Angelique Rising (41 page)

             
I was shocked at how little Joan had paid her.

             
"And it's not very good," she continued, her tone clipped, "portraits from photos never are, and your employee selected the really cheap canvas for you. Can't get the same clarity, the same crispness. And you're not in it at all, it's just a drawing of somebody, none of your essence is captured in it."

             
My
essence
? Uh oh, she was building up to it, a bait and switch. I'd created a conglomerate worth hundreds of millions of dollars every dime of which I owned personally and she thought she was going to pull that shit on
me?
No doubt she wanted me to commission her to draw my
essence
, at substantial cost. She looked dirt poor but she could obviously spot wealth --and opportunity-- when she saw it. Oh baby I'd smirked, you are
so
out of your league.

             
"And how much would that cost me?" I scoffed before I could help myself.

             
"What?" she asked and I saw she was genuinely confused.
Crap.

             
"A drawing that captured my
essence
."

             
"Oh that's two thousand, it's live sitting, I wasn't talking about that. Just that maybe this really isn't worth repairing, or even buying another." There was a frostiness in her voice as she tried handing the portrait back to me with a contemptuous snort to show that I'd offended her and she was ending our meeting. I wondered what kind of a trainee
she'd
make.

             
HUH?

             
I felt badly, I had no choice. Got myself into that one.

             
"No, I think I'd like to do it," I said, chagrinned. "How many 'live sittings' are we talking about?" I looked around her garage and wondered how many hours the whole stinking ordeal was going to cost me. Her eyes followed mine revealing her irritation.

             
"Not
here
," she said and I saw how insufferable she thought I was (but she wanted the money), "at wherever you're going to hang it, I have to do the drawing to fit the ambiance of the room. Sitting time three half hour sessions but for you I'll make it two," she added snidely. Her mouth twitched in tight-lipped humor. Oh sweetie what I could
do to that mouth. I envisioned folding her over a few of her paintings, explain to her who was the boss, make her freakin'
purr.
It was very entertaining.

             
"My office," I decided on the spot. Gloria II whoever she would be (there were two candidates I was trying to muster interest in) would not be getting her hands on
that
one. I pulled a card from my wallet and handed it to her.

             
"How much for the deposit?" I asked.

             
"If you want the good canvas --and I hope you do-- five hundred."

             
I definitely had her full attention as I handed her my money and restrained myself from the admonishment that she try buying some
food
with it.

             
"Monday nine a.m.?" I asked.

             
She stuffed the cash into her jeans and handed me a sheaf of papers held together by a large metal clip (its shape reminded me of one I'd used on Gloria). Printed on it were several small pictures of paintings she'd presumably done.

             
"Take this and pick out a pose you want," she said. "I'll see you Monday morning, Mr. Stone. What do you want me to do with this?" she asked holding up the damaged drawing.

             
"Have it repaired," I said as I handed over a thousand dollars, I knew she'd take it. It was for her one lucky day (and I was cashless). "I'll see you Monday morning, Miss Hampstead." I stared at her, bemused that for some inexplicable reason I was rather impressed by the stuck up little chick. Maybe it was those purple eyes. Go figure.

             
I turned and left, hoping she'd heard how she'd gone from a
Ms.
to a
Miss.

Chapter Two

Jaesha

              What a friggin'
ass
. The rich guys always were. But he wasn't cheap, I had to give him that, they're usually asses
and
cheap. He looked almost thirty, tanned, healthy, confident, and I had to admit he was one tall good looking man with his thick deep brown hair and that chiseled face male models go to surgeons for. His physique was solid, pure alpha male, the kind of body women drool over and I wasn't immune, I can drool with the best of 'em. But darn I'd wished I'd doubled my price, he probably would've paid, but I just can't do things like that even to people like him.

             
He'd sauntered into my studio with that demolished portrait (oh score one for
you
, lady!) just assuming I'd drop everything and fix it when it wasn't even any good, just a piece of crap really. Well a piece of crap that had paid a month's rent. And if the guy had stared at my butt any harder he would've scorched my jeans. But
wow
I had fifteen hundred bucks cash in my pocket and I raced next door to Abdul's to pay next month's rent while I still had it, then buy the canvas (the good stuff!) and then even put some to my student loans which were sadly behind.

             
It was Abdul's son, Ahmed, who squirmed out from underneath a decrepit old Chevy.

             
"So who was the Porsche?" Ahmed grinned. "He buy anything?"

             
"Thirty-five hundred dollars worth!" I cooed.

             
"Way to go, Jaesha!" he said with his rowdy, infectious laugh. "Heh Dad! Jaesha just landed a big one!"

             
Abdul appeared from his tiny office wiping his hands with a grimy cloth.

             
"You get paid anything?" he asked eagerly. Abdul was practical, he had to be (with seven kids) and was interested in my money unlike his son Ahmed who was interested in me, but that of course was dead at the starting line.

             
"Next month's," I sang.

             
"I'll get the receipt book," he said, and I noticed Abdul was almost singing too.

*****

              Screw. The building was twenty floors of steel and glass with a stone insignia outside that said STONE PLAZA. The guy wasn't rich, he was a
zillionaire
. And I'd worn my crappiest jeans, the ones I always chose last, just before I had no choice but to spring for the cash to do a load of laundry at the laundromat. The jeans were tight and had paint on them, I'd worn them all through college retiring them during my heady paycheck-every-week year long job at Henson's but I'd had to
un
-retire them after I'd fled that job but fast.

             
I stood in front of the ego-edifice of an office building not only having to go in, but having to go in and spend what I knew wouldn't be just a half hour with Mr. STONE PLAZA himself, more like an hour. Ah well.

             
I plunged onward finding (of course) a beautiful woman immaculately coiffed in that severe way ambitious women wear to achieve the illusion of expensively contrived perfection, sitting at a reception desk made of marble in a lobby made of marble filled with people all hustling in and out of (what else) burnished gold elevators.

             
"Hello," I said. "I'm Jaesha Hampstead, here to see Mr. Stone."

             
She hid the look of shock on her face too late as her eyes traveled over my paint stained jeans.

             
"Of course Miss Hampstead, he's expecting you. Twentieth floor, go straight up." She pointed to the elevators and for a brief moment I wondered if the
Miss
had been at his direction, ridiculous I knew. Guys like Kenneth Stone didn't waste their time deliberately ticking off people like Jaesha Hampstead. All he wanted was his portrait to hang amongst his other trophies (if he had a murdered animal on his wall I was going to puke) to over-establish his dominance and importance to us mere mortals. Still, he hadn't been cheap. I had a soft spot for generous people which was why I myself always seemed to be broke. I was an easy touch for the young kids in the neighborhood, especially the ones with the absent dads and pay-no-attention moms.

             
I rode the elevator up, it was a long ride. A few people got in, got out, but no one rode with me all the way up to the twentieth floor. The door opened and a polished, impeccably dressed woman about forty years old was standing there as the burnished gold elevator doors opened.

             
"Miss Hampstead?" she asked. Again with the
Miss
. "This way please, Mr. Stone is waiting for you. Can I help you with anything?"

             
I was lugging my easel under my arms with my canvas, pens and inks clutched in my hands.

             
"Thanks," I said, "I can manage."

             
She led me through the huge foyer (
foyer
!) and I had to admit the art on the walls was sumptuous, but then he could afford sumptuous. But the thing was it was also good taste sumptuous, the understated sheer quality kind. That doesn't come from money, it comes from a good eye and brains. He probably had an art purchaser. Thinking about it, I remembered that the woman who'd commissioned the ink drawing of him had seemed to know about art. Sort of anyway.

             
Secretary-greeter knocked on a door at the end, opened it, and even I had to gasp at the office within. It was beautiful. Cold but beautiful, in that clean, sweeping kind of way, everything melded together perfectly. Silver, beige, and an understated deep blue. Heaven. The only thing that stood out was an unexpected splash of color --a cobalt blue thick glass table that
he
was sitting behind, obviously what he used for a desk. My heartbeat picked up.

             
"Hello again, Miss Hampstead," Kenneth Stone said to me with a shadow of a smile or maybe a smirk.
Miss
. His clear translation?
Subservient.
He looked so sure of himself as he regarded me so avidly he made my scalp prickle. He was just such a powerful hunk of male-flesh sitting there in his dark blue, form-tailored jacket that simultaneously somehow accentuated and hid his muscles underneath, I couldn't wrench my eyes off him. Men's jackets like that are unnerving, they make you melt, I bet that's why men wear them, they know.
But his voice had been a challenge to me and he was waiting.

             
"Mr. Stone," I said nervously, finally managing to glance about his office. The odd thing was that while I'd expected a d
é
cor of macho self-tribute, there were no adornments at all. There were large windows of course, but nothing else. Not even a wife's picture on his cobalt table-desk --now why on earth are you checking that out Jaesha, I asked myself guiltily knowing that I would also check out whether he had a wedding ring, like that would make any difference to
me
.
Twenty-three years old, screwed only once in my life (but good), couldn't even remember it, and I'd long since accepted my self-enforced celibacy. I had my art. And I had the other thing too though I probably would've agreed to be a whore in an opium den to get rid of it. Oh Jaesha, get a grip.

             
"I like this," he grinned at me mischievously with a look contrived to make me feel like an employee, and for one moment I felt weak. Then I realized he was pointing to a pose in my album he'd selected.
You did that deliberately
.

             
"Go sit over there," I retaliated (it felt good) and I pointed to a chair by a window. He smiled ruefully but he obeyed.

             
"May I call you
Ji-shaw?
" he asked, his tone light and friendly but I heard the castigating quality in it.

             
"My name is pronounced
Jay-sha
and you can call me that only if I can call you
Kenneth
," I said flippantly as he struck his pose. Turn to stone, Stone! But
ooo
... that beautiful profile? God's gift to women. I gave myself a mental shake, there was no reason why he was getting to me so, I'd drawn the portraits of lots of handsome men, sheesh, they were the guys who hired me the most.

             
"You
may
," he said, his eyes twinkling and I figured, well, anything was better than
Miss
. I got the irritating feeling that he was enjoying every tedious minute of our repartee. "Now I won't disturb you, Jaesha," he assured me curtly, the utter sincerity of his voice precluding me from trusting one little bit of it, "but let me know when I tire you out." A joke that somehow I knew, wasn't.