And he had been right because the day after they had hung the painting, David was telling Alicia about his ‘bulging inbox’.
‘Quite a few of the messages have you as the title,’ he said. ‘I even got one from some delusionist who said he met you on vacation and wants to get in touch about the commission you discussed. People will try anything.’
Alicia froze.What? Someone she met on vacation. Jamie?Had he tried to track her down? Yet, he was contacting her about the art commission for the whisky bottles. She couldn’t face dealing with Jamie if his sole purpose was a business transaction.
‘Sounds like someone trying their luck,’ she said to David. ‘Just ignore it.’
‘I did,’ said David. ‘My instincts are rarely wrong.’
‘Thank you. I’ll take you out for lunch by way of thanks.’
‘No need, honey. Helping you reclaim who you are is thanks enough. We should still do lunch, but I’ll pay. Think of it as a thanks for all the footfall you’ll be bringing to my door.’
Alicia agreed, warmed by David’s enthusiasm. Things were looking up for her in the art world again. That would be her sole focus.
Jamie hadn’t been to LA in over a year. Even then it was strictly business, and most of the scenery had been theinside of his hotel or conference room. There had been work dinners, but he was always on edge and could never relax with clients as he did with friends.
Again, he was in LA on work business, albeit of a different nature because the person he wanted to negotiate with could easily tell him to get on the next plane back to Scotland. But he had to try, there was no question of that. So, after checking into his hotel in West Hollywood and freshening up, Jamie walked the few blocks to the gallery.
The Zetticci Gallery was a contemporary building painted glittering swan white, with windows that sparkled like they had been cleaned with champagne. Jamie wasn’t short of money but the wealth in certain parts of Los Angeles was like another universe compared to Kinshore. And what happened when he got inside did nothing to diminish the alienation.
As the gallery door closed behind Jamie, a short man in a blue suit greeted him and asked if he could help with anything. Jamie said no. Therewassomething the man could help with, but he wanted to get a feel of this place first, wander around, taking in the hangings and the atmosphere.
A small crowd was gathered in a back section of the gallery. Jamie drifted over to see what the attraction was, only to find it was a painting by Alicia. And it was a nude.
Jamie stopped deathly still. A nude. A nude painting of Alicia, kneeling and arranging a flower in a vase. Her exquisite breasts were fully visible and there was a hint of her pubic hair at the top of her legs. It was beautiful and erotic and as he drank it in, a surge of longing swept in and nearly knocked him off his feet. Was this for real? Alicia’s likeness sent him spinning, but a nude likeness painted by her and given to the world. There were no words. Peeringcloser, the title wasNot for Sale.A smile rose up on Jamie’s lips. Alicia was trying to reclaim ownership of her body. Man, she blew him away. And this was a stark reminder of quite how much he missed her. Jamie stared at the painting for what may have been too long to a casual observer, but its perfection cast him back to nights at Ben Corrin and in Kinshore. Sunk deep between her legs, to a place that the brushstrokes of this painting left to the imagination but that he knew intimately.
Before he got an erection from the memories, Jamie peeled himself away and approached the gallery owner, whose name badge said David.
‘Good afternoon, sir, is there anything in particular you are interested in today?’
‘Afternoon,’ said Jamie. ‘There is. I’m trying to track down one of your artists.’ He knew that launching straight in with his desire to track down Alicia Jansen would be unlikely to yield any results. But if he came at things from a different angle, perhaps he would appear more credible. ‘We met when she was on holiday in Scotland and I commissioned her to do some artwork for my business. I own a Scotch whisky distillery, you see, and––’
It was apparent from the rising tension in the gallerist’s shoulders that he didn’t believe a word he was hearing.
‘I sent a message via the contact form,’ Jamie added. ‘Perhaps you got that.’
‘I possibly did, sir. We receive quite a few speculative emails each day.’ The man was trying his best to be polite, but he didn’t sound sincere, and Jamie’s heckles were rising.
‘It wasn’t speculative. Alicia is a friend of mine.’You can’t say she blocked your number. ‘I lost her number and I do really need to talk to her.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m unable to put you in contact with theartist, but I can add your name to our mailing list and you will be notified when the paintings are up for auction. Although, it has yet to be confirmed whetherNot for Salewill go to auction.’
Yet to be confirmed? So someone might get a chance to buy the nude painting of Alicia and have it hanging in their home?Feeling proud of her work and different from the ogling crowds was one thing, but Jamie hated – loathed – the idea of Alicia’s body being permanently on display in someone’s home. He could bid for the painting himself, but given their history, that would be creepy.
‘Um, no, I don’t want to go on the mailing list. Might I leave a note for the artist. If you would pass it onto her, I’d be most obliged. I know how this comes across but I truly am who I say I am.’
The man’s eyes narrowed, and Jamie realised he would never convince him. But if he could sway him enough to get a note to Alicia, then there might be a chance. ‘Oh, and if you could give her this.’ Jamie placed a wooden case on the counter. ‘It’s a bottle of Scotch, mocked up with her artwork on the front.’ He slid back the lid of the case.
David craned his head to see the bottle. Jamie was sure some light dawned momentarily, but the shutters slammed down. The whisky gesture could, he supposed, be the mark of some creep.
‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to pass on the gift, sir, for safety, but if you leave your note, I shall try my best to convey the sentiment.’
Convey the sentiment?
‘I’ll leave it here, anyway, in case you change your mind. Please do hand her the note,’ Jamie said. But the man’s face twisted into indignation at this impudence, so he changed tack.
‘Sure, convey the sentiment, that’s fine.’ But something told him this man would put his note in the rubbish before the door closed behind Jamie.
