His Hired Bride

The town car ride back to my gallery was certainly more comfortable than a taxi, but still I refused to speak to Rafiq the entire way. Something was brewing between us that I didn’t fully understand, and I wasn’t sure I wanted it. Feelings rushed through my heart like a tidal wave that I couldn’t stop. All I could do was hold my breath and hope I came up for air soon.

  Rafiq took the hint quickly that I wasn’t in the mood for conversation, and sat apart from me with a neat whiskey in his hands from the tiny bar in the car, staring out of the window from behind his sunglasses. I watched him for a moment or two, trying to decide if I wanted to kiss him or slap him. I didn’t understand what he wanted from me, and when I thought about it, I didn’t understand what I wanted from him, either.

  Was it just the money? Because it didn’t feel that way. Rafiq’s words had power over my emotions that went beyond a simple business transaction. I wanted him to value me, as well as my work. I wanted to be around the sweet Rafiq I had glimpsed; the one who wasn’t trying to scheme or look hard or put on a show. I wanted things from him that a business partner wouldn’t give me.

  Coming back to the gallery felt much better than I expected; no matter how nice Rafiq’s apartment was, it wasn’t home, and I had missed the comfort of my beat-up but charming little gallery. I gathered up the newspapers and other junk mail left at the front door, and after I unlocked it, Rafiq held it open for me.

  “Since you’re determined to help,” I said to him with a smirk, “why don’t you start by sweeping and mopping the floors?”

  Rafiq blanched as he followed me to the back of the gallery. But his hesitation only lasted for a minute. “Sure, fine. I can do that. Show me where the supplies are.”

  His acquiescence surprised me. I had expected a fight, or at least some righteous indignation at being asked to do such a menial task.

  I dropped the mail on the empty counter and flipped on all the lights in the room. Rafiq’s collection was still on the walls.

  I let out a big sigh and put my hands on my hips. “We have a lot of work to do. We have to replace all of these before we open.”

  Rafiq looked around and saw what I meant. “The paintings, of course. I’ll get my transport men over here right away.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and made the call as he slipped by me into the back room.

  With Rafiq occupied, I made a quick trip up to my apartment to make sure things were okay. After watering my plants and checking my messages, I opened the mail. Seeing the unreal number now attached to my bank account, I nearly fell to my knees right there on my studio floor. Immediately I began to swipe up all the information for my bills. Every single one of them was getting paid off today.

  Rafiq had the floor shining by the time I returned, and he actually looked pretty proud of his work. His men arrived with the transport truck about fifteen minutes, and he immediately went to work directing them.

  “Do they know what they’re doing?” I asked, watching the burly men pile into the gallery in their matching gray coveralls, putting on thin but worn gloves. The truck was a simple white panel truck, and all I could imagine was the paintings jostling around so badly that they would end up getting punctured on the ride.

  Rafiq snickered at me. “I’ve been buying art for a very long time. I would never hire men who didn’t know what they were doing.” He turned back to watch them. “And certainly not with paintings as precious as these. I had this truck custom-made to transport art. Don’t worry, Evie. I won’t let anything happen to them.”

  His words made my heart flutter, but he didn’t look back to see my reaction. I swallowed against a tight throat and turned away to find something else to do.

  One by one, the paintings Rafiq had purchased in exchange for my part in his scheme disappeared out the gallery door. I occupied myself going through the back stock and looking for replacement works to get up on the gallery wall. By the time Rafiq returned and announced the truck was packed up and ready to head out, I had the entirety of the new collection picked out and ready to be displayed.

  The work took longer than I wanted, but, thanks to Rafiq’s strength and height, by noon we had hung a whole new set of paintings around the gallery, and made all the necessary lighting adjustments. We opened the doors, and for the first few empty hours, Rafiq seemed impatient and upset at the lack of customers. I just watched him, amused, enjoying my coffee and catching up on my bills on the laptop as he paced around and practically started cursing the passing foot traffic through the windows.

  “This is the business,” I said to him with a smirk. “You’ll have to get used to it. Or, you know, you could just head back to the penthouse.”

  “Get used to it?” he said. He seemed to have missed my second, snarkier suggestion. “I just can’t understand how every single passerby isn’t stopping to look at your work. Are they blind or something?”

  “You’re a flatterer,” I said. “And people don’t care about art as much as you think. Or as much as we do, I guess.” I shrugged.

  “Well, that’s unacceptable.”

  I laughed at him. “You don’t like it when things are outside of your control, do you?”

  Rafiq turned from the window to look at me with a shrug. “Does anyone?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Touché.”

  Rafiq gave me a satisfied smile and returned to people watching.

  Eventually the day picked up, spurred on by the lovely weather and a cultural festival which was happening nearby. By the late afternoon, there were many more potential customers passing through than I typically saw on a weekday afternoon. Rafiq’s enthusiasm to sell my paintings became immediately apparent as he engaged the guests, first one by one, and then fluttering like a butterfly around a garden, stopping at each group to inspire the conversation and get them asking questions about my work.

  I joined him on the floor and spoke to a few people myself. Once I got a free moment, however, I made the point to move closer and eavesdrop on Rafiq and the art lovers he was currently entertaining.

  Over the conversational buzz of the gallery, I stood behind him as he spoke to a lovely pair of ladies who had been contemplating a big, angry, red piece called Under Luna. The swirling, circular patterns of the red faded darker toward the center, becoming black and then white, creating a sort of vortex that pulled the viewer in like drowning in a current.

  “You have to imagine the rage,” Rafiq was saying, his hands animated. He traced the swirl of the red without touching the canvas. “Rage is a circular emotion; it traps you in a constant, helpless whirlpool from which it is difficult to escape… Anger doesn’t do it justice, and sadness isn’t strong enough. Rage motivates, where despair only numbs. That’s the importance of the red here. It demands action.”

  My heart ached, listening to the way he spoke about my work. He saw so much in the things I created, and he was so excellent at sharing his passion with others. Immediately the women lit up, agreeing with him, and gushing over the work as they hadn’t before.

  Sure, his incredible looks and charm were part of the deal. Rafiq, I had noticed, tended to light up the rooms he entered without knowing it. Maybe the women just wanted to agree with this handsome man and impress him with their knowledge of art.

  It didn’t seem to matter what the reason was when they shuffled up to the counter half an hour later. I couldn’t help but be stunned as I rang up their purchase of Under Luna. Rafiq was like a magician, the way he was able to charm anyone into listening to his ideas. Hell, he had talked me into faking a whole life by his side—talking people into buying art seemed like small potatoes after that.

  It was the first of seven paintings Rafiq sold that day, helping me break my record. All the anger that had risen in me as a result of his little scheme seemed like a years-old beef by the time we closed up for the night.

  Counting up the day’s totals, I smiled up at Rafiq as he passed by the counter, giving the hardwood floor another sweep from all the day’s traffic.

&n
bsp; “That’s two records broken today,” I said. “Most single paintings sold, and most money made in a single day!”

  “Wait a second,” said Rafiq with a frown. “Wasn’t my purchase the most you made in a single day?”

  “Well, yes, technically, but that one doesn’t count.”

  “Doesn’t count?” He put on a dramatic, pouty face and clutched at his chest playfully. “Ouch! Is my money not real enough for you?”

  I laughed. “I just meant that your purchase didn’t exactly count as a ‘typical day’s work.’”

  He chuckled and nodded. “I suppose you have a point there, my dear.”

  The closing tasks went much more swiftly with Rafiq’s help, and Ahmed was waiting for us in the town car by the time we locked up for the night. The car rolled up to the penthouse just as the summer night was slowly creeping up the skyline of the city, turning the remains of the day into sinking yellows, reds and pinks streaked across the sky.

  ***