Page 57 of Beautiful Exile

“Thanks, Hanny,” I said.

She sighed, running a hand through her tangled red waves. “I need to get moving on my piece. I’m behind.”

When I looked at Hannah this time, I really studied her. There were dark circles under her eyes, and paint dotted her fingers. “You doing okay?”

She sent me a half-hearted smile. “I’m struggling with this one.”

God, did I ever know that feeling. “You want me to take a peek? We could talk it out. I hit a wall with this one, too, but it finally all came together.”

“I can help, too,” Isaiah offered. “I know I’m a clay man, but art’s art, right?”

Hannah beamed at us as if we’d just offered her a bag of diamonds. “That would be amazing. Thank you.”

The bell over the door jingled, and I glanced over to see Denver leading another man inside. It wasn’t the reporter from the other day. This man hadslickwritten all over him. And money.

He wore shiny shoes that made zero sense in the mountains with black trousers that were perfectly pressed and creased. He’d tucked a crisp white shirt into them and finished the look with a watch rimmed in diamonds. Even his black hair was slick—gelled into artful waves.

The man’s gaze swept over us but then went to the painting, staying there. “Tell me this is her newest work.”

“It is,” Denver said, a grin on his face that looked like a cat who’d snagged a canary.

Brutus pressed against my side, a silent check-in and assurance that he had my back. My hand fell to his head, reassuring him.

“Arden, this is Quentin Arison. He wanted to get a look at our offerings before the auction,” Denver said, his grin still in place.

The man’s gaze cut to me with a sharpness that had me wanting to take a step back. Brutus let out a low growl, and I did nothing tostop it. Quentin’s dark brown gaze stayed locked on my face, showing no fear of my dog as he should have.

“Arden Waverly. Such a beautiful, young woman creates such dark work. Interesting.” He began walking toward me, his steps long and languid.

Brutus’s hackles rose, and he let out another warning growl, louder this time.

Quentin’s gaze flicked to my dog. “An interesting choice of companion, as well.”

“He’s protective,” I said, not lowering my gaze. We were surrounded by people, yet my fingers itched to palm the switchblade in my pocket.

Quentin arched a brow. “And if I reached out to take your hand?”

“He wouldn’t like it,” I gritted out.

“Fair enough.” Quentin’s focus shifted, studying the painting. “I like it. I’ll need it. The blood…it calls to me.”

A shiver ran over my skin as nausea settled in my stomach. I did not want my precious painting in this man’s hands. Especially when he missed the point of it altogether.

He turned back to me. “Let me take you to dinner. You can tell me about my piece.”

The fact that he spoke of my painting like it was already his had anger flickering to life in me. “I’ll pass.”

Annoyance and more than a little heat surged to life in Quentin’s eyes. “I am quite the collector. I think you’ll want to reconsider that.”

“Not worried about collectors,” I told him honestly. You either got my art, or you didn’t. I wouldn’t waste my breath trying to explain what I created to people who only wanted to judge it.

A muscle ticked in Quentin’s cheek. “I could open a lot of doors for you, Arden. You don’t want to lose that opportunity.”

I opened my mouth to tell the douchebag to get bent but didn’t get a chance because a new voice cut through the air. One that held a fury so cold it burned. One I recognized.

“I believe she saidno.”

21

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