I took a seat on the chaise longue and lay down in Marcella’s office for the first time. The secrets I was about to reveal to her had tormented me for so long. While it might be painful, it was going to be a great relief to get it all off my chest. “Because we fell in love so young, I’m the only lover Jason’s ever had. As far as he knows, the same is true in my case. Up until a year ago, Jason was in fact the only lover I ever had. Then the madness began. . . .”
chapter
twelve
I was attending the opening of a new public high school when I first met Quinton. It was a magnet school, specializing in the performing arts, and Quinton was the artist commissioned by the city of Atlanta to paint a mural in the cafeteria.
Quinton Matthews was renowned throughout the world, and as an arts dealer, I was very familiar with his artistic talent. I had seen his picture once, but it didn’t do him justice.
When I arrived at the opening, I was late, and the mayor had already done the traditional ribbon-cutting ceremony. A business associate, Rebecca Swanson, had invited me, and before I made it ten feet into the cafeteria she greeted me with a huge smile and a glass of champagne.
Meeting Quinton Matthews was my main reason for attending. At the young age of thirty, he had already achieved legendary status as a contemporary artist. I was hoping to sweet-talk him into letting me produce some of his originals as prints and add them to my sales collection.
The mural Quinton designed on the cafeteria wall was nothing short of breathtaking. It depicted dozens of teenagers, of all ethnic groups, involved in various activities, everything from ballet to playing musical instruments to portraying Shakespeare on a stage.
As I walked along the wall, pausing to glance at each scene, I shuddered to think how many hours it must have taken to create such a masterpiece. I also wondered what kind of man had the vision and creativity to commit himself to such a task. It reminded me a lot of Jason, the time and effort he put into his architecture.
The high school wasn’t the only place I had seen Quinton Matthews’s work up close. His creations were all over the city. My favorite was one of the Atlanta skyline on a concrete wall in a downtown MARTA station. I used to go down to the station, just a few blocks from my office, sit on a bench, and eat lunch. The mural seemed to have a calming effect on me, and sometimes even an arousing one. I have no idea why, but I somehow equated his creative nature with sex. Then again, I equated most things with sex back then.
Maybe that’s why I was such a huge fan of his, and perhaps the real reason I wanted to meet him was curiosity—not about his work, but about the man himself. Curiosity might kill most cats, b
ut it made the cat between my legs purr.
When I got to the section of the mural depicting a group of ballerinas with their arms neatly folded over tutus, standing on the hard toes of ballet slippers, I felt someone breathing down my neck.
“You like the mural, huh?”
His voice was deep and distinguished. I didn’t turn around. I assumed he was one of the several hundred patrons who had come to the opening to see how their generous donations were spent.
“I don’t like it! I love it! Quinton Matthews is a great artist, isn’t he?”
“Hmm, if you say so.”
I didn’t like the sarcasm in his voice and quickly spun around, ready to defend my favorite artist and confront the arrogant son of a giga monster who lacked a true appreciation of his gift.
“Listen, he’s—” I froze.
“Yes? He’s what?”
I must have had the most ridiculous look on my face, because I was damn sure embarrassed when I realized I was face-to-face with Quinton Matthews himself.
“Mr. Matthews!” I grabbed his hand and started shaking it like a political science major who’s just snatched up the opportunity to meet the president of the United States. “It’s such an honor to meet you!”
He stopped shaking my hand but refused to let it go when I tried to retrieve it. Instead, he lifted it up to his mouth and kissed it. “One problem.”
“What’s that?”
“We haven’t officially met yet, Ms.?”
“It’s Mrs. Mrs. Zoe Reynard.” I flashed the wedding ring on my other hand at him as if I needed to provide some form of physical evidence to support the statement. I was really trippin’. I was used to meeting men, but I was acting like a nervous teenager around Quinton Matthews.
“Damn, just my luck.” I noticed he was still holding my hand and pulled it away, pretending I needed it to prevent my purse strap from falling off my shoulder. “The good ones are always taken.”
I started blushing. Hell, who wouldn’t blush with a man that damn fine paying them a compliment.
Like I said, I had seen his picture in the newspaper before but dayummmmmmmmm!!!! Quinton was about five-eleven, green eyes the color of emeralds and a clean-shaven bald head. His skin was the color of burnt sienna, smooth and flawless, and his smile perfect.
He was sporting a dark gray double-breasted suit with a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned just enough for me to see the baby-fine hair on his chest.