Page 19 of Ruthless Touch
I wander around the gallery admiring the artwork on the walls, none of which I know anything about. Some are landscapes, while others are still lifes. That’s about all I know of art. Well, I know about the Mona Lisa, but that’s not going to be hanging on the wall somewhere here.
It’s all very nice, and one or two of the black and gold pottery pieces make me think I’d like to know more about them, so I read the caption on the gold plate below each one and find out they’re Etruscan. I vaguely remember learning about them in school. They disappeared from Italy before the people considered to be Romans came on the scene. History was never my strongest class, so I’m actually surprised I recall that at all.
As I continue my walk through Gideon’s gallery, I wonder why I needed to wear this dress to see all the pieces of art here today. Not that I would want to walk around naked to admire them, but I could have dressed in my yoga pants and a T-shirt and felt the same way about all I’m seeing. It’s not like there’s anyone else here with me to see what I’m wearing either.
I’m beginning to feel like I’m in one of those foreign films where nothing makes sense and even subtitles don’t help. Like the ones where you’re certain an important part of the movie was edited out, leaving you to wonder what’s going on.
Just as I’m sure this day can’t get any more confusing, my phone begins to ring. No one has called me in the three weeks I’ve been here because I couldn’t get any reception that whole time. I found out when my phone fell silent for two days right after I arrived and wanted to call my mother to tell her I was safe.
Reaching into my purse, I pull it out and look at the number on the screen. I don’t recognize it, but I’m curious enough to answer. “Hello?”
“Are you enjoying your time in the art gallery, Aria?” Gideon asks in a low voice that I swear hits me somewhere deep inside I didn’t know existed until this very moment.
“Yes.”
I want to ask how my phone seems to work now when it hasn’t for weeks, but before I can get a chance to, he replies, “I’m happy you’re enjoying it. We made sure to put that upholstered bench in front of the Modigliani. What do you think of it?”
Turning around the room to figure out which piece he means, I see the bench in front of a painting of woman lying nude on a red sofa. Unshaven under her arms and between her legs, she has a long torso and rounded hips. I also can’t help but notice she’s extremely well-endowed.
“I think there weren’t breast implants whenever this was painted, so this model had a very nice body naturally.”
When I finish giving my commentary, I realize he knew exactly where I was when he called me. “How did you know I was standing near this painting?”
“I told you. I know where you are at all times in my hotel, Aria. Do you like the painting?” Gideon asks, his voice practically beaming a smile.
With another glance at the nude woman, I shrug. “Not really, to be honest.”
“Why?”
I hear the disappointment in his voice, but I see no reason to lie. I don’t have a problem with nudes. I just don’t like this one much.
“She’s not appealing, I guess. Isn’t art all about personal taste anyway? I’m guessing whoever this painter is, he wouldn’t care one bit that I don’t like his nude woman on a red sofa.”
That gets me a deep chuckle before he says, “That’s true. What I like you might not.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this gallery before today?” I ask as I sit down on the white tufted bench. “It would have been nice to see it on all those days I was just stuck in the penthouse. I might not love art, but this is better than sitting around all day doing nothing.”
“What pieces do you like?” he asks, disregarding my question entirely.
I turn my head to look over at one of the Etruscan pottery pieces and say, “I like the black Etruscan water jug. I like the way people are painted around it.”
“Interesting. So you prefer much older artwork. Modigliani’s portrait is from the early twentieth century,” Gideon explains.
“I guess. I’m not really knowledgeable about art. I’m thinking there are far better people to ask about art than me.”
“Except I want to know your opinion, Aria, so you’re the only person to ask.”
I should encourage him to keep asking me what I like since this is the most we’ve spoken in all the time we’ve known one another. The problem is I don’t have many other opinions about the artwork in this gallery.
You know who I bet knows all about art? Sasha. I’m sure she could give him chapter and verse about what’s great about the big breasted lady lying back on that uncomfortable looking sofa with her armpit and crotch hair hanging out and how the pottery I like isn’t anything close to being great and only some uneducated fool would enjoy it.
“Why are you pouting?” he asks, instantly ripping me from my sulking.
I look around for any sign of cameras but don’t see any. “How do you know I’m pouting?”
Gideon chuckles at what must sound like a ridiculous question to him. “I told you. I know where you are at all times in my hotel.”
“Well, I don’t see any cameras, and unless you have Phillip there relaying all my expressions, I can’t figure out how you know,” I say, frustrated he seems to know everything about me and I know nothing about him, as usual.