I thought he was finally done then and took a breath to respond, but he waved his hand as if to say "not yet" and continued.
"You see, I love my daughters, Miss Jacks... I mean Ms. Carmichael...." Carl paused for breath. "I can't lose them. I just... can't. So I've come here today to apologize. And to start over...."
Sticking out his manicured hand, he smiled a wan smile. "Hello, I'm Carl Martin. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Carmichael."
"Thank you, Carl," I said, eyeing his outstretched hand before grasping it. "I accept your apology. As for all the rest, I've just seen you don personalities like changing suit jackets, so I don't know what to believe." I gazed up into his eyes expecting to find the smooth, suave, performer looking back at me. His touch felt warm, but it was his eyes that radiated an uncanny heat that made him all the more handsome. He brought my hand to his soft lips in a gentlemanly fashion that somehow made my toes tingle, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Please believe me when I say I am being entirely sincere with you, Jacqueline." He covered my hand with his free one, cocooning me in his warmth. "You are as refreshingly honest as you are beautiful. And talented." Carl tipped his chin toward my work on display. "After you unexpectedly left yesterday, the girls and I toured your booth. Is this your living? Selling paintings? Drawing portraits?"
"No. I, uh, work weekdays for a graphics arts firm in Santa Rosa. This is just a weekend gig. Whenever my number is drawn in the Arts Commission lottery." I slowly extricated my hand from his, trying not to show my growing discomfort. Yesterday I'd thought the man was a rich prig; today I was seeing a different person, one who seemed so... human. A father who didn't want to lose his daughters. A man willing to apologize for being an ass. A gray-eyed charmer who kissed women appreciatively on the hand with his soft lips and made their toes tingle.
Carl cleared his throat. "This may seem rather forward, but would you join me for dinner tonight, Jacqueline?"
"Thank you, but no. I'm already busy," I lied, feeling somewhat taken aback by his disarming directness and the impromptu invitation. It made no sense that he would ask me out and I felt suddenly uncomfortable at being the subject of his undivided attention. I turned away and began the task of packing up the booth.
"Consider dinner part of my apology. Consider it also a business opportunity. I have a number of clients who occasionally require a graphic artist to help them brand their side-businesses. I think your work may be a match for a few of my lady clients."
I shook my head, trying to shake loose the cobwebs. The man was so intense, a Jekyll/Hyde with personal and business personas he rotated with disarming speed.
"I'll think about it," I decided, putting him off. "I have some commissions lined up already, so I'm not sure that's something I can take on right now."
"May I call you next week to set up a meeting?" He grabbed one of my business cards from the table.
"Sure," I sighed, too tired to argue with him. The man was persistent, and if there was any truth to the potential business he might send my way, I definitely should consider it. Besides, what could it hurt to take a meeting?
"And...may I purchase one of the fairy queen paintings for Hannah? I promised her I would ask if they were for sale." Carl's voice sounded both sincere and apologetic.
"Do you ever slow down?" I turned back toward him, a cardboard box of prints in my arms.
"Here, let me help you," Carl said, immediately grabbing the box.
"No," I said, wrestling the box of prints away from him. "I'm quite capable, Mr. Martin. My friend will be here shortly to help me load everything up and I need get things ready."
"Is this a special friend, by chance?"
"None of your business!" I sputtered, incredulous at the man's relentless questioning.
Carl nodded, looking mildly sheepish. "Of course. I—I apologize again, Ms. Carmichael."
Our eyes met over the box in my arms. The waning sun had turned his gray irises to a very light shade of violet. Wisteria to be exact. I knew it was a trick of the light, the deep purple shirt somehow influencing how my brain perceived the gray, but it was striking nonetheless, making me study the man's handsome face. The elegant nose, the smooth skin, the curving lips, the gentle jaw line. I reluctantly pulled my attention away and returned to the business at hand.
"So, one of the fairy queen pictures for Hannah?"
"Please. If you are willing to part with it."
"For Hannah, I will," I decided, digging my camera out of my bag. "Which one were you thinking?" I didn't recall whether Hannah had a favorite or whether her father would know the difference.
"Oh, the red one," Carl smiled. "Thank you."
"Let me photograph it first, and then I'll wrap it for you."
"Wonderful. Perhaps... you'd also consent to selling the purple one as well? For my younger daughter, Eloise?"
"You are an unrelenting persistent booger, Mr. Carl Jacobs Martin," I laughed, placing the two fairy queens side-by-side on my table.
"I am," Carl admitted. "People rarely say no to me for some reason. I've been told I wear them down, a quality that has served me mostly well."
I began wrapping the fairy portraits, considering the "mostly well" caveat, but decided not to pursue further conversation. Best that Carl Jacobs Martin be on his way and me on mine. I was a California street vendor in Birkenstock sandals, faded overalls, and a stained chambray shirt; he was a rich entertainment executive. We moved in different universes, different classes. People liked to think America was a classless society, but I knew better. Business interests aside, I was not part of Carl's world and never would be, and I knew it.
"Here you go," I smiled, handing the brown paper package to him.
"There is the matter of the price?" Carl reminded me, extricating his wallet from his back pants pocket again.
"Five dollars," I said, watching his dark eyebrows crick over the gray-violet eyes.
"That's not nearly...." He shook his head, removing a hundred dollar bill from his wallet.
"Let's not haggle over this," I said, holding my hand in front of me as a stop sign.
"No, let's not." Carl's insisted. "Please let me pay you what they are worth."
"Please let me gift the fairy queen to Hannah," I countered, knowing I'd invoked an unfair advantage by mentioning his daughter's name.
"You are incorrigible, Jacqueline!" Carl pursed his lips, his eyes a cloudy gray now.
"I am," I smiled sweetly.
"Fine," Carl huffed. "I only have twenties." He slapped a bill on the table, his expression irritated. "Good day, Ms. Carmichael." He hesitated as he turned, as if not wanting to go, but having no excuse to stay.
"Good day, Mr. Martin." I watched him walk down the sidewalk, the lean, muscled physique moving with a smooth athletic grace. Carl Jacobs Martin was a very handsome man, a man who undoubtedly had a line of Hollywood starlets waiting at his door. Although he had asked me to dinner and taken my card, I'd probably never see him again, except for perhaps on the entertainment news if I ever bothered to watch it.
So, why did the thought make me feel so misty-eyed?
Chapter Three
Carl waited exactly the requisite three polite days to call. Three days where I'd wondered whether I was a crazy person for thinking there had been something between us. Something that had captured his interest sufficiently to lead to a future meeting — most likely business, rather than pleasure, of course. At a minimum, an interview with a portfolio presentation. His message had sounded somewhat breathless: Vicente's Bistro, 8pm, Saturday night, he'd send a car.
Yes, Carl Jacobs Martin had piqued my interest, and if our encounter took a turn away from business toward the pleasurable side of the tracks and I had an opportunity to kiss those soft lips, I decided I was not above taking advantage of it. Not at all.
Since Jim and I had separated a year ago, I'd been rather hesitant when it came to men. Appreciative and attracted, of course, but cautious. Not that the separation hadn't been am
icable; Jim was probably still my best friend, except for my cousin Rita. He and I had moved out to California together from New York after we graduated high school and built a life in Santa Rosa where he had friends. I was a good match for his bohemian musician lifestyle and fit in well with his California musician crowd. The group's philosophical and metaphysical interests — along with their liberal politics — kept our late night discussions lively. Not that I minded; the band members and their girlfriends were a fascinating group, notwithstanding their penchant for partying every night. Jim had always been supportive of my art, my number one fan, going to great lengths to help me with setting up and tearing down the booth on weekends when I was lucky enough to draw a spot at one of the local street markets. But when his interest in me waned, I suspected it had more to do with our handsome neighbor Timothy than anything between us. When Timothy moved in a month after I moved out , I embraced them as a couple.
Can't fight the inevitable. We love who we love.
Recalling Jim's lithe muscled frame, I marveled over how my old lover was a blue-collar mirror image of Carl Jacobs Martin.
No, we really can't help our attractions, can we?
Vicente's Bistro was upscale Sonoma Valley dining. Italian and expensive — not to mention delicious. Saturday evening I decided to dress for the restaurant, rather than a business meeting. My amethyst satin cocktail dress was straight 1950's with a form-fitting bosom, cinched waist, and dramatic flared skirt. The halter top straps left my shoulders bare, the top snug across my breasts, showing some tasteful cleavage. With matching purple eye shadow, a pearl choker necklace, and my dark hair long and loose, I didn't look half bad. Gazing at my reflection in the full length mirror in my bedroom, I smiled, recalling Rita's comments when she'd first seen me in the dress last year clubbing in New York. Those boobs are your secret weapon, Jacks. Why would anyone look at the rest of us waifs when they can feast their eyes on you.
I didn't especially agree with her — because my cousin was rather attractive in her own right. But I had to admit she was right about one thing: the boobs were definitely noticeable. Hopefully Carl would be paying attention.
At 8 pm exactly, the black town car pulled up in front of my apartment building. Donning a black lace shawl, I picked up the oversize portfolio case, and trundled down the stairs in my ankle strap heels. The driver opened the door and ushered me inside, taking great care to place my cumbersome bag on the wide seat beside me, then repeated the ritual again in reverse order outside the restaurant.
Vicente's was busy as usual for a Saturday night. I paused by the mahogany host podium. "Name please, miss?" The dark-haired maitre de smiled, his eyes firmly fixed on my face, rather than my outfit.
"Jacqueline Carmichael. I'm meeting Carl Martin." I returned the smile and shifted the large portfolio to my other hand.
"Of course. Allow me, miss." The man held out his hand to carry my case.
"Thank you," I demurred.
"Right this way, please." The host led me through the restaurant toward a half-round booth at the back where Carl waited, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on a stand to the side. As we approached, Carl raised his head briefly, looked right through me, then return his gaze to the paperwork in front of him.
In a flash, my brain fled down a twisty trail of doubt. Was I that unmemorable? Or simply unimportant? Should I have even accepted this man's invitation? Perhaps I could simply keep walking and find the back door to the alley. Embarrassed, I felt myself blushing as we arrived at the table.
"Ms. Carmichael, sir," the maitre de announced, placing my portfolio gently beside my seat, then quickly scurrying off.
Pausing awkwardly beside the table, I realized Carl was now standing. Smiling politely, I looked up into his face.
"Jacqueline, I..." he stuttered, his cheeks flushing beneath his tan. His hands unconsciously cupped my elbows, gray eyes smiling with what I could only interpret as surprise. "You are... absolutely stunning. Please... sit."
I sat as invited, trying to retain what grace I could in this odd situation, and folded the shawl beside me on the seat.
A moment later, Carl collected my hand and brought it to his lips, the motion graceful and gentlemanly and undoubtedly sensual — perhaps more than he realized. As I watched his soft lips touch my skin, I felt the sensation zipping up my arm, down my side, into my thighs and out my toes. It took everything I had not to wiggle in my seat.
"I must apologize," he said, sitting across from me. "It seems I am doing that a lot this week... I did not recognize you at first glance. You are... very different... than the artist in baggy overalls I remember." His gray eyes studied my long curled hair and bare shoulders.
"You mean I clean up good," I laughed, retrieving my hand from his grip.
"Beyond good," Carl said, his voice insistent. "You're hands down one of the most gorgeous women I have ever had the pleasure of dining with... probably ever."
I looked at him and laughed again, certain he'd switched hats to the suave performer for my benefit.
"You don't believe me?" he said, incredulous and slightly petulant. He cocked his handsome head, smiling.
Shaking my head, I opened my portfolio. "As we discussed, I've brought some of my work to show you tonight."
"Please." Carl graciously allowed me to change the subject, turning his full attention to my presentation. I began with small prints of some of the cliché California images he'd seen in my booth.
As we talked, the waiter opened the champagne and filled our glasses.
"Lasagna sound all right?" Carl asked.
"Fabulous," I nodded, then arranged some of my current corporate graphic arts work for his inspection.
"Cheers," we both said, absently clinking crystal. Then I returned to the business at hand, describing some of my recent projects with local wineries, small businesses trying to make a name for themselves and wanting unique eye-catching labels to draw consumer interest.
Dinner arrived and we ate the delicious meal, our animated conversation consuming our attention. The overlap in our roles as agent and designer became more apparent the longer we talked. Carl explained how many athletes and entertainers worked on packaging and marketing themselves, from their physical appearance and wardrobe, to the roles they solicited and accepted, to the public appearances they chose to make, to the adjunct businesses they invested in. It was fascinating how he served as an advisor of sorts, not only a contract negotiator.
"But I am not actually an artist," he clarified. "I know what works, what sells. When I see it. But I couldn't tell you what that is. I couldn't make it up out of thin air."
Vicente's was winding down for the night, the last few patrons departing as the wait staff began stripping tables.
"We should go," I said, trying to hide my disappointment. "They're preparing to close." I had enjoyed Carl more than I ever imagined I would and didn't want the evening to end. Perhaps it didn't need to; if he wanted to continue the conversation, I could brave rejection and invite him up to my apartment for a nightcap.
"Of course," Carl said, suddenly aware of the hour. "I've been so focused on our conversation, I lost track of the time."
"Come," he said, taking my hand. "I'll drive you home."
Nodding, I stood, my body quite close to his, my breasts nearly touching his torso. He did not step away as I expected he might, but drew my hand to his chest. His heartbeat thrummed through his clothing, a mirroring dance of the blood rushing in my own veins. The gray eyes gleamed blue tonight in the muted restaurant lighting, a reflection of the tailored navy pin-striped suit that graced his lean muscled frame.
I tipped my face slightly to look up at him; in heels I was nearly his height. Before I knew it, his lips found mine, as soft and gentle as I imagined. Slow at first, then more insistent and passionate, until he abruptly broke away.
"I know I shouldn't have done that, Jacqueline." Carl stepped away from me and collected my portfolio with his free hand, keeping my other coc
ooned in his warmth. "But I enjoyed it too much to apologize." Smiling, he shrugged. "I hope you won't slap me across the cheek or anything dramatic, but, then again, I'd probably deserve it for the thoughts I've been thinking all evening. "Shall we go?"
Chapter Four
Pleasantly stunned by the unexpected kiss, I followed him out of the restaurant to the sleek black car. We sat side-by-side in silence on the long leather seat, until the driver put the vehicle in gear. Then, composed once again, I turned to him. "What thoughts?" I asked, taking his hand in mine and bringing it to my lips. I kissed his knuckles softly, peering up at him from beneath my dark eyelashes.
"Oh... luscious thoughts. Male thoughts. Things I should not have been thinking at a business meeting with a female colleague." Carl stared at his hand against my lips. "And, ah, what you are doing there right now is not making it any easier for me to set those thoughts aside."
"No?"
"Absolutely not."
"Say more," I said, drawing his hand onto my satin leg and massaging it with my fingers.
"I couldn't," Carl laughed, primly aghast. "You are incorrigible, Jacqueline. Lovely and quite sexy, you know. Fabulous pair of breasts and all that. But horribly incorrigible. I have never in my entire life kissed a colleague after a dinner meeting. In public no less."
"Never?" I moved my free hand to his face, my thumb tracing his lips. "That's a shame, because you have quite delectable lips, Mr. Martin. I wouldn't mind trying them again. Perhaps over a nightcap, if you want to come up to my place...." I gazed at him pointedly, my message clear.
Eyes suddenly wide, Carl corralled my hands safely in his and set them gently on my lap. I could tell he was second-guessing himself, reconsidering his actions. "I don't think that's a good idea."
In the darkness of the limousine, I sensed his immediate discomfort and guessed his reaction was about more than the blurred roles of business colleague or potential romantic date. I took a stab at the obvious.
Never Say No to Love (Sonoma Summers Book 2) Page 2
