Authors: Tamara Hunter
A week later, vintage Sade blared through the speakers.
Trella’s last piece featuring Carlos was finished, and the high of
accomplishment kept a smile on her face. She gyrated to the music, letting her
soul free as she danced.
“This is a sight I could get used to.” Carlos, dressed in
jeans and a red, short-sleeved shirt, leaned against the doorjamb, a broad
smile on his face.
She danced over to him, inviting him to move with her.
Surprising her, he captured her wrist, twirled her away then effortlessly
rolled his hips as he moved toward her. He put his hands on her waist, pulling
her flush to his body.
“Finished with the paintings?”
She nodded. “This is my last one. Francois will use it as
the centerpiece.”
“Can I see?”
A chill of apprehension rushed over her.
Tell him he’ll
be the star of the show
. Things were progressing well between them. She’d
better wait until later. “Not yet, but it’s similar to the others you posed for
and will fit into the series.”
Not a complete lie but damn close.
He brushed his lips against her temple. “I can think of a
place I’d like to fit into.”
“You’re bad.” She punched him lightly on his biceps. “You
kept me up last night, remember? It’s a wonder I completed my work.”
“You weren’t complaining last night.” He stole a quick kiss.
“You were on top, so if you didn’t want to do it—”
“Stop!” She laughed until her eyes filled with tears. “I’ll
be done in here soon. Want to take me out to a movie?”
“A darkened theater? How can I resist?”
* * * * *
Carlos breathed a sigh of relief when Trella opted for a
thriller instead of a chick flick.
They selected seats on the end of the top row, and then
chatted and fed each other popcorn while waiting for the movie to begin.
Thirty minutes later, Carlos was caught up in the suspense
and nonstop action. Something touched his thigh. He stiffened.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she whispered in his ear.
He relaxed. “You didn’t.”
Much
.
She moved her hand a few inches northward. “I have a
confession.” She rested her hand on his bulge. “I’ve seen this before.”
He squirmed in his seat. “What you’re touching or the
movie?”
Stroking him, she laughed softly. “Both.”
He groaned. “We need to leave.”
“In the middle of the movie? That’s bad theater etiquette.”
She traced the inner whorl of his left ear with her tongue.
He gripped the arms of the seat. “Naughty girl.”
“Definitely.”
Trella licked his neck. His dick pulsed, eager to be set
free from the confines of his jeans.
She leaned forward, staring in front and to the left of
them. “Is that Melissa with Jose?”
Carlos shifted in his seat. “Where?”
“Ten rows below us in the section to your left. I think it
is. They’re making out.”
His eyes widened. Melissa sat so close to Jose their
shoulders appeared fused. “Guess they hit it off.”
“Looks like. You still want to leave?”
He grabbed her hand and placed it on his lips. “We’ll bust
them when the lights come on. Until then, we can join them.”
Trella perched on the stool in her studio as Francois,
dressed in a pair of white slacks and a peach shirt, stood before each piece,
studying them from different angles.
He clapped enthusiastically, a look of pure pleasure on his
face. “Yes!” He splayed his hands wide, sweeping toward the displays. “This, my
dear, is it. It’s better than I’d hoped. The sensuality, the colors. This is
the fantastic work the world is accustomed to from Trella Arnold.”
She hopped off the stool to execute a curtsy. “Thank you for
the praise, kind sir.”
“How could one not enjoy the beauty of the way you
intermingled the light and shadows on his skin?” Francois adjusted his glasses.
“I changed my mind about the landscapes. I’m including them in the show.”
She frowned. “Why? You said they weren’t up to par.”
He shrugged. “Are they as memorable as your trademark work?
Of course not, but their value will rise simply because you are the artist.”
Laughing, she shook her head. “Why am I not surprised money
is your motivation?”
Ignoring her comment, Francois kissed her cheeks. “What has
happened in the last few weeks with Carlos to make you paint with such
passion?”
She groaned. She’d been afraid of the inability to hide her
feelings.
“You’re being true to your soul. You want him.” He shrugged.
“Experiencing emotions means you’re alive. Be open to what the universe brings
your way.”
She glanced at him. “No wonder you never married.”
“Maybe…but I’m satisfied often.”
She grimaced. “TMI.” She wiped her hand down the
paint-splattered khakis. “It’s not that simple.”
He smirked. “You have invited him into your bed yes?”
She sucked in her breath in a loud inhale. “If you can pick
that up from my work—”
“Art makes people think, feel and discuss. Trust me—your
work will assemble a crowd before each painting.”
“Yeah, wondering how often I got lucky with the model,” she
mumbled.
He chuckled. “A great artist captures emotions.”
“But for my husband’s best friend?”
Francois patted her arm as if she were a young child. “Louis
loved him?”
She nodded.
“Don’t you trust that your husband was an excellent judge of
character?”
“I know he was.”
“Perhaps Louis knew the two people closest to him could not
help but be close to each other. Will this Carlos be in attendance?”
“He’ll be there.”
Francois tapped a forefinger against his chin. “I wonder if
he’d mind being introduced as your model or your muse.”
Shock catapulted her off the stool. “Please don’t call
attention to him. He agreed to let me paint him but I’m not sure he knows how
intently his image will be studied. It’ll be a shock so don’t make it harder on
him.”
“I understand.” He removed his car keys from his pocket.
“You did tell him about the last painting right?”
She concentrated on straightening the row of paint tubes.
“Uh, not yet.”
Francois muttered to himself. “Are you trying to push the
man away? If you think he’ll suffer a shock from the study of the other
paintings, what do you think he’ll say about the last one?”
“I’m waiting for the right time to talk to him about it. I’m
sure he won’t have a problem. It’s tasteful and flattering.”
“Tell him, Trella. No man enjoys being blindsided.”
Eager to change the subject she asked, “Are the caterers
squared away? I don’t want them running out of food or champagne.”
“Everything will go off without a hitch.”
She hugged him. “I’m grateful you organized the showing.”
She looked up, meeting his titanium-colored, slightly myopic eyes. “You knew
what I needed.”
He patted her back. “Of course. I’ll have the van over in a
few hours to move the canvases to the gallery.”
She led Francois downstairs. “After the showing is over I
want to host a party for your up-and-coming artists.”
“Consider it done. They’d love to meet you.” He paused in
the doorway. “Several reporters are scheduled to interview you upon your
arrival so look your best.”
* * * * *
The day of the gallery show was Phoenix perfection—sunny and
toasty warm but with a gentle breeze. In front of the bathroom mirror Trella
brushed her hair into a French twist then secured it with decorative pins. She
applied her makeup heavier than usual then swiped her lashes with mascara
before applying a berry lip stain, which she covered with a clear gloss.
She slipped a cream and tan, calf-length, cotton sateen
dress over her underwear. Diamond studs—a gift from Louis—accessorized the
outfit. A dab of her favorite fragrance at her wrist and the bend of her elbows
and she was ready.
A knock at the door sounded as she replaced the stopper of
her cologne.
“Come in,” she called out.
“Are you ready?” Carlos asked.
She glanced up, meeting his gaze in the mirror. Clothed in a
pair of black jeans, a bright white dress shirt and a flaxen-colored sport
coat, he brought a smile to her face.
This morning he’d pampered her with breakfast in bed. And
after their sweet and sticky dessert of hot sex, she knew the afterglow
remained on her face.
She smiled, turning to face him. “You like?”
He grinned. “Beautiful, sweetheart.”
From the closet she removed a nude leather clutch then slid
a pair of cream-colored strappy sandals onto her feet.
“Limo’s downstairs.”
She put a hand on his chest. “I need to confess something.”
He slid his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. “Talk
to me.”
She’d meant to tell him last night but his wandering mouth
and hands had sidetracked her. “You know how you said you’d pose for me as long
as the paintings were tasteful?”
He nodded.
“There’s one of you with considerably less clothing.”
His brows furrowed. “I didn’t pose for anything like that.”
She chewed on her bottom lip. “Not intentionally.”
“What are you saying?”
“I painted from a sketch…the morning I walked in on you.”
Carlos swiped a hand down his face. He lapsed into his
native language as he paced the floor. He ranted so fast she only caught the
words
loco
and
desconsiderado
.
She held out her hands as much to stop the flow of words as
the movement of his feet. “I agree it was a crazy and inconsiderate thing to do
but I included a towel around your waist.”
He stared at her, nostrils flaring with the breaths he
dragged in. “
¿Positivo
?”
“I give you my word. Francois is showing the painting but
it’s coming back home with us. It’s my best work and not for sale.”
Several minutes dragged as she nibbled her bottom lip,
hoping he wouldn’t demand she not use it. Finally a smug look crossed his face.
“I’m your best work?”
She grinned. “Everyone will wonder what’s beneath the towel
but I’ll know for sure. Please say you aren’t mad.”
He gathered into his arms. “Sweetheart, I’m not mad. Glad
you told me before we arrived at the gallery though.”
She hugged him tighter. “I’m sorry. I just, uh, didn’t know
how to tell you.”
“Apology accepted.” He kissed her nose. “You sure that’s
all?”
Carlos wasn’t as versed in art as Francois. He probably
wouldn’t be able to see each stroke of love that created his form. She was
worrying for nothing.
“Yes. Now let’s hurry so we can come back home.”
He slid his hands down her arms. “I love the way you think.”
Walking down the stairs, Trella had a strong feeling she was
leaving the past behind and heading into her future with Carlos.
* * * * *
Jazz emanated from hidden speakers inside Renault’s Fine Art
Gallery. Waiters dressed in black slacks and white shirts balanced silver trays
of hors d’oeuvres while floating through the throng of art enthusiasts,
critics, the curious and those interested only in free champagne.
Trella’s works hung centered on white walls. Carlos
recognized some of her older paintings, which featured women dressing for a
night out. He spared a quick glance at the first likeness of him. He shuddered.
It was creepy to see himself on canvas. A painting draped with black fabric
rested on a large easel in the middle of the room. Francois stood nearby as if
guarding the piece with his life.
Carlos was unnerved to observe as many men as women studying
the paintings. Trella stood near the front of the expansive gallery, charming
the reporters. From the puppy-eyed look on one cameraman’s face Carlos was
fairly certain the man never moved the camera’s focus off her face.
He made a beeline to the back of the gallery where Miguel
and his former squad members huddled together.
“Anyone see Rodriguez?”
“Not yet,” Jackson answered.
Carlos allowed his gaze to sweep the room. “Everybody know
their areas?”
“We’re ready,” Donovan answered.
Jose glanced at his watch. “ICE is making their move against
the properties in two hours.”
Francois stood in the middle of the gallery. He clapped to
gain everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present the
artist, Estrella Arnold.”
On cue Trella made her way to his side.
He slid an arm around her waist. “Thank you for being here.
Thank you for purchasing some pieces. Eat, drink and enjoy the entertainment.”
With a flourish Francois removed the covering from the
painting. A collective gasp rose. Carlos’ eyes widened at the sight of
himself—nude except for a white towel strategically draped around his waist.
Jose popped a hors d’oeuvre into his mouth. “What were the
two of you doing in her house again?”
“I didn’t pose for it,” Carlos ground out.
Miguel chuckled. “If you didn’t, you sure stood in front of
her for a hell of a long time.”
Trella eyed the
pièce de résistance
, the painting of
Carlos executed from her sketch. Unlike the sketch she’d added a white towel
slung low around his hips. An expression of supreme maleness emanated from him
as it had that morning. Her thighs tightened. She couldn’t wait to hang the
painting in her bedroom.
She sipped champagne as she moved along the fringe of a
group of women transfixed by the painting of Carlos sitting on the bed.
“Look at his body,” one woman gushed.
“He’s here tonight,” another said.
“I doubt it,” a third offered.
“I don’t see him now but I did earlier,” said a fourth.
Trella kept moving through the crowd, gauging the reaction
to her work. She deemed the event a success. The catering firm lived up to its
reputation. Food disappeared as soon as the waiters brought it out.
“Trella!”
She turned, searching for the source of her name.
Dressed in a black bandage dress with a gigantic
grape-colored carryall hanging from her shoulder, Candy tottered toward her on
five-inch heels, which made the statuesque woman stand head and shoulders above
the majority of the people in attendance.
“I can’t wait for you to work on my painting. Who’s the
model?”
She shrugged. “A friend.”
“I hope he knows you’re spoken for. Hector wouldn’t be
pleased to have competition.”
Selina and Melissa joined them as Candy finished talking.
“Competition? Girl, you have another man besides Carlos?”
Melissa asked, winking at Selina.
Candy frowned. “Who’s Carlos?”
“The model,” Trella quickly answered before her friends
could blurt out more information. “I’m grateful to him because I doubt Hector
could have squeezed a sitting for me into his busy schedule.”
“Oh.” Candy laughed. “I thought you meant you were involved
with this Carlos.” She leaned closer to whisper, “He’s hot though. Is he seeing
anyone?”
Trella beat back an instant rush of annoyance. “Don’t forget
you’re married.”
Candy fanned herself. “Honey, he would make me forget my own
name. Yours too.”
Trella indicated Selina and Melissa. “These are my friends,
Selina Muñiz and Melissa Garrett. Ladies, this is Candy Rodgers, one of my
discerning customers.”
Candy shook their hands. “Trella’s working on a painting for
me and my husband.” She glanced around the room. “He’s here somewhere.” She
returned her attention to the women. “Have either of you two met Councilman
Rodriguez? He’s crazy about your friend.”
For once in their lives Selina and Melissa stayed silent
though confusion showed on their faces.
“I’m sure your husband is looking for you. I know he can’t
bear to be away from you long.” Trella infused the words with a note of
cheeriness. “Excuse us, Candy. I need to show the ladies around.”
Taking a firm hold of Selina and Melissa’s arms, she hustled
the two of them to Francois’ office.
Selina stopped their fast-forward motion by clinging to the
doorjamb. “Slow down. Heels, hello?”
Trella motioned for them to hurry inside. She closed the
door, leaning against it with a sigh.
“What’s going on, Trella?” Melissa asked. “Where did you
meet the councilman?”
Selina smoothed her hands down her fuchsia sheath. “What
about Carlos?”
Trella held up her hands to stop the barrage of questions.
“I think Hector was involved with Louis’ shooting.”
Both her friends gaped at her in silence.
Melissa sank onto the nearest chair. “I don’t know what to
say.”
“I’m not dating Hector. He’s interested but I believe it’s
to find out whether or not I know anything about Louis’ suspicions of him and
his immigrant work program. Carlos and Miguel have been protecting me.”
Selina wrapped her arms around her middle. “I’m frightened.
I’ve heard rumors about Hector.” She shook her head. “Nothing good.”
Trella pursed her lips. “I’ll be fine. Carlos and the guys
have a plan and hopefully Hector will be in jail by the day’s end.”