Free Chased by the Billionaire 1 by Stella Blaze

Chapter
1
     
    I stared at the painting—the
god-forsaken, horrifying painting.
    It was the first of an installation
that I’d hoped would not only reap critical praise, but would also
sell like fucking crazy.
    Or so my trusted protégé/roving talent
scout, Jill, had told me.
    I stared at the painting
again.
    I closed my eyes and shook my
head.
    I was in hell…
    Lance, my trusty assistant and gay
bestie, ambled up to me and cocked his head to the side.
    “ Zombie turkeys,” he
said, sotto voce .
“Interesting.”
    Correction: I was in Zombie turkey
Hell.
    I wondered if there was an open bar in
Zombie turkey Hell.
    “ Where is Jill?” I asked. I
was going to strangle her with my bare hands.
    Lance took a slow side-step away from
me. “You know I hate it when you seethe like that.”
    “ I do not seethe!” I looked
at him and he’d already taken another long side-step away from
me.
    “ Jill’s in Portland this
week,” he said, “and yes , you are seething.”
    I opened my mouth to scream
at him, but had to admit that yes, I was seething.
    I wanted to yank the zombie turkey off
the wall, drag it outside, and torch it.
    “ You’re right,” I said,
turning back to the painting, folding my arms under my breasts—only
the flat-chested could cross their arms over their chests, and I
had been blessed with an ample bosom. “I’m sorry.”
    Lance sighed, cracked his long, elegant
neck, and then stepped back toward me.
    “ Our Miss Jill says this
painter is the next hot thing… says they can’t keep his shit on the
walls in Denver.”
    I rolled my eyes and took another,
closer look. The detail was good, if not nauseating. The image was
strong and commanding.
    Yeah, but the subject matter
was ridiculous!
    Even if I could sell this turkey, I’d
be the joke of the Chicago art world, not to mention the east
coast.
    No, this couldn’t happen. I was going
to have to dump this…
    Some workmen toted in another painting,
this one of a gaggle of zombie turkeys surrounding one normal,
non-zombie turkey.
    This was ridiculous.
    “ So,” I said, looking over
at a beguilingly off-centered couple standing by a still wrapped
eight by six feet painting leaning against the bank of front
windows. “Which one is he?”
    The couple consisted of a slightly
punky, devil-may-care faced lothario with a goatee, distressed,
practically painted on jeans, and some awesomely broad
shoulders.
    The other was about as
interesting as dry toast: an almost handsome face that seemed just out of focus...
hair too neat… clothes right out of a J.C. Penny catalogue and a
rather impressive ability to blend right in with the potted
plants.
    Lance groaned. “The pathetically plain
one? That’s Randy Crawford: the artist. The hot little slice beside
him is his boyfriend, Darius.”
    Of course, it had to be the
boring one .
    “ God is a mean, hateful
bitch if a sad sack like that can land himself such a gorgeous
piece of ass!" Lance shook his head bitterly.
    The aforementioned Darius tore the
paper covering from the front of the third painting.
    I gasped as the motley tableau before
me assaulted my eyes: a grisly depiction of a flock of the zombie
turkeys ripping apart a human corpse. The man, or should I say what
was left of the man’s shredded and blood-splattered body, was
holding a cornucopia in one hand, and a meat cleaver in the
other.
    The irony was not lost on me, and yet I
could not imagine what kind of mental imbalance or chemical
reaction could have caused any sane person to paint this
travesty.
    Was the boring painter a closet meth
freak?
    At least that would
be something interesting I could tell people at the showing.
    Oh god, there was going to be a show,
wasn’t there?
    I asked, “Do you think we could just
tell people that the hot one is the artist?”
    “ Not a chance.” Lance stage
whispered. “He’s already posted his mug all over Facebook and
Pinterest. There’s even going to be a banner by the front
door.”
    “