Page 64 of Stick to the Deal
Meanwhile, Lady R has finally vacated her Floridian sanctuary. She’s back at the couple’s New York townhouse, and photos place her all over the Big Apple, dinners in Manhattan, and shopping. So much shopping. She hasn’t been gallivanting alone! Much of her time the last couple weeks have been spent with an utterly gorgeous French gallerist named Henri Beaufort. His website advertises a show of Lady R’s work this month—under her maiden name. What are you up to?
Has the flame burned out for this fairy tale couple? Are they an utterly modern couple exploring openness? I want to know!
TTFN
Wendy
Chapter 33
The Show
Lights flash as I exit the town car. I tug my cuffs to straighten the black tailored shirt across my back. Turn for the cameras. Nod vaguely. It’s a dance I’ve done a thousand times, but tonight I want to make sure I get it right.
“Viscount Ravenscourt, over here.” The vultures with cameras call my name, shouting over each other to be heard. I pivot to each, pausing for the picture.
A woman shoves to the front of the crowd, a determined glint to her brown eyes. “Viscount Ravenscourt, any comments about your upcoming publication? Why now for a new career?”
I mummer a polite “no comment” and take another step forward.
She pushes ahead along the rope, matching my pace. “How about the rumors that you and Serena Wentworth are renewing your…friendship. Got a comment on that?”
My eye twitches as red tinges my vision. That damned rumor has been dogging me for the last month.
Taking a deep breath through my nose, I wait until my voice can be trusted. “My wife is the focus tonight. I am here as Mr. Kato-Atherton, not Lord Ravenscourt. I’m happy to entertain questions that relate to her photographs or tonight’s show. On any topic other than my wife’s career, my answer is ‘no comment’. Now if you excuse me, I’d like to head insideto my wife.”
She’s quickly lost as the glass doors shut behind me, silencing the crowd. The space is a cavernous room of brightly lit white walls. Three free-standing structures create an alcove in the center of the room, angled towards the front with a marble desk. A large photograph hangs with Nic’s name in bold 3D letters, clearly visible from the entrance. The picture draws me in, my feet moving without thought.
Two silhouetted figures stand in the foreground, almost embracing, swaths of purple, green, and blue dance in the sky above them, as if billowing out of the female’s shoulders. It’s absolutely stunning. This is the photo she took on our honeymoon.
“Your wife is truly remarkable.” Henri, Daniel’s friend, joins me in studying the image.
“I already knew that. Is this one for sale, too?” He nods. “Not anymore. I’ll pay, but no one else will be taking this one.”
Henri’s full lips curl, and he bows his head before calling over to his assistant. A quick exchange of whispered words and a sticker is placed on the sign under the frame.
Satisfied, I move deeper into the gallery to admire my wife’s work.
The subjects vary. Here, a purple sky with flashes of lightning over a tranquil beach. There, a crane standing in a fountain. Or a vibrant flower growing between the bricks of a building.
There are landscapes and animals. Ocean views and harsh city skylines. Each photo highlights nature’s raw beauty with some unexpected twist. It’s all so very Nic.
As I mill through the crowd admiring the photographs, I hear murmured praise. The show is an absolute success. I finally spot her near the rear of the gallery, surrounded by a group in animated conversation.
Nic looks radiant in her black jumpsuit. The thin straps highlight her delicate shoulders and graceful collarbone and the loose pant legs draw the eye to her long limbs. The serene smile on her face wars with the excited sparkle in her eyes. She is completely in her element for maybe the first time.
She is so independent. It was one of the first things that drew me to her. Like a moth to a damn flame. She has this fire that burns bright enough to chase away my inner shadows. The emptiness when we’re apart is becoming overwhelming. That flame might burn me alive, but oh, what a way to go.
The crowd parts as I approach. From this angle, I’m not sure Nic sees me until I’ve slipped an arm around her waist.
She startles, her eyes doing a double take. “Reginald!” Her hand flies to her chest, but she easily leans in to give me a welcoming kiss. She darts a few probing looks my way before turning back to her mini audience. “I’m sorry, Jack, you were saying?”
“I was asking where your inspiration for this show came from.”
“Actually, in some ways, my husband. The first piece, Angels in the Sky, was taken on our honeymoon after he told me a myth about the Aurora. When I saw the images afterward, it reminded me of how beauty can be hidden deep inside, but it will always find a way out. We can try to shape the world around us, pretend that we control the earth, but the magic of nature can never be truly extinguished.”
“That image is impressive. Surely you used software to render the picture, though.” It’s the same woman from out front.
“Absolutely not. All of these photographs are one-hundred percent practical effects.”
