Romance: The Art Of Love: A Billionaire Romance (8 page)

         
“Probably,”
Annette agreed.

         
“You’re
sure you’re going to be able to find your way out?”

         
“We’ve
got it,” Annette replied.

         
“What’s
the address up here?” Clifford asked. “In case we need to call for help?”

         
The
kid held out his hand again.

         
“Really,
man?” Annette said.

         
“Can’t
blame a guy for trying.”

         
Clifford
put a twenty in his hand. “That’s the last one.”

         
“There
aren’t no addresses up here. This isn’t even a real road. It’s just the way to
Hank the Hermit’s place.” The kid threw his truck into gear and drove off,
laughing as he went.

         
“That’s
America’s future, right there,” Clifford said.

         
Annette
shrugged. “That’s more money than he’s probably had in a month.” She turned and
peered into the woods. “Let’s go see if we can find Hank the Hermit.”

         
“There’s
no road,” Clifford complained.

         
“Yeah,
but there’s a trail,” she replied. “Follow me.”

         
“This
is a trail?” Clifford said. “It’s like a goat track.”

         
“Goats
don’t need such wide, easy paths,” Annette replied. “You just need to get out
in the wilderness more.”

         
They
climbed for a few minutes. Clifford’s complaints gradually tapered off,
stopping entirely when they came upon a small cabin built entirely of silvered
barn boards.

         
“That
place looks like it’s falling down,” Clifford said. “Nobody can possibly live
in there.”

         
“Sure
they can,” Annette said. She moved carefully around the side of the building,
positioning herself so she could peer through the window.
 
“And look,” she said, pointing, “we’ve found
our forger.”

         
Clifford
rushed past Annette, up onto the porch. He banged on the front door. “Open up!
Let me in!”

         
Annette
joined him, hissing “What do you think you’re doing?” just as the door opened.

         
The
man standing there was very petite. He was shorter than Annette, and wore a
button down denim shirt that was at least two sizes too large for him. It was
covered with streaks of red and green paint; behind him on an easel was a
partially worked canvas very reminiscent of Georgia O’Keefe’s flower paintings.

         
“That
painting’s very different than the last one you did,” Annette said quickly,
gently pushing Clifford to the side.

         
The
man beamed. “That last one was good, though. My cousin sold it to a man in the
city for one hundred dollars!”

         
Clifford
and Annette looked at each other. Hank spoke with the careful enunciation and
unbridled enthusiasm of the developmentally delayed.

         
“Your
cousin is Hans?” Annette asked.

         
“Hans
Grüber
is my Mother’s best friend’s son,” Hank said
proudly. “We have known each other for our entire lives.”

         
“Can
I see that painting?” Clifford asked.

         
Hank
looked uncertain. “Hans says to never let anyone in the house.”

         
“Hans
isn’t here now,” Annette said. “He doesn’t need to know.”

         
“All
right.” Hank agreed, pushing the door open. “I like having visitors.”

         
Hank’s
cabin was full of paintings. They hung on every wall and were stacked on the
table and chairs. Clifford walked around wide-eyed. There were pieces in every
conceivable style, capturing natural scenes, wholly abstract, and portraiture.

         
“You
painted all of these?” he asked.

         
Hank
nodded. “I love painting.” He looked sad. “For a long time, I haven’t been very
good, but I’m starting to get better. Did I tell you my cousin sold one of my
paintings for one hundred dollars? I never made that much money before.”

         
“I
think your paintings are very good,” Clifford said. He turned to Annette.
“Wouldn’t you agree?”

         
Annette
nodded. “You are an excellent painter, Hank.”

         
Hank
beamed. “Thank you! That is a wonderful compliment.” He took a painting off the
wall, seemingly at random, and thrust it toward Annette. “Here, you can have
this one.”

         
Annette
blinked, flummoxed. “It’s beautiful, thank you.” She faced Clifford. “I really
think that if you showed this painting to some of your friends, and let them
know Hank painted it, they’d want to buy some of his paintings for themselves,
don’t you think?”

         
Clifford
nodded slowly. “I think they would be very happy to buy your paintings.”

         
Hank
shook his head. “I can’t sell any of these ones. Hans has got people who will
maybe buy them. He’s supposed to come on the Saturday that comes next to get
them.”

         
“Do
you mean tomorrow,” Annette asked. “Is Hans coming to see you tomorrow?”

         
Hank
turned his back on her abruptly and walked over to his desk, rummaging until he
found a small calendar. “He was supposed to come the last Saturday,” he said,
pointing to a red H on the calendar. “But then he had a bad day, and he can’t
come until the Saturday that comes next.” He pointed at the next day’s date.

         
“We’d
like to see Hans when he comes,” Clifford said. “We haven’t seen him in a long
time.”

         
Hank
smiled. “Will it be a surprise party?”

         
“It
will be a surprise,” Annette said.

         
“I
like surprises,” Hank said. “I am sorry I cannot sell you a painting now. But
Hans is going to give me ten dollars for this one, and ten dollars for that
one, and that one, and that one and that one and this one and these four over
here. That is another one hundred dollars.” He puffed his chest out, clearly
proud of himself. “I am getting rich!”

         
Clifford
nodded, and was about to speak, when suddenly Hank’s expression changed. His
eyes dimmed, and he frowned.

         
“What’s
the matter, Hank?”

         
“What
if Hans is not happy with the surprise?” Hank asked. “Sometimes he gets really
mad. And then I won’t have one hundred dollars. You guys better go away now.”

         
“I’ve
known Hans a long time,” Clifford said. “He will be happy to see me.”

         
“If
he knows you so long, how come I don’t know you?” Hank asked.

         
“Clifford
will give you money,” Annette said. “If you let us stay here and wait to
surprise Hans, he’ll give you…”

         
“A
thousand dollars,” Clifford said.

         
Hank’s
eyes narrowed. “Is that more money or less money than one hundred dollars?”

         
“It’s
more,” Annette said.

         
Hank
stood and thought for a long moment. “I guess that is all right then,” he said.
“But you have to promise me that you will hide until Hans comes so it is a real
good surprise.”

         
Clifford
and Annette looked at each other. “We can do that.”

         
Annette
hiked back down the trail and carefully moved Clifford’s car so it would be
hidden from view. When she got back up to the house, Clifford was sitting on
the front porch, cell phone in hand.

         
“Who
are you talking to?” she asked.

         
“I
have a friend in Bangor,” Clifford replied. “And he put me in touch with law
enforcement here. If Hans does show up here tomorrow…” He glanced toward the
interior of the cabin, where Hank had happily returned to working on his
painting. “It will be a good surprise.”

         
Annette
sat down on the porch beside Clifford. “I can’t believe we actually found Hank.
To find such a talented artist, out here in the middle of nowhere.”

         
“He’s
amazing,” Clifford said. “I counted at least a dozen different styles. And did
you see the pictures of the geese and crows? They didn’t look like anyone
else’s stuff. They must be Hank’s own style.”

         
“He’s
really talented,” Annette said. “I’m not surprised he hasn’t made a name for
himself though. An innocent like that? The art world would eat him alive.”

         
“What
can we do about that?” Clifford said. He dropped his voice to the point he was
barely whispering. “Without Hans, it looks like he won’t have any income at
all.”

         
“You
could be his patron,” Annette suggested. “Check in on him, make sure he’s got
supplies to paint. Food in the house. Stuff like that.” She paused. “And then
when he does paintings you like, buy them. Or sell them to your friends. For
more realistic prices.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure how that all works, but I
bet Madison will be able to set something up.”

         
Clifford
nodded. “I wonder if we could get him to move somewhere less…remote.”

         
“You
can’t be upending his life like that,” Annette said. “Some people need to be
where they are in order to be happy.”

         
“I can
hear you two talking,” Hank announced from the doorway. “And it’s after
dinnertime, which means it’s almost bedtime. I can’t let you sleep in the house
because how will you hide from Hans?”

         
Annette
and Clifford looked at each other. They had no answer for that.

         
“But
you can sleep on the back porch,” Hank continued. “Hans never goes back there.”

         
“All
right,” Annette said. She stood up. “Why don’t you show us where we’ll sleep?”

         
“I
can’t believe you never slept in a hammock before,” Annette said. She was
nestled up against Clifford’s side, one arm thrown over his chest. “For all
your money, you’ve really never lived.”

         
Clifford
moved his hips experimentally, starting the hammock swinging gently from side
to side. “I don’t know about this. It doesn’t seem very safe.”

         
“It’s
perfectly safe, as long as you don’t tip us out,” Annette laughed. “Just hold
still and relax.”

         
“That
sounds suspiciously like ‘lay back and think of Britain’” Clifford quipped. “If
you can’t fight it, you might as well enjoy it.”

         
“Sleeping
in a hammock is enjoyable in its own right. And we’ve got a beautiful view from
here.”
 
Hank’s back porch was simple,
extending some distance over a rocky landscape that sloped sharply away from
his home. Tall pines grew close by. There were bats wheeling through the night
sky, dipping as they caught insects on the wing.

         
“Tell
me those aren’t vampire bats,” Clifford said.

         
“They’re
not,” Annette said. “Vampire bats live where it’s warm. South America, places
like that. Up here, the bats eat bugs and fruit. So we’re safe on both counts.”

         
Clifford
relaxed. “That’s good to know.”

         
“You’re
really nervous,” Annette said, astonished. “You go to the world’s largest, most
dangerous cities without a second thought, but a simple night under the stars
in Maine has you freaked out.”

         
“You’re
not scared?”

         
“There’s
nothing to be scared of,” she said. “There’s nobody around for miles except
you, me and Hank. And he’s asleep.” Already they could hear Hank’s snores
emanating from the interior of the cabin; he’d gone to sleep promptly after
telling them bedtime was ten PM sharp.

         
“We
clearly don’t agree on what ‘nothing to be scared of’ means,” Clifford said.
“What if there are bears out there? Or mountain lions? Or weasels?”

         
Annette
burst out laughing. “Weasels? Really?” She moved to embrace Clifford more
intimately. “You need to stop worrying about wild animals.”

         
“And
your plan is to distract me with sex?”

         
“
Mmm
hmm.”

         
Clifford
smiled. “This plan may just work.” He moved his hips slightly, raising his pelvis
to meet Annette’s grip. “All of a sudden I don’t care about weasels at all.”

         
“Really,”
Annette said. She undid Clifford’s zipper, moving his silk boxers to the side
and freeing his stiffening shaft. “How about now?”

         
“I
seem to have lost my fear of mountain lions,” he said.
 
Annette moved her hand, stroking and
squeezing until he was fully erect.

         
“Let’s
see if we can get rid of those bears.” She rolled on her side, sliding her
skirt up so her bare flanks came up against Clifford’s rigid flesh. “How’s that
sound?”

         
He
sank into her depths with a grateful sigh. “It sounds super to me.”

         
“Just
go slow,” she said. “We don’t need to go falling out of this hammock.”

         
“I
can do slow.” Clifford kissed the side of Annette’s neck. “It’s hard, because
you feel so damn good, but I can do slow.”

         
Annette
pushed her hips backward, setting a leisurely pace for their lovemaking. “I
like slow.”

         
“God,
so do I,” Clifford groaned. His grip on her hips tightened; in the morning,
Annette would find a ring of small bruises. “This is so good. You’re so good.”
He thrust a little deeper. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Annette.”

         
Hearing
that took Annette’s breath away. She froze for a moment, and then relaxed back
into the rhythm of their lovemaking. “Me too,” she sighed, repeating herself as
her orgasm approached. “Me too, me too, me too.”