“My pleasure, Miss Snow. I’m very impressed with your project,” he says politely.

I feel suddenly giddy at his praise, like I did when I got my very first A. I thank him, cursing the bloody blush again. Mr. Hale looks slightly amused and sweeps out of the door last.

I stand there, staring after him even when the door closes. What better way to illustrate what I’ll be missing than sending an impossibly handsome man who can mess with my head just by blinking. Something warm—like an ember—heats up between my lungs as if his electrical charge nested there. I watch my skin, mesmerized. There’s no physical evidence of change but something inside feels…new.

Chapter Eight

La Virgen

I rush through Feign Art as fast as I can. In the few seconds it takes me to dash through reception, I notice my painting is gone. The mere idea that it’s already in Mr. Hale’s home makes me trip twice.

Javier is in the back as always. He stares blankly out of the window but when he sees me, he smiles.

“How did your presentation go?” he asks as I change behind the screen.

“I didn’t throw up once, so that means it went fine. And you’ll never guess whom it was for. The same bloke who bought all your paintings.” I peek around the screen to look at his expression. He’s gaping.

“Same guy? That’s a coincidence.”

“Yes, I know. Aiden Hale.” Ridiculously, as I say his name out loud, I shiver. “Apparently, he’s a major donor for Reed.”

“Hmm, small world. Good thing he has no clue you’re the muse for his art.”

I laugh my first laugh in days. Only Javier would call me a muse. “More like a dummy than a muse, I think. But that’s okay. It helps you. Although I think you should ask Feign for more money. It’s robbery, Javier.”

He snorts. “Yeah, and then he’ll turn me over to ICE for being an illegal alien.”

“No, he won’t. Because you can expose his fraud,” I insist, resisting the urge to stomp my foot. He never agrees with me here. To his defense, Immigration and Customs Enforcement is the dread behind most immigrants’ nightmares.

“Isa, please, we’ve talked about this. He can do it anonymously. And even if he did it under his real name, no one will believe the illegal immigrant over the established artist.”

“Sure they would. Just give Feign a paintbrush and ask him to paint a smiley face. The truth will be out in seconds.”

“Stop this, please. We have so little time left.” Javier’s voice is muted and almost staccato. I secure the last clothespin on my sheet and come out. I want to comfort him but what is there to say? Plus, I can’t touch him when I’m wrapped up in a sheet.

Javier shuffles to the easel. “C’mon, let’s finish this painting. I’ll be here all night. Fancy Hale has asked that it be delivered to him this weekend and Feign said if he catches me so much as taking a piss, he won’t pay me for it. Dickless asshole. Anyway, can you believe Hale doubled the price to have this so soon?” Javier’s eyes are wide.

“No, not really. But it just goes to prove your talent, Javier. I wish there were a way for the world to know it.”

Javier snorts. “You wonder what he’ll do with these paintings, Isa? Who knows what other fancy-pants will go to his house and say ‘wow, she really has a lovely waist’, ‘wish I knew who she was’, ‘Wish I could see a little lower’?”

I laugh. He smirks and picks up his palette. I sit in my regular position while he starts painting. Instinctively, like responding to some internal command, my mind drifts back to the way Mr. Hale’s mouth looked when he tasted my candy. A flash of heat runs through me and goose bumps erupt on my bare skin. I replay the image to hold on to the feeling a little longer.

Eventually, Javier releases me. “Well, that’s your last pose. I sketched the outline so you don’t need to stay here all night.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

“No need for both of us to lose sleep, Isa. You don’t have six mouths to feed.”

I might as well. They’re my mouths too. I fist my hands, wishing for a magic wand. Javier’s parents came here so he could have a better life. But he’s never had a life of his own. And his dream of painting will always stay within the mundane confines of a clandestine job when it should soar to the heights of passion and acclaim.

“What will you call this series?” I ask as I pad behind the screen to put on my clothes. He usually calls his series something stereotypically American. His last one was called Give Me Your Poor, and I think his first was called Pursuit of Happiness. At least Feign allows him that luxury, probably because the idiot can’t come up with anything creative himself.

“I already named it today and sent it to Feign. He called Hale on the spot because Fancy-Pants demanded the name of the series, probably for his private museum somewhere.”

I almost trip while sliding on Reagan’s pumps, and stumble out from behind the screen. “So what’s the name?”

Javier looks at me and his eyes turn soft. “La Virgen.”

The word hangs fluid in the air. It takes a moment for me to process it. Javier never uses Spanish in his art.

“The Virgin? In Spanish?”

He nods. “It seemed like the right time for a little bit of truth.”

Chapter Nine

Unconventional Proposal

I tiptoe through the dark corridor to the main lobby and pause to listen before turning the corner to make sure Feign is not there. But when I hear a cool voice that I now know in my cells, I flatten my back against the hallway wall and eavesdrop shamelessly.

“Here are the other paintings, Mr. Hale,” Kasia simpers. I amuse myself by picturing her in liquid form, a bit like a blob. There is no response from him whatsoever.

“May I take them, sir?” asks a deep male voice I have never heard before.

“Yes, Benson, thank you.” Hale’s voice is warmer when he addresses the unknown Benson.

“Mr. Hale, is there anything else I can do for you?” Kasia asks—or rather begs.

“Yes. Two things indeed.” From his arctic tone, I know nothing good is coming for Kasia.

“First, I’d like the last painting to be delivered to this address tomorrow. Second, I’d like to meet the artist.”

“Yes, Mr. Hale.” Kasia seems to have gotten the hint. “The painting will be finished by tomorrow though it won’t be dry. And Mr. Feign is not here at the moment but I’ll give him your message.”

A long pause. For some reason, I picture him frowning. Eventually he speaks with the same cold tone that accepts no opposition. “Tell him I’d like to discuss…an unconventional proposal, shall we say. Goodbye.”

An unconventional proposal? What does that mean for a man like Mr. Hale? For some reason, I shiver.

Benson starts talking to Kasia about delivery details. One set of commanding footsteps rings on the marble floor while the two are still talking. The door squeaks behind Mr. Hale. Apparently, he makes even inanimate objects whimper. Benson leaves shortly after. I wait awhile and come out.

“No need to bite my head off, Kasia. I’m going out this way because someone has blocked the back exit,” I say before she rakes me over the coals for polluting the swanky lobby.

But she is too distracted to snap at me. “Isa, did you hear that? He wants to meet Brett.” She claps her hands in excitement. This barmpot really thinks Feign is the painter. He would never trust her with his darkest secret.

I smile. “Yes, I did. How well deserved for Brett’s talent.” I put as much British gentility in my sarcasm as possible, and walk out.

* * * * *

Back home, Reagan is in the living room in front of a makeshift three-way mirror. She has taken my mirror, hers and the one from our restroom and has turned them into a bridal setup. She is wearing a burgundy dress that clings to her for dear life, making her look like a redheaded version of Kim Basinger.