“I’m Mark Compton,” he says, “the gallery manager. And it looks like I owe you more than an answer to whatever your question is. It appears I need to thank you for assisting my customers.” He glances at the couple. “I take it you’ve made a selection?”
“Indeed we have,” the husband says, clearly pleased to have his wife make a decision. “We’d like to take it home with us tonight if possible.”
“Excellent,” he says. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll have it packaged for you.”
He motions for me to walk with him, and I shake my head. “I’m in no rush. Help them with their purchase, and you can find me later.”
He studies me a bit too intently, those silvery eyes of his rich with interest, and I am suddenly self-conscious. He is, without a doubt, classically handsome by anyone’s standards, but there is also something raw and sexual about this man, something almost predatory about him.
“All right then,” he says softly, “I’ll find you soon.” It isn’t a statement that alludes to a double meaning, but yet, I feel one there. His gaze shifts to the couple. “Let’s go ring you up.”
The couple thank me for my help and hurries after Mark. The minute they are gone, the minute Mark Compton is out of sight, I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and shake myself inwardly. And not just because of the way his eyes had assessed me so…so what? Intimately? Surely not. I still have this over-active imagination thing going on over the journals. I do wonder if he is the "he" from the journals. He certainly has the animal magnetism Rebecca’s words painted him with. But then, so does Ricco Alvarez. Good grief, I’m making myself crazy.
A staff member interrupts me before I can go on another "crazy" thinking spree, and removes the couple's purchase from the display. I force myself to stop over-analyzing and relax, basking in the solitude as I discover Chris Merit’s newest work.
“You like Merit?” comes another male voice, this one familiar.
I turn to find the man who’d sat next to me during the presentation standing in the doorway. I give a quick, eager nod. “Very much. I wish they had some of his portraits, but his urban landscapes are magnificent. You?”
He leans against the wall. “I hear he doesn’t have an overinflated ego. That scores points with me.”
I tilt my head and study him, relaxing into the easy conversation. “Why are you here if you don’t like Ricco?”
Mark Compton appears in the doorway. “I see you didn’t venture far,” he says to me and then eyes the other man. “Don’t tell me you’re pimping your own work at Ricco’s event?” He glances at me. “Was he pimping his own work?”
I gape. “Wait. His own work?” I shift my gaze to my nameless new friend, who looks nothing like the Chris Merit I’ve seen photos of. “Who are you exactly?”
His mouth quirks at the edges. “The man with the one red shoe.” And with that, he turns and walks away.
I shake my head. “What? What does that mean?” I turn to Mark. "What does that mean? The man with the one red shoe?”
“Who knows,” Mark says, his lips thinning in disapproval. “Chris has a twisted sense of humor. Thankfully, it doesn’t show up on the canvas.”
My jaw goes slack. “Wait. Are you telling me that was Chris Merit?” I rack my brain over the pictures of him I’ve seen and I remember him differently. Do I have his image confused with another?
“That’s Chris,” he confirms. “And as you can see he has an odd way about him. He was standing in his own display room and didn’t even tell you who he was.” His hands settle on his hips. “Listen, Tesse tells me you…I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”
“Sara,” I supply. “Sara McMillan.”
“Sara,” he repeats, his tone low, as if he was trying it out on his tongue, trying me out on his tongue. Seconds pass, and the small display area seems to get smaller before he adds, "Tesse was right. Rebecca is on a leave of absence.”
His tone shifts back to all business now, and I wonder if I imagine the raspier tone. I am, after all, excelling at making myself crazy. “I see,” I say. “Is there a way to reach her?”
“If you figure out a way, let me know,” he says. “She took a two-week cruise with some rich guy she was dating and that turned into the entire summer. I agreed because she’s good at her job and the clients love her. But depending on interns who don’t know what they’re doing is killing me. I’m going to have to get someone in here to cover for her that actually knows what they are doing.”
“The entire summer,” I repeat uncomfortably, focused on the oddity that represents. All summer was a long time for a working girl to leave her job behind. And Mark’s comment about the "rich guy" hit me just as wrong for some reason, though it could have been merely his frustration over Rebecca’s extended leave. Or maybe…could he be jealous over this rich man? My brows dip. “Leaving you high and dry like this--that doesn’t sound like the responsible Rebecca my sister described.”
“People aren’t always what they seem,” he says and motions toward Chris Merit’s displayed art. “The art does not always mimic the artist. You never know the real person until you slide beneath their surface.”
Or look in their dresser drawer, I think guiltily. But Rebecca didn’t seem like someone to run out on her job to me. She loved her job. Then again, I might be wrong. As seduced as Rebecca had been by this world she’d created, she’d been scared too. And I want to know why more than ever. What created such obsession, such fear?
A sudden burn for answers, a need to leave here tonight with something more than I came with overcomes me, and before I can stop myself, I blurt, “I can cover Rebecca for the summer. I’m a teacher so I’m on break. I have a Master's of Art from The Art Institute, and a Bachelor's in business. I interned for three years at the Museum of Modern Art and I know art. All art. Test me if you like.”
His eyes narrow a fraction, the silence crackling between us for several long seconds. “You’re hired, Sara McMillan. You can start tomorrow. I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your evening.” He lowers his voice. “Tomorrow, you're all mine.” He turns and walks away.
I blink, stunned. He’d just hired me, but he hadn’t even asked me one single question. I hadn’t asked about hours or pay. I inhale a sharp breath. I’d come here to find Rebecca, to make sure she is alive and well. Instead, I am about to be Rebecca, or rather, be the Marketing Director for the gallery. So I can find Rebecca, I tell myself. Something has happened to Rebecca, and I have to prove it. That’s why I’m here. No other reason.
Chapter Four
I am still standing in the middle of Chris Merit’s display, in stunned disbelief, when something snaps inside me. I am hot and confused and feeling like the world is spinning around me. I’ve spent money I don’t have on the ticket for the night, but I can’t get out of this gallery fast enough. I run for the door, not literally, but I might as well be. This heat I feel is unexplainable, considering the gallery is chilly, and I need air desperately. I need to think. I need to figure out what is going on inside me, because it is nothing I know as familiar.
Exiting to the street, I welcome the cool night air washing over me. I turn quickly to my left and intend to head for my car, when the strap of my purse catches and snags on the brick of the building and somehow it snaps open. The contents spill to the ground. With exasperation, I squat, trying to retrieve my items. This is so my life and there is a tiny part of me comforted by my familiar clumsiness, by something that feels like me. I mean, who else, can manage to catch their purse on a wall of all things?
“Need some help?”
My gaze shoots upward to find Chris Merit at eye level and for a rare moment in time, I can’t find the words to ramble with my nerves. While I’d felt comfortable with him inside the gallery, I am dumbstruck now that I know who he is. He is brilliant. He is also incredibly good looking, and squatting down on the ground with me, which somehow feels wrong. This night has me feeling as if I am in the twilight zone. There is no ot
her explanation for how bizarre it is.
“I...ah...no,” I manage. “Thank you. I got it. It’s a little purse. Doesn’t hold much.” I scoop up my lipstick and a tiny wallet, and slide them back inside the bag, before pushing to my feet.
He grabs my keys and stands, towering over my five feet four inches by a good foot. I hadn’t realized how tall he was when he’d been sitting beside me at the Ricco event, or how earthy and deliciously male he smells, but the wind lifts and the scent tickles my nose. He is different from Mark, not so sophisticated and debonair, more raw, and yes, like his scent, earthy.
He gives me another one of those devastating smiles he’d used on me in the gallery and dangles my keys in the air. “You might need these to go wherever you’re going so fast.”
“Thank you,” I say and accept them. His fingers brush mine and electricity charges up my arm, across my chest, and steals my breath. My eyes meet his, and I see awareness in the deep green depths of his stare. Only, I’m not sure if it’s the same kind of awareness I feel. Maybe, it’s simply that I hide my feelings horribly and he now knows I’m reacting to him, and it amuses him.
“You’re leaving early,” he comments, his hands going to his hips, which pushes back his blazer enough for me to see the stretch of his black t-shirt across his impressive chest. I approve, as I’m sure the rest of the female population does as well.
“Yes,” I say and jerk my attention to his face, to a full mouth that has me a bit breathless, but then everything has me breathless tonight, it seems. ”I need to get home.”
“Why don’t I walk you to your car?”
He wants to walk me to my car. I’m not sure why he would want to do that. He doesn’t even know me. Is it possible that he felt that same electricity I did, or do I amuse him and he wants to continue the entertainment? Mark did say he has a strange sense of humor. “Why didn’t you tell me who you are?” I blurt, not liking the idea of being a joke.
His lips quirk. “Because then you would have told me you loved my work even if you hated it.”
My brows dip. I’m not sure how I feel about that. “That’s sneaky.”
“It spared you the awkwardness of pretending to like my work.”
“There wouldn’t have been any awkwardness. I like your work.”
“And I like that you like my work,” he approves, a warm glow in his eyes. “So...shall I walk you to your car?”
My escape has been further waylaid, but I’m not sure that is a bad thing anymore. “Okay,” I squeak, appalled at my lack of voice. There is a reason I don’t date much. I’m horrible at it. I get shy and I pick the wrong men, who use both of those very things against me. Dominant, controlling men, who seem to turn me on in the bedroom, and off in real life. It’s genetic. I’m quite certain that had I a sister, she would have been just as foolish about men as myself and as my mother had been. And while Chris, at first impression, doesn’t strike me as arrogant or controlling, his failure to tell me who he was earlier in the evening was in fact a way of controlling my reaction. Not that I think he is interested in me. I’m over-analyzing and I know it. Chris Merit could have his choice of women, and in fact, probably has. He doesn’t need to add little ol’ me to the list.
“You know my name,” he says, pulling me from my reverie. “It’s only fair I know yours.”
“Sara. Sara McMillan.”
“Nice to meet you, Sara.”
“I should be the one saying that to you,” I say. ”I wasn’t joking when I said I love your art. I studied your work in college.
“Now you’re making me feel old.”
“Hardly,” I say. “You started painting when you were a teen.”
He cast me a sideways look. “You weren’t joking when you said you studied my work.”
“Art major.”
“And what do you do now?”
I feel a little punch to my gut. “School teacher.”
“Art?”
“No,” I say. “High school English.”
“So why study art?”
“Because I love art.”
“Yet you’re an English teacher?”
“What’s wrong with being an English teacher?” I ask, unable to curb the defensiveness in my tone.
He stops walking and turns to me. “Nothing is wrong with it at all, except that I don’t think that’s what you want to do.”
“You don’t know me enough to say that. You don’t know me at all.”
“I know the excitement I saw in your eyes when you were in the gallery.”
“I don’t deny that.” A gust of wind rushes over us and goosebumps lift on my skin, I don’t want to be scrutinized. This man sees too much. “We should walk.”
He shrugs out of his jacket and before I know what’s happening, it’s wrapped around my shoulders and that earthy raw scent of his is surrounding me. I’m wearing Chris Merit’s coat and I am dumbstruck all over again. His hands are on the lapels and he is staring down at me. My gaze catches on the brilliant colorful tattoo that covers every inch of his right arm. I’ve never been with a man with tattoos, and never thought I liked them, but I find myself wondering where else he might have them.
“I saw you talking to Mark,” he says. “Did you buy something tonight?”
“I wish,” I say with a snort, and my embarrassment at the unladylike sound that comes too naturally only drives home reality to me. We are from two different worlds, this man and I. His is one of dreams fulfilled and mine is one of impossible dreams. “I doubt I could afford one of your brushes, let alone a completed piece.”
His eyes narrow. “You shouldn’t walk away from something that intrigues you.” His voice is a soft rasp of sandpaper that still manages to be velvet on my nerve endings.
Suddenly, I’m not sure we are talking about art and my throat is dry. I swallow hard and though I hadn’t decided I was really going through with it, I blurt, “I’m taking a summer job at the gallery.”
His light blond brow arches. “Are you now?”
“Yes.” I know it is the truth as I say the word. I know I’ve already decided I am going to take the job. “I’m filling in for Rebecca until her return.” I search his face for a reaction, but I see none. He is unreadable--or am I just too affected by his nearness to see one?
His hands are still on the lapels and he doesn’t move for a long moment. I don’t want him to move. I want him to...I don’t know...but then again, yes I do. I want him to kiss me. It’s a silly, fantastical moment, no doubt brought on by the journals, that has me blushing. I cut my gaze, feeling as if the heat in his will scorch me inside out. I motion to my car, shocked to realize it’s only one parking meter down. “That’s me.”
Slowly, his hands loosen on my--or rather his--jacket. I immediately walk to my car, willing myself not to dump my purse again. I click the locks open and I stop by the curb before opening my door. I turn to find him close, so very wonderfully close. And that scent of his is driving me wild, pooling heat low in my belly.
“Thanks for the walk and the jacket.” I shrug out of it.
He reaches for the jacket and takes it, and I hope he will touch me, and fear that he will, at the same moment. I am so out of control and confused.
His eyes burn hot like green fire before he softly says, “It’s been my pleasure...Sara.” And then he just turns and starts walking, without another word.
***
Hours later, I sit on my bed in a pair of boxers and a tank, legs crossed, with that box and a screwdriver in front of me. I have no idea why the idea of taking the job at the gallery makes opening it seem imperative, but it does, and it is. Rubies trim the lid and an etched, abstract design is in the center. The latch holding it closed looks old and easy to break, and just as beautifully designed as the rest of the box.
“How very artsy,” I murmur, tracing the design with my fingers. The idea of destroying the box doesn’t sit well with me, nor does invading Rebecca’s privacy. So why, why, why do I know I am going to open th
is box? Why do I have to know what is inside? “Curiosity killed the cat, Sara.”
It doesn’t seem to matter. Of their own will, my hands go to work. I slide the flat end of the screwdriver between the lips of the lid and base and apply pressure. The latch pops easily.
My adrenaline surges and my heart thunders in my chest. I have no idea why I am hanging on a thread, why I feel like this box is so important, why I feel any of this is important. Slowly, I lift the lid, and luxurious red velvet is the first thing I see. I suck in a breath at what is cradled by that velvet and my heart thunders all over again.
Chapter Five
I blink at the unexpected contents of the box. A paintbrush and a picture that has been torn into two pieces, so that only a woman is left. This is Rebecca. I don’t know why it didn’t seem odd to me that I hadn’t seen any pictures of her in the many personal effects I studied in the storage unit. There hadn’t been a picture of her on the gallery website either. Perhaps I didn’t notice these things before now because I didn’t want to know what she looked like.
Reaching for the photo, I hold it between my fingers and study it, study her. She is beautiful and petite with long, sandy brown hair, and a brilliant smile that tells me that at the moment this picture was taken, she was immensely happy. Her image mesmerizes me and I wonder why she tore the picture. I wonder who was in it with her and who took the photo. Even more so, I wonder why she kept the picture after she tore it up.
My brow furrows as my attention shifts to the paint brush. It’s such an odd thing to save, but then, so is half of a picture. I pick up the brush and run my fingers over the bristles that have a hint of a yellow paint at the tips. The wood bears no marks or logo. It’s clearly a sentimental item, which isn’t so unexpected really, considering she worked at the gallery. So was the man in the journal an artist? The prospects of who he might be are far reaching. My stomach knots as I think of Chris. I keep thinking about Chris and those greener than green eyes.