Art Lovers Romance Series Read online

  Art Lovers Romance Series

  Becca Colton

  Copyright © September 2019 Becca Colton

  All rights reserved.

  Cover image © DepositPhotos / artem_furman

  Contents

  Art Lovers Romance Series

  Mailing List

  The Collector

  The Artist

  The Photographer

  Also by Becca Colton

  Mailing List

  Copyright Notice

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  The Collector

  Skylar:

  All I wanted to do was create art and sell my paintings online, but I let my best friend talk me into doing an actual live gallery showing. As if that’s not nerve-racking enough, the man who can make or break an artist is here. He’s looking at my work. And he’s looking at me. He’s tall and handsome, with just a hint of gray in his hair. He makes me feel things I’ve never felt before, makes me want things I never thought I’d have, but I know nothing lasting can happen between us. He enjoys fine things, and I’m damaged goods.

  Logan:

  I know what I like, and I’m used to getting what I want. But the gorgeous artist that has captured my heart has a frustrating habit of running away from me whenever we start to get too close. She thinks she’s not good enough, she thinks she’s broken, but I’ll do whatever it takes to prove to her that she’s perfect for me.

  Chapter 1

  Skylar

  “It’s simply exquisite, Sky.”

  I glance at Cyndie, my best friend since elementary school, as I put the finishing touches on my latest painting. I wasn’t sure if it would be ready in time for the gallery showing tonight, but it should be dry enough to display. “You say that about all my paintings, Cyn.”

  She flashes me a grin. “That’s because you’re incredibly talented and all your paintings are exquisite.”

  I shake my head as I head to the sink. I have just enough time to clean up, load the artwork, and set everything up at the gallery for my very first public showing. “Tell me again why I let you talk me into this?” I ask.

  “Because an online portfolio is nice but serious art buyers want to actually see the art, right in their faces. It’s an intimacy between the buyer and the artist that you simply can’t replicate online.”

  “That’s cheesy as fuck. You know that, right?”

  Cyndie rolls her eyes. “Fine. Some buyers are quicker to buy when they can walk out right then with the painting they just bought, instead of having to wait five to seven days for it to be delivered . . . and that means more chances for some of those sweet dolla dolla bills to end up in your incredibly talented hands.” She arches an eyebrow. “That a good enough reason for you?”

  I don’t answer as I finish cleaning my brushes. I love Cyn like a sister but she just doesn’t get it. I can fake it online, but people will expect a real artist at an art gallery, and I’m not that. I’m not talented. I’m defective. Broken. I don’t paint the way I do because of any creativity or artistic vision. I simply paint what I see. People call it art because they don’t see things the way I see them. Literally.

  “What if someone figures out I’m the artist?” I say. “You know I don’t want anyone to put my name with my art.”

  “I know,” Cyndie says. “You’ve got tons of talent to be proud of so I don’t understand, but I do know.” She shrugs. “There’s no reason for anyone to make that connection though. The gallery’s only contact with you is through your loyal manager” — she smirks and points at herself — “and I’m not telling anyone.”

  I nod, feeling a little more relieved about remaining anonymous.

  “And you know I love you, Sky, but please, for the love of God, give the jeans and t-shirt a break and actually, you know, get a little fancy.

  “I was planning on cleaning the paint out from under my nails. Is that fancy enough?”

  Cyndie rolls her eyes and groans. “I’d love to think you’re kidding but I know you’re not.” She shakes her head as she comes over, grabs my shoulders, and gives me a sort-of friendly shake. “This is a special occasion, Sky. Not only are you having your first actual real-life art show, but you’re finally—finally—stepping outside this studio for the first time in a long time. Live a little.”

  I frown at her. “Remember what happened the last time I lived a little?”

  Cyndie sighs and offers a sad smile. “Yes, you went out with a douche.”

  “A douche you set me up with.”

  Cyndie throws her hands in the air. “I didn’t know he was a douche. He acted like a decent guy at work. He was a douche in disguise.”

  I can’t help the smile that appears on my face . . . or the laugh. It was a sucky date, with the “douche in disguise” making fun of me when I told him about my condition. I don’t know why I told him. Probably too much rice wine at the fancy Japanese restaurant he took me to. He made a comment about the colorful paper lanterns hung above the tables and I slipped up, revealing that I couldn’t see any of the colors. From there, he thought it was great fun to constantly ask me to guess what color his shirt and tie were, along with making driving jokes because I couldn’t see the colors of a red light. Yeah, that night was a blast. Still, it was sort of worth it just to hear Cyndie say douche in disguise now.

  “Hey!” Cyndie calls out, pulling a sheet off a portrait tucked in the back corner of my studio. “You don’t want to leave this one back here by itself. You might forget it when you pack up the others.”

  I look at the portrait and feel my cheeks heat up. “I’m not forgetting it. I’m just not taking it.”

  Cyndie looks at me like I just slapped her, then returns her gaze to the canvas she’s holding. It’s a self-portrait of me. Sultry expression, bare shoulders, just a hint of cleavage. The result of too much wine at the end of a long day. “Sky, it’s gorgeous. It has to go.”

  I shake my head. “Not happening, Cyn. Deal with it.”

  She squares her shoulders and sets her jaw like she’s ready to fight. I’ve known her long enough to know that she’s ready to dig in. Usually, her stubbornness is too much for me, but I’m determined this time. My face is not going to be hanging on the wall of an art gallery, displayed for the whole world to see, and that is that.

  Chapter 2

  Logan

  I smile at the lull in conversation as I enter the art gallery, taking perverse pleasure in the shock in the guests’ eyes when they realize who I am.

  Some of them might not know my name, but they all know my passion. In the art world, I’m known as the Collector, and I can make or break any artist practically overnight.

  “Mr. Brighton, a pleasure to have you here.”

  “You’re even more handsome in person.”

  “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to say online that you like my art.”

  “Let me be your sex slave. I’ll do anything for you.”

  I pluck a glass of champagne off a silver tray offered by a server, ignoring them all. They don’t understand. I’m not here for them. I’m here for the art.

&n
bsp; I wander through the tiny art gallery. It’s not the fanciest in the city, but they have a reputation of offering new artists a place to show their work. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating the work of known artists, of course, but nothing beats being the first. The first to notice a new artist, the first to introduce an innocent girl to the pleasures of the body. It’s a distinction that can never be taken away. There can always be someone better, someone worse, but only one can be first.

  There are several new artists on display tonight. Most of the work is boring, the artists too busy trying to be someone else instead of themselves. Except for one. Umbra. It’s an interesting name with an interesting style. Landscapes, still life, portraits, all rendered in various shades of black, gray, and white. Not a speck of color anywhere. The imagery is stark, bold, attention-getting, and one image in particular steals all my attention.

  It’s a portrait of a young woman, probably no older than twenty-one. Her light hair is tousled, looking wild and windswept, her lips cutting a stern line across unblemished skin with one corner swept slightly in a mischievous smirk. One bare shoulder is turned forward, with just a hint of cleavage appearing before the image fades, blending with the white of the canvas. But it’s her eyes that capture my soul. Light gray in the image, the artist has captured an innocence and vulnerability I hadn’t thought possible, but there’s also pain, hidden in the back, tucked away behind the innocence.

  I take a quick drink of champagne to relieve a suddenly dry throat. This is the piece. This Umbra person is about to become one of the greats, and it has nothing to do with their unique style, as interesting as it is. No, it’s the woman. It’s those eyes. I could look into those haunted, innocent eyes forever.

  I turn on my heel to find the gallery owner. I’ve found the piece I want. No need to look further, and then I see a sight that robs me of my breath. It’s her. The girl in the portrait. Standing just a few feet away. Her hair is blonde, falling across her shoulders and down her back like a waterfall of liquid gold. Her skin is as flawless as it appears in the portrait, as smooth as fine porcelain, and my fingers itch to touch her. She laughs at something said by the girl she’s talking to, her eyes roaming across the room as she takes a sip of her drink. Her gaze falls on me and stops, and I immediately see the one fault in the likeness captured by Umbra. The various shades of gray do no justice to this girl’s eyes, as bright and blue as the purest sapphire. Her cheeks take on a subtle pink tint when she realizes I’m looking at her.

  I decide right then that the painting isn’t enough. I want her.

  She doesn’t see me approaching, having returned to her conversation with the woman. I can’t help my eyes roaming up and down her body, seeing what the painting wasn’t able to show.

  Dressed in a simple but elegant black dress that hugs her curves, the woman is capturing the attention of more than one man in the gallery. The dress has tiny spaghetti straps that leave her shoulders bare, and the hem of her dress rests halfway between her thighs and knees. Her creamy skin has received the barest hint of a kiss from the sun, which makes sense. If she’s working as a model, she would want to ensure her skin stays smooth as silk. My fingers twitch with the desire to touch her, caress her, claim her.

  Another man obviously has similar thoughts, his eyes locked on her as he moves across the room. I move towards the woman quickly. The man notices. I glare at him and shake my head. He stares at me for a few seconds. My jaw tightens and I arch an eyebrow. He drops his eyes to the floor for a second and then finds something else to be interested in, moving away and pouting like a child denied a treat.

  I look back at the bewitching woman, unable to help the smirk that forms on my face. Mine.

  Chapter 3

  Skylar

  I stare at the man staring at me, feeling a shiver run down my spine as his steel gray eyes seem to stare into my soul. It’s him. I’ve never met him, but I’ve read everything — online and off — about him. Logan Brighton. The Collector. If he were to take an interest in my work . . . I shake my head, smiling at the silly thought. There’s no way in the world he could be interested in my work, not when there are so many other pieces to admire. Pieces filled with worlds of color. A world that I’m isolated from. He starts walking, and there’s no doubt that he’s headed straight toward me. I down the rest of my champagne with one gulp and lick my lips.

  “Damn, girl,” Cyndie says. “That’s like your third glass. I know you’re nervous, but take it easy.”

  I tear my eyes away from the man and his perfectly fitting suit and force my somewhat blurry gaze to focus on her. “This showing was your idea, Cyn. I was fine just painting my stuff and selling it online.”

  My eyes flick back to the man and I suck in a sharp breath as he appears right in front of me, his eyes burning with such intensity I’m surprised my skin doesn’t burn. I notice the white streaks in his otherwise dark hair. I know from my online fangirling that he’s forty-two . . . maybe forty-three now — It was an old article. Either way, he wears his age well. Really well.

  “I have seen many lovely things tonight,” he says, “but nothing comes close to being as lovely as you.”

  If anyone else had said it, it would be cheesy as hell, but I feel a warm flush wash over me when he says it, or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me that makes it feel like someone turned the air conditioning off.

  I stare up into steel-gray eyes that seem to burn into my very soul. Of course, I don’t know if his eyes really are gray, but something tells me they are, and there’s no doubt about the passion that burns in them. I resist the urge to fan myself as I grow lightheaded, and then I realize I haven’t taken a breath since he’s spoken to me. I force myself to inhale, tearing my gaze from his eyes to admire the strong chin, the broad shoulders that seem barely constrained by the tuxedo he’s wearing. I run my tongue over suddenly dry lips and hear the man growl. I gasp, the primal sound igniting a fire within me.

  I hear someone clear their throat. Cyndie, looking at me with a smirk on her face and mischief in her eyes. I glare at her and then look back up at the mountain of a man before me. I’m barely five feet, and this guy has to be over six feet tall. He extends his hand.

  “Logan Brighton.”

  I place my hand in his, noticing how it almost disappears when he wraps his fingers around mine. I swallow loudly, unable to stop myself from wondering about the size of other things on this handsome giant. He rubs his thumb in soft circles across the top of my hand and I feel another bout of lightheadedness coming on.

  He looks at me quizzically.

  “And you are?”

  Oh my god! How long have I just been standing here like an idiot, almost swooning just because a hot guy is holding my hand? “Kimball. Skylar.” My cheeks feel like they’re on fire and I imagine my face is red as an apple. “I mean, Skylar Kimball. Skylar is my first name.”

  He leans over and kisses the top of my hand, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Skylar.”

  A warmth I haven’t felt in a long while grows between my thighs, my brain locked on to the feeling of his lips against my skin. Fuck me. I gasp. Did I say that out loud? I look quickly between Cyndie and the new subject of every wet dream I’ll ever have for the rest of my life. Nobody seems shocked, and Cyndie isn’t laughing, so it must’ve stayed in my head. Thank god.

  “Hey,” Cyndie says, nodding her head toward the far side of the room. “I think I see someone I haven’t seen in a long time and I should probably go talk to them.” She glances at Logan and then back to me, flashing me a wicked grin. “Have fun.”

  Before I can ask what she means by that, she turns and walks away, almost instantly inserting herself into a conversation with a couple admiring one of my black and white landscapes on the wall. She glances over her shoulder at me for just a second and flashes me a wink.

  I look back at the man standing in front of me, his gaze so intent that I can’t help but wonder if he even
notices the surroundings or the other people. I try to think of something to say but all I can think about are his large hands on my body, his lips on mine. I chuckle to myself. As if that could happen. There was more of a chance of him taking an interest in my art.

  “What’s so funny,” he asks.

  I blink, my mind refusing to cooperate. I have this insane urge to run away. My eyes cut to a door along the back wall. I’ve been in this gallery hundreds of times, even rented space to paint before I had my own studio. I know that behind that door is a long hallway with painting spaces, offices, and storage rooms. And at the end of that hall is a door. A door to the outside world. A door that leads away from the penetrating gaze of this man-god of the art world.

  He tears his eyes away long enough to follow the direction of mine and then looks back toward me, a small smile playing at his kissable-looking lips. “Thinking of running?”

  I gasp. Busted.

  Chapter 4

  Logan

  It was a simple question, said as a joke, but the deer-in-headlights glimmer of fear that flashes through her eyes tells me she’s actually thinking of doing just that.

  I reach out and put my hand on her shoulder, my cock instantly becoming hard at the skin-on-skin contact. Now it’s my turn to chuckle and shake my head. I’m only touching her arm and already close to coming in my pants. Like I’m some junior high virgin touching a girl for the first time.

  She looks me in the eye, ignoring my hand on her bare skin, although I do notice she leans slightly into my touch. “What’s so funny?”

  My smile widens at the fire I see in her gaze. I wonder what she’d think if I told her I was laughing at myself for coming so close to blowing my load just from touching her. I almost tell her, curious for her reaction. But she’s already skittish, and I don’t want her to run.