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“What?” I frown.
“Gil brought in Miss Kay’s entire portfolio. I believe you wanted to talk about her art, so I’ve set it up in one of the viewing rooms?”
“I’m on my way.”
Twenty minutes later, one of the MoCa assistants guides me into a private chamber in the back of the gallery. Lubelli rises from a chair in the corner, holding a glass of whiskey.
“Miss Kay didn’t show me these five.” He gestures at some oversized canvases filled with abstract shapes and patterns. “Did she complete them recently?”
Pain grips my insides at the memory of Emberly in the back of my vehicle, kicking the shit out of that sniveling Lafayette.
“I acquired them from another gallery.”
Lubelli hums his approval. “She’s very versatile. Would you like me to stage an auction for them individually or as a quintet?”
“Neither.”
He takes a sip from his glass. “What would you like me to do with them?”
“What’s your assessment of her talent?”
His brows shoot up to his hairline. “My assessment?”
I meet his gaze with an unwavering glare. He tears his eyes away from mine and glances back to the paintings.
“The talent is there. Her work is unique and captivating. As I said before, her range is wide but always with a unique perspective that stands out from other artists at her level.”
“So, you could sell her paintings?”
Lubelli blows out a long breath. “Today’s market is based on name recognition, not skill. Miss Kay is an unknown, but with proper marketing and exposure, her pieces could sell.”
“Do it.”
“But she doesn’t have a social media presence.”
I close in on the smaller man. “Make something happen.”
“It’ll be expensive,” he says. “Unless she’s willing to invest hours into this project, she’ll need a publicist, a social media manager?—”
“I’ll cover the costs.”
“And videos and photos of her works in progress,” Lubelli continues as if I haven’t even spoken.
“I have hours of footage from her studio,” I say, thinking about the surveillance.
Lubelli finally nods. “Then I’ll make it happen.”
As I turn toward the exit, he clears his throat. “I still stand by what I said about these pieces.”
I turn around to find him gesturing at the painting of me at Simon’s Pond and a few other close ups of my physique. “What about them?”
“It would be a pity to sell such masterpieces,” he says with a wistful smile. “The love she has for you jumps off the canvas. It’s rare for an artist to infuse a painting with so much raw emotion.”
A knot forms in my stomach at the mention of Emberly’s love for me. I stare at the colorful paintings, each beat of my pulse tightening the tension around my heart.
Emberly loved me until she discovered my deceit. Emotions like that don’t just fade into cold indifference, and a woman who feels nothing for the man who betrayed her doesn’t cry herself to sleep.
“Don’t sell those paintings. Have them delivered to my home, but the rest of her work needs to be on social media and available for sale.”
