“That’s not fair.” She followed him up the stairs, careful to keep her robe closed.
“Nothing about this is fair.”
“I swear you’re dangerously close to losing your mind.” She rubbed an open palm over her forehead to ward off the sudden headache.
“Losing my mind? Is that your theory? Have you and Sela gotten together to discuss my deteriorating mental capacity? How fun for you all. Did Miranda join in by any chance? I've been hearing the same schpeel from her.” He sneered, transforming his handsome face into something ugly and mean.
Nothing about this made sense. Desperation for understanding throbbed in the air between them.
"Is this all about the damn promotion? Because if it is, you need to get over it." She tightened the sash of the robe until it felt like it would slice her in half.
He started going through her piles of canvases. "This is the work of the master artist herself, huh? How impressive."
"You really need to leave. We're done. You and I are no longer friends. I'll talk to Charlie about removing you from my team since working for me is such a fucking issue for you." She grabbed the canvas from his arms and tossed it onto the sofa.
"Know what my issue is?" He walked to the canvas hanging on the wall of Jacques in bed in their former apartment, pulled it down, tossed it onto the ground, and stomped his heel through it. "That's my fucking issue. This entire time you've been hung up on some loser from your past. Look at these." He rushed to the pile and pulled out others from Florence.
"No, don't." Horrified at what was happening, she tried to rescue the canvases.
With force he had never shown, he pulled her against him and ravaged her mouth. His hand snaked beneath her robe and squeezed her breast. She whimpered in pain and pushed against his chest. Bare feet kicked against hard shins.
He pushed her away with enough force to knock her against the sofa. Breathing heavy, he looked around at his destruction and shook his head in disbelief.
“I’m sorry. So sorry, Jessie,” he muttered.
“Get out.” Spasms rattled her body. Fingers touched swollen lips.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Hands shook as he stroked them over his face. “I swear I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Get out. I've had enough crazy to last a lifetime.” Rage and fear rattled her body.
“I was out of line. I’m so sorry. You know I would never hurt you.” He leaned the back of his head against the wall, eyes staring at the ceiling.
“I asked you to leave.” She grabbed the torn canvas and tried to pull the pieces together.
“Not until we straighten this out between us.” His gaze locked on hers. “Forgive me?”
"I'm fresh out of forgiveness, Marc, especially when it comes to you. Get out.” Legs shaking, she carried the painting downstairs and placed it on the kitchen counter. Ruined, it's all ruined.
He paced the room, hands combing thorough his hair. She watched him and remembered. Remembered seeing him for the first time ten years ago in college. He had been arguing with a professor in the hallway, ball cap turned backward on his head and books falling from his backpack. She had stopped to gather up a book when their eyes had met—his full of frustration—and she had laughed. They had run into each other later that evening at a local bar and had bonded over a pitcher of cheap beer.
“When you add up the time you two have spent together it’s not quite six months out of your entire thirty-two years. How can you love him? How can he possibly know you better than I do?” He stopped pacing and faced her, his face contorted with confusion.
Silence filled the space between them as they faced one another. "My personal life is no longer your concern."
“I don’t think I can understand that,” he admitted with a frown.
“You don’t need to understand.”
He retrieved the suit jacket he had thrown over the back of her sofa. “I shouldn’t have kissed you or touched you like that. It was stupid and inexcusable. I can’t throw ten years away as easily as you can.”
“It's called self-preservation, consider it a learned skill.” She bit her bottom lip to stop it from trembling.
“There is no reason to let this misunderstanding affect our professional relationship.” He stared at her, his back against the door, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. “I’m already on shaky ground there, Jessie. Don’t screw me over.”
“Screw you over?” She looked at him differently then, noticed the paleness of his skin, the tremble in his hands, and the shadows in his eyes. “You’re not okay, are you, Marc? Are you sick?”
“Don’t pretend to care.” The sneer erased any sympathy that may have stirred briefly in her heart. “Are you going to tell Charlie that you're removing me from the team or that you suspect me of sabotage?”
She tapped her foot against the floor and looked him over from head to toe. She would call Miranda, tell her that something was wrong with Marc, depression or drugs maybe. This man standing in her apartment was a mere shell of her friend.
“No, I won’t say a word to Charlie.” Their gaze connected.
He broke the connection to look at her feet. “I am sorry, I mean that. For all that I have done and will probably do in the future. Remember that, okay? Remember that I’m sorry and that I have always loved you. I hope you know that.”
“You can’t come here anymore. I want your key.” Hand extended, palm up, she held her breath.
“The official dumping, the relinquishing of the key.” He folded the key into her palm but did not release her hand.
She yanked her hand away and stepped backward. Shivers rippled over her skin. “I don’t want you coming here again.”
“Yeah, I might interrupt a gathering of the What-the-Hell-is-Wrong-with-Marc club.”
“Why are you acting like this? We slept together a few times, had a lot of laughs, but we weren’t exactly on the marriage path. We were friends who crossed the line.” She swallowed the pain of saying those words even though she knew the importance of saying them. “That’s all we were.”
“Not true.”
“You're Boston's Most Eligible Bachelor, according to Boston Magazine. You had Tiffany by your side last night, claimed to have been dating her for months. You can't be that much in love with me.” She fisted her hands in the cloth of her robe and willed him to leave.
“Ouch.” He twisted the doorknob, but made no effort to leave. “You must like sharing your men, Mori. Where is Jacques again? Oh, yeah. He has a supermodel girlfriend...what's her name? Simone Bellefonte?"
“So much for the truce.”
Their gaze locked.
“Can we get beyond this?” he whispered. “Ever?”
"No, you've gone too far."
“Goodnight, Mori.” He opened the door, hesitated a beat and then left her alone.
She walked upstairs, crawled onto the tattered sofa, hugged her knees to her chest and stared at the piles of canvases stacked along the walls. Eighty-five, Jacques had said. Eighty-five paintings. Sitting here. Serving no purpose. Hidden away.
* * *
Chapter Nineteen
He had avoided Jessica for a day, needing to carefully consider his next step. Kevin walked carefully around him, unsure how to react to the silence. But he had needed quiet to think, to make sure he could handle whatever happened by taking this leap.
His bags were in the back room of the gallery, waiting. He couldn't play Simone's game any longer. It ended tonight.
“My brother at his first gallery exhibit.” Ava adjusted his tie, but carefully avoided his gaze. “I'm sorry about the other night, about my reaction. Will Jessica be here tonight?"
“I'm surprised you don't know since you have all the answers and pull all of the strings.” He brushed her hand away and looked at the empty gallery, his photographs on the wall combined with Jessica's paintings. “Did Kevin pick Carter up at the airport?”
Ava crossed her arms over her c
hest. “You know he did.”
“I am glad this will be over tonight.” He paced. “Where is Simone?”
“In the back with Miranda.”
He combed his hands through his hair and nodded. He knew that. He had seen her there. The collar of his shirt strangled him. “One week ago was the book signing. One week, Ava.”
“And?”
“And it was one week ago, that is all, now everything has changed. It's difficult to keep up," he whispered.
“I only want you to be happy,” she whispered, her hand on his arm. “If I have pushed you—“
“If?"
“Has it been so horrible?"
“After five years apart—because of a stupid mistake—every day together is a gift." He met Ava's gaze and shrugged. "So, yes, the answer to your question is yes."
“Ah…the king of the night,” Kevin declared, back doors swinging open. “When does this party get started?”
Carter grinned in the process of tying his tie. “The big moment has arrived. Where are the women? Kevin said there would be single women here.”
"There will be. Jessica has advertised you as hot and this one—" he motioned to Kevin, "is supposedly sexy. I personally don't see it." He relaxed when Carter checked himself out in the reflection on one of the photographs.
"Hot, huh? I knew she had a thing for me back in the day." Carter smiled.
"I think she is remembering you incorrectly."
"I think she is the only woman who has ever seen me correctly."
"All of you are overgrown boys," Ava said with one last pat on his arm. "None are of you are hot or sexy so get over yourselves."
Soon the doors were opened and people he didn’t know wanted to shake his hand, talk to him about his work, and Simone. Her publicity stunt had attracted hoards of people who probably would never have set foot into an art gallery if not for a chance to see her. She held reign at the entrance, acting as a hostess.
Time passed without any sign of Jessica until...
Halleluiah, here she comes. The empty champagne glass fell from his grip and shattered on the floor.
“Jesus, Jacques.” Kevin jumped away from the shards. “No more alcohol for you.”
He ignored the waiters cleaning his mess, unable t take his eyes from the woman walking toward him. His eyes devoured her body, tall and lean, each step slow and full of intent as she walked toward him. Light played with the color of her dress, transforming it from black to violet with a breath.
“What’s wrong with you? Need some air? We can get out of here for a minute if you need to,” Carter said when Simone stepped away.
“Jessica Moriarty is here.” Seeing her like that—elegant, intent—sent his heart into convulsions. He couldn’t breathe.
“The Jessica Moriarty? I’ll be damned.” Carter turned and blew out a long breath. "She looks a lot different without paint sticking to her everywhere. We've all come a long way from that old apartment building, haven't we?"
The air crackled with heat, with her. Her hand touched his sleeve and his skin burned despite the shirt and jacket.
“Quite a party,” she whispered against his ear. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I've been looking for you, didn't see you,” he whispered.
Liquid blue eyes studied his. “Is everything going okay? I haven't heard from you. I thought maybe I would.”
“You look more beautiful than I imagined you could be. I didn’t know that was possible,” he whispered.
“Thank you.” She touched the lapels of his suit without looking away from his eyes.
He looked at the dress again; it fit her body like a glove. “Are you real?”
She smiled, confidence lifting her chin. “Touch me and find out.”
Ava appeared out of nowhere, sweeping her into a light embrace. She held Jessica at arms length, surveying her critically from head to toe. “You compliment the dress, Jessica. It’s an honor for me that you wear it.”
“You made her a dress?” Jacques gaped at his sister.
“I’m a designer, that’s what I do.” Ava avoided his gaze, but he knew she'd done this as an apology of sorts.
“The infamous Jessica has arrived.” Carter grabbed her hand. “I hear you think I'm hot. I always thought there was a bit of spark between us."
"You're so bad, that's what I like about you." She hugged him and held on a bit too long. "What kind of trouble have you been getting into? Do you have any stories for me?"
"Oh, I have endless stories—"
"Please don't get him started." Ava rolled her eyes. "That is the worst question to ask him."
Jacques snagged another glass of champagne from a passing tray.
Carter scanned Jessica from head to toe. “You know how to bring out the artillery when you go into battle.”
“Battle?” The smile wavered, but she stood tall. "If you mean Simone, I can handle her. Been there, done that."
“Did I hear my name?” Simone appeared on cue, linking her arm through Jacques'. “So nice to see you, Jessica. I know it means a lot for Jacques to have all of his old friends here.”
"I'm his fiancée, Simone, which is something you will never be. Everyone who matters knows about your little charade." Jessica turned her head and waved at Sela. "Carter, I want you to meet my friend who's been asking about you."
"Asking about me?" Carter perked up. "Do I look all right?"
“Carter is a road rat like me,” he said once Sela joined their tight circle, her gaze gravitating toward Carter.
“Road rat, hm?” Sela faced Carter with a smile.
“Documentary filmmaker, actually. Sounds better than road rat,” Carter said with a frown in Jacques' direction. “Let me show you around."
Jessica watched them go before focusing all of her attention back to him and Simone who refused to leave his side.
"The world is at your feet," she said. "I'm so proud of you, of knowing you. You're brilliant."
“Have you ever wanted something so badly, dreamed of it for so long, that you’re absolutely terrified when you actually receive it?” he asked, ignoring Simone's heavy sigh from next to him. He knew Jessica would understand what he meant.
She touched his arm, eyes softening with understanding. “Enjoy it, don’t stand here with me.”
Untangling himself from Simone, he guided Jessica toward the center of the room where he had placed one of her paintings. When his fingers encountered bare skin, he tilted his head to look at the back of her dress. It plunged past the small of her back to end at the curve of her hips.
“Like the dress?” Her laugh was low and seductive.
“It’s the kind of dress…” He lost his train of thought when she removed the glass from his hand and sipped from it, her smile full of mischief and knowing.
“Kind of dress?” she prompted.
He grinned and revised his earlier opinions of Ava. This dress redeemed all prior evil acts. “The kind of dress to bring a man to his knees.”
“Good answer.” She linked her fingers through his. “I like the idea of you on your knees.”
“Do you?”
“Jacques, I need you for a minute.” Miranda appeared at his side. “You don’t mind if I steal the star of the show for a minute or two do you, Jessie?”
Their eyes met, communicated promise and…well…disbelief, he would say.
“Go be a star, I'll be waiting."
* * *
The picture transfixed her and thrust her back in time. She could feel the waves, the heat of the sun, the sense of recklessness that drove them to be naked on a beach not far from the public and the love…it swamped her emotions as she stood surrounded by people in an art gallery far, far away from that Italian beach.
“Jessie, I hate to say anything, but—"
“Then don’t.” She ignored Marc, annoyed that he had appeared at the gallery after everything and unwilling to be brought into the present moment just yet. Another minute of lost time…
r /> He stepped into her line of vision. “I was right, wasn’t I?”
She sidestepped away from him. “About what?”
“He is not leaving her for you, is he?”
She noticed the slightly off-balance stance and squinted at him. “Have you been drinking?”
“What was I to you, Jess?” For all appearances, he looked innocent and friendly with his broad smile. “Filler? A good time and—"
She yanked on his sleeve and pulled him close. “Do not cause a scene."
“He has no idea who you really are,” he whispered wetly against her ear. “Look around. You don’t fit in with these people. There are fashion models here; his own sister is a designer. I saw two actors, one of whom he’s speaking to as if they are old friends while you walk around alone. He’s a bigger deal than I thought, maybe a bigger deal than you thought, too, hmm?”
She walked to the next photograph, hoping he would have enough sense to disappear. She did belong here.
“How long do you think playing house will last before he gets bored?” Marc stood too close, his hand resting on the small of her back. “You and me, we’re ordinary people with ordinary lives.” He smiled down at her, sadness clouding his eyes. “We don’t mix well with people like these.”
“People like these?” A headache punched holes in her skull.
“The beautiful artsy people who stay out all night and sleep until noon.” He feigned interest in the photograph in front of them.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Kevin stood at her side, hawk-like eyes scanning Marc.
“I could use some water, actually.” She touched his arm. “I have a bitch of a headache.”
“Hmm…” He looked at Marc again. “I’ll be right back with it.”
Sela joined them with Carter in tow. “You sure enjoyed running around naked when you were in Italy, didn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say I was running around…” Well, then again, discretion hadn’t been at the forefront of her brain either. She smiled and rolled her shoulders back. “I'm assuming Carter has been telling his stories."
“The photographs are stellar, most of his best work features you, Jessie, and you're usually nude in them, at least the few that I have seen.” Sela laughed.