The Masterpiece (Work of Art #3) (8 page)

I squeeze him tightly. “I’m so glad we can experience this together.”

He suddenly straightens up and turns toward me with wide eyes. “Hey, when we get married, we should get married here. It’d be perfect.”

“When we get married?” I can’t breathe. I’m still adjusting to the idea that we’re a couple, and he’s already thinking about us spending our lives together as husband and wife. I feel a mix of exhilaration and terror. If he jumps in too fast with me, he may regret it later.

“What?” he asks, as he studies my expression.

“I’m just surprised. It sounds like you have our life all planned out.”

“Well, of course we’re going to get married. Why wouldn’t we? You’re the one…”

He looks nervous. “Don’t you feel the same?”

His show of insecurity takes me aback. Maybe he needs reassurance just as much as I do.

I take his hand. “You know I do, my love. All right, we can get married here. It’s a good idea. It will keep it really intimate. After all, how many people would be able to come all the way to Spain?”

He laughs. “Yeah, that’s one way to keep the guest list short.”

“But, what if they don’t allow weddings in here?”

“Oh, I’ve got all kinds of tricks up my sleeve. I’ll figure it out.”

I smile as we walk toward the exit. I don’t doubt for a minute that my man will figure out a way to get exactly what he wants.

As we leave the church, the knowledge that Max was talking about marriage—as if marrying me was a given—is still sinking in. I’m in a dreamy haze imagining us under the stained glass windows hand-in-hand.

Max grins and pulls me toward the taxi stand.

We get back to the hotel just in time to meet the group from the museum. The first to greet us is a dark-haired beauty, Paloma, who’s the head of PR. We get the European double-cheek kiss from her that never caught on in the States. I watch her carefully because, frankly, I don’t like her so close to Max. Thankfully, the two handsome men, Andres and Diego, shake our hands instead of doing the kiss thing. Diego is the senior curator for the museum and Andres is the event coordinator.

Damn, is everyone so good-looking in Spain?

We pile into their car and they take us to
Toc
, a minimalist restaurant in the
Eixample
district. We let Diego order for us, since he has a strong point of view about everything. The waiter puts a platter in front of me that has far more plate showing than food.

There’s a burgundy something whipped beyond recognition and formed in the shape of a miniature Matterhorn with two green sprigs of something rising out of its center. Then there are three thin strips of beef curled tightly, an artichoke bottom stuffed with something crab-like and a few thin twigs of vegetables forming an abstract sculpture.

The food is so artfully presented, I’m almost surprised it tastes even better than it looks.

Everyone drinks wine and talks passionately, asking Max about his ideas and his inspiration. He handles them like a pro. However, Paloma, who sits to my right, focuses on me throughout lunch and converses with me on the side.

I have to give her credit—paying attention to me instead of Max is a wise strategy. If she underplays any attraction for the artist, we’ll be less likely to notice when she goes in for the Max kill.

Not likely, sister…I’m on to you.

But, despite all that, I have to admit I find Paloma intriguing. She speaks with great passion and has magnificent big brown eyes framed with eyelashes so thick they make her eyes look like starbursts. Her killer cheekbones and full lips are hard not to focus on when she’s calling me
Avv-aaa
. She has a tiny waist, and although her legs are a bit short, they’re perfectly toned and don’t prevent her from wearing a very short Missoni knit dress that clings to every curve.

She keeps stroking my arm while she talks to me, and every time we laugh, Max looks over to see what the hell’s going on. I have a new best friend.

Finally, Paloma turns her attention to Max.

“Are you married, Max?” she asks unabashedly.

“Not yet, but I have a girlfriend I’m serious about.”

“Lucky girl,” she purrs.

“It’s too bad you couldn’t bring her along on this trip,” replies Diego. “I’d like to meet the woman who’s captured the artist’s heart.”

I look over nervously, wondering how he’ll respond.

“Yes, she’s extraordinary, and Barcelona is the perfect place for us to visit,” Max replies evasively.

Clever man.

By the time lunch is over, I’m hoping the group’s pleased with us. It’s one thing to correspond and plan an event, but there is nothing like sitting down over a meal to really understand whom you’re dealing with.

Paloma goes over this afternoon’s interview schedule once more, and Andres discusses details for the intimate dinner tonight with the chief benefactors for the museum.

On the way out the door, Max asks how close Gaudi’s landmark apartment
Casa Mila
is to the restaurant, and they offer to drop us off so we can tour it before returning to the hotel to rest for the interviews.

Still struggling with jet lag, I’m starting to fade, but when we get to
Casa Mila,
I’m instantly inspired by the unconventional home. Gaudi must have been supremely confident to not just think of such imaginative designs, but he managed to convince clients to pay to build something so exotic. The rooms have wavy walls that curve into ceilings full of mosaics and unusual light fixtures. Every place we turn there’s a unique design element, an irregularly shaped door and freeform door handle. The entire place is dreamlike, full of color and light, as if we’ve stepped inside a magnificent sculpture.

Max’s eyes are bright. He’d give anything to live in a place like this. He buys a couple of books from the gift shop before we head to the boulevard.

His expression is electrified. “Can we walk back? I love just strolling through the streets and noticing all the little things.”

“Little things?”

He starts pointing out different people and objects. “Yeah, see the kids there tumbling out of the school gate, and how about that old lady with the crazy hat shopping for produce?”

In the distance is the corner market where an old woman’s hat has several colorful feathers rising out of the brim.

“Do you think she’ll buy that mango she’s holding or just keep fondling it?” he asks playfully.

Fondling.
I laugh at the peek into Max’s mind. “Look at the art deco shape of that mailbox.” I point.

He smiles and nods. “And what about the colors of that woman’s scarf? I want to paint with those colors when we get back to the hotel.” The swath of silk is fuchsia and lime green over her white dress. He packed some art supplies. He must’ve known he’d be inspired.

As we stroll along the next block, Max squints to spy a couple conversing up ahead. “Do you think that man in the orange shirt is in love with the woman he’s talking to?”

I watch them for a moment. “No, I don’t.”

“Because?”

“He keeps looking away while she’s talking.”

“I agree. But she loves him, don’t you think?”

I nod sadly as we move past them. He chats like this during the long walk back to the hotel, which helps distract me from the fact that it’s really hot and we’re getting cooked alive. By the time we get up to his room, I’m flushed from the heat.

Thank God I wore sunscreen today or my red skin would be from a sunburn instead of the hot weather.

When Max looks at me, he smiles. “Oh, Angel, you need to cool off, maybe a cold shower? No wait, I have an idea…I’ll be right back, okay?”

I nod, turn up the fan, and sink into the big armchair. A few minutes later, Max returns with two tall glasses of ice water. He hands me one and sets the other on the desk before looking in his suitcase for something.

I run the chilled glass across my forehead and take several long sips, feeling relief as it cascades down my heated throat. He turns back to me with a wide paintbrush in his hand. He considers me carefully with a mysterious look in his eyes.

“I’m going to cool you off. Take off your clothes and lie on the bed.”

I smile inwardly.
I like a man with a plan.

Curious, I slide out of my clothes without question, pull back the bedspread, and lie down on the cool sheets. I’m damp with perspiration and arousal, and he hasn’t even touched me yet. As I silently wait, he takes off his shirt, shoes and socks, and walks to the side of the bed, holding his glass of ice water and paintbrush.

He dips the brush in the ice water and then strokes my neck with it. I gasp and dig my fingers into the sheets. The soft bristles tickle and the coldness is shocking, but feels good. Next, he paints my face, slowly brushing over my eyelids and across my lips. He fills the brush again, then drags the brush along my hairline, with the excess water seeping into my hair.

I look up and he smiles. “Keep your eyes closed…just focus on how it feels.”

I’m overcome with anticipation of what part of my skin will feel the cool lick of the paintbrush next, and I shut my eyes. I hear the clink of the metal part of the brush hit the ice cubes, and then there’s a pause. My shoulders and arms are stroked slowly, and I gasp as he gently pulls my arm up and runs the brush along my underarms.

My nipples tighten and my breathing grows shallow and accelerates. But he continues to taunt me by working slowly. I’m on the edge, wondering where I’ll feel the next delicious stroke.

He spends a lot of time swirling over and under my breasts, and my nipples grow harder from the taunting chill. I desperately want his hot mouth sucking and warming me. My breathing becomes ragged and stops altogether when he blows on my wet skin. I open my eyes and see the heated look in his eyes. He’s enjoying this just as much as I am. I close my eyes again.

“Shall I keep going?” His whisper is darkly delicious.

I hear the rustle of his pants being removed.

“Yes,” I moan as my legs instinctively part.

He’s a magician, drawing feelings out of me like a silk scarf endlessly pulled out of a black top hat.

The cold tongue of the brush runs along my belly, across my thighs and circles my knees before heading south down my calves. I almost leap off the bed when he strokes the soles of my feet and drips the icy water between my toes.

“Max!” I squeal.

The brush trails up my inner thighs. I can feel his heat and smell his scent. His breath is ragged too, and the mattress dips as he climbs on the bed and leans over me. He lets the brush drip between my legs before the bristles caress me where his tongue wants to be.

I arch into the sensation, quivering and moaning, but he’s not done with his work of art. I need his brush painting me, and I’ll beg him for it if it comes to that. I hear the bristles slosh against the ice before he presses it against me, and I cry out.

“Please, please!”

“Please what, Ava?” he says with a dark edge to his voice. “Do you want more or less?”

My skin is the canvas of his imagination. I can feel his passion with every stroke.

“I want it all, Max.”

My hips are lifted and he’s suddenly inside me. He’s burning heat against my icy cold, but his powerful movements thaw me to my core.

I pant unabashedly, willing him to fuck me. “Yes!” I cry out over and over.

There’s another pause, and the brush circles my nipples again. My arms fan out and I shiver at the sensation of the cool water that’s dripped on the sheets. He thrusts again, hard, and then pauses.

The brush makes one final pass, swirling between my legs, and words are falling out of me without reason, abstract art formed of my breath, cries, and desire. I am coming undone, the sheets beneath me a Jackson Pollock, streaked and dripping with water instead of paint.

He’s driving into me now, the brush abandoned, as I rake my shaking fingers across his back.

“Fuck me harder.” The words sound savage and true as my lips release them.

He lifts my left leg up to his right shoulder and bears down deeper. Everything is simplified to the sensation of him powerfully filling me again and again. Now, together, we are a Robert Motherwell painting—a thick black streak of passion against the bright white sheets.

I open my eyes and find his shut, his face twisted in exquisite agony in those final moments before release. He’s growling and sweating, fiercely aroused, and he holds me protectively as I shatter. Only when I take my first breath and open my awestruck eyes does he join me.

I probably would have slept straight into the evening if Max hadn’t gently coaxed me awake from our nap. His hair’s dancing a wild rumba, and he looks bewildered, but happily content, as he drags me into the shower. We don’t have a lot of time, so we get ready quickly before we go to the television station.

We’re prepped and on camera so fast that I don’t have time to get nervous. Luckily, the reporter speaks perfect English and she’s charming, so it goes smoothly. They will translate the interview before it airs in the morning. Most of the questions are for Max, and I delight to watch him in action; he sounds smart and serious about his work, but his charisma is undeniable. I’m in awe to know that this magnificent man made love to me only hours ago, and now the world is watching him.