After Lizzie made her purchases, she and Max browsed the work that was for sale in the gallery section. George followed them. Hoping, no doubt, that Lizzie was an art collector.
Only it was Max who got curious about a painting. It depicted a ceremony of some sort, where a young couple was cutting pieces of each other’s hair with decorative knives. In Native American and First Nations cultures, shearing one’s hair was sometimes associated with death and mourning. But the people in this picture didn’t appear to be grieving.
While he inspected the painting, Lizzie stood beside him. George was nearby, as well.
“What are they doing?” Max asked him.
The owner stepped forward. “Preparing for their wedding. It’s an old custom, chopping a betrothed’s hair. Doing this symbolizes their transitions into adulthood.”
Max frowned. “I’d never do that.”
“Do what? Cut your lady’s hair?” By now George was gazing at Lizzie’s bright red locks.
“I meant get married.” Max shook his head. “And she isn’t my lady. She’s my friend.”
“Hmm.” George tapped his chin. “Is this true?” he asked Lizzie. “You’re only friends with this man?”
“Yes, that’s all we are,” she assured him.
“It’s different for me,” he said. “I have a wife.” He took her hand and tugged her toward the other side of the gallery. “You come, too,” he told Max. “I’ll show you something else.”
As soon as Max spotted the painting George wanted them to see, he stopped to stare at it. The nearly life-size image depicted a wildly primitive young woman on a moonlit beach, dancing with a male partner, only he was made completely of fire. She swayed in his burning-hot arms, with her long slim body draped in a sparkling gold dress. Her flame-red hair blew across her face, shielding her mysterious features from view.
“It’s called Lady Ari,” George said.
Max sucked in his breath. “After the royal goddess of fire.” He hadn’t known her name until now.
“Yes,” George said. “With hair like your friend’s.” He glanced over at Lizzie.
Max shifted his attention to her, too, but she didn’t acknowledge him. She continued looking at the painting. Was she as captivated by it as he was, or was she focusing on the picture so she didn’t have to return his gaze?
He couldn’t be sure. But the feverish feeling Lady Ari gave him was too overpowering to ignore. “I’m going to buy it.” Now, he thought, today.
With a sudden jolt, Lizzie jerked her head toward his. “And do what with it?”
“I’ll hang it in my house.” He considered where to put it. “Above the fireplace in my den.”
“You already have a nice piece of artwork there.”
“So I’ll replace it with this one.”
She fussed with her ponytail, as if she was fighting its brazen color, and he realized how uncomfortable his attraction to Lady Ari was making her. But he simply couldn’t let the painting go.
As they both fell silent, Max noticed that George was watching the two of them, probably thinking what strange friends they were. But nonetheless, the older man was obviously pleased that he’d just made a significant sale.
“The artist would be enchanted by you,” George told Lizzie. “You would be charmed by him, too. He’s young and handsome.” He then said to Max, “A lot like you.”
Lizzie raised her eyebrows at that, and Max shrugged, as if the artist’s virility was of no consequence. But it made him feel funny inside, with George making what seemed like romantic comparisons.
Still, it didn’t change his interest in buying it. The need to have it was too strong. Max arranged to have the painting shipped home, as he’d done with the items he’d bought for his nieces.
After the transaction was complete, they said goodbye to George and returned to their taxi, piling the art supplies Lizzie had purchased into the trunk.
She scowled at Max and said, “I still have to get Losa a rose.”
“Okay, but don’t be mad about the painting.”
“I’m not.”
Yes, she was, he thought. She didn’t like the idea of him owning a picture that could be mistaken for an untamed version of her. But he wasn’t going to apologize for buying something he wanted.
“Do you know where the florist is?” she asked him.
“No.” He didn’t have a clue. He checked with their driver and was informed that it was close enough to walk, so they set out on foot again.
The florist offered a variety of exotic plants and blooms. Max waited patiently while Lizzie labored over what color of rose to buy.
She decided on a pale yellow, and they returned to the taxi and climbed into the car. The driver started the engine and off they went, en route to the orphanage.
After a beat of silence, she said, “I wonder who modeled for it.”
For it. The painting. Obviously her mind was still on Lady Ari. “I assumed that the artist had created her from his imagination.”
She sat stiffly in her seat, clutching the rose. “I should have asked George, but I didn’t think of it then. I’d prefer that she was a real person.”
“Why? Because then she would seem less like you and more like the model? Just think of how I feel, knowing the artist is a handsome guy who’s supposedly a lot like me.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “It serves you right. I mean, really, what were you thinking, buying something like that?”
He defended himself. “You ought to be glad that I did.”
“Oh, yeah? How do you figure?”
“Because now I can lust over the painting and forget that I ever had the hots for you.”
“You wish.” As they rounded a corner, he leaned into her. She shoved him aside. “And stop crowding me.”
Max cursed beneath his breath. He wasn’t invading her space purposely. The force of the turn had done it. He wanted to tell the driver to slow down, that this wasn’t the damned Autobahn. Instead he said to Lizzie, “You’re nothing like Lady Ari. It’s not as if you’d ever dance that way in the moonlight.”
“Gee, you think?” She waved her arms around, willy-nilly. “Me and a male heap of burning fire?”
“That was the worst sensual dance I’ve ever seen.”
“That was the idea.”
“To suck?”
The taxi came to a quick halt, stopping for a group of pedestrians. Max and Lizzie both flew forward and bumped their foreheads on the seats in front of them.
He turned to look at her, and she burst out laughing. He did, too. It was impossible to keep arguing in the midst of such absurdity.
“I’m sorry for giving you a hard time,” she said. “You can buy whatever artwork you want.”
“I’m sorry, too.” He leaned toward her and whispered in a mock sexy voice, “I didn’t mean what I said about forgetting that I have the hots for you. Even if you can’t dance like her, you’re still a temptress.”
She accepted his flirtation for what it was. But she also pushed him away from her again, keeping him from remaining too close.
Then...vroom! The