Unbroken by Lynne Connolly Page B

way.”
    “I think it’s fantastic. It’s more accessible and it’ll bump you up another level, I’m sure of it. I can sell this much easier. Your fame comes from the top down, you were an artist’s artist, but this is something everyone will love.”
    His smile turned wry. “Because I used a naked model?”
    Tom laughed. “That’s part of it.”
    “It wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to show the inner woman. A model is all surface—it’s her job. But this one had scars that might have ended her career and I wanted that flaw.”
    Tom snorted. “You artists are fucking ruthless.” But he smiled when he said it. He could hear the cash registers ringing in his head.
    The whirring of cameras and a series of staccato flashes heralded the arrival of another guest and without turning around, Zoltan knew who it must be. Although this opening contained many distinguished visitors, none of them drew the cameras like she did.
    When he finally turned around, his face was calm and composed, his eyes as cold as he could make them. No way would she see what she’d done to him. Not until she’d seen what was inside the gallery.
    “Hello, Vashti .”
    “ Zoltan .”
    Was it his imagination, or did that beautiful jaw firm a little too much as if she’d clenched her teeth? The carefully made-up face and the perfume that wafted around her, creating her own private atmosphere, spoke of exclusivity and expensive taste. He hated it.
    He wanted the woman who woke him in the morning by trailing her hair across his cock, the one who laughed with him, loved him. Not this ice queen. But this was her, too. She had a public face, just as he did.
    He leant in and kissed her cheek. “Where have you been?” Even that touch of the honey skin against his lips floored him. But he kept his expression calm, and only gave her a friendly smile before he glanced at the photographers going wild around them. “You’ve brought your fan club.”
    “They try to follow me everywhere. They don’t know where I’ve been, either.” She returned his smile, wintry and cold. “I’ve been on vacation. Somewhere hot and private.”
    That sounded plausible. After she’d left his studio, she’d gone back to her apartment only briefly. He knew because he’d called her a few hours later, ready to beg her forgiveness. Only she’d already left.
    Pathetic bastard that he was. He touched the small of her back, urging her forward. “Then I have to thank you for breaking your vacation to do this. Shall we go in?”
    “Of course.” He let her walk slightly in front of him so he could watch her. She wore a pair of navy slacks and a crisp white blouse under her butter-soft leather jacket. She looked untouchable, perfect. Her hair was swept up into a swirl that he’d bet took every inch of the hairdresser’s art, although at first glance it looked deceptively simple, but not a hair lay out of place and it shone like glass.
    Her frighteningly high heels made her almost dominatrix-like, and she moved in them like a dancer, swaying slightly, showing off her gently rounded hips. So she hadn’t lost weight, not down to model skinniness. Zoltan frowned, but he wasn’t sure why the sight didn’t feel right, then the public were on them.
    It took an hour to walk up the long, sloping spiral inside the gallery, and all the way he kept his public face, only talking to the VIP’s that Tom carefully funnelled his way. He’d already decided to pay a surprise visit another time when the public attended and make some time to talk to them. Their dollar was as good as anyone else’s and he resented the fact that money gave some people superior rights. Come to think of it, the VIP’s probably hadn’t paid to get in. He wouldn’t give a formal talk. He never did. The art spoke for itself, or it didn’t. His work passed by, like his life. The sloping part of the gallery was still a retrospective exhibition, but at the top lay the new work, and the reason nerves gnawed