sip and winced. Although it tasted awful, I needed something to ease the sexual tension. I stole another glance at Penelope, who looked over at me and then quickly away again.
I’d lost James. He’d cornered the girl of his dreams and was chatting away, making her giggle.
8
* * *
PENELOPE
I FOUND SHELDON DEEP in conversation with Drew. I tapped him on the shoulder and gave him an apologetic smile. “Can I have a quick word?”
Sheldon followed me to a quiet corner, where a passing waiter happened to be. I pounced on him, nearly making him lose his balance—such was my need for a drink. I passed a glass to Sheldon and then took two for me.
“Shit, you’re hitting it hard, babe,” he said. “Has it something to do with the blue-eyed sex god in that Italian designer jacket?”
I had to laugh. When it came to clothes, Sheldon seemed to have a psychic ability at reading labels. “Uh-huh.” I gulped down some champagne. “I’m sorry to lure you away like this.”
He shook his head. “Why aren’t you hanging out with him?