Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(160)

“The paintings, Margot,” he said impatiently.

I shook my head. “I don’t have anything to show.”

“Oh, I think the last week was very productive.”

My mouth fell open.

“No,” I growled, just above hearing. “Those are not ready to show. They’re not even done.”

An older, shiningly wealthy couple had sidled closer to us and Declan cut his eyes toward them.

“It’s a little late for that,” he said quickly, brushing me off before turning to the new fans that so obviously required his attention.

I clutched the stem of the champagne glass in my hand and stepped away from them, almost tripping over the back hem of my dress. People backed away from me politely, continuing their conversations as I turned slowly in place.

He wouldn’t have, I reasoned.

Through the double doors at the end of the room, I heard the piano music and still more guests. Stunned but curious, I began to walk toward them.

Smile, Margot, I reminded myself as I stilted forward.

I smelled them first: the warm, savory perfume of linseed oil combined with the piney tang of turpentine. As I crossed through the doors, I saw the hip-high velvet rope that had been set up along the walls.

No, no. No, no, no.

The guests grinned and offered stiff bows in welcome. A few ladies clapped their hands politely and stepped aside, presumably so I could stand there instead. Right in front of them. My paintings. My beautiful, still-bloody, just-born paintings.

Trapped between outrage and the desire to not appear like a lunatic, I clawed my own wrist, hoping the sensation would ground me. I was dangerously close to sailing around the room like an untied balloon. I could have cried. I maybe should have. But everyone was smiling and nodding so enthusiastically, I struggled to control myself.

They’re sold; it’s done, I told myself. Get a grip. Be nice. And then get the fuck out.

My hand fluttered up to shoulder height and I sort of waved, hoping that looked like thank-you in Dutch.

“It’s genius, you know?” Peter said, suddenly at my side. “Your recent works? Especially these new ones? I couldn’t believe it when Declan had the men hang them, right in front of our eyes. Quite the unveiling. I had to fight for my favorites.”

I stared into his generous, paternal face, feeling like I had only the thinnest veneer left between my phony smile and the boiling rage behind it.

“I’m… honored, Peter,” I choked, hoping it looked like I was overcome with different emotions. “Thank you so much… for your support.”

“It’s a beautiful collection. So moving, so intense… I very much enjoy the juxtaposition of traditional and modern techniques,” he continued, glancing at the far end of the room.

“Yes, thank you,” I stammered, automatically following the direction of his gesture. There was another velvet rope on the other side of the doorway, a gathering of a dozen or so guests chatting and nodding in front of it.

Unconsciously, I began to walk toward them, Peter strolling slowly beside me. He was flushed with pride. Beaming, really.

My heart began to pound violently in my chest, my throat narrowing like I was half-caught in a swallow. White noise rushed loud in my ears as though the room was suddenly filling with water.

“No,” I heard myself say.

“Excuse me?” Peter asked politely, leaning his head toward mine to see what I saw.

“Something is wrong?” he asked.

“Ohhhhh no,” my voice said, all on its own.

Oh Bridget, I am so sorry, I moaned internally.

Peter straightened again, nodding, apparently interpreting my noises as some kind of understandable artist fit.

“Just sublimely provocative,” he enunciated, directing his comments to the confused guests that surrounded us.

I started to tremble, staring at the wall. Six more paintings were hung all in a row, framed robustly in carved mahogany. Bridget’s paintings. The ones I promised her weeks, even months ago.

Suddenly the room was loud. Too loud. I leaned away from Peter and aimed myself for the door.

“Won’t you… excuse me please,” I whispered hoarsely as I stumbled forward with my hands out, making my way through the crowd that parted, startled, in front of me.

Declan shot me a disgusted look as I hurried past him and back to the foyer, then up the stairs. The dress billowed behind me like a sail all the way up to the studio.

My legs and belly literally trembled with rage as I grabbed my bag from the closet and began to throw everything in it, ripping my clothes from hangers by the handful.

“What on earth are you doing?” Declan demanded, hurrying in after me. “We have a house full of people you need to meet!”