I Married a Billionaire: Lost and Found (Contemporary Romance) (23 page)

I cleared my throat and looked up at him. His clear, gray eyes were fixed on mine. I felt myself turning up to him, further, almost as if -
 

"Oh, my God," we both said at almost the exact same time, stepping away from each other hastily.

"I'm so sorry," said Curtis. "Maddy, I'm really - I'm really really sorry. I never do this kind of thing. I - this show is crazy, I'm stressed out, it went to my head. I'm….I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," I said. "Really." I smiled, encouragingly, even though my legs felt like jelly. "I understand, we both got….caught up. But it's okay. We didn't…it's fine." I pushed my hair behind my ears, smoothing it and clearing my throat. "I'm going to go take a look at my installation and get ready."

"Of course," he said, staring at the floor. "I'll see you later on."

I hurried into the cramped bathroom on the other side of the gallery, considering splashing some cold water on my face until I remembered that it would ruin my makeup. I leaned on the sink, instead, taking a series of deep breaths until the red in my face started to disappear. I washed my hands, smoothed my hair again, and went back out into the gallery.

People were just starting to filter in. I grabbed a glass of champagne and a few mysterious little puff pastries, standing next to my installment like a kid at a science fair. Truth be told, I really had no idea what was expected of me. I mean, I knew in theory - but I felt incredibly awkward, shoving little
hors d'oeuvres
into my mouth and drinking down all my champagne in one go. I stood there, awkwardly holding my empty glass, and trying to figure out what I'd just eaten.

"Oh my God," I said, softly, to no one. "I think those were tiny Beef Wellingtons."

"They were," said Curtis, suddenly appearing beside me. "Smile, you're on camera. Not literally. But you know what I mean."

I let out a long breath. "Okay," I said. "I think I'm ready."

"Don't get too nervous. You barely need to do anything. Just stand here and look stunning, but that's not hard. I'm sorry. I just - I mean, you look great. But if someone asks you a question, just answer it. If someone wants to buy it, be extra nice. That's pretty much all you need to know. And I'm here if you need anything. I'll be mingling. Just look for me."

"Thanks, Curtis," I said.

"No problem." He smiled. "Now, I've got to go be social for a while."

He wandered over to a group of people that had congregated towards the back of the room. With me being the focal point, I could feel everyone's eyes being drawn to me as they walked in, but most seemed to lose interest quickly and keep moving. I wasn't sure if they just felt awkward that I was standing there, or if they thought my drawings were terrible. Either way, it wasn't terribly encouraging.

There were only a few other artists there, and none of them seemed to want to make eye contact. So I went to fetch another glass of champagne and tried not to wonder if I'd be standing her all night, alone and silent, watching everyone walk around me in droves.

When I turned back to my installation, I saw an older businessman type standing there, frowning at it.
 

"These are very beautiful," he said, matter-of-factly. "Very…simple. But I like that." He eyed me for a reaction.

"Thank you," I said.

"Oh, you're the artist?" he said. "Very lovely." His eyes drifted to the name plate, then back to my face, then back to the name plate again. I could tell he wanted to say something, but was perhaps thinking better of it.

"Yes, well," he said, at last. "I hope you keep drawing, I'd love to see more of your work."

I wasn't quite sure what that meant, but it clearly wasn't going to lead to a sale tonight, so I went back for another round of appetizers and tried to sip more judiciously at my champagne. I had to survive the rest of the night standing on heels, after all. It probably wouldn't look too great if I had to lean on the free-standing wall just to stay upright.

As the place started to fill up, I finally had a few more interested parties - just no one quite interested enough to spend any money. I tried not to let myself look too closely at the other pieces on display, because the more I did, the more I noticed how small and plain all of my drawings looked, compared to theirs. There were so many gorgeous, lifelike paintings, intricate sculptures, and things that looked like - well, like they belonged in an art gallery. And here I was, with drawings that looked like they belonged on my mom's fridge.

I suddenly felt very small. I shrank against the wall, my shoulders hunched, sort of willing everyone to keep on ignoring me so I could wallow in my own inadequacy.
 

"Excuse me," said a voice. I looked up. A sharply-dressed businessman type was standing in front of me.

"Uh, hi," I said. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I think so." His eyes darted over to my drawings. "Lovely work. Really lovely. I had no idea you'd be here tonight. You're Daniel Thorne's wife, aren't you?"

"…yes," I said. "But I'm just here as an artist tonight." I forced a smile. This was getting off to a very poor start.

"And a very talented one, I'm sure," he said. "But listen - I think I can offer you a unique opportunity to tell your story in the midst of all the rumors and incorrect speculations that are swirling around your husband. I'd absolutely love to do a feature on you - get your unique perspective on the whole situation. I'm with the Post." He reached into his lapel and pulled out a business card, pushing it in my direction. I just stared at it. He gestured for me to take it a few more times, until I finally relented.

"Thanks," I said, "but no thanks."

"Are you sure? This would all be on your terms. You don't have to answer any questions you don't want to."

"Yeah, I know all about that," I said. "I'm going to have to stick with my original answer."

"This would be a unique chance for you to improve your image after that unfortunate cover page," he said, more quietly, drawing closer to me and bending his head down. "I know that's not how you want to be seen."

"I don't want to be seen at all," I said. "Did you want to buy a drawing, or what?"

"If I buy a drawing, will you do an interview? Just one page. It'll be twenty minutes. We can do it right here." He was actually reaching for his wallet.

"No!" I said, louder than I meant to. There was enough ambient conversation that it was hardly noticeable, but a few people turned to look at me curiously. "No," I repeated, more quietly this time. "Absolutely not."

"Have you read our paper?" he pressed, tucking his wallet back into his pocket. "I know sometimes the headlines can seem sort of…inflammatory, but we're really quite fair. We have a circulation of almost seven hundred thousand. This is a unique chance for you, it's unlikely to come up again."

"Wait, you mean if I called you up tomorrow and told you that I changed my mind, you wouldn't want to run the piece?" I smiled at him. "Sorry, but I don't believe you. Now if you'll move along to the other exhibits so everyone can have a chance for a meet and greet?"

He looked over his shoulder, then stepped closer, his voice lowering. "Nobody else is interested in talking to you," he said, softly. "They don't know who you are. But I do. Your drawings aren't enough to catch people's attention, honey, I'm sorry to break it to you. The only facet of interest you could possibly have for anyone is being Daniel Thorne's wife."

"Excuse me," said someone at my elbow. I turned to see Curtis standing there, holding a glass of champagne so tightly it looked like it might shatter. "I'm the gallery owner. Can I help you?"

The journalist pasted on a smile. "No thank you. I was just having a nice conversation with Mrs. Thorne here."

"Oh, is that all?" Curtis' smile was frigid. "Well, I have to say, I'm not an expert, but it didn't sound all that friendly to me."

"With all due respect," said the journalist, "this isn't really any of your business."

"With all due respect, this is my gallery, and I'd prefer that my featured artists not get hassled by someone like you."

I edged away, slowly. The journalist's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. "I'd really prefer that you not leave," he said. "We have a lot to talk about, if I can just get rid of this…busybody." He glared at Curtis.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said a voice so familiar that it made my heart leap into my throat. "But could you move out of the way? I can't quite see the drawings."

The journalist whirled around. "And just who the hell do-" Suddenly he went white as a sheet, and stepped backwards reflexively. "Mr. Thorne," he said, his voice suddenly much softer.

"Yes," said Daniel, smiling faintly. "And who did you say you were?"

The journalist swallowed dryly. "I didn't," he said, stepping further back.

"I got his card," I supplied, with the part of my brain that wasn't staring dumbfounded at my husband.

"Oh, you got his card. Excellent." Daniel sidled up to me and placed his hand on the small of my back, the way he always liked to do. "Well, then."

The journalist disappeared into the crowd.

"You look beautiful, darling," said Daniel very softly, dropping a kiss on the top of my head.
 

"God damn Lindsey," I muttered. "She promised not to tell."

"Oh, she didn't," said Daniel. "Don't be so quick to lay blame."

"I'm sorry," said Curtis, who was still standing awkwardly on the other side of the installation. "I couldn't resist."

"You fucker," I mouthed at him. But I was smiling, and so was he.

"I'm ridiculously proud of you," said Daniel, looking out over the gallery with a half-smile playing at his lips. "You know that, right?"

"I just didn't…" I let out a sigh. "I didn't want to give you one more thing to worry about. I'm sorry, I just figured I could do this on my own."

"You could," said Daniel. "And you did." He smiled down at me, his grey eyes shining with the light reflected off the little fixtures on my installation. "But isn't this better?"

I leaned closer to him, wrapping my arm around his waist and breathing in the smell of his cologne. It was so expensive that it didn't even have anything written on the bottle. All this time, and I still didn't know what it was called.

"Yes," I said softly, "this is better."

Curtis had disappeared at some point. I'm not sure how long we stood there, holding onto each other as the crowd walked around us, but after a while Curtis came back, hand extended, with a little piece of paper folded up between his fingers.

"What's this?" I asked, taking it.

"It's an offer," said Curtis, nodding his head towards a nearby couple. "From him. He wants the willow tree."

It was strange - all the anticipation and planning and dreaming, and I'd never once considered how it would actually feel when someone really
bought
something I'd made. It was such an odd, exhilarating thought. And sad, somehow.

I looked up at Daniel. "Did you put him up to this, to make me feel better?"

"Of course not. Open it."

I did. My fingers, for some reason, were shaking.

I looked back up at Daniel, who was smiling.

"You know," I said, "there was a time when this is the kind of money that would have made a difference to me."

"I still makes a difference," he said. "Of course it does. That's how much he wants to own something you created."

I looked down at the paper again, and then up at the room. The buyer was walking towards me, his wife lingering a few steps behind.

"Hello," I said.
 

"Beautiful," said the man, gesturing towards the drawing. "What do you think? Have I named the right price?" He reached back, putting his arm around his wife's shoulders and pulling her forward, gently. "If not, just let me know. She
has
to have it."

His wife was blushing prettily. "It reminds me of being a little girl," she said. "I just want to be able to look at it every day."

"In that case," I said, "I think we have a deal."

They both smiled. The man shook my hand and then they both withdrew, chatting happily in quiet voices.

"Congratulations," said Daniel.

"Thank you." I tucked my arm around his, letting out a long, soft breath of air. "You know, I really
am
only with you because I want to be." I hesitated. "Because I love you."

There was a moment of silence.

"Yes," he said. "I'm beginning to understand that." He pressed another kiss to the top of my head, and this time, I felt him smiling. "I love you too."

He was right.

This
was
better.

About the Author

 
Melanie Marchande is a young writer who loves creating fun, flirty, and occasionally steamy stories about two people realizing they just can't live without each other. If you'd like to read more from her, please leave a review letting her know what you liked about the book so she knows what to write next! You can also connect with her online:

 
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