by Lauren Wood
I considered it for a moment, mostly just to torture him. Truthfully, I hadn’t accepted a single date invitation so far that night. Jack would be furious if they made all that fuss for nothing, so I told myself I’d accept for his sake.
“Okay,” I nodded. “Sure. We can go out some time.”
“How long is your waiting list? How about next weekend?”
I laughed, shuffling my heels on the stones of the balcony floor. “I never plan that far ahead, but I am free the night after next.”
“Even better.”
He pulled my hand to his lips once again for a kiss, then slipped away inside. I liked that. He was smooth enough to know when to quit while he was ahead. Unlike some people.
Unlike Dawson.
7
Isabella
Two days later, I stood in front of my dressing room mirror and studied my perfectly polished appearance. I skipped out on my usual go to colors of emeralds and purples and went for something more classic—the LBD, little black dress.
There was nothing a lawyer loved more than a woman in a little black dress, and while I had come to love fading into the background without being noticed more than ever lately…I had my heart set on getting quite a bit of attention that night, just so long as it came from the delicious Richard Hayes.
I was just musing on how long it had been since I went out on a date I was actually excited for, rather than tolerating the hopeless encounters Jada set up for me through Heartstring. Or picking up random guys at the club, only to never speak to them again.
But my math on that was interrupted by my cell phone ringing. Jack’s name flashed across the screen.
“Yes?” I sighed as I picked up.
“Getting all dolled up for Richard?” he asked.
“Is this you making sure I don’t stand him up?”
“This is me calling to ask a favor,” he replied. “Please, Izzy. Be nice. For once.”
“My impression so far is that Richard doesn’t need me to do him any favors. He seems to be perfectly capable of holding his own with me.”
“Believe me, I noticed. Which is why I wanted you to meet him. But just because I think the guy can survive you and your claws doesn’t mean I’m not worried about you shattering his ego. He’s working on a big case right now and doesn’t need any major blows to his self-esteem.”
“I’ll behave,” I groaned, rolling my eyes.
I hung up when I heard my front doorbell ring. I answered to find Richard standing there, polished and poised, with a small bouquet of red roses in hand. Classic.
“Wow,” he grinned, looking me up and down. “You look phenomenal.”
“Thanks.” I shrugged, grabbing my bag to walk out and lock my door.
Richard told me he made reservations at a very exclusive restaurant downtown, but his driver pulled up in front of a string of galleries and parked.
“Do you like art?” he asked me.
That word was now tainted with memories of pesky Dawson, so I held back a look of disdain. “I know about art, but it’s not my favorite. No.”
“Perfect. I don’t like it either,” he told me. “But my brother is an artist and he’s got a few pieces in this opening tonight, so I’m obligated to make an appearance. Just a quick one. You can wait here if you’d prefer, but I’d love to take you in there and show you off. These artsy chicks and collectors have nothing on you.”
“Flattery works on me sometimes,” I shrugged. “Sure, I’ll come in with you. But only for half an hour, tops.”
“Fair enough.”
The driver came around to open our doors, and a few photographers snapped our pictures out front. This was obviously a big affair in the art world from the looks of it, and it had the crowd and expensive wine to prove it.
Richard knew many of the attendees and was instantly flooded by them, getting cornered into small talk the moment we walked in. Me being on his arm didn’t hurt matters any. It was nice being with someone who understood what making an appearance truly meant. It wasn’t about you enjoying the event, or anyone enjoying you attending it. It really was, quite literally, just about being seen there to appease certain people. Richard had to go to appease his brother, which was ironically the whole reason I was on this date in the first place.
When we finally managed to break away from the string of introductions and casual hellos, we studied a wall of paintings. They were giant abstract pieces with bold colors and sloppy strokes.
Richard grunted and curled his lips as he sipped his drink. “I misled you. I told you I don’t like art, but there isn’t even any art here. This looks like a paper towel that was used to clean up a spill.”
“I don’t always mind abstract art,” I admitted, working my way down the line of paintings.
There was one in particular that lured me in. The colors in it looked familiar, like something I had seen in the arts district. It had emerald greens and purples, my favorite colors, swirling together with white and deep navy blues. The rhythm of the brushstrokes had a sort of melody to them, a song I maybe could have heard if the crowded gallery wasn’t so noisy. I found myself leaning in closer, as if I could make it out if I just listened hard enough.
“I’m going to grab another drink, and then we’ll get out of here,” Richard announced, oblivious to my trance with the painting.
“Sure,” I smiled at him before turning back to the painting.
I found myself asking all sorts of questions. If the canvas were smaller, would it still have the same impact? As it was, in its large scale, it was quite gripping. And I started to imagine it hanging in my den over my white leather couch. It would look good in there, and I was halfway considering buying it without Richard knowing. He obviously wasn’t impressed by any of the art there that night.
I leaned in closer to study the brushstrokes, following the lines down to the bottom right corner to find the artist’s signature. Maybe I recognized the name…
“I told you I show in galleries sometimes,” a familiar voice appeared behind me.
Dawson.
As soon as I heard him speak, I spotted the name scribbled in the corner. Of course this was his painting. I had been tricked and trapped by him yet again.
He towered over me from behind, close enough for me to feel his hot breath on the back of my neck and down my spine…which, I had to admit, something in me kind of liked. It gave me goosebumps and stirred a longing inside that I would, of course, never admit to.
“Did you tell me that?” I shot back. “I thought you hated galleries. You said you preferred the street corner, but then again…you also said you didn’t know who I was.”
“No, you assumed I hated galleries. And anything bourgeoisie, I believe you said.”
He kept pacing behind me, taunting me with his lingering presence while I kept my eyes glued straight ahead on the painting in front of me…which I certainly wasn’t buying now that I knew it was his.
“That’s certainly how you choose to appear to people when you’re out there in the park,” I told him. “I bet those people don’t know you frequent high society balls either. It’d ruin your whole starving artist schtick, wouldn’t it?”
“People see and assume what they want to. You’re perfect proof of that.”
I finally spun on my heels to face him. “And you go along with it, letting them buy into whatever lies you exude. Otherwise known as…a liar.”
“Keeping an air of mystery about you isn’t the same as being a liar.” He quipped, arching a brow. “You should know that better than anyone. Everyone’s talking about the mysterious Isabella Landson. Heartstring’s prized bachelorette…or whatever they’re calling you.”
“So now you do know what Heartstring is? At least you’re admitting to the truth of something.”
“I see you were admiring my painting.” He lifted his glass towards it, over my shoulder.
“Admiring is hardly the word I would choose for what I was doing,” I scoffed. “I prefer more dis
tinguished works. Ones that are highly coveted and usually sell out on opening night.”
No sooner than I said the words, one of the curators popped over and slapped a red dot sticker next to the title card. “Congrats, Dawson. Another one sold. That’s nearly all of them. I expect you’ll be sold out by the end of the night.”
The guy vanished again into the crowd, leaving me to face Dawson’s cocky smile.
“Distinguished and highly coveted, huh?” he smirked.
I rolled my eyes, shaking my head. “Your smugness is deplorable.”
“And yet we keep running into each other.” His eyes dropped down the length of my body, once again drinking me up in ways I wished he wouldn’t…but regretfully loved at the same time. “And I must say…every time we do you look better than the time before. Kudos to you…and that dress. Mmm.”
“You’re a pig,” I huffed.
“I prefer the term boar,” he rasped, his voice dropping low as he inched in closer. His voice vibrated through my ears. “A beast with needs, and his sights set on exactly who he wants to devour.”
I shuttered from his sexy purr, wishing he didn’t have that effect on me. He was just like his paintings. I kept getting sucked in like a pitiful unsuspecting victim, only to find he was the source of what was intriguing me…what was arousing me. And there didn’t seem to be a damn thing I could do to stop it…no more than I could stop us from running into each other all over town, even in the most unlikely of places.
8
Dawson
Isabella was a vision in her black dress, perched on her stiletto heels. She would never admit it, but I could see the sexual hunger in her eyes…and the boredom. Like she was just waiting for someone to come along and unwrap her. Someone like me, no matter how hard she pretended to hate me.
“Can I get you another drink?” I asked, eyeing her nearly empty glass. “You might appreciate some of this art better the more you drink.”
“I have no doubt,” she rolled her eyes across several of my nearby paintings. “But I don’t need you to get me a drink. I’m actually here with someone. He just went to the bar himself.”
“Oh? Finally met someone, eh?” I raised a brow, circling her as she tossed back the last of her wine. “Is this guy good enough to take the infamous Isabella Landson off the market for good? No more Cinderella balls or big billboards in Times Square? What will you do then?”
“Enjoy my privacy again…and the freedom from creeps like you who think I’m just dying for you to stalk me around town and rope me into terribly dull banter at every turn.”
“Oh come on.” I frowned. “Creep? Dull? Really? I’m not that bad.”
She simply blinked with a blank look on her face, neither confirming nor denying.
“I’m not holding you down or anything,” I huffed. “Nothing’s stopping you from running off and avoiding me the rest of the night just like you did at the big debutante ball. Seriously, Isabella…Now that we’ve crossed paths so many times, I have to admit…I kind of like you. I’m not going to stand in the way of whatever date you bagged for tonight, but how about a truce?”
She sneered at my hand as I reached out for a shake to seal the deal. “A truce?”
“Yeah, come on. Let’s be friends. Pals. We might as well be. We keep running into each other all over town anyway…and despite what you think, that’s not because of anything I’m doing intentionally. Other than just existing with astonishingly good luck,” I winked.
“Friends?” she scoffed. “I don’t need any more friends.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I smirked. “Friends you have. It’s a boyfriend you’re lacking. I believe I’ve already told you I could help you out with that too.”
“Sorry, Daws. Not gonna happen,” she scowled, crossing her arms.
“Fine then. Neither friend nor boyfriend. But that doesn’t have to mean I’m a foe either. Why don’t you stop by my studio some time? Whether you want to admit it or not, that’s two of my paintings I’ve caught you admiring so far. I bet I have more you’d like. Hell, I’d even give you one as a gift. Besides, you have to come see that portrait I did of you.”
“Portrait!?” she stomped her foot. “I told you I didn’t want you to do my portrait! How did you…”
I cut her off, handing her a piece of paper with my address scribbled on it. “Just come and see it for yourself.”
“You have got to be the most irritating, persistent pest I have ever met in my life,” she said in a shrill, infuriated tone.
“And yet…you haven’t walked away,” I teased, leaning in dangerously close to her ear. I caught a delicious whiff of her strawberry-scented hair and jasmine perfume. It shot straight between my legs, making me half-hard with one sniff. God, I wanted to smell her all over me.
“That date of yours must be awfully boring,” I decided out loud, still walking circles around her and talking in hushed tones like we kept some kind of scandalous secret between us. “Maybe you’re hoping he won’t come back from getting you that drink…That you’re free now. And then what will you do? Because I’m afraid I’m far too busy here to run off to the pub with you again. As you’ve pointed out, prestigious galleries like this are nothing like selling your junk on the street corner.”
She burned her eyes into me with a catty smile. “Actually, my date is only just now getting started. We’re on our way to dinner, but apparently his brother is showing some work here tonight. Neither of us were particularly thrilled about coming here, but he had to make an appearance, for family’s sake.”
“Sounds like a real stand-up guy,” I scoffed.
“He is. In fact, here he comes now.” She smiled over my shoulder.
“Where?” I asked, spinning on my heels.
That’s when I saw my own brother walking over with two glasses of wine in hand. My worst fear came true when he handed one to Isabella and slid his arm around her back. He eyed me up and down. “Dawson, there you are. Just what, may I ask, are you doing with my date?”
“Your date?” I laughed nervously.
“You two know each other?” Izzy’s face dropped as well. “Is he friends with your brother or something?”
“He is my brother,” Richard told her. “How do you know him?”
“Oh, uh…I, uh…” she stammered as her cheeks turned bright red.
“We met in the arts district,” I told him. “I was begging her to let me paint her portrait.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Richard grinned at her in a way that made my stomach turn. “I think she’s the perfect muse. I hope you don’t mind, I plan on keeping her to myself though. You really should sit for Daws some time though. I may not be a huge fan of art, but I know a good portrait when I see one. Hell, he’s even done one of me for my office. A few of the other partners have mentioned wanting to commission him as well.”
“Really…” Izzy murmured, looking so surprised I thought she might faint.
“Well, well, well,” I clicked my tongue, watching the two of them together. “So you’re the lucky guy who walked away from that ball with a date with Isabella Landson herself? My own brother.”
“I didn’t realize you were at the ball,” Rich’s brow furrowed.
“A friend dragged me along,” I shrugged. “But you’re right. It’s not my typical scene.”
“Ah,” he nodded.
A horrible, heavy, awkward silence sank down over the three of us like a dark cloud. While I was running into Isabella all over town, she had also managed to run into my brother and was now dating him. Just my luck.
It did little to curb my interest in her, unfortunately.
9
Isabella
Every time I was confronted with the unwanted feelings a run-in with Dawson stirred up inside, it felt like a nightmare and a dirty fantasy coming true all at once. Some part of me wanted him, physically at least. That much was clear by the warm tingling that rose up from my core when his voice vibrated through me.
But
seeing him and my date standing side by side, now knowing they were brothers? That was pure nightmare. No part of me was enjoying it. But Dawson sure seemed to be, judging by the twisted gleam in his eyes.
“I see your work is selling tonight. Thank goodness for that,” Richard commented, eyeing the red dots that were quickly spreading around the title cards hung under Dawson’s surrounding paintings.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he replied with a tip of his glass.
“Not surprised. Relieved,” Richard offered with a smug sort of tone to his voice.
There was obviously some kind of unspoken tension between the brothers that surpassed me and Dawson already being acquainted. That part didn’t seem to bother Richard at all, as if hell would have to freeze over before his brother could ever pose as a threat to him when it came to me. I wished I was as certain as he was.
“Well, we hate to drink and run,” Richard continued, wrapping his arm around me. A flame sparked in Dawson’s eyes. “But we have dinner reservations. We better get going. Are you ready?” He looked down at me with a warm smile that would have felt like butter melting on toast, but with Dawson’s eyes burning into us—it made me squirm.
“Of course,” I said, tilting my chin up to hide how bothered I was.
“See ya around, brother.” Richard patted Dawson’s shoulder before hooking his arm in mine to lead me out the door.
As we left, I couldn’t resist one quick glance back at Dawson over my shoulder. Any pleasure he got from the encounter was long gone. Now he watched us leave with a twisted, sickened expression—like a wounded, resentful dog getting left out in the rain.
