His Brand of Beautiful Read Free Page B

It looks like a jellyfish.”
    “Call it abstract, no one will know,” he stared at her masterpiece. “I thought you said your mother was an artist?”
    “Saffah is an artist.” Then she clarified: “She’s my stepmother, actually.”
    “So that explains how you failed kindergarten art class.”
    “Richard—that’s my father—hasn’t got an artistic bone in his body. Neither do I. I was crap at art in pre‐school. I haven’t improved with age.”
    “Not like your wines then?”
    “My brother’s the winemaker. He got all the artistic talent. He can’t dance though.
    Two left feet. He’s been petrified about the bridal waltz for months.” She smiled. “I’m the business brain. Michael’s my half‐brother, Richard and Saffah’s son. Lacy’s fiancè.”
    Tate rubbed his chin and moved his gaze from her face to her painting. “You’re mixing too many colours. Do that long enough and everything turns calf‐crap brown.”
    “Thanks for the tip, Mr Newell. Or should I say, Mr Rubens?”
    His blue eyes seemed to pin her in place. “Of all the Masters you could choose... why Rubens? I mean, there’s Da Vinci. Van Gogh. Rembrandt?”
    She thought about lying, then raised her chin: “I like the way Rubens drew his nudes.”
    “Hmm.” Tate ran a finger along the top of her easel. “So do I. He drew his women real . And it’s Sir .”
    A little acid slipped into her tone. “You’re letting this acting gig go to your head, Sir Newell.”
    Laughter rumbled from his chest, the most genuine sound she’d heard from him all night. “Not me , wise‐arse. It’s Sir Rubens.”
    Another giggle bubbled from her lips. His eyes dropped to her mouth and she felt her heart start impersonating a bouncing rubber ball.

    Lily Malone
    “I thought you looked hungry,” Marlene interrupted, snuggling as close as she could to Tate’s chest without getting covered in paint, a loaded plate in her hands. He picked up a baguette, tore a crust then dipped it into a bowl of olive oil and balsamic glaze. A drop of olive oil fell to the hand he cupped beneath the bread.
    Christina tried not to watch him chew—his mouth was way too distracting. But that meant she found herself ogling his chest—and that didn’t help her heart rate either.
    In the end, she chose to check out the other girls’ paintings. The good thing about this was it gave her new angles to surreptitiously study the tattoo on Tate’s bicep. What was that? Some type of lizard?
    “Christina?”
    She jumped. “Sorry?”
    “Can you write everyone’s name on a piece of paper and put them in here?” Tate emptied an ice bucket into her sink. While she scribbled, he tapped on a wine glass and announced to the room: “I’m going to pick two names out of this bucket. The first person I pick gets to name a dare that the second person I pick has to do. Okay?”
    The room hushed.
    Tate dipped his hand. His watch scratched the edge of the bucket. He pulled out a scrap of paper, flicked it with a finger, looked up and smiled. “Marlene.”
    Marlene Langton clapped her hands like a kid at Christmas. “The next person you draw out of that bucket has to lick the paint off your nipples.”
    “Marlene!” Christina blurted.
    Lacy’s mother’s plump hand shot skyward and she shouted: “Pick me, oh pick me!”
    Christina began: “I really don’t think Tate signed on to have his nipples—”
    “What CC?” Marlene challenged. “Is licking nipples too wild for you?”
    Obviously they’d all had too much champagne to listen to any voice of authority. “It’s not too wild for me, Marls. It might be too wild for him.” She threw Tate a hopeful look. “I’m sure it’s against your union rules or something.”
    “No rules in my union.” He gave her a grin that would have corrupted Snow White.
    She wanted to slap him.
    “Come on, CC,” Annabell pleaded, eyeing Tate’s chest like it was chocolate coated.
    She couldn’t blame the girls, they didn’t know