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“Clay is not an artist himself,” Otto said, “but he gets us.” He slapped a big hand to his chest.
“He speaks our language,” Bonnie concurred.
Had Clay done a really good snow job on all these people? Because everyone she’d met spoke of him as if he were their selfless miracle worker.
Or maybe they were all doing a snow job on her.
But she shoved her reservations aside. San Holo wanted this fabulous commission. And the woman who had touched Clay last night was desperate to touch him again.
Their conversation ended abruptly when a young man, a teenager, flung himself into the studio, stopping his forward trajectory only by grabbing the edges of the two partition walls acting as a doorway.
All he said was, “Clay,” his voice almost strident.
His dark blond hair fell just past the neck of his paint-splattered shirt. Tall and angular, his hands big, his feet encased in oversized tennis shoes, he was almost like a puppy who hadn’t yet grown into his huge paws. His hazel eyes bored into Saskia for a long moment.
Though no one said a word, Saskia knew this had to be Dylan, the foster kid Clay had told Adrian about.
And she was dying to meet him.
Chapter Nine
Clay was nonplussed for a moment, as though his shock at finding out Saskia had been his lover of last night would somehow communicate itself to Dylan. Nothing flummoxed him. He was always in command. Yet Saskia stole all his sense of control. Mostly because he wanted her. In his bed. Over and over again.
He pulled himself together. “Dylan Beck.” He wagged a hand at his protégé. “This is Saskia Oliver.”
Not wanting to get Dylan’s hopes up, he didn’t introduce her as San Holo’s assistant. He also didn’t want Dylan to do all the dirty work of trying to get her to give up the artist’s identity. That was his job, not Dylan’s.
He saw his mistake when Dylan raised one dark blond eyebrow, speculating on just who she was to Clay. “Nice to meet you.”
“Clay tells me you’re a street artist. In fact—” Saskia shot a glance at Clay. “—he says you’re quite brilliant.”
So Adrian Fielding had told her about Dylan. That was good. Maybe it would help his case in getting her to reveal who San Holo was.
Saskia had no compunction about revealing her own identity. “I’m San Holo’s assistant. Clay is interested in having a mural painted on the outside of the warehouse.”
Dylan said, “OMG,” so dramatically that his chin almost hit his chest. He let go of the partition walls and stepped closer, as if he could scent something of San Holo on her person. “San Holo is my idol,” he said in breathless tones. “I want to be just like him.” He whipped his phone out of his back pocket and took only a couple of seconds to scroll, holding up the picture of the street art San Holo had produced the other night. “Clay and me, we found this. We were the first ones to see it.” His voice rose with exhilaration at being this close to someone who actually knew his idol.
Clay had to clarify. “Dylan found it. He found the fleur-de-lis too.” He turned to Bonnie and Otto. “We’ll let you get back to work.”
As he stepped out of the studio, Dylan and Saskia followed automatically. After a few strides along the aisle, Saskia said, as if it had just dawned on her, “Oh gosh, you’re the one who put the art on social media.”
Sensing no censure, Dylan stood even taller. “I knew right away it was his. Even before we found the fleur-de-lis in the alien’s eyeball.”
Saskia’s smile threatened to bowl over not only Dylan but Clay as well. “San will want to thank you. Because that attention just made the canvas and prints of the street art much more valuable.” She glanced at Clay. “Don’t you agree?”
It was as though she was asking him to pump up Dylan’s ego. He did it gladly. “Absolutely. If no one knows about it, nothing has value.”
As they strolled along the row of studios, Dylan walked backward, his steps almost a bounce. “You can tell me who he is, since you’re his assistant.” He lowered his voice, trying to remain confidential. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Saskia laughed. It was such a beautiful sound, and so genuine that Clay could only like her more. There was something wonderfully carefree about her. He hadn’t felt carefree for a while now, if ever.
With Dylan on tenterhooks, she said, “Okay,” in the same conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll spill the beans.” She beamed a smile at him. “But only because I like you.”
Clay held his breath. Dylan did too.
Until she laughed and shook her head. “Did you both really think I was going to reveal San Holo’s identity?” Her grin took the sting out of her words. “I mean, Dylan, you’re super likable, and I can’t wait to see your art, but some secrets will always be secrets.”
She was laughing again, finding the joke so hilarious that even Dylan laughed, obviously appreciating her honesty. Clay wasn’t quite there with the kid, who was clearly falling for Saskia—who wouldn’t?—and wouldn’t give up on unmasking San Holo. Yet the sneaky way she’d messed with both their heads only made her smarter and sexier in his eyes. Last night, she’d intrigued him, seduced him. But here was another side of her, one he appreciated just as much. No wonder San Holo trusted her to keep his anonymity. She didn’t even mind joking about it.