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His smile should set me at ease. Instead, I’m somehow more nervous.
“I’m glad you wanted to talk.” I press on. “I’m convinced your work would be the star of my gallery.”
“Wait until you have seen my full collection.”
“I’m sure I’ll love everything. You’re incredibly talented.”
He shrugs away my remark—not like an artist fishing for more compliments. There’s something more. Is Marrok dismissing my opinion because he’s so secure in his abilities? Or…
“Are you already displaying elsewhere?”
“Nay. Why would you choose something as difficult as opening an art gallery, rather than working for another?”
“Because I love art. I want to spread it far and wide. When art is well done, it takes you to another place and evokes fresh emotions. When your life sucks, it allows you to escape into a whole new world. I mean, is there any woman who’s looked at Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus and hasn’t imagined herself rising out of the sea, reborn into something spectacular? Or looked at Renoir’s Bal au Moulin de la Galette, Montmartre and couldn’t picture themselves laughing and dancing with the beautiful crowd, being free and alive? Art is cleansing to the soul. Working for someone else…” I wrinkle my nose. “I’ve done that. I got fired. I’m not good at taking direction or biting my tongue. I’d rather have a quaint place that sells amazing pieces to people who crave beauty. Like your fawn. It’s stunning.”
“You moved here to find your father?” he asks abruptly. “I overheard your conversation with Bram.”
Since I might display his work, Marrok asking for my philosophy about art makes sense. He doesn’t need to know about my father. I refuse to vomit up my daddy issues for a stranger.
“Something like that. Tell me about you.”
He doesn’t. “Do you live alone?”
That question takes me aback. Is he fishing to find out if I’m single? I haven’t felt a “hey, baby” vibe from him since this morning when he put his hands on me. But the way he watches me, hanging on my every word… I’m not sure what else to think.
I glance out the window, and I’m startled to see countryside. We’ve left London? “Um…how much farther?”
“Close now.”
“I assumed you lived in a flat in the city.”
He shakes his head. “I require peace.”
Yeah, he mentioned preferring solitude, but… “You’re going pretty far out to get it. Why here?”
“Long story.”
That’s another question he’s dodged. I try to quash my uneasiness and focus on business. “I meant what I said earlier. Your work would be a hit in my shop. You’ll bring people joy. I’m glad you’ve changed your mind.”
“After we have talked, I feel certain I will be, as well.”
Marrok says what I want to hear…but I can’t shake the feeling we’re carrying on two different conversations.
“I’ve been pleased with the other pieces I carry. What do you think?”
“I should not say.”
Because he’s so much better? He’s right, but his answer stops just shy of egotism. I’m annoyed, both by his arrogance and my attraction to him.
Silence stretches between us as the taxi speeds on, leaving behind the residential streetlights of the suburbs. When we pass the last of the cozy homes, my anxiety starts screaming.
“Where the hell are we going?”
“Almost there.”
That’s what he said ten minutes ago.
Out the window, the night fog creeps in. Through the dark, I feel Marrok staring. There’s a vibe in the car—something ominous I don’t understand.
