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She shot him a look of astonishment, as if he’d seen right into her soul. Which he had. Because he was Fernsby.
“But is he worth going through the pain of telling the truth?” he queried.
“Yes,” she said softly, as if fear constricted her throat. Then, in a stronger voice, she said again, “Yes, he is.”
Saskia threw herself across the table into his open arms. As though he were the wise grandfather she’d never had. With his arms around the young woman, and excessively pleased with his results, he allowed himself a grin.
His work here was done.
After leaving Fernsby, Saskia raced to Clay’s warehouse.
Her heart pounded with the hope Fernsby had given her. Clay was a good man. The best man. He might be upset. But he would forgive her.
Inside, Dylan shrugged. “He got a phone call. Then he took off in a rush.”
There was no way she could tell Dylan before she told Clay, so she stepped back into the lobby beside The Discus Thrower. And her call went directly to voicemail.
She wanted to jump up and down in frustration like a child. But this couldn’t be said in a voicemail. Her message was as brief as his text had been last night. “You told me to call when I’m ready to talk. I’m ready.”
There was nothing to do but return home. But once there, she couldn’t go into the studio, couldn’t look at the black canvas.
She could do nothing but wait.
Clay rushed home like Hermes with wings on his heels.
Saskia had left him a voicemail. She wanted to talk, and he’d been stuck in all those freaking meetings.
It had been one of those days where everything was an emergency. Dressed in sweats and sneakers, he’d been about to go for a run to burn off some of the tension when one of his investment guys—he had several, including the Maverick ventures—had called to say a deal was going south. Without bothering to change, Clay had jumped on it, even though all he’d wanted to do was ignore his work and go get the girl of his dreams.
He couldn’t get to his loft fast enough. If she wanted to talk, she’d be waiting for him there.
But as he passed Dylan’s studio, the young man stepped out. Clay had the awful desire to swat him aside as if he were a fly. But of course he wouldn’t do that to Dylan or any of the artists.
Dylan didn’t give him a chance to get a word in. “Have you seen this?” He held up his phone.
“Seen what?” Clay didn’t care. He only wanted Saskia.
But Dylan got right in Clay’s space and punched Play on the video he’d queued up.
Before he even registered the words, Clay recognized the man.
In the video, his face bloated and florid, the man spoke in the rough voice of a two-packs-a-day smoker. “You all know me. Hugo Lewis. I’m also the famous street artist Lynx.”
Though Lynx was a famous street artist, his work had gone downhill over the last five years.
Lewis continued in that smoke-laden voice with a definite Cockney edge. “I’m holding this press conference out of the goodness of my heart.” He held his hand over his heart for emphasis.
“I know everyone in the world—” He spread his arms to encompass the globe. “—wants to know the real person behind the artist San Holo.”
Clay sucked in his breath, held it, until he saw spots before his eyes. But it didn’t stop Hugo Lewis’s words.
“Until now,” Lewis said, “only her agent has known San Holo’s identity.”
Clay dimly registered the pronoun. Her. Not him.
Lewis once more reached out to the world. “I have recently learned that her agent is right here in San Francisco. Adrian Fielding. She’s been keeping San Holo’s secret for five years. I believe the public deserves to know. I believe that keeping her identity a secret is a marketing ploy to raise the value of her paintings.”
Her, her, her. Why did Lewis keep saying that?