Page 66 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

“I’m more interested in checking out Victory.” I gave him a look. “Now, the statue is missing its head, but it’s over two thousand years old, and is one of the few things to survive from the Hellenistic period.”

“The what?”

“The Greeks. I guess they didn't cover classics in business school, huh?”

I led Mason on a twisting path through the Louvre. I was eager to see the works I had always dreamed about. The museum doesn’t allow photographs inside, but Mason seemed oblivious to that rule and I let him remain that way. There was no flash, so I figured that was good enough.

“Good God, what is this nightmare?” Mason asked, staring at a large oil painting.

“Oh, the Raft of the Medusa.” I beamed. “One of the first works to break the ‘staid’ model of classicism.”

“I didn’t know Medusa had a raft.”

“Ha, funny. Not literally Medusa’s raft. The Medusa was a French cargo ship that went down in rough seas. The hundred or so survivors managed to cobble together a raft out of the ship’s wreckage. They had no food or water, but about ten casks of wine, if you catch my drift.”

“Good lord.”

“Yeah, no kidding. They cannibalized each other, and there were only fifteen of the original hundred left behind when they finally were rescued.”

“That raft does not hold a hundred men, no way.”

I laughed and playfully elbowed him in the ribs. “Smartass. Obviously, it’s a representation.”

“A representation?”

“Sure, all good art is a representation.” I chewed over my next words carefully. “A lot of people who aren’t into art will say things likeI like paintings that look real.”

I gestured at a landscape picture with a fairly realistically rendered tree.

“So they look at something like that as the paragon of artistic achievement. The thing is, those don’t look like trees at all.”

“They don’t” Mason cocked his head to the side. “They look like trees to me.”

“Ah, but do they? Are they a hundred feet tall? Three dimensional? Can you shelter under their shade? Feel their bark? They don’t really look like trees at all, but our brain recognizes the pattern and says ‘tree.’ That’s all art is. Creating a pattern that the human mind interprets. A skilled artist makes sure the viewer interprets their vision, but even art scholars can disagree about meaning.”

Mason sighed and cupped my cheek with his hand. “You keep teaching me so much, Megan. I’ll never look at the world the same because of you. Thank you.”

If I hadn’t already cried earlier, I would have right then. That was literally the best thing anyone had ever said to me.

I knew I was falling for Mason. Maybe it was too late already. Fear gripped my belly, and I tried to pretend like all was well.

On the inside, though, I had to fight down a panic. Things with Mason were going good. Too good.

I couldn’t stop being afraid that it was all going to vanish like a snowflake melting on hot skin.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mason

I took Megan on a tour of the Parisian shopping districts. She may have traveled light on the way there, but it took four trips up the steps to her apartment to unload all of the goodies we’d collected.

Surprisingly, she hadn’t gotten as many clothes as I expected. She focused on art supplies, talking excitedly about how that particular shade of yellow wasn’t available anywhere else in the world, or how only the French knew how to make a proper detail brush.

I would have bought her an entire art supply store if it would have made her happy.

I kissed her deeply at her apartment door, and then I had to go because my financial empire needed tending.

I spent the better part of the next twelve hours in and out of meetings, trading stock, and riding the never-ending roller coaster of the global markets.

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