Story Summary for An Artful Affair

 If you were a gifted but unrecognized artist, how far would you go to succeed? An Artful Affair tells the story of the temptation of a painter, the passions of a reporter, and the undoing of an auctioneer. Bo Ryder, Megan Trico and Alastair Cavendish become embroiled in a love triangle, forgeries and ambition gone awry. Set in New York City, the story is ultimately about the eternal conflicts between art and money.
 All Bo Ryder ever wanted was to paint in peace. But when his landlord serves him an eviction notice, the impoverished painter is forced to make compromises. Forgery wasn’t exactly a sideline he had planned on. Nor was falling for art world reporter Megan Trico, who is as captivated by the talented but unrecognized artist as she is by his art. But when Bo's attentions falter while she is investigating a Nazi-looted painting sold through Sotheby's, she is sidetracked by the rival auction house expert, Alastair Cavendish. Determined to prove himself with a record-breaking Modern Painting sale, Alastair is thrown off course by the beautiful young reporter Megan—in more ways than one.
 A major character in the novel is the art world itself in all its bubbling, broiling turmoil of talent and dreams, fame and fortune. Art auctions, ever setting new highs for cultural icons, be they Andy Warhol's soup cans or Faberge Eggs, include a colorful cast of characters from society hostesses to the shyest esthetes. With vivid visual descriptions of art and locale, An Artful Affair paints an authentic picture of the full spectrum of the New York art world.
 From Soho’s grungy studios to the Upper East Side’s glittering galleries, Megan traverses Alastair and Bo’s turfs, her investigations bringing their star-crossed paths ever closer. Involved with both men without each other's knowledge, Megan becomes the fulcrum in a triangle love affair, caught between opposing worlds and unable to decide which she would rather inhabit. As events take on a life of their own, she loses her chance to choose.

`
Prologue to An Artful Affair

 It wasn't so much the graffiti in the cell that troubled Bo, but that it brought to mind the work of a painter he particularly disliked. When his weary eyes glazed over, the scrawl of jumbled names and expletives blurred, forming a random but intricate pattern on the solid wall of institutional green. It looked just like the abstract chicken scratchings of Cy Twombly. And for this reason he decided halfway through his first night behind bars that it must be his last.
 How had it ever come to this? From a simple, one-shot-deal intended only to solve his temporary cash flow problems... he hadn't hurt anybody, or chiseled anyone who would have missed the money, or misrepresented anything they would have noticed anyway.
 Talk about snowballing, events had turned into a veritable avalanche. Why hadn't he stopped when he'd finally become solvent? But every time the dealer offered him another wad of bills, he thought he was almost home free, just a little bit more.
 He shifted his glance out of the cell and grabbed the bars, wincing as he hit the spot where the handcuffs had pinched his wrist, where the cop had twisted his fingers that were already sore from too many hours of holding a paintbrush. He'd always planned to keep on painting no matter what shape his hands were in, but this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.
 His eyes closed and a chill ran through him. Then an image appeared: a green field, a spreading oak, sunlit clouds in a summer sky... worthy of Constable, of Corot, of Winslow Homer. He lowered his head against the bars. Please, beam me up Scotty, get me the hell out of here. Just give me back my life and I'll redeem myself, I'll paint my own masterpiece, a hallelujah chorus for the ages.
 He looked down the corridor to where the guard sat.
 "Hey, excuse me, I need to use the john," he called.
 The guard glanced back and gave a curt nod. Slowly, he pushed his chair back from the desk, stood, and ambled down the corridor, keys dangling from his belt.
 Bo's heart began to race and he shut his eyes; he envisioned himself running down the city street, sirens wailing, the bitter winter air burning his lungs as he ran farther and farther into the night.