Page 59 of Scarlett and the Big Bad Billionaire
“Yes. Everyone does.”
Inside I had a good laugh. “Not everyone.”
I’d read plenty of harsh commentary of my work. Some critics had called it “silly and overrated,” or “meaningless explosions of random energy.”
It was best toavoidreading that sort of stuff, but when it did occasionally slip onto my radar screen, I just told myself, “Not my audience. I’m painting for myself and those whodoget me.”
“Well, I think he’s brilliant. Or she.” Scarlett put a hand on each of her cheeks and rested her chin in the cradle of them. “I can’t believe a real Inksy wasthis close, and I missed it.”
Taking in her crestfallen expression, I had a flash of regret. “I’m sorry. We should have come before dinner.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”
Her instant forgiveness made me feel even guiltier. Not only had I known it was likely to wash away I’d been actively hoping for it.
“Why was it so important to you to see it?”
She shook her head. “You’ll think it’s stupid.”
“No. I promise I won’t.” Never had a truer statement been uttered. I was dying to know why she was so interested in my work.
Turning her head toward the window so I couldn’t see her face, she said, “I just… I saw something in the newspaper’s picture of the mural. It reminded me of… of…”
“Of?” I prompted. “What did it remind you of, Scarlett?”
She shook her head again as if unwilling to answer, but then she did. “It reminded me of our time together—on Mykonos and Crete. And when I looked at it, it was sort of like I could recapture that feeling.”
Well, damn.Now I was sorry the rain had washed it away.
“And the woman in it… she reminded me a little of… me. Of the woman I was that week.”
She spoke quickly, apologetically, adding, “I know that’s silly. The paintingwasn’tme, but still, it made me realize I’d sort of forgotten about that girl from three years ago, about what it felt like to be that free and happy.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
The remorse was nearly overwhelming now. I wanted to do something to make up for it, to make her feel better.
Hell, if she wanted to see paintings of herself, all she had to do was walk into my townhouse.
It was inundated with them. There were paintings of her on practically every wall. Painting Scarlett had been the only way I could exorcise the lingering desire I’d had for her after the week we’d spent together.
And there had been alotof desire.
Of course I couldn’t tell her about that.
“I could draw you,” I said quietly.
She turned to me. “What?”
“You liked the work I did on the tattoo designs. I draw them on a sketch pad first. I could draw you… if you want me to.”
“Doyouwant to?”
“Yes,” I confessed.
She was quiet a few seconds then said, “I hate photos of myself, but a drawing… I think I might like that. Where? At your house?”
“No,” I practically shouted. “I mean, it needs to be cleaned up before you come over. We can do it at the mansion.”
