I thought I understood guys, but Alex was different. It started one morning when he came to my house, knocking at the ancient wooden door. I was in my studio in the back and came to the front in my smock. I must have looked a sight, primary colors everywhere, but he smiled and said, "Hello, my name is Alex Weston. A friend told me you are one of the best young artists around. I would like to be your agent."
With just that many words, he stepped into my life. I was intrigued by his rough and ready looks and invited him in. "I don't know that I need an agent, but come in and tell me why I do."
We sat in my garden, and I brought two cups of tea, his white and mine plain.
"Where have you seen my work?" There were two galleries here, one in Hollywood and one in Santa Monica. One more, in Chicago, owned by my cousin.
He explained that he was from a Texas oil family, a very minor one in the social pecking order of Texas oil. Grew up mostly on the family ranch, but went to UT Austin and was captured by art and literature.
"I'm the black sheep. My brothers have MBA's, and my sister has a Master's in Computer Science. We don't communicate much."
We spent a moment staring at each other. He was tallish, probably six feet. Sandy hair and several days old beard. Body looked fit, as if he still spent time outdoors. Dark blue open collar viyella shirt to march his dark blue eyes. Pressed jeans and low boots.
"How long have you been doing this? How many artists? Why me?"
He didn't answer quickly. "Arnold told me you were very talented, but he didn't tell me you were beautiful. You look at me with those big dark eyes and I feel something going through me."
I waited to answer. There was a tingle between my legs. Since college, there hadn't been a man in my life. My artist friends called me too intense for words. My parents were successful professionals, and some of their determination had lodged in me. Making a living as a painter was hard. There are a lot of aspiring painters, but very few who make enough to live on. I gazed at those blue eyes smiling at me and wondered if I could relax enough to have a boyfriend.
"Do you flirt with every woman you ask to represent?"
"No. Only the ones who wear paint smeared smocks."
I made him wait again for an answer, trying on my best enigmatic smile. "If I was so foolish as to be interested in your proposal, what kind of arrangement would it be?"
He reached across the table and rested his hand on mine. The tingle got stronger. "A careful start, I think. Review your inventory and current projects. Talk about the marketplace. Would you like to do that over dinner?"
I tried to collect my thoughts. He was devilish. What he just said could be a terrible flirting comeon, or it could be a business proposition. Or both.
A sudden wildness made me answer, "Yes. Let's do that. Where and when?"
"Is tonight too ambitious? I know a nice place in Santa Monica. Not discovered yet."
"I suppose I should wear my little black dress?" I was completely turned on.
"With the black dress and your eyes made up, you could pass for a Keane model."
I frowned. "What a horrible thought. No black dress, and no eye makeup. What about my coed sweater set? It's still in the closet."
"Yes, with a skirt that finishes above your knees."
We walked to the door together, a soft silence between us. A hand on my shoulder and a gentle kiss on my cheek. "I'll be back at seven."
I got nothing done the rest of the day on an important commission. Every time I picked up a brush, my thoughts wandered to the awful vision of those bug eyed females captured by Keane. They faded, and I was seeing Alex's blue eyes gazing at me.
Finally, in frustration, I reached for a small canvas I had prepared only last week, and rapidly did a partial head portrait of my agent. The agent I didn't have yet. It was good. Sometimes inspiration flows from small things. I tweaked it here and there to lend an early 19th Century look. The viewer might think the young man on the canvas was freshly arrived in Cairo, following Napoleon.
As I showered in the late afternoon sun, a little voice wanted to know where this was going. Soapy hands felt good reaching for hard places and soft places. I didn't carry any extra weight, but there wasn't much in the way of breasts, and the hips were too boyish. What was there to attract a man's interest, I wondered.
Still bare, I sat in front of my vanity and changed my mind from the morning. Makeup and perfume were indeed required to make the right impression. After all, one didn't acquire an agent every day. The little voice reminded me I was hiding from a decision about bedding him. The obvious solution was to prepare for any direction that dinner and romance might take. Foolish girl, the voice said. I laughed and added a bit more eye shadow. The voice was that of my sexy mother, whose advice to guard my virtue had shifted to worry over lack of a man in my life. She had even been so bold, over a second margarita, as to describe her best orgasm, with the second husband, on a tropical beach. I had said, "Mother, one more story like that and I am going to tie you down and find my toys!"
He was prompt, wearing a nice jacket over a disreputable collarless shirt from one of the men's magazine collections. At the door, he looked over my shoulder with widening eyes. The fresh canvas was positioned on a stand next to the hall credenza. His lips kissed my fingers.
"You are even more talented than I thought."
My hand, with just a touch of scent at the wrist, caressed the back of his head and brought our lips together, and quickly apart. "You ruined my concentration. The client will be angry."
I waited carefully, and whispered, "Do you like it? Do you think a memento of the occasion is appropriate?"
He stepped inside, carrying me with him, and letting another kiss linger. "May I buy it?"
Instant heat ran through me from head to toe. The little voice was laughing hard. I breathed softly, "No. The payment has to be in kisses."
Holding me, he kept the portrait in view. His shudder matched my own as the idea of dinner faded.
He ventured, "Perhaps we could discuss an arrangement, and save the dinner out for another time?"