Chapter 4

"I swear, if I survive the next three weeks, I'll go on a cruise to the Caribbean," Casey complained in my ear.

"You always say this, and then you never end up going," I replied, and juggled both my coffee cup and the papers in my hand as I tried opening the car door with my phone pressed against my ear. A light sheen of rain coated my face. The weather gods were depressingly reliable on the coast. The bleary weather strip had hit, and everything looked dark and grey today.

"You know I can't leave Rambo. Even though the little shit costs me my last nerve."

I chuckled. "What has he done this time?"

"He's still mortally offended I switched the brand of his cat food and is currently hiding in my closet."

I barked out a laugh before I could stop myself. "Hiding between your cashmere sweaters?"

"Don't laugh! That damned cat eats more expensive food than I do! I had to do something!"

I laughed harder.

"And now he hates me," Casey groaned. "I found a hairball in my moisturizer this morning. Not to mention the number of half-decayed critters he's been leaving on the porch!"

"Okay, yeah. No more details, please."

I got behind the wheel, put the coffee into the cupholder and my papers on the passenger seat. Cantankerous Rambo was possibly the most spoiled cat in existence and the only thing in this world that Casey loved more than her gallery. Still, the cat was either an evil genius or Satan incarnate. I made a bet with myself that Casey would crumble on the food dispute before the week was out. The last altercation had left her with a shredded Louis Vuitton bag that we had to have an official funeral for.

"So, you met my new client the other day," my best friend continued.

My stomach flipped. "I did," I replied, voice non-committal.

"What did you think?"

What did I think? I thought the woman was incredibly charismatic and her beauty would've probably made Michelangelo cry if he'd ever got the chance to come face to face with her. My answer must have taken too long because I could hear her chuckle.

"She's something, isn't she?"

"There's a part of me that still can't believe you nabbed the job of organizing her exhibit."

"And?"

"And … she's really pretty. I might've been just a little tongue-tied around her."

Casey snorted. "No, imagine that. Sam Hale being tongue-tied."

"You're a shit," I grumbled.

"I know. But between my demon of a cat and Ms Renaud's manager, I have had my share of annoyances to deal with this week. Hang on." Something rang in the background, and I heard her talking to someone on the office phone for half a minute before coming back on the line. "Speak of the devil. Ms Jackson has just requested a meeting. Oh, joy."

"I'm sorry. Is she really so bad?"

"She is. She's been on my case ever since we met in Chicago. A control freak of the first order. One time, I caught her telling Ms Renaud to redo one of the paintings because the original canvas wouldn't fit right into the exhibition space. Can you imagine that? Hey, I need this piece of artistic expression made to size! Anyone would think we're part of a factory production line."

The statement made me wince. "That doesn't sound like she understands how artists tick."

"No shit." Casey blew out a breath. "You could actually do me a favour. I know you're on your way to class, but I haven't had any coffee today. I fear I won't survive a meeting without it. Could you possibly drop off some on your way?"

I checked the time on the dashboard as I accelerated. "I might just have time for that."

"Oh, pretty please. Trust me, the way the woman stalks around on her feet-breaking high-heels would make you want to stick one through her eye too. Besides, she has this annoying tendency to always carry a pen and click it. Drives me nuts."

I chuckled. Indicating, I turned at the crossroads, heading deeper into the inner city instead of taking the direct route to my next lecture at the art college. "I'm on my way, my coffee-deprived friend. But your toll is growing."

When I arrived at the gallery, the rain had lessened to a trickle. Dark grey clouds ominously loomed overhead, though, and my hair was plastered to my face when I shouldered through the door, carrying Casey's coffee in one hand and a bag with a brownie in the other. I'd figured that sugar might be a good sidekick for her day.

I found her in her office, leaning over a folder on her desk. When I stepped in and she saw the goodies I'd brought, her frown morphed into a smile. I could see that she was pale, though. Dark smudges painted the skin under her eyes. Even the otherwise perfectly coiffed blonde hair looked a bit more lifeless than usual.

"I really do love you a lot," she said, then stretched out her arms. "Gimme, please."

Dutifully, I reached out to pass her the coffee. She took a deep swallow, exhaling in bliss at the mix of spices the barista had added. Before I could say anything else, the noise of something dropping onto the ground intervened. Then two voices sounded out. They were clearly arguing, and it sounded … It almost sounded like they were coming from the direction of Casey's storage room.

I could make out a few words about "a bunch of incompetents" who weren't able to "tell the difference between a Van Gogh and a kid's colouring book" and something about the boondocks.

My eyebrows wandered up. "Everything okay?"

"What, you don't think it's normal to have a heated discussion in between stacks of boxes before eight in the morning?" Casey sighed. "Ms Jackson appeared while you were on your way. She's none too pleased. The company that was supposed to transport Ms Renaud's paintings from Chicago called earlier. They can't fulfil their end of the contract due to a fire in one of their car parks."

"Shit."

"Shit is right," she muttered. "Their insurance company is going to reimburse them for the damage, but it's going to take them a while to replace the cars. Ms Renaud accompanied her manager so we can find a solution for this, but my plan to hire a local transport company didn't find much resonance with Ms Jackson." Her hand tightened around the coffee mug.

"There should be plenty of reliable folks around here who can do the job."

"I know that, and you know that, but this woman thinks we descend from swamp rats. They're currently arguing it out. Ms Renaud at least seems to be a reasonable person." She put the coffee cup on the desk, and her voice became very sober. "I can't mess this up, Sam."

I stepped closer. "Hey, hey. You won't. It's okay. You've worked your ass off to get here, and you'll figure it out."

She exhaled a deep breath and straightened up on her chair. "Yeah, yeah, I will, won't I? Thank you for that. I appreciate it. Did I mention that we expect Mr Williams to join us in an hour too?"

"The art critic?"

"The very same. He was interested in Ms Renaud's choice of venue, and he's one of the people you don't say no to."

I remembered how infamous he was for his sharp tongue. Rumour was that at least one posh New York gallery had to close their doors last year because of him. No wonder Casey looked so frazzled.

Again, faint sounds of arguing reached my ears. Upon hearing Ms Renaud's dulcet tenor, I could feel my stomach flip, but I firmly told myself to sack it.

"Drink some more of that coffee, Casey. And have that brownie. It'll help."

She dutifully nodded and opened the bag. "Have I told you that I love you yet?"

"Once or twice. And I will remind you the next time you want to drag me to one of your social gatherings." She chuckled. "Please try not to work yourself into a shoot, okay? You look pale. You should try to get some proper sleep tonight."

She sighed. "I hear you. With all these fires breaking out, I just can't seem to find time to rest. But I will try."

I motioned my chin toward the door. "I gotta run. I still want to get some painting done before my lecture starts."

"Thanks again for taking a detour."

"Of course. Good luck with sorting this out. Call me if you need anything."

I walked back out the office and to the front door. Upon opening it, I jerked back at finding a man standing on the doorstep. The gentleman's coat was just as wet as I was, though the brown suede suit beneath gleamed pristinely. I recognised his face immediately. And perhaps I didn't properly understand the cutthroat, professional art world, but I knew that it would not make a good impression if the notorious critic walked in on Ms Renaud and her manager in the middle of a fight.

"Mr Williams, it's so nice of you to join us." I greeted him a little louder than necessary. My stomach churned at having to talk to a complete stranger, but I forced myself to push down the anxiety. "Please come in. If you would pass me your coat, I can hang that up for you."

"Good morning. That would be nice, thank you." His thin eyebrows drooped as I led him through the door and to the side—away from the storage room. He handed me his doubtlessly priceless coat with a measuring gaze. Before I could start to panic about having to make small talk, Casey appeared.

"Mr Williams, my apologies. We didn't expect you for another hour."

"That's quite alright, Ms Morgan." The man in the brown suede suit shook her hand, then gestured at me. "Your secretary was so accommodating to receive me. This location is a bit further out than I'm used to, but I am quite curious about it."

He cast a critical glance around the place, and I caught Casey's grateful but apologetic look about him thinking that I was her secretary. I gave her a subtle shake of my head. I didn't mind. More interesting was if the artist and her manager had heard the commotion and stopped arguing.

Tap, tap, tap.I turned at the sound of high heels. A thin woman in a pencil skirt was coming toward us, carrying a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. Her hair was pulled into such a tight bun that it looked like her skin was being stretched over her bones. She didn't spare me more than a dismissive glance before focusing on the art critic. I expelled a quiet breath when my gaze landed on the woman who was following her. The French painter looked a bit more formal today, wearing grey slacks and a loose-fitting designer blouse, but she was still just as beautiful.

Of course she is, idiot.

While I was busy searching for a brilliant idea on how to extricate myself, I tried to ignore how close to me Ms Renaud came to a stop. Would it be considered rude for a secretary to just vanish on an errand run?

"Well, I am so glad you came to pay us a visit, Stefano." The manager tittered. "These little indie art galleries always have such a niche charm, but they sure can be hard to find. It's good to see that there are spots for regular people to absorb great artwork, too, though. Even if it's on a more rudimentary scale."

Casey's face was the picture of politeness, but the squint of her eyes betrayed thunder. Even Ms Renaud seemed taken aback. Another titter almost made me wince.

"But this space," the manager exclaimed, twirling around to indicate the room. "It has such exclusivity, wouldn't you agree? I'm certain we can use it to display the paintings to perfection. And Ms Morgan should be commended. To deal with such a … difficult audience, and daily as well? The community here is certainly nothing like the one in Chicago."

Rudimentary scale? Difficult audience? She made us sound as if we still dwelled in caves and our understanding of art was restricted to drawing with sticks into the mud.

I stared at the woman, half-convinced I must have heard wrong. I had never witnessed anyone trash-talking a community with this much skill and precision while pretending to be oh-so-thoughtful and empathetic.

Wow, this woman is rude.

I got so caught up in my indignation that I even forgot to feel awkward. A good thing, too, because when Ms Renaud gave me an uneasy look from the side, I managed to return it reassuringly. Judging by how uncomfortable the artist was, I guessed that she didn't agree with Ms Jackson, either.

I subtly glanced at my watch. Now, I really was late. Casey must have noticed because she touched me on the arm. "If you'd like to see the back, we can do a little tour," she directed at Mr Williams. "I'm afraid Ms Hale will have to leave now." She paused, at a loss for words.

"The dry cleaning," I blurted.

Everyone stared at me.

Mr Williams nodded heavily. "It's always hard to find reliable personnel. It appears you've snatched up a good one here. Ms Hale." He stretched out a hand, and I automatically took it. "Don't let us keep you."

Ms Renaud blinked in confusion, but it was her manager's gaze who made me pull up short. Her eyes briefly fixed on my washed-out jeans and the plain green shirt peeking out under my jacket. Her stark red lips pursed. I didn't need any other hint to know what she thought about me or my outfit.

"Have a pleasant day," I said, then backed away.

Just before I left, I caught another look. The French artist's forehead was still scrunched, but she gave me a genuine smile. It did things to me no sane person should admit to, making a horde of miniature cavemen drum the insides of my stomach with their clubs before making a messy trek up to my heart.

Was that gratitude on her face? Must be my imagination.