Free Perfect Touch by Elizabeth Lowell Page A

can multitask,” Jay drawled.
    â€œExcellent. Put your multitasking mind to work on what it feels like to see Custer’s paintings for the first time. The impact.”
    A long pause, then, “No can do.”
    â€œOkay, try to imagine how it would feel to be in Custer’s territory for the first time.”
    â€œSouth Dakota is that way,” he said, pointing due east.
    â€œYou passed geography,” she said, wide eyed. “Good for you.”
    â€œLet’s try it this way,” he said. “Why is Custer’s world so different from yours?”
    While Sara thought, she absently ran a hand through her hair and stretched her shoulders and torso, trying to shake off the long day.
    He watched her through narrowed eyes. Even though she wasn’t trying to turn him on, the tightness in his groin increased. Pretty soon he’d have to hang his hat off his belt buckle.
    He forced himself to look at the painting rather than the woman.
    â€œCuster’s world is vast and quiet,” she said slowly. “Cities have no reality in his early work. Neither do humans. The land is . . . everything. Godlike.”
    After a moment, Jay nodded. “Custer knew that cities are big to men, but small in the larger scheme. Full, but empty of the things I’m looking for. I guess Custer and I have that much in common.”
    â€œValue comes from cities,” she said. “From having an audience. That’s where I come in. Or any good art seller. I bring my understanding of Custer’s work and his potential audience, add in everything I can learn about the man and his life, then I create a narrative around each painting for the audience I have identified.”
    Jay studied the painting that had been part of his life. “Are we talking art or legend or plain old hype?”
    â€œYes.”
    Silently he digested the unexpected aspects of selling art. “You’re saying it’s not just the painting.”
    â€œThe paintings are the tree. Narrative is the leaves reaching out to the sun of the audience. The coincidence of an offbeat movie featuring Custer’s art, and then the movie going mainstream, is pure luck.”
    He listened to fabric whisper as she stretched some more.
    â€œWhat about finding a patron like JD?” Jay asked.
    â€œLuck. I’ve known landscape painters who have to paint houses to pay for their modest lifestyles, and still they die mostly forgotten. Luck comes in two flavors.”
    â€œGood and bad,” he agreed. “The difference between coming home on my feet or in a pine box. Got it. What about the part that has nothing to do with luck? What about the skill?”
    She wanted to ask him about his time in Afghanistan, but that was personal. She was here as a professional.
    â€œIt’s easier to show you,” she said.
    Jay felt her grab his sleeve, warm fingers brushing against his exposed wrist. She vibrated with a controlled energy, every motion urgent as she led him toward the south wall of the big room.
    â€œBy the way,” she said, “you really need to move these if you’re going to sell them. I can see they’ve gotten some sun, but not enough to damage their value yet.”
    â€œSun?”
    â€œSunshine is the enemy. Given enough time it can bleach anything, even oil paints. Any watercolors hung on this wall would have been ruined by now, even with protective glass.”
    â€œWe always just enjoyed them,” he said. “Or ignored them.”
    â€œA crime.”
    â€œDoes arrest involve handcuffs?”
    She had an instant vision of him handcuffed for sensual play. Heat streaked through her. “Ask the sheriff.”
    Sara stopped Jay in front of a painting of the eastern face of the Tetons, the legendary side, where the land got more and more dry as the mountains gave way to evergreen forest and then to the low scrub of the plains. The rocky peaks looked like they had been clawed