“I must have this,” he said lowly. “It’s perfect.”
My heart seized up in my chest. I didn’t want to get my hopes up about what I thought I’d just heard. Oceanic was one of the largest canvases—and it was expensive.
“I’m sorry?”
Rafiq turned and repeated, “I must have this one.” He reached his hand in his fine jacket and pulled out a snakeskin wallet. From within it, he produced a platinum credit card, the likes of which I had only seen once or twice my whole career. “Please, charge this. Is your assistant here to help us wrap it for transport? I probably owe him an apology, too.”
“He’s not here at the moment,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “He only helps with special events.”
“Not a problem, my driver can assist us,” said Rafiq, pulling his smartphone from a different pocket. He sent a quick text as he simultaneously explained, “Ahmed has been with my family for years, and he has very delicate hands. He has helped me move fine art many times before. I would not suggest it if it would put the painting at risk.”
His forthright concern for the artwork warmed my heart. As angry as I still felt about the Sheikh’s behavior, I wasn’t about to argue my way out of this meal ticket. My rent would be paid for three months on this sale alone.
“Then I’ll be right back,” I said, rushing through to the back to fetch a step stool and the wrap for the painting.
When I returned, Ahmed had joined Rafiq. I recognized him as the driver from the night before, who had looked as stunned as Rafiq when I stood up to him. They were nearly the same tall height, but Ahmed was thin like a green bean, his bronze face wrinkled with age and sun, a thick black moustache neatly manicured under his nose. He and Rafiq spoke to each other in Arabic, pointing at the painting. Judging by the look on Ahmed’s face, he liked it as much as Rafiq did.
“Miss Pryce,” said Rafiq. He held out a hand to me, and reluctantly I took it. He planted a tiny kiss on the back before gesturing with his other to the driver. “This is Ahmed. Ahmed, Miss Evangeline Pryce, the artist.”
“Ah, madam,” said Ahmed, bowing his head politely toward her. “A fine job you’ve done here, a fine job. Your work makes my heart sing.” He held his hands up in a joyous gesture.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, blushing.
I watched with some reservation as the men carefully took the canvas from the wall. They were tall enough that the step stool was entirely unnecessary. They wrapped it until it was fully protected from any errant drop of rain or worse. My heart felt a little broken, as it always did when one of my paintings left. Somehow, it was like giving up a little part of myself.
Once the painting was safely loaded in the town car, Ahmed returned to the driver’s seat, and Rafiq followed me back inside the gallery to wrap up his transaction. He waited across the counter as the credit card machine ran his four-figure bill.
“Thank you for your business,” I said to him and held out my hand. “I’m glad we could find you a piece after all.”
Rafiq smiled, and this time it most definitely was a charmer. He took my hand and covered it with both of his. “Thank you for giving me a second chance.”
Heat rushed through my skin and up my neck, and judging by the glint in his eye, Rafiq could see it, too.
I nodded and pulled my hand away gently. “I’m glad you enjoy my work.”
“I enjoy it a lot,” he said. “In fact…”
Rafiq turned on his expensive shoes and marched around the gallery one more time, as if he was looking for someone or something. I watched curiously from behind the counter until he came back up to me.
“Actually, I’ve changed my mind about my purchase,” he said.
My heart sank. “You have?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’d like to buy all of them, please. And I’ll pay double your asking price.” He slid his platinum card back across the counter toward me.
My jaw dropped. “What? You can’t be serious!”
“Why not? Are some of them already sold?” he asked with a frown.
“No, no, it’s not that…” I shook my head and closed my eyes for a second, my brain unable to comprehend what was happening. “Did you say you want all the paintings….all of them, and at double the price?”
“That’s correct,” he said. He pointed to the card again and smiled. “I will have to send a truck for them, unless that’s inconvenient.”
My mom hadn’t raised a fool, and it wasn’t like I’d just blown into the big city from Nowhereville, USA.
Picking up the platinum card, I said, “I would love nothing more than to see all these paintings in a good collection, but…I just don’t believe you would drop that kind of money without expecting something more than paintings in return. I’ve been in this business long enough to know that, Rafiq.”
A slow, lazy smile spread across Rafiq’s handsome face. “Beauty, talent, and a sharp mind.”
He sighed and, from his other inner jacket pocket, produced a mahogany-colored flask. He unscrewed the cap with harsh fingers and took a swig, apparently unconcerned by me seeing him do it.
“Miss Pryce…”
“You can call me Evangeline,” I said.
“Evangeline,” he said softly. “I think it’s about time I found myself a girlfriend.”
His words were an utter surprise, so much so that we both began to laugh in absurdity and discomfort.
“I’m sorry, did I miss a step here?” I asked. “Weren’t we just talking about you buying my inventory outright?”
“And what I would require in exchange for such a gift, yes. I’m sure that kind of money would not be unwanted in your life, would it?”
I paused, but that in itself was the answer. “No, it wouldn’t,” I said, eyes cast down.
Rafiq sighed again and took another drink. He looked around to make sure we were alone, that no one had sneaked in the gallery unnoticed.
“Do you know who I am?” It wasn’t a haughty threat, but a sincere question.
I shook my head honestly, staring into his big brown eyes.
“Rich. Powerful. But not as rich and powerful as my father,” he said. “And at present you could say he is somewhat…displeased with me.”
“Displeased?”
Rafiq stood up straight and shrugged. “It’s a bit of a long story. Suffice it to say, the lifestyle you witnessed last night is more or less a common one for me, and it’s generated some unfortunate damage to my family’s reputation.”
“Really? I can’t imagine,” I replied dryly, unable to help myself.
Rafiq narrowed his eyes at me, but it was playful. “Indeed. And my father is coming halfway around the world just to scold me for it.”
Nothing about his family experience was relatable to me—not the wealth, not the power, and certainly not trouble with my parents. Though they wanted to see me stable and safe, they never shamed me for my lifestyle choices. I couldn’t imagine being halfway around the world from them, and then dreading a visit.
“What does this have to do with me?” I asked.
Rafiq rubbed his fingers against his full lips. “I would like for you to pretend to be my girlfriend while my father is in town; to make me look more respectable, more, what’s the word, traditional than I currently am. And, truly, there is no one my father will respect more than you, Evangeline. You are a perfect fit for the role.”
Heat flushed across my skin, and butterflies erupted in my stomach. I couldn’t stop my mouth from dropping open. Was he seriously offering to pay me to be with him?
“You are a gorgeous, successful American artist. Witty, strong and talented. I’ve no doubt he will see you as a perfect mate for his heir,” said Rafiq. He returned his flask to his jacket, and leaned his big hands on the counter, bending just slightly my direction. I could smell his musk, and his expensive cologne, mixed with the sharp scent of rum.
For a split second, his proposition had almost felt flattering. On the surface, Rafiq was everything a woman like me could hope for: charming, handsome, intelligent, and rich. He was clearly interested in the arts, even if he was just a casual collector. Being by his side, even temporarily, would probably end up being fancier and more exciting than any vacation I would ever be able to take. Rafiq lived the fantasy life an artist like me would never be able to touch.
But critical thinking forced its way back into my mind and suddenly everything about the situation felt uncomfortable and wrong. I felt dirty.
I shook my head and pushed his platinum card back across the counter. “Look, I… I appreciate that you enjoy my work, and thank you for taking Oceanic home. But art is the only thing for sale in this gallery, Rafiq—the artist certainly isn’t.”
Rafiq pursed his lips, but said nothing, and only nodded. He shoved one hand in the pocket of his slacks, and came out with a business card, which he tossed next to the platinum credit card that was still on the counter. “Think about it, Evangeline. I really do love your work, and I’d love to be able to bring all of it home with me.”
Before I could respond, he turned and left the gallery.