like the artist.” We turned to acknowledge a short little balding man who was standing close enough to eavesdrop. “Can you believe that this guy actually had the nerve to show up ten minutes late to his own opening? I know he’s all the rage right now, but he still needs to show us collectors a little respect. Don’t you agree?”
Marcus just stared at him blankly. Neither he nor I was a collector. We just wanted to pick up the artist. In the interest of furthering that goal, I asked the all-important question. “So which one is Balardi, anyway?”
I looked in the general direction of where the man was pointing. I put my hand on my chest and tried to keep from hyperventilating. “Marcus, do you see that?”
“Uh-huh, nobody could miss that, girlfriend.”
The disgruntled stranger took his cue and slunk away to complain to someone else, as Marcus and I watched, slack jawed, as Donato Balardi worked the room. His black wavy hair grazed his shoulders, Antonio Banderas–Zorro style. He was slender, but the well-defined pecs visible beneath his silk shirt prevented him from looking slight in any way. His dark Latin eyes surveyed the room until they finally focused on us.
“Oh my God, he’s coming this way!” Marcus dug his fingers into my arm. “I know he’s gay, I can just feel it.”
“No way,” I protested. “God wouldn’t be so cruel as to deprive the women of the world of something that beautiful.”
He was upon us. If I reached my hand out I could actually touch those pecs. I summoned up my last bit of willpower and moved my gaze upward to his face. Sensual smiling lips, tanned skin and brown searching eyes looking at…
Marcus.
“Welcome, I am Donato Balardi.”
Their handshake lasted way too long to be innocent.
Well, shit. Here it was, an enchanted evening: I had seen a stranger across a crowded room, he had walked to my side, and I was all set to make him my own—and instead he was coming on to my male hairstylist.
Sometimes I hated San Francisco.
Marcus and Donato (God, even their names sounded good together) were now fully engaged in some pseudo-conversation while they actively undressed each other with their eyes. I excused myself and headed for the bar—not that either of my two gentleman companions noticed. A friendly, relatively cute bartender (probably gay) greeted me.
“What can I get you this evening?”
“What cocktail has the highest alcohol content—?”
“Is this what you drink when you’re not consuming coffee milk shakes?”
I spun around. There, smiling down at me, was the sexy Frappuccino-bashing Neanderthal from Starbucks.
CHAPTER 3
“She looked down at the shards of glass on the kitchen floor. Someone had been in the house.”
—Sex, Drugs and Murder
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Are you following me?”
The Neanderthal let out a deep, rich, surprisingly Homo sapiens–sounding laugh. “Well I’m glad to see your ego’s intact. No, I’m a friend of the gallery owner, Gary Sussman. We shared an apartment back in New York.”
“Well how special for you.” I turned my attention back to the bartender. “Vodka martini straight up.” I refocused on my nemesis. “Well, you probably want to go reminisce with your friend. Don’t let me stop you.”
He extended his hand. Say what you like about his taste in coffee, you couldn’t knock the man’s hands.
“I’m Anatoly Darinsky.”
“That’s funny. I don’t remember asking for your name.”
“And yet I gave it.” His hand remained suspended in the air.
What the hell. “Sophie Katz.” I placed my palm against his with a mixture of reluctance and curiosity. Yep, strong handshake. Maybe it was time to upgrade his status from Neanderthal to Cro-Magnon.
“Katz…your father’s Jewish?” Anatoly asked as he signaled the bartender to make him a duplicate of my drink.
“He converted for my mom.”
“But Katz…”
“His last name was Christianson and my mother said she would rather choke on a hairball than be Mrs. Christianson so my father got inspired and they both changed their names to Katz.”
Anatoly searched my face, undoubtedly looking for some hint of jest. “That’s…interesting,” he said.
I shrugged; personally, I still hadn’t decided if the reasons behind my parents’ name change were the result of creative thinking or indicative of a shared psychosis.
Anatoly tactfully let the subject drop. “So what do you think of Balardi?”
“He’s magnificent,” I said, stealing a glance at Donato, who was vigorously flirting with Marcus.
“Really? You’re a big fan of spilled paint?”
“Spilled paint? What are you talking about—? Oh, you’re talking about his art.”
Anatoly made a little noise of disgust, which, in turn, perked me right up. It was always good to be able to annoy the people who annoy you, even if you had to embarrass yourself to do it. I examined the paintings on the wall for the first time and felt a little spark of shock bring me out of my haze of sexual disappointment.
“Oh God,” I whispered. “It’s awful.”
I was surrounded by numerous canvases that Donato had apparently thrown a bucket of paint at. I squinted in an attempt to make the pictures more appealing. Who, exactly, decided that this was art? I could throw paint. In fact I was really good at throwing things.
I took a step closer to one of the pieces in an earnest effort to find some redeeming qualities. It was a big green splash mark. I checked the title. Verdi.
“Ah, this one is my favorite.”
I nearly spilled my drink down my dress. I hadn’t realized that Donato was behind me with Marcus, of course, right behind him.
“I love your use of color,” Marcus cooed.
I shot him a withering look, but he wasn’t making eye contact.
Donato, on the other hand, was watching me attentively. He obviously expected me to say something.
I took a long sip of my drink. Think, think, think. “Um, yes, well, it’s very…it’s very…green.”
“Yes, exactly!” Donato grabbed my free hand and placed it against his heart. “You understand. It’s green.”
Now
