by Jan Freed
Ceiling window panels filled the main gallery with soft diffused light, aided by bleached wood floors and white walls. Doreen Walden’s paintings hung at strategic intervals, enhanced with spotlighting. Grabbing Joe’s elbow, Catherine slipped among the twenty or so well-heeled art patrons circling the room.
She paused in front of a tall canvas titled Welcome. Painted in a sketchy cartoonlike style, the images startled or shocked. A blankly staring pig’s head mounted on a wall. A naked woman hanging upside down from a doorway, her sagging breasts dripping blood. A child playing with her dolls on the floor, oblivious to her surroundings.
Joe leaned close to her ear. “Welcome to what?” he murmured, stirring the hair at her nape. “Hell?”
Suppressing a shiver of awareness, she frowned. “Doreen is working through a conflict with her mother in these paintings. She’s welcoming us to her world.”
He grunted noncommittally and followed her to the next canvas. This one was titled Family Tree, and depicted a buxom tree-woman rooted to the carpet and wearing a blue evening gown. She held a serrated knife in one branchlike hand; the other had been cut off, the stump dripping blood. A newborn baby cried from a crib in the background.
“Doreen is one sick puppy,” Joe rumbled in Catherine’s ear. sending another delicious thrill racing down her spine.
The blond-haired woman standing next to them obviously overheard and sent Joe a withering glare. He answered with a slow lopsided grin, his rugged face tanned and starkly masculine in the pristine white setting.
The blonde’s fingers fluttered to her Vidal Sassoon hair, her Paloma Picasso necklace, her Dr. Rosenthal tummy tuck. Her glare melted into a soft smile, and Joe’s eyelids lowered a fraction.
Catherine watched in growing disgust. Why didn’t they just drop to the floor and do the deed? Laurette could slap a title on them and call it performance art.
Tugging on Joe’s elbow, she dragged him to the next painting and fought the urge to scratch something. Preferably the blonde’s face—but Joe’s was an acceptable substitute. She stared blindly at a pair of shriveled breasts on the canvas until the elegant couple sharing the view moved on.
“Must you be so obvious?” she hissed.
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “It’s more efficient that way. You oughtta try it sometime on Pretty Boy and see if he thaws.”
“For your information, Carl is a very warm person.”
“Warm? Hell, the man probably pisses icicles.”
“Shh! Honestly. Must you be so vulgar?”
“Must you be such a prude?”
“Keep your mind open and your mouth closed. Those were the rules, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. The thing is, doll, rules are meant to be broken.”
She arched a brow. “Seen one too many James Dean movies, have we?”
“Enough to know a good exit line when I hear one.” He whirled to leave.
She pulled back on his arm so that they faced each other squarely. “Running away is easy for you, isn’t it?”
He scowled pointedly down at her hand. “Not always.”
“I think it’s become a habit,” she said, speaking to the flare of panic in his eyes. “Why dig in your heels and tough it out when you can avoid conflict altogether?”
He reached for her restraining hand and unpeeled each finger. “Don’t analyze me, Catherine. That’s not a part of our deal.” His voice was low. Deadly. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re causing quite a scene. Now, you may want to stand here and compete with Doreen for attention, but I’d just as soon leave the sensationalism to her.”
Catherine grew aware of her surroundings. Some of the gallery patrons seemed amused, others offended, but not a one of them looked at the paintings.
She smiled weakly and turned back to Joe. “I think that’s enough art appreciation for today, don’t you?”
He bared his teeth in a cold smile. “Avoiding conflict, are we?”
Before she could muster a scathing answer, a blur of motion swept into the main gallery and stopped, condensing into a silver-haired woman in a flowing white caftan.
Laurette Stimson wrinkled her stately brow. “Heavens, is there a problem here?”
Good manners prevailed and people turned toward the walls. Catherine silently groaned as inquisitive black eyes darted from her to Joe.
“Ca-a-atherine,” Laurette said, extending her palms and walking forward. She clasped Catherine’s fingers and pecked the air near both her cheeks. “How nice to see you. And where is that gorgeous fiancé of yours?”
Catherine extricated her hands and checked her wristwatch. Three o’clock. Carl never deviated from his schedule. Never. “He’s playing tennis at his club,” she said, sensing Joe’s smirk and flushing against her will.
She admired Carl’s discipline, his commitment to both business and personal responsibilities—all desirable qualities in a husband and father. So why did they suddenly seem inflexible and boring?
“I’m sorry Carl couldn’t make the show. But who is this handsome devil with you?” Laurette tilted her head at Joe, her black eyes gleaming—an exotic cockatoo inspecting the choice morsel tossed into her cage.
Joe stretched out his hand and clasped hers. “Joe Tucker. It’s a pleasure to meet the owner of such an important gallery.”
He couldn’t have spoken more flattering words. The businesswoman preened. “What do you think of the show, Mr. Tucker?”
“Joe,” he corrected, flashing that lady-killer grin.
Laurette nodded, her color high. Apparently feminine hormones of any age responded to Joe’s bag of tricks.
“So tell me, Joe, how do you feel about Doreen Walden’s work?”
“I like Catherine’s work better.”
Oh, God, Catherine thought, a confusing mixture of embarrassment and pleasure holding her mute. Her “sofa art” couldn’t measure up to Laurette’s standards.
“Really?” Laurette’s tone was a bit cooler. “Catherine who? Perhaps I know her.”
“You couldn’t possibly,” Catherine blurted, earning two startled glances. “I mean, it’s highly unlikely, since she doesn’t network in the art community or exhibit her work. She moved recently to…the outback.” Two pairs of eyes blinked. “Australia,” she added, sinking deeper and deeper.
“Hmm. Well, aboriginal art has inspired some powerful work in contemporary art. Have her send me some slides when she’s ready to show and I’ll take a look at them.” Brightening, Laurette turned to Joe again. “You still haven’t told me your reaction to the show today.”
“We’ve really got to run, Laurette,” Catherine said. “We’ll be late for—”
“Come now, Catherine, a few more minutes won’t matter. I’ve been polling men’s viewpoints on Doreen’s ‘mother’ period, and I’m interested in Joe’s opinion.”
With pained resignation, Catherine watched Joe study the closest paintings and assume the thoughtful expression she’d suggested.
“It’s obvious this artist experienced a lot of trauma as a child,” he said slowly, as if deliberating each word.
Poor Joe. She hoped this wouldn’t set back their training schedule.
“I’d guess these paintings are her attempt to escape from her past, to cut the branch from the tree, so to speak. And yet they transcend the mere cathartic.” He met Laurette’s keen gaze head-on. “By sharing such brutal and uncensored images, she’s fused the personal and the political—without being didactic. It makes for some poignant statements about specific neglect. And a dramatic comment on abuse in general.”
Laurette’s eyes brightened with unmistakable respect. She smiled and patted his arm. “Well put, Joe! You come back and visit anytime. You’re exactly the kind of patron I like circulating in my gallery. Perceptiveness like yours is good for sales.”
Joe cleared his throat and looked anxious to get away.
“Oh, and, Catherine. Be sure to give your father my best,” Laurette murmured, moving at la
st toward her other patrons.
Nodding absently, Catherine stared at Joe, who avoided her eyes and took off as if released from class by a schoolroom bell.
Following his tall figure outside, she waited as he unlocked the passenger door and helped her into the Bronco. There was only one explanation for Joe’s astounding answer—the gallery’s promotional literature. The minute he slammed her door shut, she scooped the pamphlet up from the floor and frantically skimmed the copy. Then skimmed it again.
The driver’s door opened and she stuffed the brochure into her purse. Joe settled behind the wheel, glanced at his wristwatch and cast her a hesitant look.
“There’s a good hour to kill before camp lets out. Would you mind if I stopped by my apartment and picked up a few things Allie and I need?”
“Huh?” She had trouble concentrating.
“My old apartment. Norman is supposed to have a box packed and ready to pick up. It should only take a minute.”
“Oh. Fine,” she mumbled, drifting back into her jumbled thoughts.
If he hadn’t parroted the reviewer’s opinion, that meant Joe’s words had come from a rich vocabulary and complex intellect she hadn’t known he possessed. It seemed that the more she learned about her “unsophisticated” student, the more there was to discover.
And, dangerous or not, she intended to do some exploring.
CHAPTER SIX
THE DRIVE to his apartment building was conspicuously quiet. Joe gripped the steering wheel and wished Catherine would say something. Do something besides send him those probing little glances that made him feel like a damn lab monkey.
His intellectual mumbo jumbo at the gallery had obviously shocked her—which shouldn’t have surprised him. He’d learned long ago that most people saw only what they expected to see.
And yet, he’d somehow hoped Catherine would look deeper. Discover what no one else had since Mrs. Henkel, his Littleton High School English teacher, who had challenged and shamed him into trying out for the lead role in Romeo and Juliet.
“You must exercise your mind as well as your body,” the Shakespearean scholar had told him. Over and over and over. Until at some point he’d not only believed her, he’d also actually enjoyed the mental workouts she gave him. His grades had gone up steadily in every subject.
But nobody—least of all Joe himself—had expected his SAT scores to kick valedictorian butt. Man, had Mrs. Henkel been pumped! She’d even made a special trip out to the house to talk with his parents.
Adjusting the rearview mirror, Joe caught sight of his scowling reflection and blew out a breath. No sense beating that dead horse again.
“Why didn’t you go to college?” Catherine asked out of the blue.
Damn, he was beginning to think she really was a witch. Forcing his features to relax, he shrugged. “I got drafted straight into the minor leagues after graduation.”
“Let me rephrase the question. Why did you choose not to attend college? I mean, you must have been offered athletic scholarships. Academic ones, too, if you used the brain you were born with, instead of the one people like me assumed you had.”
He shot her a startled glance.
“I’m sorry I fell for the dumb-jock stereotype, Joe.”
Gratification blazed through him, as hot and fierce as sexual release. He’d spent a good part of his life apologizing to other people. Being on the receiving end felt great.
“No reason you shouldn’t’ve fallen for it. I fit the image closely enough.” Maybe too closely, he realized now. He’d almost forgotten it was an act.
“True. Which makes me wonder why you’d want to seem less intelligent than you are.”
His goodwill vanished. “So only people who use fancy words are intelligent, is that it?”
“Obviously not, or I would have seen through your smoke screen right away.”
Her rueful expression surprised him. He remembered their first conversation at The Pig’s Gut. She’d apologized then, too, for assuming that guests at her engagement party would have more sophisticated interests than baseball. He’d never met a woman who owned up to her mistakes as readily as Catherine. Hell, he couldn’t think of a man who did, either. For the first time in sixteen years he found himself wanting to explain his actions to another person.
Eyes straight ahead, he cleared his throat. “When I got those scholarship offers, I was a kid, ya know? Cocky and impatient. Four years seemed like a century to wait for my shot at The Show.”
“The Show?”
“Yeah, The Show—the major leagues. I never even considered what I’d do after I got too old to play baseball.”
“What about your parents? Didn’t they realize the benefits of your having a college degree to fall back on?”
Joe choked back a snort. The gap between her WASP upbringing and his own blue-collar roots had never seemed so huge. He maneuvered the Bronco onto Highway 59 before answering.
“In the Tucker family, and Littleton in general, college was for rich people. Other people. Guys went straight from high school into an entry-level job at one of the refineries. I was damn lucky to have the option to play baseball.”
“But you could have played and attended college, too. I find it hard to believe you weren’t even tempted.”
Yeah, he’d been tempted. But in the end, he’d loved his father more. “You gotta remember, nobody in my class was headed for college, except maybe a few geeks. Parents didn’t pound on their kids to make good grades in school. It just wasn’t important.”
“Hmm.”
This was why he never had “discussions.” They only stirred up emotions better left alone.
“So what was?”
“What was what?”
“If a good education wasn’t important, what was?”
That was easy. “Sports.”
She waited a heartbeat. “And…?”
He couldn’t expect a Connecticut blueblood to understand. “No ands. People in Littleton—especially guy people—ate, drank and breathed local high-school sports. Still do, for that matter, same as in every small Texas town. My dad was no exception.”
“He must have been very proud when you made the draft.”
“Yeah, he was.” Joe smiled at the understatement. “The day we got word, he took me to The Pig’s Gut. Bought a beer for everyone there, climbed on a chair and made a toast to me.”
“Really?” Her voice lifted in delight—and what could’ve been longing. “Do you remember what he said?”
“Like it was yesterday.” Joe raised an imaginary beer and deepened his voice. “Over the lips, past the gums, look out major leagues, here we come!”
But fate had stopped one of them cold. He lowered his hand, his reminiscent grin fading.
“Here we come?” Catherine asked. “Isn’t that taking fatherly pride a little far?”
Joe rode out a wave of irritation. “You don’t know how much he loved baseball. Hell, he coached every Little League and senior league team I was on. He never missed a high-school game, practiced with me for hours and hours after a long day at the garage. Made me tough enough, consistent enough, good enough to play with the big boys. It was me out there on the AstroTurf wearing a major-league uniform. But it was my dad’s dream that got me there.”
“Your dad’s dream?”
He cast her a dark look. “Give it a rest, Catherine. His dream, my dream, our dream—what difference does it make?”
“Hmm.”
The sound set his teeth on edge. All she needed was a notepad, pencil and couch. God, just like his wife’s shrink. Stirring up old resentments, acting like he could change what couldn’t be changed. He let the silence stretch, growing tenser by the second.
The Loop 610 South entrance sign suddenly loomed ahead. Steering into the proper lane, he reduced his speed on the elevated curve. Accelerated on the down-ramp. Kept his eyes peeled for cops as he drove through the Bellaire speed trap.
What the hell kind of answer was “hmm“? Was sh
e watching him again with that detached look he hated? Unable to stand it, he pretended to check his right side-view mirror.
Catherine sat staring trancelike out the passenger window, her low ponytail exposing part of her neck. His gaze riveted on that vulnerable spot—and irritation became something fierce and purely masculine. He wanted to swoop down and leave his mark on that pale curve of skin. He wanted it so much he could barely drag his gaze back to the freeway.
Lord have mercy.
He was a leg man, for God’s sake. Breasts rated a close second. But necks were for supporting a pretty face, not giving a guy a semi. This whole bet thing was making him crazy. If he weren’t careful, she’d slap him in a padded room and file the key under “Dracula Complex.”
He sensed rather than saw Catherine shift to face the windshield.
“Hmm,” she half sighed.
“Hmm what, dammit!”
She lurched against her seat belt, then pressed a hand to her chest. Her green eyes took on the look of a hissing cat’s. “What on earth is wrong with you?’
He hadn’t meant to scare her. Hadn’t known his question would come out as a shout. Hell, before meeting Catherine, women had actually complained about his easygoing indifference.
Massaging the faint throb of a headache, he glanced at the Astrodome out his left window “Sorry. Guess I’m getting tired of being analyzed that’s all.”
“Excuse me?”
like she didn’t know what he meant. “Those little ‘hmm’ sounds you keep making. Any minute I expect you to say, ‘Veddy interestink.’” His German accent stank, but by the sound of her outraged sputter, she got the picture.
“That’s absurd. And paranoid. I’m not analyzing you, Joe, but I’ll tell you one thing—somebody sure as heck should!”
Grinding his teeth, he glanced up at the rapidly approaching exit sign—his exit sign—and swerved sharply toward the off-ramp. The tires squealed. The Bronco earned its name. Once he was on residential streets en route to his apartment, he risked looking at his passenger. If her eyes had hissed before, they practically snarled now.
