Picture Perfect Christmas. Melanie Schuster

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      The invitation-only crowd was thoroughly enjoying Chastain’s work. She’d met so many new people and received so many compliments that she couldn’t help but keep a smile on her face. The champagne was flowing and the excellent jazz made the perfect backdrop for conversation. Mona was at her most sociable, meeting and greeting everyone and handing out Chastain’s brochures and business cards. People had approached her with questions about commissioned work and she’d also had many inquiries about her jewelry, once Mona informed several fashionable women that she’d created it. David never strayed too far from her. But he didn’t smother her with attention. He was just there if she needed anything. It was truly the most spectacular night she could remember.

      She was about to look for a quiet corner to sit and catch her breath when a large hand clasped her upper arm, firmly but gently. A shivery sensation went down her spine and she heard the last voice she expected to hear that night or any other.

      “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, Chastain? Is this your idea of a joke?”

      It was Philippe Deveraux, speaking in a tone that she’d never heard before. Philippe had been many things to her in the past, but he’d never been angry and he’d never embarrassed her in public. She was shocked, jerking away from him while she turned to face him.

      “How dare you…” Her voice trailed away as she looked up into a face that didn’t belong to the Philippe she’d last known. His long ponytail was gone, replaced by a short, close-cropped haircut. His full beard was now a well-groomed goatee with a mustache and he was wearing a designer suit and expensive leather shoes. She was stunned by the change in him and her face showed it. But she quickly rallied and went right back to telling him off.

      “How dare you show up here and get up in my face? What’s wrong with you? How did you get in, anyway? This showing is by invitation only,” she added haughtily.

      James Steffney was the gallery’s manager. He looked more like an NFL linebacker than someone who was interested in the pursuit of fine art. He was discreet and professional, but he didn’t play. As soon as he saw the look on Philippe’s face he started toward the couple, ready to protect Chastain at all costs.

      “Is everything okay, Chastain?” he asked.

      “Just fine, James. This is an old friend from my hometown,” she answered with a smile as she gently tried to get her arm back from Philippe.

      James nodded and strolled away, but he didn’t take his eyes off them. Veronica Lewis, the pretty, plump receptionist, went over to James and asked him what was going on. “I have no idea. She says he’s an old friend, but he’s not looking too friendly to me.”

      Veronica wrapped one of her natural twists around her finger and looked speculatively at Chastain and Philippe.

      “I think you’re right,” she said in a low voice. “And I think I know why. Look at him and look at those paintings. That’s the model in those nudes, James.”

      His eyes automatically went from the pictures to Philippe and back again. “You may be on to something,” he said. “I’d be mad, too, if somebody put me on display like a hunk of meat.”

      Veronica was too busy looking at Philippe with new eyes to answer him.

      Philippe’s anger hadn’t abated. He wasn’t the only one with a temper, though. Chastain was as hot as he was. “I asked you why you were here. Only select invitations were given for tonight’s showing,” she said nastily.

      He hadn’t released her arm completely, but instead of clutching her upper arm he’d moved his hand until he was holding hers. With his free hand he reached into his suit coat and pulled out his invitation.

      “If you didn’t want me here, you shouldn’t have sent this,” he said in a low voice that nonetheless resonated with fury. “And I can see why you wouldn’t want me here to witness that.” He didn’t bother to glance at the three nudes because he knew as well as she did that he was the model she’d painted so exquisitely.

      “If you make a spectacle out of this evening you’ll live to regret it,” she said, barely moving her lips.

      “If you don’t take those down right now, you’ll be the one with regrets. I’ll sue you and this gallery and anything else I can think of and it won’t be pretty,” he vowed.

      Anyone else would have cowered under the heated rage and Phillipe’s look of pure venom, but Chastain wasn’t having it, not tonight. She was about to go off on him but David suddenly appeared with a glass of water.

      “Here you are, sweetheart. You’ve been chatting so much I thought you might be thirsty.”

      Chastain relaxed at once. “Thank you, David. This is an old friend, Philippe Deveraux. He surprised me tonight. I had no idea he’d be in New York,” she said with a slight edge to her voice.

      David shook hands with Philippe, which caused him to let go of her hand. “Deveraux? You must be related to Chastain’s friend Paris,” he said with his usual calm demeanor.

      “I’m her brother,” Philippe replied. Only Chastain, who knew him way too well, could hear the seething undertone in his voice.

      “David, I’m going to chat with Philippe for a few minutes. I haven’t talked to Paris in a while and I want to catch up. We’ll be right back,” she promised as she began to lead Philippe to the elevator. Neither of them spoke until the elevator rose past the gallery, at which point Chastain poked him in the chest with her index finger. “You are a total jackass. I hope you know that.”

      “And I hope you know you’re in a world of trouble, baby girl.”

      “Arrgh!” Chastain growled as the elevator arrived on the third floor. She walked into the apartment and turned to face him. “You overgrown, arrogant, self-centered jerk! What makes you think I’d invite you to anything, much less my first showing in New York?”

      Philippe again took out the invitation and the envelope in which it had come and tossed them at her. “This does.”

      A sudden barrage of barks came from her bedroom and Chastain turned abruptly to let Lulu out of her crate. Further argument was forestalled as Lulu followed the sound and scent of Philippe into the living room. When Chastain composed herself enough to return she found Philippe sitting on the sofa while Lulu stood in his lap and licked his face fervently.

      “I forgot she loves you best,” Chastain said.

      “That’s only because I rescued her,” he said between licks.