He gave me an odd look and ran his hand through his hair, answering the question of how he'd gotten paint highlighted through the strands. "How much do I owe you?" His gaze darted down to my hands, then back up. "Did you forget the food?"
Now it was my turn to give him a strange look. "What are you talking about?"
His mouth curved into a half-smile. "You're not here to deliver my lunch, are you?"
I chuckled and tried to hide how thrown – and charmed – I was. "I think we have a miscommunication." I held out my hand. "I'm Savannah Birch, the reporter slash critic from The Heart of Art."
I silently congratulated myself for not making a face at the magazine's name. They hired me and a couple other writers in their early twenties to try to revitalize their image, but they still had a way to go.
His half-smile fell into a sardonic one as he reached out to clasp my hand. I swallowed a gasp at the heat and electricity that flowed out from where his skin touched mine. I mean, I knew he was hot. I had eyes. But that connection, it was beyond attraction. It was like an almost audible click.
"Come in," he said as he took a step back out of the doorway. "I was just getting ready to break for lunch."
As I stepped past him, I caught his scent – paint and soap and some underlying masculine smell that twisted primal things low in my stomach. Shit. I could get addicted to that.
"Sorry about how that sounded," he said. "Me asking how much. I promise that I meant it in the most innocent way possible."
With a voice like that, I doubted anything he ever said could be construed as innocent. I could get wet just listening to him read an owner's manual.
"A simple misunderstanding," I said with what I hoped was a professional smile. I definitely didn't want him to know how attractive I thought he was. The last thing I needed was my first relevant assignment to go up in smoke because I couldn't keep my hormones under control.
He was gorgeous. Big deal. I'd already prepared myself to deal with some level of hero worship. Some physical attraction on top of that shouldn't be an issue. I'd never let it be one before. I mean, my best friend was hot, and it'd never been an issue between us. Sure, he was gay, but plenty of straight women had crushes on gay guys.
That was what I needed to do. Pretend Jace was gay. Because then it wouldn't matter that his ass was even better than I thought it would be, or that I'd suddenly fixated on his hands. Those long, strong fingers. Fuck. I shivered at the thought of the things those fingers could do.
How they would feel on my body. Inside me. If they would caress my breasts or be rough and pinch my nipples until they throbbed. If he'd wrap those fingers around my wrists and hold them, restrain me...
Fuck.
I closed my eyes for a moment and ran through a list of my favorite artists by year and categorization. Anything that would keep me from thinking about what it would be like to have those artist's hands…
Shit.
"Ms. Birch? Are you all right?"
I opened my eyes and forced a smile as I turned. "I'm fine, thank you."
Before I could say anything else, the doorbell rang again.
"That probably is my food this time," he said as he stepped around me. "I'll be right back. Make yourself comfortable."
As he walked back the way we'd come, I forced myself to turn away before I could start picturing the way that ass would look bare. The muscles tensing as he pumped...
"Fuck," I muttered.
It shouldn't have been this difficult to get my mind out of the gutter. I'd never been a flighty person, distracted by a pretty face or a nice body. I was driven by my work.
And I didn't date artists. Hell, as long as I could help it, I didn't even fuck artists. Most creative people tended to be on the...temperamental side. Which meant emotional. Dramatic. Yes, passionate, but I had no problem giving up a bit of passion if it meant I didn't have to deal with any drama. Women generally had the reputation of being the ones who freaked out about sex, but I believed in equal opportunities for everyone when it came to making fools of themselves.
Which meant, when it came to sex, I drew a firm line in the sand, and I wasn't going to cross it.
Not even for someone as amazing as Jace Randell.
Six
Jace
I didn't think I'd ever met anyone quite like Savannah Birch. Sure, I'd met beautiful women, delicate women. What I'd never seen was a woman who had been insulted take it so well. The moment I realized that she wasn't delivering my food, I realized that my having asked her how much could have been taken in a very non-food way. Any other woman who thought she'd been mistaken for a prostitute would have been insulted. Well, most women anyway, and the ones with class definitely, and she certainly had class.
She hadn't demanded an apology, even though it had technically just been a misunderstanding, and I appreciated that. Then she'd introduced herself, and I realized she knew who I was. And she hadn't hit on me.
I wasn't an arrogant person, but I was self-aware enough to know that based on looks alone, most women would have, at the very least, been flirting with me. I was also not naive enough to think that once someone discovered just how much money I had, that they wouldn't want me for that alone. So the fact that Savannah hadn't acted on any of the desire I'd seen in her eyes spoke volumes about either her self-control, or her dedication to her job.
Or I'd completely misread the fact that she wanted me.
I walked back into the studio with my food. As was all too often my habit when I was working, I ordered way more than I'd be able to eat in one sitting so I wouldn't have to worry about interrupting the flow to order again. I supposed a part of me was hoping that following my normal routine for creating would trigger something.
It hadn't, but at least I now had enough food to offer my guest.
"Sorry," I apologized as I took the food over to the small table I used when I was too caught up in what I was doing to leave the studio. "I hadn't realized you were coming, or I would have gotten us something nicer for lunch. I have enough to share if you like Indian food."
She gave me a puzzled look that wasn't quite fast enough to cover the flare of heat I'd seen hidden behind her unique irises. Any previous doubt I'd had about whether or not she was attracted to me disappeared, and it surprised me that I actually cared.
"No one told you I was coming?"
I gestured toward one of the other chairs as I sat down. "No. Was someone supposed to?"
She frowned, but she seemed to be more confused than annoyed. "I thought they were."
"Sit," I said, nodding to the chair across from me. "Eat."
To my surprise, she took the seat closest to me, close enough that when she crossed her legs, the toes of her shoe brushed my knee. She picked up one of the cartons, gave it a serious look, then picked up a fork and took a couple bites.
Maybe it'd been too long since I'd been on an actual date because I found myself staring at her while she ate. Partly, I was watching her mouth because she had these amazing lips. A perfect cupid's bow at the top, and a bottom lip a little fuller, but not so plump that her mouth looked unbalanced.
While her looks were captivating, another part of me was more fascinated that she had no qualms about eating in front of me. My ex had refused to eat more than a few bites in my presence, as if I'd ever said a word about her weight or what she ate. As an artist, I was not only a firm believer that beauty came in all shapes and sizes, I actually didn't have one particular body type that appealed over another.
"Is something wrong?"
It took her question to make me realize that I'd stopped eating and was staring at her.
"Sorry." I gave myself a mental shake and refocused on my food. "I was just thinking about what you said about someone calling me."
I reached over to the small refrigerator and took out two bottles of water. I handed one to her and opened the other for myself. I had a couple bottles of beer in there too, but I rarely imbibed when I was trying to work. I knew som
e artists felt like alcohol enhanced their creativity, but that wasn't the case for me. I generally only indulged if I was tensed up from not being able to paint, but something about Savannah made me think having a clear head would be best.
"My boss assigned me to cover the show you have coming up." She took a long drink of her water. "He said I should stop by today to meet with you, get some backstory, find out why you were finally doing interviews. I assumed that meant he talked to someone – you or your agent or whatever – but apparently, I should have asked."
"Don't worry about it." I almost told her that I hadn't actually accomplished anything before she arrived, but then figured that, as intrigued as I was by her, it still wouldn't be smart to share that particular bit of information with a journalist I didn't know.
"So, do you have a few minutes to spare for some questions?"
Her question wasn't timid, but it also wasn't pushy. She managed to find that balance that most people in the media didn't have. It was a good quality for an art critic, being able to extract information from the upper crust of society without them feeling pressured.
"It's fine if you can't," she added and set a mostly empty carton back on the table. "I'll schedule a meeting for another day."
I shook my head. "I have time." I finished off my bottle of water as I waited for her to begin.
Except she didn't.
A flush crept up her cheeks, and I wondered if it was because she didn't know what to say...or because she was thinking something entirely inappropriate. Despite not being interested in a relationship, and having absolutely no intention of getting involved with a reporter even for a single night, I couldn't help hoping it was the latter of the two. I didn't usually find myself wanting a woman to be attracted to me, but my instincts continued to tell me that she was no ordinary woman.
It took approximately a minute and a half for my curiosity about her to overcome my patience.
"So, are you a fan of art, or is this a story you were assigned at random?"
She raised her head, her jaw taking on a stubborn set. "I have a degree in journalism with a minor in art history from NYU. I want to be an art critic."
One corner of my mouth quirked up before I could stop it. "Good to know. Most reporters I talk to consider an art piece to be just a step or two above covering a garden show. Working for a magazine like The Heart of Art wouldn't be much better than doing fluff entertainment pieces in their eyes."
"It's all I've wanted to do since I first saw–" She stopped suddenly, even more color flooding her face. She took a slow breath, and then went on, "When I was a junior in high school, I went on a trip to an art gallery and saw three paintings that changed my life. I don't have any artistic talent, but at that moment, I knew that I had to find a place in that world."
The first thing that hit me was the intensity and passion I could see in her eyes, hear in her words. The second was that she appeared to gain confidence as she gave me that insight into her life.
"What paintings?" I asked, unconsciously leaning forward. If they had inspired something so genuine in this woman, perhaps they could do the same for me.
Something strange flickered in her eyes, as if she had to make some sort of decision about what she said next, but then she squared her shoulders and answered my question. "A Spirit in the Woods, A Maiden's Regret, and Tempestuous Stars."
It was my turn to be speechless for several seconds. Those were my paintings. If I'd given them no name at all or something a bit more common, then I might have thought it was a coincidence, that she'd happened to see some paintings that shared the titles of mine, but the odds were too high for it to be anything else.
"Where did you see those?" The question was completely inane, but I couldn't quite think of anything else to say yet.
"Indianapolis." I felt her assessing me from under her lashes. "You'd just sold them to the owner of the gallery. Her brother was my art teacher."
I remembered that, I realized with a start. They were the first pieces I'd ever sold, and I made the connection through one of the nurses who helped look after my father those last few years. I'd wanted to celebrate, but there hadn't been anyone I could think of to call or tell who would actually care. It was the same night I found Gilded Cage.
Fate and destiny weren't words I generally used, but I couldn't deny how serendipitous it felt that the same three paintings that had brought me to my friends and to a world where my preferences were considered normal, had also connected me with a woman I couldn't help but want to get to know.
"If you were a junior then, it would make you..." I let the question trail off and hoped she wouldn't be offended that I was fishing for her age. I originally thought she was probably still in college, but now I was putting her a bit older than that.
"Twenty-five." She grinned, causing those unique eyes to almost sparkle. "Though I've heard it's not polite to ask a lady her age."
Her grin was contagious, and I found myself smiling back.
"So, my paintings made you decide to become an art critic? I'm trying to decide if that's a good or bad thing."
"Good." She laughed, a sweet, husky sound that rolled over me with the sort of sensuality I couldn't ignore. "I'd always liked art, but when I saw them...they spoke to something in me. The way you worked varying textures into the different colors so that the contrasts were more than between the various shades. They made me want to add touch to sight, to give blue a specific feel against my fingertips."
As she talked, a feeling uncoiled in my chest, something I couldn't identify at first, but then realized was...love. I'd been painting for release, for an outlet, and because I had a show I needed new work for, but it had been a long time since I'd painted simply for the joy of it. And that was what I wanted to do now. I wanted to go back to my canvases and paint because before, even when it had been an outlet for me, I once loved it. Somewhere along the way, I lost that. Listening to Savannah talk about the different pieces I'd created and how they made her feel brought that desire back again.
For the first time in months, maybe longer, I thought that I might be able to paint again. It might not yield anything worth a gallery, but it would set me on the road back to where I wanted to be.
For a number of reasons, I was suddenly very glad that Savannah's editor had sent her my way.
Seven
Savannah
I hadn't planned on discussing my personal experience with his art. I hadn't planned on discussing anything of a personal nature, actually, and certainly not on my end of things. This was supposed to be about him, about his show, but he completely disarmed me. He was nothing like I expected. I hadn't read anything negative about him, so it hadn't been like I'd walked in the door thinking he was this playboy partier or anything like that. His past wasn't well-known, and I hadn't tried to dig into it because this was supposed to be about his art.
I told myself this was why I was so enthusiastically describing the way his work made me feel, how I saw it. It had nothing to do with the need to tell the person who'd opened my eyes to the world in a new way just what he'd done for me.
It wasn't until I finally stopped talking that I realized I'd been going on for nearly five solid minutes while he just sat there and listened. Not for the first time today, my face was red.
"Thank you." His tone was sincere, his eyes kind.
And yet, under that kindness was a heat that spoke to me in a different way.
A way I wanted to ignore, even as I wanted to embrace it.
"Sorry about that." I gave him a rueful smile. "When I got the assignment, I told myself I wouldn't do that."
He smiled, leaning toward me. "It's been a long time since I've seen someone be that passionate about art – any art – let alone mine. Most of the people I talk to have all sorts of pretentious words they like to use, but not a single one of them mean anything."
A moment settled between us, and I knew it could turn so many different ways. Awkward as we realized we'd gone a step too fa
r toward personal. Romantic as we gave in to the connection I knew was between us. Or I could make sure things went the way they were supposed to go. The way they should have gone from the beginning.
"Art is important to me." I hoped my smile was more professional than it felt. "And I believe that yours is exceptional."
"I thought an art critic wasn't supposed to come in with any biases." He sounded like he was teasing, but I could tell we were back on solid ground.
I laughed. "If college taught me anything, it's that no one goes into any sort of review or critique without any biases."
He leaned back in his chair, everything about his body language more relaxed than it had been. "Where do you want to start?"
"Can you tell me a bit about the show that's coming up?" I set down a small notepad on the table. "Like why you chose this particular event."
"It's a great charity." There wasn't a trace of deceit or self-satisfaction in his voice. "Clean drinking water is more important than most people realize, and if I can help raise money by talking to a reporter and donating some art, I'm glad to help."
"There doesn't seem to be much in the way of details of what's going to be shown."
A shadow seemed to settle over him, and he shrugged, but I could still see something negative lingering there.
"We haven't really decided on a theme," he said finally. "A way to present the work. There's nothing really...clear about it."
I nodded, knowing it wouldn't do any good to push at the moment. "Okay. Let's shift away from your work then. You don't really do many interviews, and the ones you have done don't really talk much about your art."
He shifted uncomfortably. "Most reporters are more interested in my bank balance and my family connections than they are in art."
"Well, I'm not most reporters." I hoped he didn't paint me with the same brush as my peers – pun intended. "If you want to talk about how your bank balance and your family connections affect your art, you're more than welcome to, but otherwise, I'm not planning on writing anything about either of those subjects."