He snorted, a wry sound far more tired and cynical than any fifteen-year-old should make. “Violin?”
“Yes.”
“Can I promise you something, sis?”
Her heart skipped at the familial nickname. He’d never called her sis before. Ever. She didn’t know what it meant, but it was nice. In the rollercoaster of emotional madness she’d been riding the last few days, nice was…nice. She smiled at him, doing her best to hide her joy. “What?”
“I promise I’ll try to do a better job of being a human being and your brother if you promise not to use the word ‘complicated’ again? Deal?”
She laughed and held out her hand. “Deal.”
Zach completed the age-old ritual, his grip firm. He grinned. “Now, tell me about Dyson.”
She groaned, slumping back onto the sofa, eyes closed. “Zach.”
He laughed. “Kidding, kidding. Tell me about Mason Xavier instead. Or art. Or something. Do you really think you can win this Barber prize thing?”
“Barton Prize. And I don’t know. Maybe. I know all you’ve seen me paint is people making…err…having…” Her cheeks flooded with heat. She really didn’t want to say making love or having sex. Not to him. He was only fifteen, for Pete’s sake.
Zach did it for her. “Yeah, pretty much all you have painted while I’ve been here is people fucking.”
“Zach.”
He shrugged. “S’true. Is this Mason Xavier a pervert?”
The knot in her belly twisted some more. What she was about to say was stupid, and Zach was going to laugh at her. “I don’t know. I’ve never actually met him.”
“Holy shit, really? So this old fart keeps giving you money to paint smut, you keep painting it, and you’ve never met him?” He stared at her like a second head had sprouted from her shoulder. “Don’t you think that’s weird? How did he get in contact with you?”
“When you say it that way…” She licked her dry lips, trying to place the first time Mason Xavier had contacted her. Except it hadn’t been Mason, it had been his assistant, Clarinda Simmonds. A few days after Clinton’s funeral. And it had been his assistant ever since. Never once had she actually met or spoken to the man directly. Every new commission came via Clarinda, delivered in a short, impersonal message left on her answering machine. A simple request of subject—a man and a woman, two women, a woman and two men, a woman alone—size of the painting, and a date he’d like the painting finished, usually a few weeks for each work. When the painting was completed, she contacted Xavier via his assistant. A few hours later, a van would arrive at her home, a man would collect the work, two if it was large, and money would be deposited into her bank account. She never knew where her artwork went. Every time she was in the Sydney CBD—which wasn’t often—she hoped to spy one of her paintings on the walls of a foyer in one of the glass-fronted white-collar businesses there. She never did. Mason Xavier could be using her work as kindling.
God, that would be horrible.
“So you’ve really never seen him?”
She shook her head.
Zach pulled a face. “Weird.”
“True. But Xavier’s paying for our breakfast.”
“And making you paint Dyson.”
At the man’s name, her heart jumped into her throat.
Zach laughed. “Oh man, sis, you should see your face. Never ever play poker, because your poker face sucks.”
She glared at him. “Zach.”
He held up his hands, laughing even as he shook his head. “I know, I know, it’s complicated, and you’re just drawn to him, I get it. But holy shit, you’ve got complicated and drawn to bad. Real bad.”
“Zach.” God, would her stomach stop flip-flopping already? Of course, it didn’t help every word Zach uttered was true.
“If you like him that much, why does it have to be complicated?” He frowned. “I saw him kissing you, and I could tell he was into you. I’m a teenage boy, remember. All we ever think about is girls and sex. I know what a guy looks like when he’s thinking about sex, and he was thinking about it when he was looking at you.”