barely noticed they had walked into. Viola’s heels tapped on the polished black-and-white checkered floor, and he didn’t find the uncluttered room with minimalist furniture he’d expected. Instead, dozens of objects toppled over one another—what he guessed were family heirlooms, thousands of dollars’ worth of vases and accent pieces. A few pictures hung from the wall. Unlike the art displayed throughout the house, these didn’t have recessed lighting over them or any other details to make them stand out. The white wall was merely utilitarian, and his heart tightened as he ate up the space between him and his father’s paintings.
“Pardon my dust. These are some of the things I’m still considering whether to keep, give to my daughter, or get rid of,” Viola said behind him.
“I see,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, and focused on the painting in front of him. Bold colors of red, yellow, and orange flowed harmoniously together, with a hint of pink outlining it on a powerful circle. His pulse raced.
“Interesting. I wonder, what this could be?” Alice stepped forward.
“It’s the inside of a sunset,” he said, before he could rein in the words escaping from his mouth.
The memory of his father, too handsome for his own good, calling him into the cramped living room crowded with colors and brushes flashed in his mind. “Come see this, caro. I painted you the inside of a sunset. Maybe I’m not around as much as the other fathers. But I give you this.”
“Really? I thought it was one of those abstract ones it’s impossible to figure out,” Alice said, then stepped closer to the painting. “I believe you are right. It could be the inside of the sunset. I love it… It’s mesmerizing.”
An emotion that had been happily stashed away threatened to burst right there. He tugged at his collar again, but there was no dissolving the throbbing lump in his throat. His father had finished painting it on one of the few occasions he’d had Lorenzo over in his little shack at a noisy cortizo. He had been sober and without any female companions in sight. A day Lorenzo would never forget.
His fingers itched to trace the painting, even though he knew he couldn’t. There was as much of his relationship to his father in that painting as there was blood in his veins.
He made an effort to rear back and observe the other paintings with a critical eye rather than personal investment. After all, if Viola knew just how much he wanted it, he would be at a disadvantage. Or perhaps if she knew why—being what his father had been, a sleazy drunk who slept with the whole town—Lorenzo doubted she would have been a fan. Especially since Lorenzo’s father had been acquainted with her former husband.
“Wow. These are amazing,” Alice said, pulling him from his thoughts. He peered at her, and she stared at the paintings with her jaw dropped. Did she connect to his father’s work like he had?
“I’m willing to increase my offer, Viola. Thirty percent,” he said, even though money was no object. To him or to her, which made things harder. If she needed the money, he wouldn’t be having this conversation. If she needed the money, he wouldn’t have brought Alice with him for a relationship charade. A pang of sadness hit him, inexplicably, as if he’d betrayed a part of himself by admitting to it.
“I will keep that in mind, Lorenzo. You never did tell me why you’d rather keep it than sell it. I’m no art connoisseur, but I can assume these will have an audience.”
“Call me foolish, but some things defy explanation. It’s the case of these paintings,” he said, gesturing to them. “They speak to me in such way, I just want to keep them to myself.”
A smile ruffled Viola’s face. “A man who’s into exclusivity. Have to admire that.” He couldn’t tell if the trace of sarcasm in her voice was aimed at her former husband or himself. Unlike most of his business partners, Viola was a tough one to read.
“Me, too,” Alice chimed in. “Those are impossible to find nowadays.”
Alice opened the door to their suite and entered, fully aware that Lorenzo walked behind her, matching her every step. A non-alcoholic buzz washed over her, and she removed her shoes and tossed them in the closet. Slipping out of the dress, though, would require a freaking chainsaw. Her body clung to the fabric, and she was sure if she sucked