The Masterpiece (Work of Art #3) (7 page)

I lean closer and smile sweetly. “I think he wants to get to know his son as a man. And not just a man, but a very fine man.”

“Who has a very fine woman.”

I weave my fingers into his and squeeze.

He lifts our hands and kisses mine gently.

I nod to the flight attendant serving beverages one row away.

“And this very fine woman would like a drink.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

When he flashes his big smile at the flight attendant, I can almost hear her panties combust. I laugh and settle back in my seat, ready to enjoy the show.

By the time we disembark in Barcelona, I feel like I’ve lived an entire life on that plane. It’s early morning, but it feels like it should be night. Luckily, we get through customs quickly, grab our bags, and get a taxi to our hotel.

Hotel Neri is housed in a gothic palace tucked on a smaller street near the cathedral. With velvet drapes and softly lit hallways, it has the reputation of being one of the most romantic places in the city. Yet, when we check in for our separate rooms, we’re reminded of our ruse pretending we aren’t a couple. So much has happened since Dylan talked us into it that the idea is even more irritating now. Max looks pissed off, which confuses the hotel clerk, but in an effort to lighten his mood, she makes some adjustments on the computer so we can at least be on the same floor.

He huffs. “We have a lot of work to do, and we need to be close to each other.”

I smile and remain silent, accepting my room key with a nod.

“Two rooms. What a waste of money,” I comment, as we get into the tiny elevator. “When I agreed to pretend we weren’t involved, I wasn’t thinking it would mean separate rooms.”

“Yeah, it was your bad idea. Let’s cancel one of them now.” He moves to press the down elevator button.

“No, Max, that would make things even more obvious, and you know this wasn’t my idea. I’ll just leave my stuff in my suite and mess up the sheets so it looks like I’m there, in case the staff gets nosy for some reason. Anyway, it might be good to have a backup room…in case I get mad at you.”

He raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms over his chest. “I see, so now you need backup.”

“Don’t get worked up. I was joking.”

As it is, once we throw our bags down, the exhaustion of jet lag hits us. We curl up together and take a long nap on Max’s big bed in his ultra-contemporary fancy-pants suite. We wake up late in the afternoon, disoriented, but after a shower and unpacking, we’re ready to go explore. After all, we have work obligations for the museum the rest of the trip, so this is our time to play before our schedule is filled.

Barcelona is a captivating city with a youthful, modern energy. Strolling down
Les Ramblas
, we pass every type of eccentric character. Street musicians and performers walk alongside throngs of tourists and locals. We stop at
Café de l’Opera
, a nineteenth-century Parisian-style café with murals and decorative flourishes that take you back in time. After a light snack, Max orders an espresso, and I get their famous hot chocolate, a decadent warm liquid pudding. Ambrosia for the gods.

Next, we wander through the
Barri Gòtic
quarter and visit the Cathedral of Barcelona, a fourteenth-century Catalan Gothic church. It echoes with quiet whispers and it’s dimly lit inside. The otherworldly ambiance makes me think of my parents. I purchase three red glass votive candles from the front and light one for my dad and one for my mom, hoping that I’ll see her again one day. Max lights one for his mom, and before we leave, I say a silent prayer as he gently holds my hand.

Our final sight-seeing stop for the day is at the
Museu Picasso
, which encompasses five medieval mansions linked together. Although Picasso spent much of his life in France, he was born and raised in Spain, and Barcelona was one of his favorite places in his homeland. Naturally, the Spaniards are very proud that one of their own grew up to be the greatest painter in modern history, and this museum celebrates that fact.

The exhibit hall is unique, as it houses a huge collection of his early works, including paintings he did at the age of thirteen. There are also wonderful drawings he rendered of street scenes around Barcelona and, of course, major works created throughout his long prolific life.

We spend a long time wandering through the exhibits. I’m intrigued by his blue period, which took place while he lived in Barcelona.

Max is incredibly excited and energized by our visit. “I’ve also been to the Picasso Museum in Paris, which has many of his famous paintings, but this museum is really unique. There’s nothing quite like it,” he says enthusiastically. “You truly get a sense of how the young protégé became the greatest artist of his time.”

I nod, delighted by his passion. “It does really show his evolution wonderfully.”

“Can you believe he saved all of this stuff, even from when he was a boy, and now it’s all here for everyone to enjoy in an elegant museum? It’s amazing.”

“I bet, one day, you’ll have your own museum full of all of your art, including your childhood sketches.”

His eyes spark with desire. “Well, then it’s a good thing Mom saved all that stuff.” He laughs awkwardly, as if he’s embarrassed to hope for such a thing, but I can see the wheels turning in his brilliant head.

For dinner, we end up at a tapas restaurant recommended by the concierge. We get small tastes of various Spanish favorites: shrimp fritters, ceviche, stuffed tomatoes, Spanish ham on
foie gras
toast, and artichoke rice cakes with
manchego
cheese. I’m into my second glass of
vino tinto
when the jet lag hits me again. Max jokes with me to keep me awake, but gives up, and practically has to carry me back to the hotel. I don’t even remember getting into the bed.

Hours later, I open my eyes. The room is dark except for the reflection of the outside streetlights giving the sheer curtains on the tall windows a platinum glow. It takes a long moment for me to realize where I am and that Max isn’t next to me. In his place are ripples of sheets that have been peeled back. I’ve kicked off the sheets and lie on my side, nude.

I hear him breathing…deep and ragged. In the dim light, I see movement. As my vision adjusts, I spy Max sitting in the armchair next to our bed.

Gloriously naked, his legs spread and his head leaned against the back of the chair, he slowly strokes himself as he watches me. It’s incredibly erotic, and my desire for him overwhelms me. When our eyes meet, he moans and strokes himself.

The sight of him instantly arouses me, and I lick my lips as his hands move over what’s mine. His cock looks so commanding from this angle, and I want him badly. I look up, my expression burning.

“Do you mind if I watch?” I whisper in a sleepy voice.

“You want to watch what you do to me?” He gives me a wicked look.

I nod and run my hand over my breasts, circling my nipples.

His lips part. “You were moaning in your sleep, Angel. You got me so worked up, and I didn’t want to wake you, so I came over here and imagined what you were dreaming about.”

“What did you imagine?” I slip one hand between my legs and slowly stroke myself. I notice his fist tighten over his erection.

“Remember that night in the O’Keeffe Museum? We got so turned on by the art, I had you up against the wall with my cock inside of you. You wanted me so much it made me crazy.”

“I remember, are you kidding? You were wild.”

His eyes roll back as he shudders. It takes him a moment to start speaking again.

“So, I started imagining us in the room near the back of the Picasso museum. Remember the wide bench?”

“The leather bench we sat on for a while?”

“Yes, you’re naked and spread out on that bench, and I’m kissing my way up your thighs to your sweetest spot.”

I moan and stroke further into my wetness. “You really like going down on me, don’t you? I mean, you don’t just do it to satisfy me.”

“You have no idea how much I love it.” He groans and watches me hungrily.

“So, did you fuck me in the Picasso museum?”

He gives me a naughty smile. “Yes, I fucked you, but we haven’t finished yet. You woke up and interrupted my fantasy.”

I squint and flash him a wicked smile. “Yes, I’m such a distraction.”

“What were you dreaming that made you thrash around and moan?” From the steamy look in his eyes, I imagine he wants to know he owns me in sleep too.

I pause, pulling the memory out of the folds of my mind. “I dreamt that we were in a room with dark burgundy walls and burning candles around the room. There was no ceiling, just the night sky filled with stars, and I was crouched low on this huge bed, purring like a wild animal.”

He leans forward in his chair, and his whole body is tense. I’m beside myself over the way his fist moves with purpose as he listens. “What was I doing?”

I roll over, get up on all fours and lean down. My sensitive nipples graze the soft white sheets, and I arch my back so that my ass is higher. I move my fingers back to where I’m wet. “You were taking me from behind.”

I love the anticipation building as he rises off the chair and approaches the bed. The testosterone in the air intoxicates me. The bed sags and the heat from his thighs warms mine before his strong hands settle on my hips. He pushes into me slowly, so slowly, until I’m beyond full.

“Ava,” he gasps, as he slowly pulls out again.

“Yes, just like my dream…You feel so good,” I groan, as he pushes back inside and I grind against him. “Is this better than
your
fantasy?”

“There’s no
better
with you, Angel… ’cause it’s all perfect…”

“Every…” He pushes into me hard.

“Fucking…”

I brace myself from falling forward as his movements become more forceful.

“Time.”

His heat builds inside me, and he groans before we lose ourselves in the moment. He’s all hardness and passion, strength and command. I submit again and again as my fingers stroke the circle of pleasure closed. When we climax, there’s no breath, no words, just the explosion of our bodies combusting before he falls over me.

A while later, we spoon with his arms wrapped tightly around me. He kisses my neck and shoulders reverently. Satisfaction and total contentment ooze from him.

A strange sense of completion comes over me. No one ever has or ever will do to him what I do.

I sigh and, feeling the passion of Barcelona, I’m suddenly glad for all the years I studied Spanish as I search through my mind for the words I’m inspired to say.

“Max,
tu eres el hombre de mis sueños
.”

His lips graze my ear as he pulls me closer.

“
Tu también, eres la mujer de mis sueños. Te quiero, mi amor
,” he whispers, before we drift off into a deep sleep.

To be an artist is to believe in life.

~Henry Moore

W
hile sipping coffee from a delicate teacup, I shake my head with disbelief. We’re taking breakfast on the rooftop terrace of our hotel in Barcelona as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. How did I go from a simple girl working in a gallery to a woman jet-setting with an incredibly handsome, internationally known artist? As I watch Max scan through his emails on his phone, I feel grateful for all I have.

He looks up and smiles that beautiful smile. “They want to have lunch at one. They’ll pick us up in the lobby. And then we have interviews scheduled at the television station in the late afternoon.”

I look at my watch. “Well, that leaves us free for a while. What do you feel like doing?” I pick up my guidebook and start flipping through it.

“Why don’t we go see
La Sagrada Familia
? It’s probably less crowded this early in the day.”

I’m a huge fan of Gaudi’s architecture, so I nod happily. “That’s on my list of what to do while I’m here.”

He squeezes my hand under the table. “Well, let’s do it then.” He signs the check and we’re on our way.

As the cab pulls up to the unconventional and spectacular cathedral, I’m struck by the enormity of the project Gaudi devoted the last part of his life to. The masterpiece embodies the essence of Gaudi’s style, which has been described as art nouveau gone wild.

We wander around the outside first, and Max takes lots of pictures. The structure is a bizarre wonder comprised of a collection of towers with every surface covered in unusual stone carvings. The overall effect is something fantastical and much more organic than your typical cathedral. A deeply religious man, Gaudi was greatly influenced by nature, and he worked plenty of organic symbolism into the design.

Once inside, we separate to focus on different aspects of the interior…still under construction. At one point I look for Max to show him how the stained glass windows paint the white interior with brilliant colors. I find him in front of the altar with tears in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” I ask gently. I can’t tell if he’s sad or just overwhelmed.

He takes a deep breath and pulls me into his arms. “I’m great. I’m just so moved by all of this built from one man’s passion inspired by his faith. It’s just incredible.”