A Baby for the Boss(52)

Christa grinned.

“Use your own eye for placement. Seeing your work, I trust your judgment.”

“That is so cool. Thank you, Jenny.” Christa’s features lit up in pleasure.

“You know, when this project’s finished, if you’re interested, I’ll talk to Dave Cooper, he’s the head of the graphic arts department for Celtic Knot. I’m sure he could use an artist like you.” She paused. “If you’re interested.”

“Seriously? Interested?” Christa laughed, then scooped Jenny up for a tight hug. “That would be like my dream job.”

When she was on her feet again, Jenny grinned at the other woman’s enthusiasm. “You could probably work from here, but Dave might ask you to move to California.”

“Not a problem,” Christa swore, lifting one hand as if taking an oath.

“What about your fiancé? Would he be willing to move for your job?”

Christa smiled. “He loves me, so sure. Of course. Plus, he’s a writer, so he can work anywhere.”

“Then I’ll talk to Dave and let you know what he says.”

“Thank you, Jenny. I mean it. This is just the ultimate thing that could have happened.”

“You’re welcome. But for right now, concentrate on the Death Flowers.”

“They’ll be the most bloodthirsty blossoms in the universe when I’m done with them,” Christa vowed, and immediately bent to her paint palette.

Sure what she was feeling was etched on her features, Jenny was grateful that the other woman had turned away. She heard Christa’s words echoing in her mind. He loves me. So sure. Of course. Envy whipped through her like a lash, leaving a stinging pain behind. Christa was so certain of her fiancé. So confident in his love and support. And Jenny yearned to know what that feeling was like.

Sighing, she watched for a few minutes as Christa laid out quick sketches for placement of the flowers. It was nice to be able to help someone so talented. Someone who’d already proven herself to be a team player. Jenny was sure that Dave would jump at the chance to bring aboard such a skilled artist. Especially since he’d be needing someone to take Jenny’s place once she turned in her resignation. Oh, that thought hurt. She loved her job. Loved being a part of the magic of imagination. But she had to give it up. For the sake of her own sanity.

Jenny left the main floor and took the stairs to the third. She couldn’t take the elevators, since they were shut down temporarily so the paintings on the doors could be completed. Wanting to take a quick look at the hallway up here, Jenny walked slowly, checking the progress of the artwork.

On the third floor, there were werewolves sprinting along the wall, muscled bodies ripping through ribbons of fog as they gazed out at the hall as if staring at those who walked past. Jenny admired the art even as she shivered at the images. Not exactly the kind of thing designed to promote an easy night’s sleep. But then again, the gamers who would flock to this hotel would love the imagery. Then they would slip into their hotel rooms and play the games on the top-of-the-line gaming systems.

She smiled to herself, then gave a quick glance to the antiqued brass wall sconces, shaped to give the illusion of torches. A dark blue carpet runner stretched the length of the hallway, covering the center of the wood-grain ceramic tiles. It was a good idea, she thought, for the flooring. Giving the feel of wood while offering the much-easier-to-care-for tile.

She headed back to the staircase and then walked down to the second floor to peek at what the other two artists were doing with the banshee/ghost halls. When she found them, the artists were in a heated discussion and didn’t even notice her approach.

“The banshees all have white hair,” Lena shouted. “Have you ever played the game?”

“I’m an artist, I don’t waste my time playing video games,” Tony argued. “And what difference does it make if a banshee has black hair? They’re not real, you know.”

“No,” Jenny said loudly enough to interrupt their argument. “Banshees aren’t real, but they are integral to the game you’re supposed to be replicating here.”

He sighed heavily, dramatically, as if to let her know how put-upon he was to be questioned by anyone about his artistic decisions. Jenny had known when she hired the man that he was going to be difficult. But the sad truth was, his talent had won him the job. She’d run out of names of local artists and had had to take a chance on him being willing to play by the rules stated. It looked as though she’d made a bad call.

“Artistically speaking, a black-haired banshee will pop more from the cream colored walls,” he argued.