Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

I need a minute to compose myself, so I drop his hand and head for the minibar. There are tiny bottles of wine and rum and vodka. “Do you know how to make drinks?” I ask over the clink of little glass containers. “The only things I know how to make have the ingredients in the name, like rum and Coke or a whiskey sour.”

“Sour isn’t an ingredient,” he says, sounding distracted.

“Of course it is,” I say, glancing back at him. And then freezing when I see he’s standing directly in front of Medusa, staring at her like she has the secrets of the universe in her eyes. “Oh.”

“Goddamn, Harper. This is… there aren’t words.”

My throat suddenly feels dry, and I have to force myself to swallow. I feel strangely buoyant as I stand and cross the few yards between us. “Disappointing? You can tell me.”

He looks at me like I’m insane. “This is incredible. There’s so much talent, but it’s the way it makes you feel her rage and her vulnerability that’s incredible. It belongs in the museums next to O’Keeffe and Kahlo, and even then people would stop and stare at this.”

“I didn’t know you knew about art,” I say lamely.

He shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I don’t, but I spent my free credits taking Ancient Greek Symbolism and History of Portraiture and the Female Gaze after you told me about Medusa.”

My mouth must be hanging open in a way that’s decidedly unladylike, but he couldn’t have surprised me more if he said he was going to give away all his worldly possessions and become a monk. “You did?”

“I’m a long way from an expert, but in my amateur and totally biased opinion, this painting is amazing. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Okay.”

Dark eyes narrow. “You aren’t convinced.”

“It’s not a bad painting, I’m not saying that. It’s just not the painting. The one I need to show considering I’m only doing this exhibit because of the one I painted on the gym wall.”

“Is there a photograph we could enlarge?”

I make a face. “No, that’s not the right way. I just need to show them…”

“Spontaneity?”

“Rage.”

That slow smile again, the one I still remember clearly in my mind all these years later. It’s even more poignant now, knowing that he cares about me enough to take those classes. To visit me on my exhibit when he must have a million things more important to do. “Then let’s show them rage. Should we slash everyone’s tires while they’re looking at the exhibit?”

“I like your dedication, but parking in New York City is a logistical nightmare already without adding in guerilla artistry to the mix.”

“Fair,” he says. “So what do you have in mind?”

“I want to paint something new for them. Something… real.”

“Like while they watch? Performance art?”

The idea dawns on me with a lurch and roll, the way the yacht moved beneath me. And then I’m falling with nothing to catch me. Only someone’s here to follow me down. “What if we went to the studio right now?”

He looks exactly the right amount of scandalized. And being the pragmatist, he glances at his watch. “It’s midnight. How long do we have before they open?”

“Long enough.”

For a moment he studies me, and I think he’s wondering whether he’s going to go along with this crazy plan. Wondering more than me, anyway. If there’s one thing this man understands, it’s raw determination. He’ll be in it with me.

A brief nod. “Breaking and entering it is.”

That’s how we end up spending all night in a fancy SoHo art studio, its walls bare and white and waiting for the paintings that are stacked in my penthouse suite. That’s how I end up painting a Medusa in swirls of purple and teal and pink using a wooden folding chair as my step stool.

I don’t know where they planned to put the centerpiece of the show. Probably somewhere front and center, where everyone would see it first. This one’s in the back of the studio. You have to look at every other painting first and turn the corner. And then she blazes at you in all her snake-fueled glory. She turns the viewer to stone, if Christopher’s look of awe is any indication.

He turns to me, and I’m in awe of this, of him, of his bleary eyes and the smudges of paint from helping me. Of the expression of pride on his handsome face. How did we get here?