Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,63

few looks shot our way and then we were ignored, his hand in mine as we entered the already crowded show. Inside was pure eye candy, brilliantly lit canvases everywhere, my eyes jumping from one to another as we moved deeper inside. “Want a drink?” Carter offered.

“Yes please. Champagne.”

“Wait here so I don’t lose you.” He pressed a gentle kiss on my neck and I smiled.

I was studying Peace of Heart—a red and pink wonder, tiny veins flowing through the large abstract, when I was bumped from behind and turned. Across the room, my eyes caught sight of Carter, his hand resting on the bar, his head tilted down toward the woman who stood close by his side. Presa Little. I recognized her immediately, her jet-black hair pulled back and pinned up, her stance strong and in control. The woman once had a lion as a pet. I still remember the 2005 Vogue cover where she stretched naked over its back. As I watched, she ran a hand over Carter’s arm and my gaze narrowed.

I knew nothing about love and less about succeeding in life. But I knew what a woman on the prowl looked like. Presa Little angled her head up to Carter, and I saw the history in every ounce of their interaction. A friend of his parents? Bullshit.

Carter moved his arm away, but it was too late. When he glanced over, our eyes met, and I raised my eyebrows. I ignored Carter’s directive to stay put and walked through the crowd, watching as her head turned to me, a smile crossing her face.

I hoped, when I approached fifty, to look like this woman. Even through jealousy, I saw her beauty. The woman was worldly, sophisticated, and utterly comfortable in her own skin. When she shook my hand, her shake was strong and confident, and I felt incredibly young and naïve.

“Presa, this is my girlfriend.” Carter ran his hand down my back and cupped my waist. “Chloe.”

Girlfriend. It was such an unexpected title that I mentally stuttered. I tried my best to smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m a big fan of your work … have been for a long time.”

“Thank you, Chloe.” She smiled at Carter. “It’s so great to see my Carter settling. I thought it would never happen.”

Her accent was full of rolled Rs and elongated vowels. I could tell that she wasn’t a native English speaker, but she was adept enough to know the difference between “settling down” and “settling.” Oh, and my Carter. I caught the possession. Saw it in the way her eyes sharpened as she looked at him, verbal claws of ownership digging in and taking hold. It pissed me off and I swallowed a retort, mentally counting to three before I responded.

“How do you two know each other?” I smiled when I asked the question but it still came out a little sharp. She turned to me, her eyes lighting, feeding on my insecurity.

“God, I met Carter when he was … what? Nineteen?” She glanced at him and he nodded warily. “His parents were some of my most loyal clients. Carter worked at my studio, assembling canvases and packaging up my sales. He’s always been good with his hands.” She smiled at me. “But I’m sure you know that.”

My face blushed hot, and I felt off balance. If I were Benta, I’d snap off a witty comeback. Cammie would simply smile, with eyes that killed. Me? I wasn’t qualified, not to spar with the likes of Presa Little. Not to fight over a man I didn’t really have ownership of. I returned her smile weakly.

“Ms. Little?” A tall man in a suit appeared at her right. “We are ready for you at the podium.”

Presa nodded and turned to Carter. “I’ve got to run. It was wonderful to see you and to get a chance to meet you, Chloe.” She hugged Carter, a hug that lasted a few seconds too long. She smiled sweetly and, in a swish of fabrics, left.

I looked up at Carter. “Well?” I asked.

He groaned and reached for my hand. “Let’s find someplace to talk.”

56. Mrs. Robinson is a Bitch.

We stepped outside, navigating around the incoming stream of people and walked west. Aside from the gallery, we were in the industrial part of Chelsea, an area virtually abandoned at night. We didn’t have to go far to be alone, stopping at a bare spot alongside a wall. I leaned against the rough brick and he