Being Me (Inside Out #2)(33)

“What’s the address?”

“It’s the private gallery for the artist Ricco Alvarez,” I explain after reciting the address. “I’m not sure how long the meeting will be. It could be fifteen minutes or two hours. If it’s short I’ll head back to an event going on at the gallery.”

“Can you check in in an hour to let me know you’re okay?”

“I’ll try, but I don’t want to be rude in the meeting.”

“Just text me if you can. That’s discreet.”

“Right. Okay. Thanks, Jacob.” I hesitate and cringe, imagining the moment Jacob tells Chris where I’m at. “Jacob. Don’t tell Chris where I’m at while he’s traveling. He’ll worry. He’s had a horrible trip and I don’t want him to stress out any more than he already has.”

“If he asks, I have to tell him, but . . . I won’t go out of my way to announce it.”

“Thank you very much, Jacob.”

“My pleasure, Ms. McMillan, and I mean that. Chris seems different with you around.”

It is the same thing his godmother had said to me when we’d visited her winery. “Is that good?”

“It is. Be safe.”

“I will.” I hope. I say good-bye and hang up. Not giving myself time to fret, I grab my briefcase, get out of the car, and head for the door. My phone goes in my jacket pocket, where I keep it out of habit.

Several flights of stairs later, I’m standing at the top of the porch, relieved to find two entries, one of which is marked STUDIO. This setup is comforting and feels safer and more professional. I lift my hand to knock on the studio entry and the door flies open to reveal Ricco Alvarez. He is striking, not handsome by any means, but there is this arrogant confidence about him that comes across as more suave than belligerent. His skin is a rich brown, his features sharp and defined, like the touch of his brush, and from what I’ve heard, his personality.

“Welcome, Ms. McMillan.”

“Sara,” I say. His teal business shirt, which he’s paired with his black slacks, accents eyes the same bright color. “And thank you.”

“Sara,” he replies with a gracious nod of his head, and the tension in my spine eases just a bit with the use of my name.

He backs up to allow me to pass and my gaze lifts to the massive all-glass ceilings. “Spectacular, isn’t it?” Ricco asks.

“It is,” I agree, letting him take my briefcase and jacket. “And so is the floor.” The pale, shiny wood is almost too brilliant to walk on. “You artists have a way of delivering drama.”

He hangs my things on a fancy steel rack mounted on the wall. “Some would say me more so than others.”

Considering all the talk about him, I’m surprised at his smile and I like that he can joke about himself. “I’ve heard that,” I dare to reply, my lips curving.

“At least I have people talking.” He motions me forward. “Welcome to my studio, Bella.”

Bella. Beautiful in Spanish. An endearment should make my unease more powerful. Instead, I instantly believe he tries to romanticize everything from his dramatic home to his conversation.

We walk side by side through an archway at least seven feet high, and he dominates the space, being well over six feet himself. The space comes into view and it’s like I’m back at Allure. The narrow, rectangular room has several elegant display walls, and at least six paintings on every wall.

Alvarez steps to my side and motions to the room. “These are the pieces that I have at present and will allow for private sales.”

I glance up at him and state what I guess to be the truth. “The ones you’re willing to show me at this point in time, you mean.”

“You are direct, aren’t you?”

“Just eager to see every amazing piece of your work you will let me see.” I wave my hand toward the art. “Can I?”

“Of course.”

My path forward is instant and it’s a beeline for a painting on the far right of the room. I stop in front of the Picasso-like Mediterranean landscape, with sharp lines and dynamic colors, and I’m in sensory overload.

“You like the Meredith?” he asks.

“I love it,” I say and cut him a sideways look. “Why do you call it Meredith?

“A woman I once knew, of course.”

“I’m sure she’s honored.”

“She hates me, but alas, there is a fine line between love and hate.”

“Then you and Mark must be darn near in love,” I comment, baiting him to tell me about his reasons for pulling his work from the gallery.

His eyes light with amusement. “You are quite the character, Bella. I like you. I see why Mark likes you.”

“How do you know he does?”

“Because he trusted you enough to send you here and he wants my business back.”

“Why’d he lose it?”

“Why did he tell you he lost it?”

“He said that you wanted Rebecca’s contact information and he couldn’t give it to you.”

Disdain fills his eyes. “There is much more to it than that, and Mark knows it.”

“I’d like to hear.”

“I’m sure you would,” he says, and for the first time I catch a sharpness to his voice that makes me believe he’s capable of cutting flesh and blood with words. “But out of respect for Rebecca, I won’t be sharing more.”