Her Billionaire's Creative Curve – Part 1
(The Billionaire's Curve Desire Series)
By Anita Dobs
Copyright Anita Dobs 2013
Published by Bloomingdale books
Anita Dobs Books
Anita Dobs Blog
Disclaimer:
All characters in this story are fictitious, and any resemblance to anyone either living or dead is entirely unintentional. This is a work of romantic fantasy, and should be taken as such. This work cannot be copied or redistributed in any shape or form without the authors prior permission.
I had been working as a para-legal secretary for some years, but it wasn't what was in my heart. I always knew where my passions lay - in the art world. But it wasn't until that balmy August day in the gallery as I was taking a break and admiring some of the paintings while strolling through the corridors lined with canvases, that I met him, and my life took a turn that it would never come back from.
I was standing in front of an impressionist painting by James Stanley - one of New York's finest up-and-coming artists - and was admiring the way his brushstrokes seemed to flow effortlessly into one another, when I felt or sensed someone standing just behind me to my right. I payed the person no mind, but a subtle waft of expensive musky cologne breezed past me. I had to admit, it kind of added to the overall feeling I was having while viewing the seascape painting. I took another bite of my chocolate bar and just mused over what the artist was exactly trying to express.
My grandmother had been the one to first interest me in art, often taking me around galleries as a child, until I could see almost any work of art and say who the artist was. She had also been a frustrated artist, and I guess I had become one also. There had never really been much of a chance for me to pursue my creative urges, the families finances didn't allow for it; and since Dad had died, there had been no main breadwinner in our family. The death of my father resulted in so many expenses, that my college fund had been soon drained. So I had put away my brushes by the age of eighteen, and then sought work to help my mother and younger sister out. There was no other way.
Each time I came to the gallery across from my work, I felt like I was transported back to my youth. A time when I was much happier, and much slimmer. I had put on weight, but to be honest, I didn't care. After all, the artist Peter Paul Rubens only painted curvy women, seeing them as the most beautiful of all women; it was even where the word 'rubenesque' came from, meaning a curvacious and sensual woman. I was certainly curvacious, and I really didn't give a damn if my mother constantly told me I needed to lose weight if I ever wanted to get a man. I'd seen the way some men looked at my shapely body, and I knew the right man for me would love me exactly as I was.
But that wasn't what I was thinking about as I stared at the painting. I was wondering why the artist had chose to use burnt sienna to suggest something looming under the sea, a kind of brooding presence in a literal sea of tranquility, contrasted also by the waves breaking on the rocks.
“What do you think about it?” A deep masculine voice said from behind me.
I didn't turn around, I was still deep in thought and answered absentmindedly,
“I think... I feel the piece captures the artists' romantic concept of the sea, the freedom and the depth, but the way he's painted the waves crashing up against the rocks expresses the potential brutality of the ocean. It's one of his better pieces.”
“Really?” The man's voice questioned, “You know this artist?”
I shrugged,
“Everyone knows James Stanley.” I responded, without turning around to him.
But everyone didn't know James Stanley, it was just I kept abreast of all the developments in the art world, and then I felt as if I'd been a bit rude, so I turned to face the man, and my jaw dropped!
There, standing in front of me, was a man who an artists brush existed to paint. He must have been around six foot two, his gray - obviously tailor made suit - wrapped around his well-built frame like a glove. But his eyes were what I had noticed first. There was an effervescent sparkle in them, and he took his intense gaze away from the painting we'd both been studying, and looked down at me, a warm smile slightly appearing on his face. I had an instant irrational desire to throw away my chocolate bar, feeling it was somehow 'not the done thing' to eat it around such a man, then decided such thinking was ridiculous at best.
I straightened my business suit and wondered if my top was slightly too low cut,
“Sorry.” I blurted out.
He cocked his head slightly to the side,
“Sorry for what?”
“I mean, I'm sorry for assuming you should know who James Stanley is. It's just, well, I'm a bit of a nerd when it comes to art.”
I instantly felt stupid for saying so, I wasn't a nerd and had never thought of myself as such, so why had I even said that? I didn't know, I just felt so self-conscious looking up at him. He looked like a Greek statue with the bearing of Michael Angelo's David, and the dignified brow and cleft chin of Roman sculpture.
“It's quite okay, I just wish I knew as much about art as you, I just don't have time what with running my own business, but it's always been a fascination of mine.”
I felt flattered and wondered if he'd seen my embarrassment, my face certainly felt flushed,
“Oh, I really don't know that much about art.” I lied, trying to be modest.
For the first time he laughed slightly, it wasn't a laugh of derision, it was more a laugh of disbelief,
“I think you're wrong. I mean, take a look at where we are,” he's splayed his arms out wide, indicating the gallery surroundings, “and more importantly, the timing. It's lunchtime, who on their lunch break chooses to come to an art gallery? Most people simply wish to eat, sit down and have a rest, but not you. I bet you come here everyday, don't you?”
He had a point, but so did I,
“The same could also be said of you, it's lunchtime, and here you are also.”
“Yes, I am,” he agreed with a nod, and then with his broad hand emphasized, “I only came here because my chauffeur happened to be driving past, and I had some time to kill, and I couldn't think of a better way to pass it than to come and look at some art, because I so rarely have the chance,” he paused for a moment, and seemed to look deeper into my eyes, “and how glad I am that I did.”
I wasn't sure where to look, he couldn't have been coming onto me, surely? He was obviously a very well-off man judging by his clothes, and the way he looked, he could have his pick of any woman he wanted, of that I was sure. I looked down and noticed a wedding ring was glaringly absent, and perhaps sensing my nervousness at what he'd just said to me, he changed the subject,
“Why don't we walk together, I'd really like your opinion on some of the other pieces here.”
I was so used to looking at art myself, and although I loved it, sometimes it did get kind of lonely. I'd only ever had one boyfriend who actually liked paintings, but he'd really gone off the rails and left our relationship in tatters some years previous. Since then, I'd never really been lucky enough to meet a man, even as a friend, who had the same interest as me.
“Sure, I don't see why not,” I looked at my watch, “I still have time before I need to get back.”
He smiled at me again, and then his expression suddenly changed to one of surprise,
“Oh, I'm sorry, forgive me for my lack of manners,” he held his hand out, “My name's Brody, Brody Mason.”
I put my hand into his, and it felt warm and all encompassing as he wrapped it around my own and shook it, his handshake w
as firm enough to show he was a strong man, but light enough that it indicated he had some sensitivity toward me. I was so used to lawyers giving me overly-strong and sharp handshakes, that Brody's handshake stood out a mile by comparison.
“Jenna, Jenna Sams.” I introduced myself.
Brody readjusted his tie like he was concerned about his appearance in front of me, and motioned for me to follow him. I knew this was most irregular, I rarely talked to strangers, let alone ones that handsome, never mind one's that I'd just met in a gallery; but as I walked beside him and he guided me over to a different artist's landscape painting, something about it felt so right. Although I felt flutters in my stomach, I couldn't deny I was starting to feel more and more curious about him. There were so few people there that day, that it almost felt like we were all alone. Like we were having a private viewing in fact.
“I'd like your opinions on this piece Jenna.” Brody asked, stroking his square jaw and looking intently at the picture.
I stared at it for a moment, and although I had to say the painting was pleasant, there just wasn't anything outstanding about it that I could put my finger on,
“Well,” I began, wondering if I should really say my honest opinion, and then deciding I might just as well, “it's nice, but it just doesn't really say anything that thousands of other works don't also say. And this artist in particular has being