by Ruby Laska
“In the mid-eighties,” Chelsea said, relaxing slightly. “The year I was born, actually. 1986. They’re a series of four images of Sunset Boulevard, at different times of day, in different seasons.”
“The Sunset Lights series?”
“You know it?” Chelsea’s heart beat faster—she couldn’t help it. The small paintings were not considered among his most important works; her mother had only kept the first four out of a hazy nostalgia for Chelsea’s infancy. But Chelsea would have loved them no matter what, with their broad swaths of color, the humble buildings and shops rendered in bold brushstrokes.
“I do know it. I tend to think they are unfairly overlooked. Your father did some very innovative work with urban landscapes.” His gaze grew even more opaque as some dark emotion played around his eyes. “It is a shame that more people are not able to see those paintings in person. True talent—the ability to create something transcendent from humble materials—it is a kind of genius.”
Suddenly, it seemed as though Ricardo was talking about more than just art. But they were strangers—and he was neither an artist himself nor a historian or even a collector. As an authenticator, he examined works at the lowest level of detail, looking for clues in the paint, the materials, even the framing. There was precision in the work, but no passion.
So why did his eyes seem to smolder when he talked about her father’s art? Why did her own pulse quicken when he touched her hand lightly, to emphasize his point about talent? Why was she so fascinated by the man himself when she ought to be focusing only on his potential as a professional connection?
She pushed her glass away and sat up straighter in the chair, clearing her throat. “You say you’ve seen my father’s work,” she said. “So little of it is in circulation.”
Ricardo nodded sadly. “I’ve seen early catalogs, of course, but so much of it was lost to poor record keeping and unfortunate deals after his death. I’m afraid the world may never see it assembled.”
“Yes, they will,” Chelsea said with sudden conviction. She didn’t add that she was staking her whole future on that goal. “I hope to buy back as much of his work as I can. The large pieces, of course, are…”
“Out of reach,” Ricardo said gently. Somehow, the kindness in his voice nearly broke her; it was far more dangerous than his physical allure. She bit her lip, hard, as he went on. “I understand that Sidewalk Hero was recently valued at nearly three million dollars. We must be glad that such pieces are being well cared for by collectors who understand their importance.”
Chelsea bridled at his use of the word “we”: it wasn’t his father’s heart and soul, stored in the private home of a drug financier in Brazil or an auto tycoon in Germany. How dare he pretend to understand how it felt?
“Yes, well,” she snapped. “I’ll just have to save my pennies until I can afford a sketch or two. Maybe I can look into layaway.”
Ricardo regarded her for a long moment, his fingers idly twisting the stem of his champagne glass on the table. “Forgive me,” he finally said. “I was insensitive. Please. Allow me to take you to dinner, to make amends.”
“No.” Chelsea didn’t mean to be quite so vehement, but she wasn’t going anywhere with this man who both knew too much about her father and found it far too easy to get under her skin.
“If not tonight, then whenever it is convenient for you. I’ll be in town for some time on my current project. Perhaps you could introduce me to your favorite restaurant…as my guest, of course.”
Was he being deliberately obtuse? She’d given him the sort of “no” that anyone but an idiot would understand to be final. And something told her that, whatever else he was, Ricardo de Santos was not stupid. “I’m afraid I’m not interested.”
“You’re here with someone.” Not a question.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” She considered adding that there were several men in her life but decided that might make the challenge more irresistible to him. “And I’m extremely busy with work.”
“I see.” Ricardo pushed back his chair and got up gracefully, buttoning his jacket, then extending his hand to help her up. “Please forgive me, I’ve taken too much of your time.”
With her hand enclosed in his again, Chelsea felt her conviction wavering. His touch was entirely too easy to melt into, especially when he spoke and she felt the vibrations of that deep, sonorous voice through his skin…and why had he given up so easily, anyway? As she reluctantly let go, she decided that she had misinterpreted his dinner invitation. He wasn’t interested in her romantically, he was only being polite. Looking, perhaps, for a professional connection that might be of use later. Maybe she had impressed him with her ambition and her famous father, and he believed she might make her gallery a success.
He reached inside his coat and withdrew a silver card case. When he handed her his card, she barely glanced at it, her face aflame with embarrassment as she tucked it into her bag. His interest was not personal. And now she was making this even more awkward.
She reached into the outer compartment of her bag where she kept her own cards in easy reach for occasions like this, where every guest might lead to potential business. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said coolly. “Good luck with your…project.”
“Indeed. Although I believe that a man makes his own luck. But I suppose that’s beside the point tonight.” He gave her a slight bow. “I wish you every success.”
Chelsea turned and hurried back out into the crowd. She ignored the people who called out greetings from across the room. She’d simply write tonight off—she could apologize to Meredith tomorrow, claiming illness.
She ducked into the ladies’ room near the front of the gallery and gratefully locked herself in a stall, finally alone and out of sight. She dug her phone from the bottom of her purse and dashed off a quick text to Caleb.
Up? Care for a visit?
He buzzed back almost instantly.
I can be at my place in fifteen minutes. You know where the key is if you get there first.
So he was cutting his own evening short to see her. Making an excuse to whoever he was with. A lie, in order to be with her instead. Chelsea felt a faint pang of guilt as she slipped her phone back in her purse. Well, she and Caleb were both adults, and she’d been very clear about commitments—or more specifically, her determination to steer clear of them.
As she slipped out into the night, welcoming the cool patter of misty rain against her cheek, she resolved to stop thinking about the feelings that Caleb might or might not have invested in her. It would be even better if she could find a way to stop thinking at all—at least, about anything but the slaking of physical need that generally came from the vigorous sessions in Caleb’s bed.
Tonight, however, she had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to stop the thoughts, even as she slid between Caleb’s sheets.
Even worse: she had a feeling the thoughts wouldn’t be of Caleb tonight. Oh no. It was going to be Ricardo’s dark eyes and strong hands and that deep, suggestive voice that she would think of as she drove harder and harder toward release.
In her twenty-nine years on earth, Chelsea had learned this: there were some things in life that were even more powerful than one’s own will.
CHAPTER TWO
Chelsea was back in her own bed when her alarm went off at six o’clock the next morning. She’d only been at Caleb’s house until eleven o’clock; the sex had been brisk and energetic, and she’d taken a quick shower at his place before she dressed. She could tell that he wanted to ask her when he could see her again.
But he thought better of it. She’d trained him well.
Still, she felt as groggy and out of sorts as if she’d stayed up all night and drunk a gallon of champagne instead of half a glass. After pulling on her running gear, Chelsea went out into the clear, strong light of a southern California summer morning and started her five-mile run.
Chelsea hadn’t begun her strict exercise regimen until a few years ago. B
efore then, she hadn’t needed to; the series of low-paying jobs she’d held, often two and three at a time, kept her fit to the point of exhaustion. Waitressing, bartending, bike messengering all kept her heart rate up. And before that…the sort of jobs she could get when she was underage and lacking ID, dodging the Department of Family Services, doing whatever it took to keep from being sent back home…those tended to keep her moving, too.
Compared to those days, she was living the easy life now. Chelsea was in the gallery every one of the six days a week it was open, whether or not her part-time staff was there. She was on the phone, online, and scouting new artists as far away as Mendocino and Reno and occasionally even farther. Several times a year she traveled to New York and Chicago, and she’d worked with some famously difficult artists who needed to be managed in person.
She loved it all. Loved seeing reviews of her clients work start appearing in minor publications, then slightly more widely read ones. Loved seeing her bank balance tick slowly upward. Loved, most of all, seeing her father’s work hung in pride of place over her desk in the gallery she desperately hoped to be able to continue to afford, now that the Boyle Heights neighborhood was beginning to pick up and get more expensive.
Chelsea ran down the sidewalk in front of her old, shabby apartment building at the edge of the fashion district, through downtown, dodging the early commuters, and crossed the 6th street bridge, pushing herself harder as she ran high above the concrete river and the rail tracks. By the time she reached the other side, she was usually sweating and out of breath; today, she kicked it up even harder and made her lungs pay.
And still the thoughts of Ricardo de Santos wouldn’t leave her. Last night, as she’d tried to lose herself in Caleb’s bed, she hadn’t been able to focus on anything but Ricardo. His hand on her arm when he caught her as she fell…the scent of him when pressed against him. She’d ridden Caleb all the way to his own gasping, thrashing climax and then faked her own, just to have it over with. Afterward, as she stood under the stinging spray of the shower, she’d remembered the way Ricardo’s eyes had burned into hers as he’d gazed at her over that damn champagne glass, and she’d had to lean up against the tiled shower wall, breathless with the memory.
“Oh, God,” Chelsea groaned as she reached the far edge of Hollenbeck Park, startling an elderly shopkeeper brushing debris from the sidewalk with a straw broom. She gave him a weak smile of apology but didn’t slow: to drop back now would be admitting weakness. Instead, she forced herself to go a little faster, a little harder, her feet painful now on each footfall, the sole of her shoes against the pavement, the impact jarring her bones, her flesh, her very heart.
By the time she completed the five mile loop, her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest. Sweat streamed down her face and body, and her muscles were taxed beyond pain, throbbing with effort. Most mornings, she allowed herself to walk it off once she reached the final block, but today she couldn’t risk it; she kept up the pace until she reached her front door.
When she had finally stripped off her sweat-drenched clothes and stood under the blessedly hot water in her cramped shower, she finally admitted to herself that he wasn’t going anywhere: Ricardo de Santos seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her thoughts.
#
The days passed. Chelsea signed a new artist who lived and worked in a tiny beach town fifty miles up the coast. She sold several paintings, enough to pay her rent on both the gallery and her studio apartment, but at the end of the month, she had added only a few hundred more dollars to the savings that was meant to fund acquisitions of her father’s paintings, should they ever come up for sale.
The last of his works to be sold at auction had fetched nearly a million dollars, however, and at this rate she would never be able to afford even a single piece.
Long ago, Chelsea had learned that when things seemed hopeless, the best thing to do was to force them from her mind and work harder. When she was fourteen, a runaway who’d run only as far as the edge of Chinatown, she found work sweeping up in a salon in exchange for a cot in the storage room in back and food left over from the restaurant next door. The salon was run by two gay men, and the hairdressers who worked there took to calling her “Mei Mei,” or Little Sister, and they became her family.
But as lucky as Chelsea was to have found them, the loneliness and the scars from what she had endured pressed in on her at night. Then, she would get up and study the art books she’d checked out of the library and dream and plan for the future. She was never idle. She never allowed her brain to focus on the pain because by always moving forward, she didn’t have to feel it quite as much.
Even so, two weeks after the encounter with Ricardo de Santos, Chelsea had not been successful in banishing him from her mind. She’d made a few discreet inquiries. A small lie to Meredith—she said Ricardo had mentioned a dealer in New York whose client was searching for a West Coast representative—had netted surprisingly few facts. Yes, he had an apartment in Los Angeles, but Meredith wasn’t sure where. Yes, his reputation among the few dealers who’d worked with him was excellent, but most of his work seemed to be for overseas clients. Meredith did volunteer that he’d been seen with a number of beautiful women, including an actress currently working on a hot network series and a city councilwoman.
“You liked our Spanish friend?” Meredith teased. “Thinking of adding him to your rotation?” She had never criticized Chelsea’s lifestyle, but occasionally the older woman voiced a wish that Chelsea would find someone special, someone to settle down with.
Well, not everyone could be like Meredith and Allan, Chelsea thought privately. Some people would never have that kind of love. That sort of relationship took trust and compromise and the relinquishing of control…and those were three luxuries that Chelsea would never have.
#
On a Tuesday in July, when the evening sky was streaked with the pink and orange of the setting sun and the temperature hovered near ninety, Chelsea was locking the door to the gallery when she sensed a presence behind her. It wasn’t the hairs standing up on the back of her neck feeling that signaled danger, but more of a…melting. A tremor of electric need shivered through her, starting at her toes and rocketing through her body.
“Chelsea Lana Ryder,” that voice said—the voice that had once before driven her senses to distraction.
Chelsea whirled around, her keys clattering to the pavement, and found herself staring into the dark depths of Ricardo de Santos’s eyes. His nearness had been an illusion; he was standing a respectful three feet away, his hands in the pockets of his linen trousers. He was dressed more casually than the last time they met, but style still oozed from every inch of him: fine leather fisherman sandals, a soft cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled past his wrists, a heavy gold watch. His hair had grown out slightly, and the ends now curved resolutely. He hadn’t shaved, and a day’s growth shadowed his sculpted jaw, emphasizing the sensual curves of his mouth.
He bent and picked up her keys, hooking them on his index finger. They dangled between them, as rush hour traffic raced by on Soto Street and the pink sky deepened to orange.
Chelsea caught her breath. All she had to do was reach for the keys, but somehow her hands didn’t seem to be following the directions issued by her brain. Sensing that, Ricardo slowly smiled, a knowing, sly smile. He grasped one of her hands and turned it over, letting his thumb graze the sensitive skin of her palm before he dropped the keys into it. Still he didn’t let go, and his touch sent rivers of need up through her arm and straight to the core of her.
He folded her fingers one by one over the keys. She could feel their hard metallic edges biting into her skin, the sharp curve of the pewter key chain one of her clients had given her as a gift. Ricardo’s hand was large enough to fully enclose hers. God, what was this obsession with his hands? She admonished herself. But of course—it was the only part of his body that she’d touched. If she’d only brushed against his elb
ow, she’d probably have an elbow fetish—
This was ridiculous. Chelsea jerked her hand back, tossing the keys into her bag. Never mind that she’d been obsessing over this man for weeks; it was just a crush, and she was a grown woman who didn’t need to respond to every twist and turn of her libido.
“What are you doing here?” she said, but it didn’t come out cool and indifferent as she’d planned. Her voice sounded thin and strained to her own ears.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Let me guess—you were in the neighborhood and you wanted to see how the other class lives. Those of us whose sales are still in the three digits, rather than six and seven.”
Ugh, now she just sounded petulant. Chelsea squeezed her eyes shut and mentally chastised herself. Lashing out when she felt cornered was an old, old habit; one that she’d mastered a long time ago. She wasn’t going to give in to it now.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, staring at the buttons on his shirt, unwilling to meet his eyes. “It’s just been a long day.”
“Then let me buy you a coffee.” He offered her his arm—how was it that most men couldn’t pull that gesture off without looking like a boy scout escorting a grandmother to church? Ricardo, of course, looked utterly suave.
To refuse now would only make things worse, so Chelsea slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. The cotton of his shirt was fine and smooth to her touch, but she could feel the heat of his skin underneath.
“I—I really don’t have time for coffee,” she stammered, even though they were already walking down the street in the opposite direction of her apartment.
Ricardo made a dismissive sound in his throat. “I won’t allow you to waste such an elegant outfit by going home. We shall show you off at a little place I know. I trust you can walk several blocks in those delicate shoes?”
