performance review.
She turned back to the painting. She’d admired this work in the catalogue for years. Most people in her profession didn’t think much of the Pre-Raphaelites, but Gloria had always been a sucker for the lush colors and dynamic use of light. Realism had fallen out of style long ago, but in the hands of a master like DeLande, the almost excessive use of detail transcended mere reality.
The subject of this painting had always held great appeal for her, too. As a lifetime city-dweller, she’d only dreamed of lush, tropical seascapes. The beach where the god emerged was pure white sand, surrounded by jungles full of flowers and birds of paradise. Behind him lay a sun-washed sky and an ocean so clear as to be transparent.
The man captured her attention, though, despite the beauty of the surroundings. The Sea God didn’t appear young but rather a male in his prime. This was a man who’d lived long enough to dominate everything and everyone around him with his mere physical presence. His longish hair had some gray in it, but every aspect of his body possessed an easy kind of power. Broad shoulders, massive chest narrowing to slim hips, and muscled legs. Most impressive of all, right in the center stood that amazing rod. Gloria had had a few men in her day, but she’d never experienced a cock like that inside her.
Well, shit, maybe Tiff was right and she’d just gotten horny from a lack of a good fucking. No matter where she looked in Manhattan, she wasn’t likely to find a partner like the Sea God, so she might as well forget about it. A painting needed rescuing from O’Hare, and she might as well get to it.
* * *
Back in her office, Gloria sank into the chair behind her desk and rifled through the drawers, looking for the catalogue with the reproduction of the Sea God painting. Memos, faxes, bills of lading, various drafts of the contributors’ letter, pens without tops, yellow-lined pads with scrawling all over them, loose paperclips, and bottles of dried up correction fluid. Even the spike-heeled shoes she slipped into during visits from corporate bigwigs. Everything but the catalogue she wanted. In the bottom drawer, she found a box of over-the-counter pep pills. She popped two into her mouth then swallowed them without water.
Her chair squeaked when she swiveled to the credenza behind her. Plenty of art books and catalogues there, but not the one she wanted.
“Richard!” she bellowed.
In a moment, her chief assistant showed up at the open door of the office. “What do you need, love?”
“Where’s my goddamn catalogue?”
“Which catalogue?”
“We’re doing a Pre-Raphaelite show, and I need the Pre-Raphaelite catalogue. Isn’t that obvious?”
He lounged against the doorjamb. “ Someone’s in a bad mood, I see.”
“I’ve told you guys not to lose my things. How’m I supposed to run a museum if you two come into my office and lose my things?”
“No one’s been in your office, Gloria. You need to calm down.”
Easy for him to say. He hadn’t gone to the endless fundraising dinner the night before and choked down two swallows of rubber chicken before giving up and finding an unguarded bottle of champagne -- bad champagne at that. He hadn’t come back here at midnight to check the inventory for the show that was supposed to start in two days, only to discover that Orpheus was AWOL. He hadn’t fallen asleep with his head on his desk, woken up with a wicked kink in his neck, and then gone out onto the floor to find a huge erection on one of the most important paintings in the show.
She put her face into her hands and rubbed her eyes. What would the stuffy contingent among the patrons say when they got a load of the god’s boner? Oh gawd, Mrs. Franklin Homersby would have a cow. Gloria had only recently convinced the old bat that penises were acceptable in paintings as long as they were flaccid. The woman would have a coronary when she saw the DeLande painting. There
She turned back to the painting. She’d admired this work in the catalogue for years. Most people in her profession didn’t think much of the Pre-Raphaelites, but Gloria had always been a sucker for the lush colors and dynamic use of light. Realism had fallen out of style long ago, but in the hands of a master like DeLande, the almost excessive use of detail transcended mere reality.
The subject of this painting had always held great appeal for her, too. As a lifetime city-dweller, she’d only dreamed of lush, tropical seascapes. The beach where the god emerged was pure white sand, surrounded by jungles full of flowers and birds of paradise. Behind him lay a sun-washed sky and an ocean so clear as to be transparent.
The man captured her attention, though, despite the beauty of the surroundings. The Sea God didn’t appear young but rather a male in his prime. This was a man who’d lived long enough to dominate everything and everyone around him with his mere physical presence. His longish hair had some gray in it, but every aspect of his body possessed an easy kind of power. Broad shoulders, massive chest narrowing to slim hips, and muscled legs. Most impressive of all, right in the center stood that amazing rod. Gloria had had a few men in her day, but she’d never experienced a cock like that inside her.
Well, shit, maybe Tiff was right and she’d just gotten horny from a lack of a good fucking. No matter where she looked in Manhattan, she wasn’t likely to find a partner like the Sea God, so she might as well forget about it. A painting needed rescuing from O’Hare, and she might as well get to it.
* * *
Back in her office, Gloria sank into the chair behind her desk and rifled through the drawers, looking for the catalogue with the reproduction of the Sea God painting. Memos, faxes, bills of lading, various drafts of the contributors’ letter, pens without tops, yellow-lined pads with scrawling all over them, loose paperclips, and bottles of dried up correction fluid. Even the spike-heeled shoes she slipped into during visits from corporate bigwigs. Everything but the catalogue she wanted. In the bottom drawer, she found a box of over-the-counter pep pills. She popped two into her mouth then swallowed them without water.
Her chair squeaked when she swiveled to the credenza behind her. Plenty of art books and catalogues there, but not the one she wanted.
“Richard!” she bellowed.
In a moment, her chief assistant showed up at the open door of the office. “What do you need, love?”
“Where’s my goddamn catalogue?”
“Which catalogue?”
“We’re doing a Pre-Raphaelite show, and I need the Pre-Raphaelite catalogue. Isn’t that obvious?”
He lounged against the doorjamb. “ Someone’s in a bad mood, I see.”
“I’ve told you guys not to lose my things. How’m I supposed to run a museum if you two come into my office and lose my things?”
“No one’s been in your office, Gloria. You need to calm down.”
Easy for him to say. He hadn’t gone to the endless fundraising dinner the night before and choked down two swallows of rubber chicken before giving up and finding an unguarded bottle of champagne -- bad champagne at that. He hadn’t come back here at midnight to check the inventory for the show that was supposed to start in two days, only to discover that Orpheus was AWOL. He hadn’t fallen asleep with his head on his desk, woken up with a wicked kink in his neck, and then gone out onto the floor to find a huge erection on one of the most important paintings in the show.
She put her face into her hands and rubbed her eyes. What would the stuffy contingent among the patrons say when they got a load of the god’s boner? Oh gawd, Mrs. Franklin Homersby would have a cow. Gloria had only recently convinced the old bat that penises were acceptable in paintings as long as they were flaccid. The woman would have a coronary when she saw the DeLande painting. There
Similar Books
