Page 83 of Ruthless Enforcer

She's barefoot, wearing my dress shirt, working on something I don't recognize. Dark blues and grays bleed into pale gold, sharp lines cutting through the softer shapes like fractures in glass. Like an abstracted version of the ocean outside.

It's beautiful.

“What are you painting?” I ask from the doorway.

She startles slightly, then glances over her shoulder. “Something new. It’s not done yet.”

“For the show?”

“No.” She turns back to the canvas and draws a thin line of white through the blue with her palette knife. “I got inspired.”

I walk closer.

There’s something intimate about the painting. Something restless and unfinished that makes me feel like I’m looking at a thought she hasn't decided whether to share with me yet.

So I don't ask. I lean against the edge of the long worktable instead and watch her paint. “We need to talk about the exhibition.”

“I know.” She tosses the brush in her hand into a jar and tears some paper towels from a roll to wipe her hands. “I need to call the gallery and arrange to send my paintings.”

“I can help with that.” I already have shipment arranged. “When is the opening exactly?”

“Next Wednesday, but they need the paintings there Monday to hang the show.”

I think about Turner and his last appearance in Helena. “I don’t know that I can promise we can attend it.”

“Attend the opening?” She frowns at me. “I’m not going.”

“Why not?”

Clara gives me a look. “Because Claire Laurent doesn't exist. She's a name on a contract and a signature on the back of a canvas.”

“You exist.”

“Unfortunately, Clara Whitlock exists a little too loudly.”

I straighten. “What does that mean?”

“It means if I put Clara Whitlock on those paintings, I never get to know.” She tosses the paper towels into the bin.

“Know what?”

She gestures to the canvas. “Whether they’re good.”

“They're fucking incredible.”

A smile tugs at her mouth. “Your objectivity is becoming questionable, husband.”

“My taste is excellent. I married you.”

That gets the smile I wanted, but it disappears quickly. “If people knew who I was, every review would mention my family. Every collector would wonder whether buying a painting might get them invited to a Whitlock fundraiser or dinner with my uncle. Every gallery that showed me would be accused of wanting access. Worse, they’d say that I bought my way into success by being James Whitlock’s niece.” She looks at the canvas. “I didn't want any of that touching the work.”

Now I understand. “So you invented Claire Laurent.”

She nods. “I gave the paintings a chance to make it without me.”

“And they did.”

She flashes me a smile. “They did.”