Page 73 of The Billionaire's Ride

She takes my hand, confusion clouding her expression. “I just don’t understand why you haven’t.”

I sigh. The truth is that I’ve secretly dreamed of having my own art show. But it’s tricky in London. I don’t want to be treated differently because of who I am. Even with the last name Blake, everyone knows I’m really a Bonnaire. It’s more than that, though. “I don’t want anyone to make it something it’s not. I’ve gotten used to expressing myself through photography just for me. It’s not about anyone else.”

“I know that feeling. That fear. I throw up every time I put out a new collection because I know people are going to see it and have opinions about it, some not so nice. But then I remind myself that my lingerie isn’t for the critics who hate it, it’s for the women who love it, who feel sexy and confident because of something I imagined and brought to life. It’s for the people who get it.”

“What if no one gets it?”

She tilts her head. “I get it. If I thought your work was anything less than stellar, I wouldn’t have said a word.”

Between the idea that I might be in love with her and the fact that she wants me to put my art out into the world, my comfort zone isn’t even on the map. I hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious what would happen?” she asks.

I chew the inside of my cheek considering the proposal. Is it worth the risk? For now, it’s only one person’s opinion, albeit an expert opinion. Then again, if her friend hates it, Kate will be there to lick my . . . wounds.

Chapter Thirty-Six

KATE

In the morning,Kate and I sit in her dad’s gourmet kitchen, sipping our coffee when the doorbell rings. She grins and hops off her seat. “It’s here!”

“What’s here?” I ask and follow her to the door. Outside, a man wearing what looks like a delivery uniform with a baseball cap hands her a set of keys, and asks her to sign a few forms. When she’s done, he nods and takes off.

“I got a surprise for you,” she says, and waves me to follow her out to the curb where she stops in front of a shiny black motorbike. Whoa.

“Is this for me?”

“Yes, for the week anyway. It’s a rental. What do you think, James Dean?”

Grinning, I grab her by the waist and kiss her beautiful lips. “You’re the best, Kate. Don’t you ever forget it.”

I ride the bike Uptown to the gallery with Kate perched on the back and my portfolio in tow. I’m not sure if it’s having Katehugging onto me, driving on the wrong side of the road, or the fact that I’ve agreed to be judged by a New York gallerina, but my heart is racing.

We walk into the steel-framed gallery on the first floor of a tall brick building. Wired sculptures sit in the window as if keeping watch. My palms are damp and slick against the steel door handle. I blame the summer heat.

Stark-white walls display imaginative, expressionist paintings that look like glimpses of someone’s dream. Many of them have sold judging from the display cards. Good for the artist. Will my photographs sell too? That is if she wants them. My stomach tightens. Have I made a mistake agreeing to come here?

“Kate, there you are!” A woman with dark red lipstick and black glasses calls out. She looks at me and extends her hand. “You must be Drew Blake.”

“Yes, and you must be Olivia. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” She tilts her head with a toothy smile. “Kate has excellent taste. Plus, I hear you’ve had first-rate training. How do you even get an apprenticeship with Ferguson Burke?”

The corners of my mouth twitch. I don’t want to tell her that it’s because my dad’s a knighted billionaire with connections around the globe. Not that he encouraged it. “It’s a long story. But I will say this, he’s absolutely brilliant, but he’s a right pain in the ass.”

Olivia shoots me a wry glance. “All the brilliant ones are.”

“Drew’s brilliant, but he’s not a pain,” Kate says playing the role of my biggest fan, and I smile. At the moment, I’m hers too.

“Let’s have a look.”

We follow Olivia back to her office and take a seat on the translucent acrylic chairs in front of her matching desk. “May I see your portfolio?” she asks.

I hand it over, and sweat beads on my palms as she flips page after page after page in complete silence. Taking her glasses on and off, she squints, turning the portfolio to view other angles. What is she doing? What is she seeing? What is she not seeing? Every second she doesn’t say a word, my heart beats louder and louder in my chest like the damn tell-tale heart.

Kate sends me a sexy wink. She’s not the least bit apprehensive about the situation. Why would she be? Her work isn’t being scrutinized. I take a cue from her and take a deep breath.

Finally, the gallery curator looks up, carefully closing the leather portfolio. “Stunning,” she says simply.

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