Undercover Lover

by Kylie Brant

  “It’s a very difficult decision, isn’t it?” she asked her customer, turning to eye the painting critically. “Maybe it would be helpful to close your eyes and visualize the piece in the room you intend it for.” The woman obediently screwed her eyes shut. “Now try to see the room as it is now, without the painting.” After several moments, the woman opened her eyes, blinking at the painting slowly.

  She turned to Elizabeth, beaming. “You know, it’s like seeing it again for the first time. And the living room definitely needs something to liven it up. Write it up for me, will you, please?”

  The woman followed Elizabeth to the gallery office, and wrote out a check for the amount quoted without batting an eye. After leaving the information needed for the delivery, she left, and Elizabeth settled in to do the paperwork for the sale.

  “Congratulations,” Monica purred as she came into the office. “As amazed as I always am by it, that soft-key, kidgloves approach seems to have worked again. You should get a tidy little commission from that sale.”

  Elizabeth looked up and smiled. “How’d you do?”

  Her friend lifted a hand. “My customer is a chronic looker. She’ll be back.” Her voice was wry when she added, “But she won’t buy anything then, either.” They both laughed.

  Monica prowled around the office, taking advantage of Nathan’s momentary inattentiveness. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be checking on the women, manufacturing a task to busy them. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. How’d your visit with Simon Boze go? Was it productive?”

  “Oh, it was great.” Elizabeth laid down her pen for an instant, renewed excitement filling her as she thought of the meeting she’d had over her lunch hour. “I owe you a very big thank-you for introducing me to your friend.”

  The other woman gave a careless shrug, but it was obvious the words had pleased her. “He’s just an acquaintance, really. I used to do quite a bit of browsing in his gift shop. It has a nice selection of crafts, don’t you think?”

  “Hopefully it will soon have a bigger selection.” Elizabeth crossed her fingers. “He asked me to bring some of my pottery in for him to look at. If he likes my work, he’ll either buy them from me outright, or offer them for sale on consignment.”

  The smile Monica gave her was genuinely pleased. “That’s wonderful! I knew the two of you would hit it off.”

  “It’s not a done deal yet,” Elizabeth cautioned. “He hasn’t even seen my work. And I’m having a hard time deciding which of my pieces to show him.”

  Monica strolled by the desk and went to the coffeemaker. Pouring herself half a cup, she turned back to Elizabeth. “I like that last piece you showed me. It was different from anything else you’ve done.” She sipped from her cup for a moment, then added thoughtfully, “It was sexy.”

  Heat bloomed in Elizabeth’s cheeks. The piece her friend was referring to was the one she’d done for Sully. Sexy. It seemed a strange description of a piece of pottery, but it was so apt that embarrassment and guilt mingled within her. She’d wanted to do something special to thank the best friend she’d ever had, and it had seemed critical that the piece be right for him. But she thought now that perhaps her newly discovered feelings for him were rooted in all those hours she’d spent with his constant image in her head. Those sleek, hard lines that had taken shape in the clay beneath her fingers had come from her mental picture of his shirtless, muscled torso, as she’d seen it when he’d worked on her ailing window air conditioner. The resulting piece was the best thing she’d ever done. But that mental picture of him hadn’t gone away once the piece had been shaped. It hadn’t disappeared when it had been fired, nor once she’d applied that rich, dark charcoal-colored glaze.

  No, a half-naked image of Sully had lingered in her brain, refusing to be banished once its usefulness had been at an end. It had teased at her consciousness when she settled into bed for the evening, and flashed across her mind when she should have been concentrating at work. It made her uncomfortable. There had never been anything complicated about their relationship before. The boundaries he’d set were always there, invisible but effective. She’d alternately respected or ignored them, whichever she thought he needed at the time. Until a few nights ago, when those boundaries had been curiously absent, and she’d responded with an instant fire that still astonished her.

  “Aha, is that a blush?” Monica asked wickedly. Sauntering over to the desk where Elizabeth sat, she set her cup on the edge and placed her palms on its surface, leaning toward her friend. “C‘mon, Elizabeth, ’fess up. You got your inspiration for that piece from some pinups in Playgirl magazine, didn’t you?” Her laugh was throaty and suggestive.

  Ignoring the heat in her cheeks, Elizabeth said primly, “You have a dirty mind.”

  “You know it, girlfriend. But alas, yours isn’t dirty enough. As much as it disheartens me, I have to assume that those wonderful, sleek lines in that last piece are the mere result of your genius, and not, say, from a nude model.”

  Elizabeth picked up the pen and bent farther over the form she was filling out, wishing she hadn’t pulled her hair up in a smooth knot today. It would have been a handy curtain to hide behind, shielding her face so her friend wouldn’t know just how close to the truth she was.

  “Is that how you scared away your last customer? Pointing out sexual connotations in the painting she was looking at?”

  One of Monica’s smooth dark brows sailed up. “Now, there’s an idea. What do you think Milktoast would think of that as a selling technique?” she said, referring to their boss.

  Elizabeth fixed her with a prim look, then ruined the effect by snickering. “I don’t think it would be safe to find out.”

  “Well,” the other woman said, distracted for the moment, as Elizabeth had meant her to be, “I’ll be glad to come over and help you choose some pieces to take and wow Simon if you like.”

  “He just offered to look at my work,” Elizabeth stressed. “He never guaranteed he’d buy it.”

  Monica dismissed her protest with a casual wave of her hand. “He’ll buy your pottery. Why wouldn’t he? You’re terrifically talented.”

  Elizabeth reached out impulsively and covered Monica’s hand with her own. “And you’re a good friend.”

  Monica looked at once pleased and discomfited. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She drew back, picked up her cup again and drank. “I have an eye for talent, that’s all.” Glancing at the clock, she added, “And a nose for Milktoast. If I don’t miss my guess, he’ll be in here any second to check on us. I’d better get out there.”

  Smiling in the wake of her friend’s exit, Elizabeth went back to completing the paperwork of her sale. In some ways Monica was as touchy as Sully. Both of them affected the same offhand generosity, then acted insulted if they were thanked for an act.

  Her smile fading, she thought of another striking similarity between the two. Both of them were vulnerable, although in very different ways. Monica was more scarred than she’d like to let on by the messy divorce that had ended her second marriage. Sully carried inner scars, too. He’d never talked about his past, but she could smell the despair. He carried it with him, within him. She didn’t know what dark and nasty events had shaped his childhood, but she sensed that they would be beyond her comprehension if he did share them. The odds of that happening were slim. She suspected that he was closer to her than to any other person in the world, and the personal information she knew about him was scanty. It had taken her months of prying to discover that his first name was John. He’d left her with no doubt that she wasn’t to use it.

  She finished the paperwork and left it in a file for Nathan to process. As she rose, the thought occurred to her that she also knew what Sully looked like shirtless, knew that the bruises on his torso disguised a pattern of faded scars that mirrored the wounds within him. She knew how drops of perspiration pooled in the hollow below his throat, before sliding in a sinuous dance down his chest. And most recently she’d discovered wha
t he looked like with his constant guard relaxed a fraction.

  Giving herself a mental shake, she reined in her once more wandering thoughts and headed toward the office door. Monica met her just outside the doorway with a manila envelope in her hand and avid curiosity on her face. “This just came for you, by special messenger.”

  Elizabeth stared at her in surprise, before dropping her gaze to the official-looking envelope. Slowly her hand came up to take it from her friend.

  “Well?” Monica said, impatience edging her tone. “Open it. Aren’t you dying to know what it is?”

  She released the clasp of the envelope and drew the thick sheaf of papers out. Silently she perused the top sheet, then pushed the pile back into the envelope.

  “You’re trying to punish me, right? Trying to make me suffer for being incurably nosy. What is it, already?”

  Slowly Elizabeth’s gaze rose from the envelope to her friend. “It’s my divorce decree. It’s final now, I guess.”

  Shock showed in Monica’s face, followed quickly by contrition. “Gosh, I could kick myself. I didn’t mean to—”

  A little smile crossed Elizabeth’s mouth. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been expecting it all week.”

  Her friend watched her face closely. “Did that bastard of an ex-husband have it sent here just to upset you? Because if he did—”

  Elizabeth interrupted Monica’s dire threat. “No, I told my lawyer I wanted a copy as soon as she received one. She did as I asked, that’s all.”

  Only partially mollified, Monica said, “Well, it sure shoots the day to hell and back, doesn’t it?” Crossing quickly to her friend, she slipped her arm around her waist. “Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off? The last thing you need is to slave away in here until five.”

  Shaking her head, Elizabeth asked wryly, “And since when did Nathan make you boss? Anyway, I’m fine. This decree finalizes what happened over six months ago. It doesn’t change anything.”

  The blonde surveyed her with shrewd blue eyes. “Honey, the changes in your life are just beginning. And you may think you’re fine, but you just got hit with one of those dandy little curves life likes to throw at us. You need a few hours to yourself.” As she was talking, she crossed to the closet and got Elizabeth’s purse. Then she put a firm hand at the base of her friend’s back and guided her from the office toward the back door of the gallery.

  Elizabeth dug in her heels. “Monica,” she said with vague annoyance, “really, I’m fine. I prefer to stay here and work. What am I supposed to do with the rest of the afternoon, anyway?”

  She knew as soon as she’d asked it that the question was a mistake. Her friend’s eyes glinted. “Well, when my first divorce was final, I bought out Neiman-Marcus. After my last divorce I spent the weekend in bed with my fitness trainer.” Sympathy and wickedness warred in her gaze, and with a strength belied by her slender build, she leaned forward, opened the back door and pushed Elizabeth through it. “You do whichever feels best for you, girlfriend.”

  Elizabeth turned around and asked frustratedly, “What in heaven’s name are you going to tell Nathan?”

  Monica gave her a droll look. “Elizabeth, don’t you think you’ll be happier not knowing?” Then she stepped back and let the door swing shut in her friend’s face.

  Elizabeth regarded the door with mingled resignation and amusement. There was no changing Monica’s mind once she had it made up, and she doubted her ability to make her friend understand that whatever her reactions to her own divorces had been, Elizabeth didn’t share them. She would have much preferred working the rest of the day than wandering around trying to fill the hours.

  Aware that she no longer had a choice in the matter, she heaved a sigh and walked slowly across the small parking lot to the next street. She could always catch a bus and go home. Nothing was more soothing than thrusting her hands into wet clay, the slick glide of the material against her palms as she shaped it. But her air conditioner functioned sporadically. More likely than not, her small apartment would be sweltering. The thought occurred to her then that she might soon be able to afford a new window unit, if Simon agreed to take some of her pieces. The prospect was cheering.

  The gallery was located in a trendy neighborhood with chic shops and expensive restaurants. Her feet slowed, and she stared into a store window arrayed in the Paris designers’ latest ideas of fashion. She had left racks of clothes that looked just like these behind when she’d moved out of Carter’s house. She’d taken only those clothes she’d picked out herself, without her ex-husband’s suggestions in mind. She’d never felt completely comfortable in the tight, glittery gowns or designer suits. They’d made her feel like a little girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes, masquerading as someone else.

  Masquerade. Her eyes gazed sightlessly into the next window. That was a good description of her marriage. Carter had been the master at charade, of course, as he’d used his family’s money to surround himself with the props he’d thought necessary for the career ladder he was busily climbing in the Dade County D.A.’s office. Country clubs, flashy cars, an extravagant house in a snooty neighborhood and her. A dutiful, stay-at-home wife, who had made it her life’s ambition to please her husband. A woman who rarely questioned him, who never disbelieved him, a woman who had been willing to be convinced that everything Carter did was for her.

  She winced a little at her reflection in the glass. In short she’d been a fool, but she wouldn’t be the first woman to have the stars shaken out of her eyes. Everyone seemed to think she should be mourning the loss of her marriage, but it wasn’t sorrow she was experiencing.

  She blinked, for the first time becoming aware that she was staring into a window advertising very sheer, very daring lingerie. She jerked her gaze away and continued walking. Her self-confidence had started to trickle back as soon as she’d moved out of Carter’s house. Its store could be measured in each step forward she’d taken with her life, her job, her pottery, her new friends.

  Turning the corner, she found herself face-to-face with an older woman, heavily made-up, walking three tiny, yapping dogs. The animals insisted on crossing back and forth, making a tangle of their leashes, and their owner scolded them breathlessly.

  The sight elicited a giggle from Elizabeth, and a smile lingered on her lips long after she’d passed them. She could imagine how fettered the dogs felt, because she had once been just as restrained, subservient to Carter’s wishes. But no longer.

  The combination of Miami’s heat and humidity was brutal, but she was shielded from the worst of the sun by the colored awnings on the storefronts. Despite its stickiness, the air seemed fresh to Elizabeth. It tasted like... freedom.

  A smile split her face as she slowed to a stop in front of a trendy hairstyling salon. She watched for a few minutes as the stylists inside washed, wrapped and snipped hair. One hand crept to her bare neck. Tendrils had escaped the knot she’d pulled her long hair into, and clung damply to her skin. She’d never spent much time on her hair, hadn’t had more than trims since she’d been in grade school. She’d worn it the same way for over two decades, long enough to hang to her waist.

  Carter had preferred that she wear it up, but had begged her not to cut it. Long hair was a tum-on, he’d said, and he’d loved to watch her take it down at night. The memory had the smile fading from her lips. The act had been part of the contrived ritual he’d made of their sex life, a ritual that she couldn’t help noting had been glaringly absent the time she’d walked in on him and his associate.

  The doorknob turned beneath her hand, and she looked down startled, unaware of her own movement. She paused for a few seconds, then without further thought, pushed the door open.

  “That sounds promising.” Kale Lowrey’s face was alight with interest, and he leaned forward over the table in the café booth. Tucked away in the back of the seedy diner, the two men were afforded a modicum of privacy. “How soon before Conrad contacts you again?”

  Slo
uched comfortably against the booth cushion, Sully raised one eyebrow mockingly. “You sound eager, Kale.”

  “I want to play,” the other man affirmed. His dark eyes burned with intent. “I’ll have a bigger part this time, too.”

  Sully surveyed the man dispassionately. His lean body radiated the nervous excitement of a racehorse entering the track. “Your part has already been determined. Calm down. Eagerness could get you killed. Or worse, it could get me killed.”

  Kale stared at him for a moment, then leaned back reluctantly. “Nothing gets through that ice in your veins, does it?”

  Sully’s coffee cup was returned to his saucer with a quiet clink of stoneware. “That’s how I stay alive.”

  Eyes glittering with resentment, Kale sipped from his cup. “Are you going to let me in on your secret? Or should I guess?” He smirked suddenly. “She sure must be something to keep you calm in this line of work.”

  The rest of the world slowed to a crawl as the words hung between them. Seconds ticked by before Sully lifted his gaze. “What are you talking about?” His tone was level, the words measured, the temper well hidden.

  Kale smiled cockily. “I did a little checking on that looker you rushed out of the bar the other night. I know you’ve got her stashed within grabbing distance. Maybe she’s the reason you stay so cool. Maybe if I had some of that...” The rest of his sentence was lost as he suddenly gasped for air. Sully was over the table, his hand around Lowrey’s throat, fingers flexing menacingly.