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“Where’s your mother now?”
He releases my hair, letting it tumble down to my shoulders. “That’s another sore subject.”
I can’t help putting my foot in my mouth and asking questions too painful to answer. Why can’t I be more like Roman? He sees me at face-value and doesn’t pry, yet he always seems to understand what I need.
Several minutes later, we’re both dressed and sitting in the back of an SUV that Roman assures me is bullet proof.
I study his perfect profile and murmur, “You never told me where we’re going.”
He turns to meet my gaze and grins. “You already know.”
“MoCa?”
He threads his fingers between mine and squeezes my hand. “I thought I’d better attend, since Ernest Lubelli won’t stop using you as his messenger.”
“He’s just keen to have you in his gallery.”
“Keen to have me spend money in his gallery,” Roman mutters.
I rest my head on his shoulder and sigh. “Are you really that much of a patron of the arts?”
“You want the truth?” he asks.
“Go on.”
“They’re one of the best passive investments a man can buy. Today’s penniless art student can become tomorrow’s superstar. Generations later, the family is sitting on a fortune more stable than any business.”
“Are you serious?”
“Don’t get me wrong. We also buy the pieces we think are beautiful. Otherwise, what’s the point? You may as well just invest in stocks.”
When we reach a gas station, the car drives into a car wash, where Roman makes us change vehicles, explaining that we’re probably being followed.
The original SUV drives in one direction and our new car takes another. This would be exciting if I hadn’t experienced an attack that left me near death or seen Roman gunned down by an assassin.
We make another change of vehicles before reaching the MoCa art gallery’s back entrance, where a waitress ushers us through narrow hallways and into the viewing space.
Tonight, it’s arranged like an auction room with rows of chairs facing a podium on a stage. Patrons in evening wear walk around the perimeter, examining each painting.
Roman leans into my side and murmurs, “None of these artworks compare to yours.”
I place a hand on his chest. “You’re just saying that to be kind.”
He snickers. “No Montesano has ever had a maestro living under our roof. You’re my little goldmine.”
My cheeks heat at the implication that I might one day be as world renowned as Banksy, Damien Hirst, or David Hockney, who have reached the pinnacle of their careers. I love the thought of my art living on after I die.
Waitresses hand out canapés and glasses of champagne. Roman takes enough for us both, since neither of us has had dinner. As we eat, a few people walk up to Roman and congratulate him on his release. He’s gracious in his replies and even introduces me as the next big thing in art.
“Emberly?” A woman places her hand on my shoulder.
I turn around and lock gazes with the blonde lawyer from the party. “Oh, hi. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
She beams. “I just love the arts. Have you thought about painting my portrait?”
Roman appears at my side and places an arm around my shoulder. “Miss Kay is more interested in working with the gallery.”
She backs away and frowns. “If you change your mind?—”
