Page 5 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

“It wasn’t for sale. I tried to find out who the artist was, but the Galleria director was three sheets to the wind and said he couldn’t find the paperwork.”

“Damn.” I stared at the photo, tracing my finger over the familiar contours of my grandfather’s face. “That’s a shame.”

“Hey, that painting is somewhere in this city,” Chandler said. “I’m sure that a man of your resources can locate it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Ahem.”

We turned to see Stan the Man drumming his fingers on the table.

“If you’re all done playing art critic, and gossiping like a knitting circle, maybe we can, oh, I don’t know, get down to the business of making us all richer?”

I laughed. “Point taken, Stan the Man.”

I put my phone away, but now I had two reasons to be excited.

No matter what, I had to get my hands on that portrait. Come hell or high water.

And pity the poor fool who got in my way.

Chapter Three

Megan

I peeled back my sheets some time well after noon, swung my legs off the mattress I had laying on the floor, and stood up with a grand stretch.

It was good to be alive.

My studio/apartment/den wasn’t very big, having only room for my bed, the stove, and a close-sized bathroom. The rest of the space was taken up by my easel and art supplies. Still, I put on some music and danced my way across the ancient, highly polished hardwood floor.

I spun a small circle, a sublime smile on my face. I could still smell Mason’s cologne all over me. God, what a night. I had never done anything like that before. Sure I’d have one-night stands and purely physical hookups, but not like that. Not just crazy, random sex in an ostensibly public place with a man I’d literally just met.

Urgent, brief, but oh my GOD, had it been good.

After it was over, a thrill shot through me when Mason asked for my number. I hadn’t expected that. Judging from the look on his face, he hadn’t either.

I picked up a clown painting I’d picked up at a garage sale for a buck and painted over it with gesso. Canvases were expensive, but old paintings for some reason weren’t.

I checked my supplies and blew air out my lips, stirring my bangs. I didn’t have much in the way of oils left. And the oil paint tubes I did have were all the wrong colors.

“Acrylics it is,” I said. I picked up my palette and used a scraper to remove the old, bubbled-up paint. I don’t like working with acrylics as much as oils, but they’re cheaper, and much faster to dry.

I dropped the palette when I remembered I had another gig. A local nightclub—using the term loosely, the dance floor was barely bigger than my apartment—paid me a thousand dollars to do a mural on the brick wall of their building.

I had barely started, and if I didn’t get it done soon my patron would probably want his money back. And I’d already spent it.

I gathered up my paint kit in an old tacklebox. Pro tip—tackle boxes are cheaper and more versatile than what they try to sell you at the art supply stores. Wearing a pair of paint-stained overalls and a sports bra underneath, I headed out onto the city streets. The sun had banished the previous evening’s chill, and the Big Apple, well, the Big Apple was baking. And not an ounce of brown sugar or cinnamon in sight.

That was okay. I didn’t mind the heat. It was hard to feel grumpy about anything after the magical night I’d had. And to think I’d been dreading that exhibition, and the people likely to frequent it. Like McCreepy with the—allegedly—doctored drink.

Instead, I’d met a man who I found endlessly intriguing. God, I’d fucked him before I even knew his last name. That’s got to be some kind of accolade on the wall of shame.

The wall of shame. The walk of shame. Screw that noise. I did the Stride of Pride. I was glad for what had happened the night before.

I stopped at the brick wall in question. So far all I had was a cartoon of the design I had in mind, done in yellow ochre. It was supposed to be an underwater scene, because that’s what the client wanted. I had no objections to it, not offhand, but now I realized it was going to take multiple trips up and down the ladder.

“Looks like my quads are getting a workout today.”

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