Perfect. It felt perfect. I used the shampoo and body wash to thoroughly cleanse myself, and then I stepped out and turned off the water.

I wrapped a large bath towel around my body and looked again in the mirror. Something felt different, but I wasn’t sure what.

Then I realized. It was my skin. My skin felt…nice. Nice and moisturized. Usually I felt tight and itchy until I applied lotion all over my body.

What was different?

My gaze fell on the bottle of grapeseed oil. It had removed the paint and also left me feeling like I was on a tropical island. I smiled at myself.

This was turning out to be a great night.

I dried off and realized I hadn’t brought my clothes in with me. I toweled off my hair, wrapped another dry towel around my chest, and walked out to the bedroom to get my clothes.

Roy stood in the bedroom, holding a clean robe and smiling. “Here.”

“Thanks.” I walked back into the bathroom to put the robe on and laughed aloud. He’d just seen me naked. Why was I suddenly so modest?

I shed the towel and wrapped myself in the robe and went back out. The mural met my gaze. “Tell me about this.” I nodded toward it.

“Just something I threw together.”

“Just something you threw together? You’re kidding, right?”’

“Not really. I couldn’t sleep one night, so I got up, and this is the result.”

“It’s amazing, but you said you didn’t display your work here.”

“This is my bedroom. It’s hardly on display.”

“You mean you don’t… Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“All right.” Roy smiled. “Food will be here soon. Want something to drink?”

“Sure.”

“Beer? Wine? Water? Juice?”

“I think just water, thanks.”

“No problem. Come on out. We can eat in the kitchen.”

I followed him. He had removed his smock and washed his hands. He wore a gray V-neck T-shirt and looked absolutely scrumptious. His muscular forearms were a work of art.

“Have you ever painted yourself?” I asked.

“A self-portrait? No.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re so…”

He grinned. “So…what?”

“You know exactly how good-looking you are, Roy. You don’t need me to tell you.”

“What if I want you to tell me?” he teased.

Embarrassment welled in me. I could actually feel the warmth creeping up my cheeks. I hoped it was disguised by the redness from my recent shower.

“I’ve told you how beautiful you are, Charlie.”

He had, at that.

“You told me you’re an artist,” he continued.

“An amateur artist.”

“Amateur? What does that mean? Either you’re an artist or you’re not.”

“You know exactly what it means. I don’t make any money as an artist, and I don’t paint full-time.”

“Semantics. Do you think I paint for money?”

I said nothing.

He continued. “For that matter, do you think anyone buys my work for any reason other than I’m a Wolfe?”

“That’s ridiculous. Your work has value beyond your name.”

“Yes. It does. To me. To you. Maybe to others. But I don’t do it for the money.”

“Well, you don’t need to. You already have a ton of money.”

He laughed then. “You’re being purposely obstinate. You know exactly what I mean.”

I got indignant then. “I don’t buy it, Roy. You can’t be an artist just because you say you are.”

“Why not?”

I opened my mouth but then realized I had no answer.

He laughed again. “You are absolutely adorable.”

“You tell me, then,” I said, not willing to let this drop. “What makes an artist?”

“Depends on your definition of artist.”

Now he was being ridiculously abstract. “What’s yours?”

“I find art in almost everything. Even my brother Reid, who has taken the running of our business to an art form. Even my father, who, though he was an asshole of the highest magnitude, couldn’t have made billions without knowing the art of negotiation and dealing.”

“Everything’s an art to you?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“What exactly is my art, then? Dressing up in uncomfortable clothing and doing someone else’s bidding?”

“You’re obviously good at what you do, or Lacey wouldn’t have brought you with her.”

“What I do is hardly art.”

“I say it is,” he laughed. “But we’ve gotten badly off the subject. Which I think was your intention. You’re certainly willing to go to a lot of trouble just to get out of telling me what you see when you look at me.”

I joined in his laughter then. “Nothing gets by you.”

“Nothing does,” he agreed. “Sometimes that’s a curse. Trust me.”

His words were enigmatic, and I wasn’t sure what to say. I was certain he didn’t want to elaborate, so finally I said, “You’re the most amazing-looking man I’ve ever seen.”8RoyI’d made her uncomfortable, which pleased me. Why? I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t meant to mention that my gift of observation could sometimes be a curse.

I couldn’t be an artist without such an acute sense, but truly, it had been a curse from time to time. One time in particular, which I didn’t want to think about now. Not when I had a luscious woman in my apartment. I opened my mouth to ask her to elaborate on what she found amazing about my looks, when my intercom buzzed.

Tags: Helen Hardt Wolfes of Manhattan Erotic
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