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He leans back, grinning harder.

“Nice. We could create some paintings together, hey?”

“I’ve already got plenty of those, too,” I tell him, and gesture to the canvases he’s been mocking. “These pieces are mine.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

JACK

If Eli was here, he’d be ashamed of me for being such an utter failure. I’m so off the mark, it’s a joke. The stunning woman at my side glares at me as though I’m a piece of shit, and I can’t say I blame her.

I had her nailed as a buyer, not a fucking artist. I had her stance down as stilted and bored, not waiting for clients to show up and buy her work for thousands of pounds a pop. I got it so wrong, it’s embarrassing.

I need to redeem myself, fast, so I switch my stance like lightning, pointing a finger at her with a wink.

“Got you there, didn’t I?” I say, with my jester grin.

She looks confused, her perfectly sculptured eyebrows pitted as she tries to weigh me up.

I keep my smile bright. “Of course I know you’re the artist. I love art. I’d have hardly paid fifteen hundred quid to come along to this jolly if I didn’t, would I?”

I survey the splash of red on the canvas in front of me with a nod of my head, using the opportunity to flash a glance at the name listed below, then I turn to face her full on, and hold out my hand.

“Alice, it’s great to meet you. I’m Jack. Jack Reid.”

Her hand feels small in mine, her fingers tense. Her eyes are nearly as light as Eli’s as they dig for the truth, and I don’t look away, just keep smiling.

Come on. Come on.

Finally, her fingers loosen up in my grip. Yeah, I got her. She believes me.

Thank fuck for that.

It’s a relief to see her smile as she shakes her head. The contrast zips through me, because the change in her is astonishing. There’s such a difference between the stiff, posh looking woman in stilettos and the artist now sparkling beside me.

“You should be an actor,” she tells me.

“So I’m told. Often. I call it being a joker. Sorry, I can’t help myself.” I take a sip of my champagne, then lean back in. “I wasn’t joking about this place being pretentious, though. Honestly, some of the conversations I’ve been overhearing. People think they are such experts.”

She eyes me with a gentle smirk.

“You’re not an expert then?”

“No, not at all. I’m more of an instinct kind of guy.” I pause for the sincerity. “I like art to speak deeply to me, unclouded by technicalities. It’s why I’m so drawn to yours. Such rawness.” Another pause. “Technicalities have no place here. Your work doesn’t need the descriptive overlay.”

Her smile is absolutely gorgeous, although she tries to play it down. She has dimples, and a hint of a blush through her foundation. This woman, Alice, is a jackpot win in a room full of stuck-up assholes. I’ve been scouting her the whole time I’ve been in here, keeping just out of view. It was an easy job, since she’s been hovering around the same spot. I thought it was through boredom and going through the motions, not the fact it was her own damn display.

She points to the central picture of hers. A load of red splashes with flakes of gold scattered on top. It’s got a thick black line of paint straight down the middle, like a botched attempt at the eye of Sauron.

“How does this one speak to you then, Jack?”

I put a finger to my chin, and take a deep breath, like I’m soaking in some kind of ambience. I take my time on purpose, watching her watching me from the corner of my eye.

“Red is a powerful one to express, Alice. It has so many connotations. Largely the colour symbolises blood for me. The rawness of both love and war. The beauty and the hatred we all carry deep within.” I pause, almost believing my own bullshit. “The gold highlights hope and healing. That’s how it feels for me. The aspiration that we can all aim for our best, whatever emotions are flaming under the surface.”

“And the black?” she asks.

Fuck. This is a tough one. I survey the image some more, trying to pluck something out of the air.