Her worst enemy is the one man she can't resist.
Maria Martinez thought it was a dream come true when Ritchie Perez - a sweet and sexy guy she met volunteering at a soup kitchen - took her delinquent little brother Joey under his wing. But her drea...
"It's about time you got here!" Vivienne was pacing back and forth in front of a large sculpture, her brightly colored, oversized caftan flapping with each step, in stark relief to the black silk leggings that hugged her slim legs.
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"I'm early," Maria pointed out, not that Vivienne would care. Maria worked part-time for the temperamental artist at her studio/gallery in the Design District.
"What difference does that make? I need you right now to take down that painting!"
"The one right here in front?"
"Yes, yes. I don't want that garbage in my show. I can't imagine what I was thinking."
Two days ago, she'd declared it her masterpiece, but Maria wisely didn't mention that as she and Vivienne lifted the painting off the wall and carried it into the back room.
"What do we hang in its place?" Maria asked, thinking of the expanse of empty wall space that would greet attendees as they entered the gallery.
"Nothing," Vivienne said sharply. "Let them wonder about it."
Vivienne was a sculptor, first and foremost, and, in her words, "dabbled" in canvas and oil. Her age was somewhere between fifty and seventy-five; no one could pin it any closer. Her reticence about her background was part of her mystique.
At the moment, her sculptures were a hot item, and not only in Miami. And because she so rarely painted, collectors put a high value on those works. Maria thought that the piece of "garbage" they were now hauling into the back room would have sold for enough money to pay Maria's rent for a year. Maybe even buy the whole building.
Meanwhile, as people arrived and the gallery filled with voices, Maria imagined what it would be like to have her own showing one day. She also made sure the little cards with the discreet prices of the sculptures and paintings were present, the trays of canapés were refilled, and the mojitos flowing.
When Ritchie walked in looking distinguished and moneyed, with Joey lagging behind him, Vivienne moved in for the kill.
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"You like?" she asked, with that faintly Eastern European accent she sometimes affected. Vivienne had lived absolutely everywhere and, as far as Maria could tell, had no discernable accent at all.
