A Taste of Ice by Hanna Martine Read Free Book Online Page A

canvases, trying to figure out her life.
    Cat threw back the last of her wine. The music filling Shed carried a steady, sexy, electronic beat, and the sounds of boisterous, wine-soaked conversations made Cat raise her voice. “What do you know of inspiration?”
    Helen had started to peruse the dessert menu and now looked at Cat over her bifocals. Her eyes were done only in champagne eye shadow and black eyeliner. Age had only slightly overshadowed the beauty of her youth. “What do you mean?”
    “I mean, is inspiration something artists talk about a lot?”
    Helen smiled and folded the little dessert menu. It likely wasn’t on purpose, but that smile made Cat feel about six years old. “They get asked about inspiration a lot. Where it comes from.”
    Cat inched forward on her chair.
This
was what she wanted to hear. “And what do they say?”
    Helen shrugged. “That it just comes to them. That it’s indefinable.”
    Cat looked at the table, trying not to let the defeat show on her face.
    “That upsets you?” The bifocals came off again.
    “‘Upsets’? Not exactly. Disappoints, maybe. It’s…never mind.”
    “No, go on.”
    Cat uncrossed then crossed her legs, and a warm trickle of awareness skated over her, moving slowly from hip to ankle. It tingled stronger than the wine in her blood. She didn’t have to glance at the kitchen to know Xavier was watching. Just the thought of it exhilarated her, but she wouldn’t look over there, not with Helen’s eyes on her, too.
    She tapped the table. “I don’t understand why I love water so much. Only that I’m drawn to it, that it’s part of me, and the only way to express how large a portion of me it is, is to paint.”
    Helen pursed her lips and bobbed her head side to side. “Makes sense. That comes through in your work. There’s mystery to it. Agitation. A sense of the unknown.”
    “Yes! I’m so glad you see that.” The wine made her all loose and comfortable, so she kept going. “I guess I’m partly here to learn what that’s all about. Maybe, if I put myself out there, I’ll find something that might be able to explain why my inspiration is so strong. Maybe, if I get to be around other artistic types, I could see how they work. Get a clue about myself.”
    “And sell some paintings.” Helen smiled beneath a raised eyebrow.
    “Oh. Yes. Of course.”
    Helen sat back, considering. “Are you prepared for criticism?”
    “As prepared as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” Which wasn’t at all, but she wouldn’t tell Helen that.
    “Are you ready for the spotlight? Because anyone standing next to Michael gets it.”
    Cat tried not to wince. “I had no idea who he was when I met him. I mean about the films and such. I didn’t know until the third or fourth time he came to my bar.”
    “No?”
    “I’d been showing my paintings at one of the island’s art fairs to try to bring in some cash. My car needed work and…anyway, I needed money. Michael walked by one day. I remember it so clearly. He stopped and looked at my stuff, did a lap around the market and then came back. We got to talking and, I don’t know, I just got a
feeling
about him. Like, even though I could tell he was vain and used to getting his way, underneath I felt a connection. Like, maybe he got me and I got him? He bought a painting. The rest is history.”
    The curator was watching her in that astute way again. “I’m glad you see that about him. But since he’s not here I’m going to be completely honest with you. Michael Ray is selfish. The first person he thinks about is himself. Always. He didn’t pluck you out of obscurity and involve me because of charity. Yes, he wants to see you succeed, but that’s because there’s something in it for
him
, whether it’s money or recognition or both.”
    Cat pressed her lips together. She’d suspected as much. The fact that it came from Helen didn’t soften it.
    “On the other hand,” Helen went on, “he’s going to bring a