Chapter Two
A part of my job as a consultant for the Livingston Galleries is to find and evaluate promising new artists. I do love my job because I get to be involved with many different forms of art and artists. I also get to travel which has become a favorite past time for me. In the four years of working at Livingston, I have travelled the world. I have so many frequent flier miles that I could go to Mars without paying a single fee.
This week finds me in California. Actually, I am in San Francisco. I am meeting with two of our established artists and preparing them for their upcoming shows and I have a meeting with a new artist. I sit at my desk in my suite looking through this artist's resume. Flynt Myers, female, a graduate from UCLA and a fine artist that specialized in landscapes. She is exciting using different and untraditional colors in her work. I sit studying a snapshot of one of her works. It is a seascape, possibly the shoreline of Malibu and instead of being painted in natural colors; she painted it in pinks and purples. It is breathtaking and almost disturbing. I feel the power of the waves crashing on the shoreline but I feel uncomfortable with the color of pink. I don't know why and I hope she can explain it for me when we meet.
We are scheduled to meet in the coffee shop in my hotel and I am happy that she is on time. I do like prompt people. Flynt Myers is tall with the brightest green eyes I have ever seen and long auburn tresses. If I was playing for the other team, she would be the kind of woman that I would chase. She is breathtaking. When she speaks, her voice is soft, almost like the flutter of an angel's wing. She is unassuming, almost shy…that is until she starts to speak about art. She is highly knowledgeable about art history. I ask her about the painting in my photograph. Flynt takes the snapshot and frowns.
"I did that when I found out that my mother had breast cancer. The pink water is her cancer and the shoreline is her body. The purple skies represent death that was coming for her."
"I'm so very sorry." I say to her. "Did she…you know?"
"Yes, the cancer took her. She was diagnosed with stage 4 and she gave up. She was gone within six months." Flynt stared at her work and I could see tears building up in her green eyes. "It took me another six months to pick up a paintbrush again." She smiled even though a tear slid down her cheek. "Mom would want me to paint again. She knew how much I loved it."
"She sounds like she was very supporting."
"That she was." Flynt wiped the tear from her cheek. "And, she would be upset with me for crying over her."
"It can't be helped. When we lose someone we love so much, it can hurt years later."
Flynt only nodded. "You sound like you have lost someone."
"The man I that loved and wanted to spend the rest of my life with. He was killed in a car accident."
"How long ago?"
Too long, but yet it seemed only yesterday. "Almost five years ago." I reply. I am shocked that I am not crying. I guess I have finally concluded that Michael is gone and my life needs to go on.
"Do you still miss him?" She asked wide-eyed. "Have you forgotten what he looks like or how he sounded? I'm afraid that I will forget her."
"I still remember. I don't think we ever forget those we truly love. They are in here." I place my hand on my heart. "Michael is always here, but life does have to go on. I have to live, to eat, and pay the rent."
"Yes, we must move on and survive." She says lowly. She looks down at the photograph then her green eyes shoot back up to my face. "There has to be more than just surviving though."
"There is, Flynt. It's called living and finding joy and peace."
"Have you?"
I nod. "Yes, I have because I love my job and I love art. My greatest joy is bringing fine art to the masses. Life would be dismal without art and music don't you think?"
"Very true." She says with a small smile.
We sit in the coffee shop for two more hours talking about the history of art, her art, and the different movements in the art world. We have made a personal connection and she feels comfortable with me. She shakes my hand and says that she wants to work with Livingston Galleries and me. I tell her to take the contracts, read them over with a lawyer and then contact me when she is ready to sign them. I feel very confident that she will sign it giving me another exciting artist in my portfolio.
After she leaves, I sit back and order another coffee to celebrate. I read my messages on my phone and send a few texts back to New York to my assistant. I am relaxing and enjoying my down time. I don't pay much attention to the other customers in the coffee shop until someone nearly falls on my table. My coffee is tipped over and I am screaming trying to save my I-Phone. I am frustrated that I have coffee all over my briefcase and I am thankful that I have all my papers contained in the leather bound case. I stand up to see that some of the coffee has splattered on my white linen pencil skirt and the soft blush colored silk shirt I wore. The coffee house is in a stir as the employees are trying to clean up the mess and help the person who fell on my table. I finally notice the man standing next to the coffee house manager. He is tall, dark, and Lord, is he handsome. He has to be six foot six inches tall if not taller. I am tall for a woman, standing five foot six in my stocking feet but he towers over me even with my five- inch heels on. His hair is raven black and curls lightly about his neck. When he looks at me, I am struck stupid by the intensity of his black onyx eyes. I don't know if he is American Indian or what, but he is fine! His face is perfectly sculptured, not even Michelangelo could pound out a more perfect male face in marble as this man possessed. He had high cheek bones, a strong jaw, a beautiful just perfect straight nose and that mouth. He was blessed with perfectly formed lips that were made for kissing a woman into oblivion. He sported a three-day growth that only added to his dark pirate look. One look at this man sent my hormones into overdrive. I felt my body tighten and my panties go wet. Fuck! He is every woman's wet dream. Quickly, my eyes scan over his clothing. He is wearing fine black trousers and a white linen shirt that is unbuttoned to show just a hint of black curly chest hair. I feel my heart race when I see his eyes doing the same thing to me.
"Mr. James, let me get you another coffee." The manager says. "I do apologize for this."
"I'm alright. It was just an accident." His voice is deep and it sends delightful rivers of pleasure down my spine. "I tripped over someone's bag." His black eyes sweep over me once again. "Are you hurt, Miss?"
"No, Sir, I am fine." I hear myself say. "But, thank you for your concern."
"Please let me buy you another coffee." He said with a tight smile. I get the feeling that he is just being kind and he wants nothing more to leave this shop.
"There is no need, sir. I was getting ready to leave." I grab my briefcase and purse and start for the door.
"Wait for just a moment." Mr. James says strolling toward me. He looks down over me. "I apologize if I sounded a bit rude." He combs his large hand through his raven locks of hair. "It's just been a bad day all around."
"I completely understand, sir. Don't worry." I smile up at him even though my stomach is pitching turns left and right. I open the door. "Have a nice evening."
I step out into the cool air of a San Francisco evening and try to calm my racing heart. It's been quite awhile since a man made my blood boil in desire. Not since…Michael. I thought about going back to my room but decided to walk thru the grounds of the Four Seasons Hotel. I need some quiet time to organize my thoughts and calm my nerves. I wander into the beautifully manicured park. I've always appreciated a well-maintained park. The trees are swaying in the breeze and the spring flowers are dipping as if they are staying hello to me as I pass.
"Miss…Miss…" I hear. I turn to see the dark god of the coffee shop coming toward me. He finally stands before me. He offers his hand. "I am Portland James."
"Leila Williams." I offer. He doesn't act like he has heard of me and my misfortunes. Sometimes that does happen. It's usually a very nosy person who has the balls to ask me about a certain rich man from Seattle or a reporter trying to score an exclusive with the ding-bat that tried to kill Ana Grey. "It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. James."
"Port…my friends call me Port."
I giggle. It's a strange name. Port James? His parents must have a great sense of humor.
"I see you have put my names together. Port James does sound a bit strange, but blame my parents."
"Where you born in Portland?" I asked. We just started to walk together. I don't know how it happened, but we walked thru the park together.
"Actually, no. I was born in Montana. Portland is my mother's maiden name." He explains. We end up on a park bench. For the longest time we are silent as we look over the park and just listen. Children are laughing and playing on the park toys, there are dogs barking, there is music from a street band playing tunes from the sixties, and every now and then I can hear the birds singing.
"Why are you here in the "city by the bay"?" I ask.
"Business. You?" He asks as his long legs stretch out onto the pavement.
"The same." I answer. More silence. I can feel the heat coming off his body, smell his fresh scent of man, and clean smelling soap. "I guess I should get back to the hotel and get some work done."
"No rest for the wicked, heh?" He asks with a crooked smile. He does look like a pirate, all swarthy and such! All he needs is an eye patch and an earring.
"Not if one wants to eat and pay the bills." I laugh. As I stand, he stands.
"Can I walk you back? I mean I am going back also since I'm staying at the Four Seasons." I only nod at him giving him permission. We walk together in silence.
We are also quiet in the elevator. He disembarks with me and walks me to my suite. As a finely taught gentleman he takes my keycard and opens the door for me. "All safe and sound." He says with a smile. "I hope we can meet again…soon."
I take the keycard back and watch him head back to the elevator. I appreciate how his pants form deliciously to his tight buttocks and I don't miss how broad his shoulders are. I step further into the hallway. "I will be having dinner in an hour downstairs in the restaurant if you would like to join me." I quickly offer before he steps onto the lift.
Port James gives a half-turn with a swarthy smile that gives me gooseflesh. "I will be delighted to join you…in one hour."