Free Romance: The Art Of Love: A Billionaire Romance by Veronica Cross Page A

Annette
laughed. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this to you, but you can’t get there
from here.” She shook her head. “Not in a plane. The closest airport’s got to
be seven, eight hours out. If we’re going to that part of Maine, we’re going to
need to drive.”

13

 
              “Well,
this is certainly a new look on you,” Clifford said. He took his time checking
Annette out. She was wearing a green checkered flannel shirt open over a white
t-shirt, blue jeans and a pair of hiking boots. “Very woodsy.”
              “It’s
an old look, thank you very much.” Annette looked at Clifford and shook her head.
“You’re the one who has to get ready,” she said. “I can’t take you hiking
through the woods wearing that.”
              Clifford
looked down at himself. He was wearing charcoal gray slacks and a pink hued
button down shirt. The entire ensemble probably cost more than what Annette
made in a month, she thought, but it was hardly practical.
              “Do
you really think we’re going into the wilderness?” Clifford asked.
              “It’s
Maine,” Annette laughed. “The wilderness comes to you. Besides,” she added,
“did you think we’re just going to walk up to every door in town, knocking and
saying, “Hallo! Do you happen to have any world class painters hereabouts doing
the odd spot of forgery on the side?”   She shook her head. “I think we’re going to need to be a little more
subtle than that.”
              “We’ll
have time to make up our plan on the way,” Clifford said. “My GPS says it’s a
nine hour drive.” He cocked his head. “Are you sure we don’t want to have a
driver?”
              “I
know the way,” Annette replied. “Taking the back roads, we’ll get there in like
seven hours. Maybe six and a half.”
              “Oh,
well, in that case,” Clifford said with a laugh. “I leave you in charge of this
endeavor.”
              “Good,”
Annette said. “First, we’ll get you changed.”

 
              Once
Clifford was appropriately attired, they hit the road. The journey took close
to eight hours, but neither of them noticed; the entire trip was spent telling
each other about their childhoods.
              “And
that was the end of my chemistry career,” Clifford laughed. “Mother told me
she’d spent enough money restoring the school’s laboratory. So I wound up in an
art appreciation class instead.”
              “That’s
where you discovered Dali?” Annette asked.
              “Our
teacher was terrible. I recognize that now, after the fact, but at the time, I
didn’t know,” Clifford said. “We were supposed to learn all about art. The
different ages, all the styles, a true overview. Instead, he focused on sharing
what he liked personally.”
              “And
so your taste was formed by his,” Annette said with a shrug. “It happens to all
of us, in one way or another.”
              “Mother
was furious. She wanted me to appreciate the finer things. Dali, Miro, Magritte
– she thought it was all garbage.”
              “Some
people love Monet,” Annette said. “Different strokes for different folks.”
              Clifford
laughed. “That’s the sort of bourgeois thinking that would drive Mother batty.”
His voice rose an octave as he mimicked his mother’s voice. “Some things are
just objectively better than others, darling. It doesn’t matter if you like
them or not.” A note of bitterness crept into his recitation. “And if you have
the money for artwork, why not choose the best artwork?”
              “She
didn’t get it.”
              “She
never tried,” Clifford said. “As far as I know, she never saw any piece of art
for its own sake. All of her purchases were based on other people’s opinions
and recommendations.” He