The Hideaway by Meryl Sawyer

Author:Meryl Sawyer
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504027236
Publisher: Open Road Media Romance

Eighteen

Angela gazed across the table at Paul Winfrey. They’d been at Tortilla Flats for over two hours having dinner, and now they were finished. She’d tried to get him to talk about himself, but he had little to say. Apparently he’d led a dull life, drifting from town to town and living off odd jobs.

Boring. Positively boring.

That’s how she would normally view a man of his age who hadn’t been to the Galapagos Islands or gone to Nepal to view the total eclipse of the sun—or done something equally unusual. Young studmuffins were an exception, of course. She never expected them to be interesting.

But Paul Winfrey fascinated her. Everything about him intrigued her from his rangy cowboy’s body to the quiet way he spoke. There was a power and depth to him that she found intriguing.

She was excited, truly thrilled for the first time in years. She wanted to help him have a stellar career. He had to be what? Forty-something. Her age or even older. He’d almost squandered his talent.

“What made you take up art?” she asked.

Across the table, he took a sip of his coffee before saying, “Quentin Reynolds gave a one-day workshop. I didn’t have anything better to do than take it. He encouraged me to paint … seriously paint.”

“Really? I know Quentin well. I mean, I knew him when he was managing the Buck Head Gallery in Aspen. I bought several paintings from him. They’re in my home in Scottsdale.”

She struggled to conceal her excitement. They’d been talking all this time, and Paul hadn’t mentioned Quentin Reynolds. Before becoming a hopeless alcoholic unable to hold down a steady job, Quentin had been one of the leading authorities on Southwestern art. He knew a winner when he saw one.

“Quentin scraped the paint off two old canvases he had and gave them to me,” Paul said. “That’s why I only did two paintings.”

His brown eyes were serious, charged with some inner emotion she couldn’t quite read. She assumed he now knew he had talent and wanted to paint from dawn to dusk.

The waiter arrived with the check and Angela plunked down her American Express Platinum card. Paul’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she realized he was a bit old-fashioned. Unlike the young studs who expected her to pay, Paul was embarrassed by it.

“I’ve been exposed to Southwestern art my whole life. My father was a well-known collector. After his death, I continued to collect. Now I have one of the best collections in this country.” Actually, she was downplaying it. She had the best private collection, a fact few would argue. “You have tremendous talent. I want to help you. I can take care of things for you, so you won’t have to do anything but paint.”

“What’s in it for you?” he asked.

“I’ll have the thrill of seeing your work and knowing I helped,” she said as the waiter returned with the bill. She added a hefty tip, then scribbled her name. “I’ll want the right to buy any paintings I like, of course.

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