Star Crossed

By Sarah J Dhue

Margot Raimondi, a fiery rising artist and aspiring critic. Alejandro Drysdale, a successful young architect and womanizer. One night brought them together; they never knew it would change their lives forever. Their hot and heavy relationship becomes a topic of discussion among the glamourous artistic social circles. As the two begin to fall in love with each other, their whirlwind romance spirals out of control, and they don’t see each other for several years. What started as a chance meeting sparks a chain of events wherein Margot and Alejandro’s paths cross several times. Their love appears to have a chance at being rekindled but always seems to end in the two going their separate ways. In Sarah J Dhue’s debut romance novel – a love story spanning nearly forty years – will it work out between this pair of star crossed lovers?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781300583820

Sarah J Dhue

Sarah J Dhue is a fiction author from Illinois and has been writing since she was in elementary school. She writes predominantly Horror, Paranormal, and Sci-Fi fiction, but has branched off into Romance and plans to try to her hand at other genre departures. In addition to books, she also writes poetry, short stories, and songs. She loves networking with other writers and artists of other media. Some of her other interests include coffee, photography, graphic design, social media, animals, art, travel, music, and animation. Sarah currently resides with her family and cats in southern Illinois.

Book preview

Part 1

2011

Chapter 1

M

argot Raimondi gripped her long, flowing, auburn hair in frustration, exhaling so heavily that her pale cheeks inflated with air.  She bit her left ring fingernail, glaring at her computer screen, her blue eyes seeming to glow as they reflected the light.

Fuck it, she said to herself in agitation, clicking off the monitor and getting up.  She walked across the small studio, street noise and light leaking in through the high warehouse windows on all sides.  The studio was small and always smelled like sawdust, but it fit her needs.

She picked up a pale blue work shirt draped over a stool, sliding her arms into the sleeves and buttoning the buttons.  She had to fight the top few – button-ups and large breasts did not like to cooperate.  She brushed her hair back over her shoulders, rolled up her sleeves, and picked up her palette and brush, approaching the partially finished canvas propped up on the easel in front of her.  The latticework of an urban bridge was beginning to take shape beyond a woman walking along a city street, wearing the latest Calvin Klein trend, painted a bright, crude red; she would shade it in later with maroons, browns, and blacks.

Margot had caught the attention of many art agents and investors with her Romantic-Contemporary style, assimilating high fashion into landscape scenes, typically urban areas.  She had done a few smaller scale pieces – like a bar, a club, or a café – but she preferred the larger scale pieces.  That was where the demand – and therefore, money – was.  At age twenty-two and fresh out of art school, she was already in surprising – almost unheard of – demand.

She pressed her tongue into her cheek thoughtfully as she made the first fresh brushstroke along the bridge’s support beam.

The motor of the elevator roared to life – an old cargo lift from when the building had been an operational warehouse.  The elevator came to a halt at her floor – the second – and its passenger slid up the wooden gate.  Bill Keener stepped out, lowering the gate back down behind him and then flattening his tie as he stood upright.

Bill was in his early fifties, his brown hair greying and his head completely bald on top.  When fully upright, he stood about six-feet, seven-inches tall.  Bill was always clean-shaven, with large, rectangular glasses that rested on his long nose and framed his hazel-green eyes.  Margot chortled to herself; she did not think she had ever seen Bill in anything but a suit, even in studios.  His red tie was the only splash of color against his charcoal grey and white suit ensemble, his black shoes appearing to have been freshly shined.

Margot! he exclaimed jovially, walking across the studio to where she stood painting.

Hello, Bill.  Wasn’t expecting you to drop by today.  Margot did not look away from her painting.

"I have great news!" Bill continued emphatically, gesturing wildly with his free hand and white-knuckled gripping his leather briefcase in the other.

Please, tell me more about your exciting news, Margot spoke with a sharp tone, not even bothering to attempt to cover up her annoyance.  Couldn’t Bill see that she was working?

Bill came up behind her, peering over her shoulder.  Oh, what are you working on here?  Looks promising.  He lowered his glasses, squinting at the canvas.  Margot had the urge to jab him with her paintbrush, but resisted.  She had to play nice with Bill; after all, she owed him her career.

Bill Keener had been Margot’s agent since he had discovered her in college at a student art show.  While Margot was sure that someone would have surely noticed and acknowledged her talents, Bill had been the one to give her a shot at being featured in a small gallery amongst other, more well-known and established artists.  And then, he had found out that she could write.

Margot’s true dream was to be an art journalist, painting on the side.  Bill had been her inside line not only to having her artwork featured in galleries, but to getting gigs with art and culture magazines.  She was still freelance at the moment; Bill kept promising a permanent position.  He said that they just hadn’t found the right magazine yet.

Klein piece, she replied curtly.

And the dada article?

Margot turned to face him, whipping her head in such a way that her hair was swept over her opposite shoulder.  Rage burned behind her blue irises.  I thought you said you had news! she snapped.

Stuck again?  Bill smirked, but disappointment flashed in his eyes and tone.

"It’ll get done… before the deadline.  Margot paused, narrowing her eyes at him.  For fuck’s sake Bill, can’t you see I’m busy?  What did you come here to talk about?"

Bill continued to smirk.  Margot Raimondi was a temperamental bitch.  But she was also talented, which equaled money.  You will change your tone when you hear what I have to tell you.  There is a brand new gallery nearing completion over in downtown, on the Lower East Side.  It has all the makings to be a hit with the big shots.  Three artists will be featured in the unveiling and opening of the building: Andre Anderson, Duri Huiyung, and Margot Raimondi!  He patted the briefcase in his hand.  All of the paperwork is right here.  It just needs your review and signature.

Margot’s eyes widened, and she felt a small ping of guilt for snapping at him.  But he seemed unperturbed, and, after all, he had provoked her.  A smile spread across her lips – revealing perfectly straight, white teeth – as she felt elation begin to fill her.

Well, let’s see it then, she eagerly reached for the briefcase.  That is the problem with you, Bill, she said as they walked across the studio to her desk.  You never just cut to the chase.

"You are fiery today, Bill commented, clicking open the briefcase and taking out a large stack of papers.  He handed them to Margot, who had plopped down in her desk chair.  Have a look.  I’m sure everything will be to your liking."  Bill maintained the façade that he was as cool as a cucumber, when in actuality it was moments like this when he really wanted to strangle her.  He leaned against her desk, which was as close as he could get to sitting; Margot hadn’t bothered to clear off the other chair.

Margot skimmed the papers, her eyes picking up important bits like commission rates, dates, and names.  She flipped to the page about the building itself.  Oh, it’s a Drysdale building, she commented out loud as her eyes fell on the name following the ‘architect’ heading.

Alejandro Drysdale was one of the hottest new architects in the New York City scene.  Margot’s heart fluttered at the thought of laying eyes on the dashing, young architect.

Do not go getting all dreamy-eyed on me.  You know Drysdale has a reputation.  While it was true that he had a reputation as an amazing architect, that was not all; he also had a reputation for his charm and way with the ladies.

Please, Bill, I can take care of myself.  I have seen a couple of his buildings, even considered painting a few… her voice trailed off.

Margot?

If I get you that article by the end of the week, do you think you could get me a gig covering the gallery opening? Margot bit her lower lip thoughtfully.

I don’t know.  Wouldn’t that be considered biased?

Of course not: an inside look.  Hell, I would give up the showing if I could get that article.

Bill’s eyes bulged and he nearly fell off the edge of the desk.  Give up the showing!?  Oh no, Margot, this is… big stuff.  Big time.  Like ‘take your career to the next level’ big time.  He felt sweat beading his forehead.  If Margot gave up the showing and did not sign the papers, he would be missing out on a great money-making opportunity.

I want the article.

I will, uh, see what I can do.  Bill wiped his forehead.  Those papers look okay to you?

Margot scrutinized the last few papers in her hand.  Yeah…  Everything looks fine.  I’ll sign.  But you have to get me that article.  It’s big stuff.  Big time… like ‘take my career to the next level’ big time.

Bill hated having his own words thrown back at him.  Like I said, I’ll see what I can do.  He handed her a pen, and she signed all of the necessary lines.  Bill Keener felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.  He knew no one would give her the job – not with her position as one of the three opening artists.  But he would humor her; he may even lie and say he had tried.

Think that’s everything.  Margot straightened the papers and handed them back to Bill as a neat stack.  Need anything else?

Just for you to get to work on that article, Bill quickly slid the papers into his briefcase and clasped it shut, standing up.  His eyes strayed to the art piece with the lady in red that she had been working on.  And more of that, he said, pointing before he turned toward the elevator.

You can have ten more of those by show time if you get me the opening, Margot said, shaking the pen in her hand.

Bill forced a smile and nodded, then took a few long strides back to her to retrieve his pen.  He hit the large, red call button for the elevator, and once again the motor roared to life and the pulleys creaked as the elevator arrived on the second floor.  He lifted the gate and climbed in.  He turned back to Margot with his hand on the gate.

Before he pulled it down, he looked at her and spoke in a serious tone, You watch yourself with Drysdale if I get you this job.  You may be… difficult sometimes.  But I do not want to see you get hurt.  Bill only halfway meant that last part, but a piece of him cared about Margot’s feelings; after all, she was still so young.  She just thought she had the world by the tail.

Bye, Bill.  Margot waved to him as he pulled down the gate and punched an interior button, the elevator descending.  And then, he was out of sight.

Margot turned back to face her studio.  She could feel it in her bones: she was going to cover a Drysdale building unveiling.  As for charm – two could play that game.  She walked back to her desk and fell into her chair.  She clicked on her computer monitor.  Everything had changed; her mood had shifted.  She had every confidence that she would be contacting Bill with a finished draft by the end of the day.

Chapter 2

A

lejandro Drysdale sat in the barber’s chair, draped in a barber’s cape admiring himself in the mirror. He typically wore a charming smile beneath his dazzling brown eyes and perfect, button nose.  But today he was troubled, his eyebrows tightly knitted together in a thoughtful scowl.

In just a few short hours, his latest architectural venture would be revealed to the eagerly awaiting public.  Several important men – art investors, artists, and architectural contractors – would be in attendance.  He would be under intense scrutiny.  This was only his second project where his name was on the placard – and not as a subsidiary.

His first building – a small museum specializing in South African art – had made an unexpected stir and was what had rocketed him to the top of the list of architects vying to head the newest high-end gallery in New York City.  At only twenty-five, he had already managed to step on his fair share of toes.  So if he failed to impress, there was a strong chance that he would never work in the city again.

Gustav, Alejandro’s barber, stood behind him holding the clippers.  Gustav was tall and broad with the beginnings of a beer gut.  He had a large, full, bushy, brown beard and perfectly quaffed hair saturated in hair gel, his mahogany eyes large and round behind circular glasses.  Just a trim, Mr. Drysdale?

Yes, Gustav.  I need to look 112%; the gallery opening is tonight.

I know, sir, I saw it in the paper.  Gustav brought the clippers up along the back of Alejandro’s short, jet black hair, trimmings falling to the floor and dusting the barber’s cape.

Alejandro shifted the cape so that he could read the papers he had with him.  He was going to be expected to speak with several journalists and reporters, so he figured that he had best get acquainted with their names and affiliations.  Among those on the list were several very well-known names.  He came across the name Margot Raimondi, writing for The Village Voice.  The name was oddly familiar.

He scrunched up his nose, trying to think of where he would have seen or heard her name before.  He flipped back to the front of the stack in his hand as Gustav trimmed the top of his hair.  The printed draft of the program for the night’s proceedings read:

Grand Opening of the

Palenview Art Gallery

Designed by Alejandro Drysdale

Featuring artwork by:

Andre Anderson

Duri Huiyung

Margot Raimondi

Alejandro grinned to himself, chuckling.  Now the name rang a bell.  Not only had he seen it on the program, but he had run across a few of her pieces.  People liked how she combined architecture and high-end fashion in a cohesive Romantic-Contemporary style.  He wondered what she was doing writing for The Village Voice.  He was intrigued about her angle, and, while he had never met her, he had heard that she was quite stunning.

That was one aspect of the night that he was looking forward to.  Once all of the photo ops and interviews were done, it would be time to mingle.  The gala would have an open bar, and high class parties often attracted about as many beautiful women as art investors.

Would you like a shave, Mr. Drysdale? Gustav asked, holding up a secondary mirror for Alejandro to look at his haircut.

"Yes.  But be careful.  No nicks."

Gustav nodded and reclined the salon chair, slathering the lower half of Alejandro’s face with shaving cream.  As Gustav began the very careful shave, Alejandro fought back a smile, not wanting to risk getting a cut.  But he knew one thing was for certain; even if he crashed and burned, he would not be going home alone tonight.

Gustav quickly finished the shave – there hadn’t been much there to begin with – and cleaned up Alejandro’s face.  There wasn’t a single scratch; that was why Alejandro made all of his appointments with Gustav.  He wasn’t sloppy; he was the best.  He removed the cape from around Alejandro’s neck, and the two walked to the back of the room for the final step: washing and styling Alejandro’s hair.  He had every confidence that with Gustav’s help, he would be the best looking fellow at the opening.  And why shouldn’t he be?

~*~

Margot was also in distress.  She had picked out the perfect dress for the occasion – one very similar to the red dress in her painting, which would be debuting at the opening; only it was Armani rather than Calvin Klein. Her shoes sat by the door of her apartment, and she had just finished applying her makeup, but one of her earrings was nowhere to be found.  It also didn’t help that Bill Keener was calling her every five minutes.

Bill had really pulled some strings to get her the article, although Margot felt like he was beginning to wish he hadn’t.  She had gotten the dada article done for him the day after he had brought her the papers to sign.  After that, there had been a few minor changes that had to be made, making for a grand total of four days when she had promised within the week.  But as the event drew nearer, Bill just seemed to get more and more antsy.  He would call and remind her to do this, and then call right back and remind her not to do that.  One would think that she had never conducted an interview before.  She had – just not for something this high profile.

Ah!  There was that blasted earring.  It had fallen between her jewelry box and makeup palette.  She put the earrings in, large ones that dangled and brushed her neck if she shook her head, laden with large – faux – rubies.

She picked up her phone and keyed in the code to unlock it.  She had left it open to a Google search of Alejandro Drysdale.  She wanted to know a few things about him before diving right in to this interview.  She refrained from looking at images; she wanted to lay eyes on him for the first time in person.  If he was even half as handsome as people said, pictures wouldn’t do him justice.

Margot checked her Versace bag to make sure that she had everything she needed.  She had her small spiral notebook and multiple pens, her tablet mini, lipstick, pepper spray, her wallet… and she had her cell phone clutched in her maroon nail-polished hand.

She pulled on a chocolate brown cardigan as her phone rang again, vibrating in her hand.  She saw ‘Bill Keener’ displayed on the caller ID once more.  She sighed, rolled her eyes, and decided that she would answer this time.  What do you want, Bill?

Have you left for the opening yet?  You can’t be late, he said sternly into the phone.

"I’m headed out the door.  I will hail a cab.  Shouldn’t be a problem to get one with what I’m wearing.  Bet they will be expecting a fat tip on top of the