19. My Wife

19

MY WIFE

Maeve

Soon, the living room fills with art world types. Women in avant-garde jumpsuits and short dresses that look like they’ve stepped straight out of a runway show. Men in colorful pants and tight shirts. I try to capture scene after scene with my brush.

I paint Mr. Vincenzo as he sails through the house, interacting with his guests with some sort of Dachshund-Chihuahua mix tucked into the crook of his arm. He’s a short, stout man with thick glasses and a dapper polka-dot suit. I paint him, too, when he asks me if I’d be so kind as to please make sure to get DaVinci—the dog—in some of the scenes .

“I never skimp on dogs,” I say, then he smiles and weaves back into the crowd, stroking the dog’s long ears as he goes. I paint gallery owners who exude an air of refined taste. I paint artists who stand out with their eccentric styles. I paint models who move gracefully through the room.

I don’t stop even when a tall, wiry man with high cheekbones and toned arms in a tight shirt strides right over to me. No idea who he is, but his je ne sais quoi makes me think he’s a model.

“Mabel Hart?” he asks when he arrives by my side. He’s British, posh, and very imperfectly interesting-looking in the way models are today.

“Maeve Hartley,” I correct with a smile as I keep painting. It’s hard to keep track of names, so I don’t take it personally.

“My apologies. You do the geometric shapes art, if memory serves? They’re so lovely.” His tone is a little slurry like he’s had one too many pints. “So insightful. So bright.”

I don’t do geometrics at all, but I say kindly, “Actually, I’m more of a stylized realist, but I like to play with light and shadow.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking,” he says, his voice smooth as he moves right next to me, maybe an inch away. “I met you at a fashion show one night, didn’t I? I believe it was for Isla Beaumont’s collection. You were doing these brilliant paintings then too.”

Well, I was there, but I was hired to cater, thanks to Aunt Vivian, not to paint. “She’s a wonderful designer. I’m sure you wore her clothes well.”

He brings a hand to his heart. “Oh, thanks, love. I’m so flattered you remember me. I’m Nigel,” he says, dropping his voice and glancing around as if making sure no one can hear him.

Thanks, love? My, my, aren’t we friendly. “Nice to meet you, Nigel,” I say politely as I dip my brush into the palette and, well, carry on.

“And yeah, it was so great to wear Beaumont’s designs. She has some very sexy clothes, don’t you think?”

I don’t actually know much about her style because I was too busy serving food, but that’s neither here nor there. “Yes, she does,” I say.

He leans closer, watching me work. It’s not the first time someone has watched me closely when I’ve been party-painting. It is a sort of a party trick, after all. But it’s the first time someone has gotten so up close and personal. Too personal—the fit of his pants makes me feel like I know him in the biblical sense. “Mmm, yes, that’s so wonderful,” he says, staring at my canvas.

Or perhaps…my chest.

I try to ignore how near he is. I try to ignore the liquor on his breath as I paint a stocky young man chatting amiably with a gray-haired, strong-nosed woman. I catch sight of Asher heading toward the conversationalist a few feet from me, the first time I’ve spotted him all night.

Maybe Asher will talk to the man and woman, and I can paint him too. I don’t know if I’ve ever painted Asher. I think I want to. A lot . As I imagine the colors I’d use for his light brown hair, a rush of warmth slides down my spine.

Then, Nigel places a hand on my shoulder.

What the…?

It’s clammy, and my skin turns cold from the unwelcome touch. Keeping my focus on the canvas, I try to subtly wriggle away from his spindly fingers.

“You have such a knack for this,” he says as his hand curves over my shoulder. “It’s like you were born to do it.” His voice dips into something that he must think is sensual as he keeps his hand on me, his fingers now stroking my skin. My gut churns, but I try again to shake him off without breaking my focus on the party. I have a job to do, after all.

“You do have a real talent for playing with light and shadow. I’d love to see how you handle something…more intimate. Would you like me to pose for you after the party?”

I snap my gaze toward him. “No,” I say. Firm, but not too loud.

A throat clears, and I look up to see Asher right next to us. Like a superhero arriving on the scene, he’s towering over the far-too-handsy and way-too-tipsy model.

“My wife is so talented, isn’t she?” he tells Nigel smoothly, but there’s a hard edge to his voice now.

Before I can react, Asher cuts in front of him, knocking the model’s hand off me. Asher grabs my chin and tilts my face up to his, pressing a kiss to my lips that’s anything but subtle. It’s possessive, demanding, and unmistakably territorial. When Asher finally pulls back, there’s a challenge in his eyes as he stares down the man. “But my wife doesn’t have any openings for nudes.”

As if she appeared out of nowhere, the woman in the newsboy cap click-click-clicks, and she’s captured the kiss on camera.

I can barely catch my breath. Beside her are the butler and the host, holding his dog. Mr. Vincenzo narrows his eyes at Nigel, and DaVinci seems to, as well.

“Oh, shoo, you little monkey bat,” the host says, flicking his fingers at the creepy model. “You arrived at my last show hungover and projectile vomited on the runway. You’re permanently banned from the house of Rafael and DaVinci Vincenzo! Do not come to my parties and hit on the talent! Do not even think about crashing my parties again! Now, go!”

I’m still reeling from the way the host said talent when Asher lifts a casual hand. “I’d be happy to see him out.”

Still holding the judgy dog, Mr. Vincenzo claps with glee while the hockey star curls a hand tightly—probably too tightly—over Nigel’s shoulder, cutting through the crowd that’s watching with avid eyes as he sees the creep out, the butler by his side.

As they go, Asher’s words repeat in my head— My wife is so talented . The way he said them, the way they felt like warning shots, the way they made my stomach flip…

But I stop lingering on them when Mr. Vincenzo turns to me, with utter concern in his eyes. “Do you need anything? Anything at all? A moment to rest? Some chocolate? A Xanax? An aperitif? Would you like to pet DaVinci?”

“I’m…good,” I say, “but I will take you up on the last one.”

He offers me the dog’s sleek head, and I stroke it a few times. “He’s very soft.”

“We both use the same shampoo.”

Of course they do.

Asher returns a minute later, dusting his hands. The tiny man reaches for Asher’s arm and thrusts it in the air. “You saved my party! You’re a hero, and you’ve earned a spot in my memoirs!”

So much for lying low.