Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

  I shake my shoulders, hoping to rid myself of the inexplicable feeling.

  Maybe she’s a reporter, trying to ferret out a story before we throw her back onto the sidewalk with the rest of the press, who’ve finally figured out where I work. She certainly doesn’t look like she’s here to buy anything — everything from her confident stride to the exaggerated sway of her hips as she glides around the room, like she’s on a freaking catwalk, tells me she’s more interested in her own appearance than the art on the walls.

  Oh well. Not my job to judge.

  It is, however, my job to sell art, so I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and skirt around the desk. My heels click softly against the marble floor as I cross to her. She hears me approach and when she looks up, the naked anger etched on her features makes me freeze in place.

  Um…whoa.

  I swallow, hoping it will dislodge some of the discomfort clogging my throat, and fall back on my years of customer service to guide me through this. My voice is bright and unwavering as I address her.

  “Can I help you with something, ma’am?”

  She’s around my age — immaculately dressed, with sky-high heels I could never walk in, her hair and makeup perfectly styled to highlight her already-beautiful features. Even glaring at me like I’ve just suggested she looks fat in those designer pants, she’s absolutely stunning.

  “If you’re looking for something in particular, I can direct you there,” I try again. “Or, if you’re just browsing, I can give you some background information on our pieces.”

  Her eyes narrow further and she takes a step closer to me. When she speaks, I’m unprepared for the vitriol in her tone.

  “Stay away from him, bitch.”

  My eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” she spits. “He’s mine. And I’m not about to let some little two-dollar tramp change that.”

  “Are you talking about Chase Croft?” I ask dumbly, genuinely confused why this woman I’ve never met before in my freaking life is attacking me at my workplace. Clearly, if she thinks I’m a threat to her, she’s never looked in the mirror. Or watched the morning news, for that matter, because Chase made his feelings pretty clear in that video clip.

  She doesn’t answer my question. With a hair flip and a scowl, she turns on her — very, very high — heel and beelines for the exit. Her strides never even bobble as she walks away, and I’m so stunned by that fact, I don’t even realize she’s leaving until she’s slipped out the front doors and disappeared.

  What the hell?

  I wander back to the front desk in a daze, mired in worries that my life is never going to get back to anything resembling normal. As I finish filing away the Scarpozzi’s paperwork, I simultaneously file away the strange incident with the blonde in the back of my mind, adding it to the stack of all the other strange things that have happened since Chase kissed me and my life imploded.

  The sound of heels clicking against the gallery floor makes me look up.

  “Closed another one?” Estelle asks, coming to a stop by my desk.

  I nod. “The Scarpozzis.”

  “Good.” Her tone is brusque — she’s never been one to fuss with congratulations or accolades, even when one of her brokers has sold an ostentatiously expensive piece. “But we’re still behind on overall sales, this month. If we want to keep our head’s above water, we really need to make a few more big commissions in the next few weeks. What’s your schedule look like for the rest of the afternoon?”

  “Oh, um, I’m just going to be here, manning the desk and waiting for walk-ins.” I see the look on her face and plow on, hastily. “But I could make some calls to previous clients, I suppose, try to drum up some new business—”

  “Never mind all that,” she says decidedly. “You’re free. Which means you’ll do another house-call for me.”

  My face blanches of color. “What?”

  “We’ve got a VIP client. He requested you, especially.”

  Did she say he?

  “But, Estelle—”

  “But what?” Her eyebrows lift sardonically. “The gallery needs the money. Unless of course, you’re willing to give up your bonus this year. And frankly, Gemma, you have no place protesting, after you failed to sell a single piece of art to our other VIP yesterday afternoon. That was a real missed opportunity.”

  Damn. She has a point, there.

  But… did she say other VIP?

  I swallow, trying to regain composure. “So, this isn’t the same client as yesterday?”

  “No. This is a new one.” Her lips purse with impatience.

  All the breath escapes my lips in a single relieved whoosh. “Oh, thank god.”

  As long as it isn’t Chase Croft waiting for me at my destination, I don’t give a rat’s ass who the new client is. Before this morning, I would’ve been secretly thrilled at the idea that he’d changed his mind, that he wanted to see me again, that he couldn’t stay away…

  Now, I’d sooner sell my own art for dimes on the subway platform than see him again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Yikes

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  I was wrong, before.

  See, I thought it wouldn’t matter who the new client was, so long as it wasn’t Chase.

  I should’ve known better, honestly. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that things can always get worse when you least expect it.

  I suppose this is one of those times.

  Because I’m currently standing in the nicest apartment I’ve ever stepped foot inside in my entire life, staring from what I’m pretty sure is a Monet on the wall to a man so good looking, he gives Chase a serious run for his money, and trying not to salivate — over both the man and his artwork, but mostly the man, as he steps into the room and crosses toward me. He’s got thick, lush black hair with just the right amount of wave, skin so smooth most models would sell their souls for it, and the most stunning blue eyes I’ve ever seen — ice-blue at the center, with a ring of navy around the edge of the iris.

  Everything about him screams wealth, power, refinement — from his stunning twentieth-floor views to the designer suit he’s wearing to the uniformed French maid who let me in, five minutes ago. He’s dark ink, gliding liquidly across the canvas of this white, light room, and I’m just standing there like a dork, totally tongue-tied, with my portfolio crushed against my chest, wishing I’d run a brush through my hair before leaving the gallery…

  And then he smiles.

  It’s a good smile — mega-white, with dimples in both cheeks, offsetting the sharp line of his jaw. Though, I can’t help but notice, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and there’s an edge to it, no matter how hard he tries to make it appear charming.

  “Ah, Miss Summers, I presume,” he says, crossing the apartment toward me.

  I don’t know what to say, so I just nod.

  “Excellent.” His smile widens. “I’m delighted you could make it. I’m Brett Croft.”

  Wait.

  Wait, just a second.

  Did he say…

  Croft?

  As in… Chase’s cousin?

  The one with the bad blood and the hostile takeovers and the competition for a place as CEO at Croft Industries?

  That cousin?

  Holy shit. I’m going to kill Estelle for sending me here without so much as a warning.

  “You’re even prettier in person, Miss Summers,” he murmurs, his eyes on mine.

  Abruptly, it’s very clear why I’m here — and I have a feeling it has nothing to do with art. No wonder Estelle said he requested you especially. I’m nothing more than a pawn in the pissing contest between two billionaires.

  How in the hell did this become my life in the span of two short days?

  I don’t have time to answer my own question, because he’s nearly reached my side. He moves with a slick, sinuous grace — like oil sliding through water, barely disturbing the atmosphere around him. I
’m rooted in place, watching him get closer and closer until he’s only a few feet away. When he comes to a stop, he offers his hand in greeting, and for a moment it just hangs there in the space between us, as I try to wrap my head around what’s happening, here.

  After an uncomfortably long slice of time, my manners finally kick in, and I lift a deadened arm to slide my palm against his. As we shake, I note his skin is cool to the touch, and almost freakishly soft — like he’s never done a hard day’s work in all his life, and has manicures more frequently than I do. Granted, I only get them about twice a year when Chrissy and Shelby drag me along on a “girl’s day” or for pre-birthday preparations, but you get the idea.

  His grip tightens on mine but I barely feel it — at that moment, my mind is on an entirely different set of hands, the opposite of these hands, the ones I felt cupping the sides of my face as their owner kissed me in the rain, warm with heat and rough with calluses. Hands I’ve actively imagined exploring other parts of me in moments of weakness over the past few days, when—

  Stop it, Gemma! We hate him, remember?

  “Did you have trouble finding the place?” Brett asks, snapping me out of my unhealthy thoughts.

  “No,” I blurt, shaking my head again. “It was fine.”

  “Great.”

  He’s still holding my hand.

  I want to pull away, but I don’t want to insult him. I can’t afford to screw up with another VIP, or Estelle will have my head.

  “So.” The cheer in my tone is as forced as my smile. “You’re looking to add to your collection?”

  His eyes sweep my face, then move down my body, lingering too long on certain aspects of my anatomy in a stare that sets my teeth on edge.

  “Yes,” he murmurs, his eyes still lasered-in on my legs. “Definitely looking to acquire something new.”

  At that, my polite manners evaporate and I pull my hand roughly out of his.

  “Great,” I snap, stepping purposefully out of his space. My tone is bordering on rude, but I don’t care. “Any spot in particular you were thinking about putting the new piece? Something over there, by the fireplace, might work beautifully, though it depends what you’re looking for, of course.”

  I turn to face the mantle, focusing on the floor-to-ceiling, white brick fireplace that dominates the far wall. After a moment, he moves to stand beside me, maintaining the careful distance I’ve placed between us.

  “Of course.” Just like that, his voice has flipped from seductive back to businesslike. “Most of my pieces are oils, impressionist, late 1800s. But I’m looking for something a little more modern, perhaps for my personal office.”

  I relax a little.

  Maybe he got the hint.

  “Or my bedroom,” he adds, and my spine stiffens again as my eyes fly in his direction.

  Maybe not.

  He looks at me, one side of his mouth tugging up in a smile. “Follow me.”

  I watch him walk away, disappearing down a hallway to the left of the fireplace, and try not to freak out.

  Oh, who am I kidding?

  I totally freak out.

  But only for a few seconds, because even pissed off and slightly mortified, I remember that I’m not the kind of girl who allows herself to be intimidated by someone just because they have money and an annoyingly possessive gaze. Pulling a deep breath through my nose, I set my shoulders, tighten my grip on the art binder, and march after him before I lose my nerve.

  ***

  “Monet really gets all the credit and attention — rightfully so — but when it comes to composition of light, personally, I prefer Degas. I mean, the evolution of his work over the years is amazi—”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  A series of sharp knocks on the study door cuts off my defense of Degas over Monet as the premier impressionist painter — which is probably a good thing. I have a tendency to get carried away, when talking art, often getting lost in the conversation and forgetting myself… and my conversation partner.

  My gaze lifts to Brett and I find his eyes are already on my face, studying me from the couch across the coffee table. His stare is intense — it seems to fill every molecule of space in his private study, where we’ve been sitting for the past forty minutes discussing art and totally neglecting the binder of pieces I’m supposed to be convincing him to spend a godforsaken amount of money to purchase.

  “Come in,” Brett calls, not looking away from me. I watch the muscles of his throat work and feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment. God, I’m a nerd. I can’t believe I’ve been sitting here with the (second) hottest guy I’ve ever met, talking his ear off about art. What I can’t figure out is why he let me.

  Before I can wonder too much, the door to the study swings open, and a man is standing there, filling the frame. Literally. He’s so big, I can barely see space around his body, but it’s not his size that makes him scary.

  One look at his face, and the breath catches in my throat.

  He looks like The Incredible Hulk except his skin isn’t green and he’s got a long, thin, white scar running across his jugular, as though someone tried — and failed — to choke the life from him with a piano wire. His beefy limbs have been stuffed into a suit that must’ve been custom made because I’m pretty sure even those Big & Tall stores don’t make clothes that gargantuan. It’s his eyes, though, that really terrify me — they’re empty, totally. Just black, vacuous circles in his head, staring through me for a brief moment before locking on Brett’s face.

  “Five minutes out,” The Hulk says without preamble. “Ten at the most.”

  Brett nods. “Good. Let me know when it’s time.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Hulk nods at Brett, in confirmation of something he doesn’t bother to explain, then lumbers back through the frame and closes the door behind him.

  My eyes move to Brett, and I see he’s smiling to himself, a real shit-eating grin, which is weird. But not as weird as the fact that Bruce Banner is apparently a member of his staff. And definitely not as weird as the fact that he doesn’t even address The Hulk’s interruption — he just turns to me and launches back into conversation.

  “So, tell me about yourself,” he says, his attention totally riveted once more.

  My mouth gapes. “What?”

  I’d much rather talk about Monet than myself.

  His eyes narrow on me. “Who is Gemma Summers?”

  “Oh, um…” I cross my legs, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of Brett’s stare. My eyes skitter away from his, coming to rest on the coffee table between us. It’s a stunning piece — gleaming oak, definitely an antique, definitely an expensive antique, from the looks of it. The kind of furniture you admire as artwork, and would never think of putting your drink or a pile of magazines or, god forbid, your feet on. “I’m not really anything special.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  My eyes lift back to his. “Really, I’m nobody.”

  His gaze sharpens, reminding me of a hawk or some other predatory bird narrowing in on its prey from so high above, the poor, fluffy, soon-to-be-meal doesn’t even stand a chance. “My cousin doesn’t think so. In fact, it seems he’s taken quite an interest in you.”

  And there it is: the real reason I’m here. He thinks my presence is a dig at his cousin.

  Does no one watch the goddamn news, anymore?!

  My mouth tightens as memories of Chase’s cruel words replay in my mind.

  Let’s just say, if I ever am going to settle down… I doubt it will be with a girl like Gemma Summers.

  After meeting the blonde this morning, I can see why.

  Anger thrums through my veins as I refocus on Brett, my eyes narrowed. “I don’t think you should confuse pity with interest.”

  “I’ve known my cousin all my life – I can read him better than most. We even lived together, for part of our childhood.”

  I raise my eyebrows, communicating yeah, so what? without words.

  “When we were fifteen
, sixteen, we used to ride our grandfather’s thoroughbreds when we were home from school for the summer. We’d go to the stables and pick out our horses and, after a while, Chase grew particularly fond of one of the young stallions, a great, black, monster of a horse. I could see it in his eyes, in the way he touched its mane and brushed its coat down after our rides, that it was his favorite, though he never said as much.”

  “Is there a point to this trip down memory lane?” I mutter impatiently, not wanting to talk about Chase or his devotion to his horse.

  It’s hard to hate someone who loves animals.

  Brett’s lips twist in the mockery of a smile. “My point, Miss Summers, is that when he realized I’d learned the stallion was his favorite, he did everything in his power to hide his affection for it. He’d only ride it at night, or when he thought I was away from the house. And if I was around, he made a point to choose another horse for the day.”

  “But why?” I blurt, before I can stop myself.

  “He wasn’t good at sharing — still isn’t, in fact. Always worried I’m going to steal his favorite toys, I suppose.” His smile gets bigger, a little more malicious. “Which brings us back to you, Miss Summers.”

  I stare at him, waiting.

  “His indifference toward you is just another act, to keep me away.” He shifts in his seat, a hawk adjusting his wings before descent. “Trust me.”

  “Why would I trust you? I don’t even know you,” I snap.

  Something flashes in his eyes — something I don’t like, as in, at all.

  “You’ve got spirit.” He smiles at me, but it’s oily. “Then again, so did his stallion.”

  I blanch.

  His smile widens. “This is going to be fun.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He continues as though I haven’t spoken, his gaze appraising. “You see, Chase is very controlled, in all realms of his life, but he has a temper. It’s his biggest tell.” He leans forward, just a fraction of an inch, but it’s enough to make me shy backwards in my seat. “He knows I’m watching. It’s only a matter of time. And even if I’m wrong, even if he truly isn’t interested…” His eyes scan down the length of my body. “I’m sure my efforts won’t be wasted.”