by Sandra Cox
Yawning, she threw back the coverlet. “All right, all right.” She stretched, walked to the window and looked through the delicate lace sheers. Shades of pink and pearly gray illumed the buildings along the sidewalk. Dawn had arrived. She’d survived the night. She stared down into the street but saw no one standing in the shadows.
“Let’s go get you some food and me some coffee,” she told the cat. He turned and ran down the stairs. She stumbled after him, yawning.
Once in the kitchen she moved with the efficiency of years of practice. First she ground the coffee beans. Closing her eyes, she inhaled their heady aroma. Then she got the coffee started and fed the cat. As soon as the pot shut off she poured herself a cup of the steaming dark liquid. She took a sip, then another and jolted to life as the rich caffeinated beverage rolled through her system.
Coffee cup in hand, she walked to the living room and once again looked out the window. She could feel her body tensing as her eyes swept the street. If anyone sat in the cars parked along the curb she couldn’t see them.
She rolled her head from side to side and forced herself to relax. If there was someone watching the apartment house there just wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it.
What she could do was paint. Her fingers tingled with anticipation.
Walking back into the kitchen, she filled up her coffee mug again, went upstairs and put on old sweats and a paint-spattered tee then walked across the room to her loft that overlooked the kitchen. Light streamed through the window.
She took off her amulet, laying it on an old wooden table. She never wore it when she worked because it gave her an unfair advantage. What she painted came from her soul, not the whims of ancient gods. She knew, even after she’d taken it off, an aura of creativity still enveloped her but there was nothing she could do about that.
Walking to the easel, she picked up a paintbrush and felt a shudder of delight. Painting for her was a sensual experience. She painted in oils, her specialty being beautiful flowers in exotic vases.
Stepping back from the easel, Bella studied the project she’d started before she left. White lilies and roses spilled over a cobalt blue vase and a white lilac lay at its base as if dropped by a careless hand.
Her showing was only a week away. Only this last piece remained to finish. She squeezed paint from a tube onto her palette. Then, dipping her rabbit’s fur brush into the deep blue splotch, she began.
Time lost all meaning. A shrill persistent noise broke her concentration. She blinked and looked at the clock. Eleven a.m. She picked up her coffee, sipped and wrinkled her nose. Ice cold. The phone stopped ringing. She looked at her painting and nodded in satisfaction.
Puss–Puss came strolling in.
“Damn, I’m good.”
“Mrrow.”
“Glad you agree.” She leaned forward, sniffed then laughed at herself. “They look real enough to give off fragrance but right now they smell like oil and turpentine.”
The phone began to ring again. Still studying the painting, she reached for the phone. “Hello,” she said absently.
“Welcome home. When did you get in?”
“Hello, Jeffrey. Last night.”
“How was your trip?”
She paused, uncertain how much information she wanted to share with a man she’d been seeing on a semi-regular, semi-casual basis and settled for, “Interesting.”
“Why don’t you tell me all about it over dinner tonight?”
“Jeffrey, I—”
“Come on, Isabella, between your trip up north and your trip to Italy it’s been nearly two months since I’ve seen you.” His pleasant voice deepened, became husky, “I’ve missed you, Bella. If you were trying to prove how important you are in my life you’ve succeeded.”
Bella closed her eyes and rubbed the spot between her eyebrows with her index finger. She could feel a headache coming on. “We both agreed this was a no-commitment relationship, Jeffrey. Or did you think all you had to do was turn up the charm and I’d fall into your arms?”
He gave a low, intimate laugh. “Be fair, Bella, you did fall into my arms.”
“Bad choice of words.”
“Come on, sweetheart, I’ll take you to that little Greek restaurant you like so much. If dinner’s all you want, I’ll take it like a man.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said dryly.
He laughed. “Pick you up at seven?”
Capitulating, she said, “Fine,” and hung up the phone.
She stretched, shaking off the edge of irritation the interruption to her work caused. The White Flowers in a Vase was finished. She had nothing left to do for the show. As if drawn by a force she couldn’t control, she walked to another easel with a blank canvas and began to work.
The buzzer sounded. She blinked and glanced at the clock. Jeez, seven o’clock! Where had the day gone? She’d been painting this new piece for eight hours straight. Sometimes, it hit her like that. She became so wrapped up in her work, time ceased to exist. Nothing mattered but the canvas, the subject and paint being applied to the easel.
She looked at the canvas and her breath caught in her throat. She painted lush, sensual flowers and an occasional countryside, as she had in Italy. Where had this man leading a bay mare toward an old barn come from? A man who bore a striking resemblance to Hank McHenry?
She’d painted from memory without even a picture to replicate. The painting was far from finished but anyone who knew Hank would have little trouble recognizing him. Even unfinished, the essence of the man came through.
She shook off her unease. The lingering dregs of creativity probably still lingered on her from the amulet. How else was she able to see and define his strong jaw, his calloused hands and long legs encased in faded blue jeans so clearly?
The buzzer squawked again.
She shook herself, grabbed her amulet off the nearby table, thrust it on her arm and ran downstairs. She pushed the button. “Yes, George.”
“Mr. Privette is here to see you, Ms. Bella.” George’s voice sounded formal even across the hollow tinny sound of the speaker.
“Send him up, George.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She clicked off the speaker, went to the door and waited for the knock. When it sounded she stuck her eye to the security portal and saw his blurred, out of proportion features. Taking off the latch, she let him in.
“Darling.” He started to sweep her into his arms.
She took a hasty step back and threw up her hands to ward him off. “I’ve been painting.”
He laughed. “Right. The oils probably wouldn’t go with the Armani shirt.” His eyes swept over her, taking in her bare feet and paint-spattered clothes. “You’ve been painting and lost track of time again.” He laughed but his voice was strained. “I wonder if any man can ever compete with the passion you feel for your work.”
She shrugged. “It’s who I am, sugar. Get yourself a drink. I’ll be down in just a few minutes.”
“Take your time. I know it will be worth the wait,” he said gallantly.
She pointed toward the tiny bar in the living room then ran up the stairs, wondering if Jeffrey saw her as anything more than eye candy, someone on his arm who would help his corporate climb up the ladder. She hunched her shoulders. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. It was pretty much how she viewed him. Well, not so much that he would aid her career but he was damn easy on the eyes. And he fit like a well-dressed round peg in a hole into her strict no-involvement rules. She grinned and hurried to the bedroom to shower and change clothes.
Thirty minutes later, her hand on the balustrade, she walked downstairs. She wore a cream fitted silk dress with a light dusting of beadwork at the scoop neck and shiny black stiletto heels on her arched feet.
He was waiting at the bottom as she knew he’d be. He glanced up, his eyes darkening.
“Ravishing as always.”
As he moved toward her, she gave him a light buss on the cheek then wiped off the lipstick
with her thumb. Before he could scoop her into his arms, she walked without haste toward the door. “I’m starving. Shall we go?”
A frown flickered across his forehead, gone in seconds. “After you.” He motioned her forward, his eyes speculative.
He chatted easily about mutual acquaintances as they left the building and walked to the car. The black Corvette sat squarely in front of a fire hydrant a few steps from the brownstone.
She had barely settled into the soft black leather when they arrived at the restaurant. Any other time, she would have suggested walking but tonight she felt too vulnerable and exposed on the dark streets of Atlanta.
As they entered the restaurant, she allowed herself to relax and breathe in the mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat and garlic drifting from the kitchen.
The proprietor hurried forward and kissed her hand. “Ms. Bella, we’ve missed you. How good of you to join us.” He nodded at Jeffrey. “Mr. Privette.” He settled them in their favorite spot in the corner and brought them a glass of rich red wine. Bella kept her eye on the door. She relaxed against her chair but remained alert, aware of anyone who walked in or out of the restaurant.
Jeffrey rested his arms on the table and leaned toward her. His gaze swept over her like a languid caress. “If I haven’t already mentioned it, you look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you.” Tapping her long red-lacquered fingernails against the wineglass, she returned her date’s scrutiny with one of her own. Jeffrey was ten years her junior, handsome, a considerate date and lover but she didn’t think she’d be seeing him anymore. For all his protestations about a casual relationship she knew he was just biding his time, waiting to take it to the next level and confident that he could do it.
He reached for her hand. “I’ve missed you, Bella.”
His tone was properly husky, holding just the right amount of emotion. The man should have been an actor. He has the looks and the ability. He would have made a fortune in Hollywood. She studied their clasped hands. His were as well manicured as her own. No rough calluses and freckled age spots dotted them. His fingers were slim like a piano player, not thickened with muscle and hard work. Stop thinking about the Northern cowboy, Bella.
The fingers wrapped around hers gave a light squeeze. “Bella?”
She looked up. “Hmm?”
He frowned. “I was hoping…” He bit back whatever he was going to say. Instead he touched her amulet. “I’ve never seen you without that particular piece of jewelry. What are the stones? They are quite unusual.”
As the waiter arrived and set down their salads, Bella withdrew her hand, relieved. “The center stone is rose quartz. The green stones on the side are tourmaline.”
He speared an olive. “Tourmaline. Isn’t that supposed to enhance creativity?”
Her spine straightened as her body tightened. Fancy Jeffrey knowing that. She made herself relax. He was just making conversation. She shrugged indifferently. “Does it?”
He laughed. “I’d say in your case most definitely. Now tell me about your trip.”
Bella gave him an entertaining, well-edited version. They chatted through Greek pizza loaded with tangy black olives and feta cheese and potent black coffee and mouthwatering baklavas they’d ordered for dessert.
Caught up in describing the beauties of Italy, Bella continued to talk on the way home, gesturing with her hands as she spoke.
She was still talking when they pulled up in front of the brownstone. “I’m sorry, Jeffrey, I didn’t give you an opportunity to catch me up with your life since I’ve been gone,” she apologized as he helped her out of the ‘Vette.
He pulled her close. “We can remedy that,” he said, his voice low and seductive.
His remark barely registered. Her skin pricked with unease. They were standing in full view, illumed by streetlights. Someone watched them from the dark. She could feel heated intensity from staring eyes.
She rubbed her arms, chilled. Maybe she should consider his offer. Maybe it would keep whoever was out there at bay for the night. Over his shoulder, her gaze darted up and down the block.
She looked up the street then over to the other side. As her brain registered what her eyes had seen she glanced back up the street as unobtrusively as possible, not quite believing.
Deep in the shadows sat a battered old pickup. Her heart swelled and her breath caught in her throat. He’d come. For whatever misplaced sense of duty or because of the code he lived by, he’d come to protect her. Bless his remarkably stubborn heart.
She placed her hand on Jeffrey’s chest, feeling the smooth, silky texture of his expensive shirt and knew the man in the pickup was probably wearing worn cotton. “I’m sorry, Jeffrey, not tonight, I have a show to get ready for.”
Always the gentleman, Jeffrey didn’t push. But she felt his chest heave with frustration beneath her hand.
“Soon I hope.” Before she could ward him off he planted his mouth on her upturned lips and drew her close in a firm embrace.
Oh great. I have no need to feel embarrassed, she told herself as the kiss went on and on, each second a minute, each minute an eternity.
“Your thoughts are elsewhere. You must be tired,” he murmured, as his arms finally relaxed their death grip.
“You have no idea,” she muttered under her breath.
“Goodnight, Jeffrey.” She practically ran into the building.
“I’ll call you.” The door swinging shut muffled whatever else he may have said.
She waved at him, turned and walked toward the elevator.
George walked over and punched the button. “I’ll see you up, Ms. Bella.”
“That’s not necessary, George. I’m sure you’ve been right here since we’ve left. Has anyone called for me?” she asked casually, hoping he didn’t notice her thundering heart.
“No, ma’am.”
She took a deep breath. “If a tall drink of water, dressed in faded jeans, worn-down cowboy boots and a plaid shirt wants to see me ask his name. If he says Hank McHenry let him in.” She pointed a finger, her thumb under her chin. “Oh yes, his face is chiseled like it was cut from granite and his hair is red running to gray.”
Behind his glasses, the doorman’s rheumy blue eyes lit up. He grinned. “Do I smell a romance?” he asked archly, wiggling his eyebrows. “Perhaps a little competition for that smooth-talking lawyer?”
Heat swept her face. She knew her peaches and cream features were brick red. “He’s an old friend. And when you meet him what you’ll probably smell is horses. He works on a ranch.”
George nodded. “Of course, he’s an old friend,” he said, his expression so smug she wanted to hit him. “I’ve never known you to give carte blanche,” he pronounced it carty blanchy, “for anyone to enter your apartment before.”
“I’m trying to save you a punch in the nose. He’s stubborn and used to getting his way.”
“He doesn’t sound like most of the men you see.”
“He’s a Yankee,” she said darkly, glowering. “You’ll know him by his Northern twang.”
“Well,” George drawled, “there’s probably some Confederate blood somewhere on his family tree.”
She shook her head. “You, George, are a romantic.”
“So are you, missy,” he said softly, “Though you do a good job of hiding it.”
She threw up her hands in surrender and entered the elevator.
When the shiny steel cage slid to a halt in front of her apartment she hurried out. Her hand shook as she unlocked the door. “Pull yourself together,” Bella muttered as she pushed open the door and headed for the bedroom to change clothes.
Her heart thumping with anticipation, Bella donned a pair of black leggings and an elongated fitted white tee. She looked in the mirror, sexy but casual. She had no intention of letting Hank McHenry know she’d spied him and make him think she was dressing for him. She touched the amulet for a quick glamour sweep then went around the apartment, picking up discarded papers and clot
hes, Puss–Puss at her heels.
Taking a last glance around, she sat down on the couch to wait. Puss–Puss jumped up on her lap. “I shouldn’t have worn black,” she muttered, staring at the white cat hairs on the legs of her pants.
Fidgeting, she picked up a magazine, flipped a few pages then threw it down.
It took her about forty-five minutes to realize he wasn’t planning on making an appearance. Dimming the living room lights so she wouldn’t be visible, she looked down the street. Her stomach muscles tightened and she felt sick. The truck was gone.
Surely he hadn’t left because he’d seen Jeffrey kiss her. It might cause some men to walk away but not Hank. Even if he was angry or hurt, Hank wouldn’t leave her in danger. She’d bet her life on it. It wasn’t his style. Not that she’d spent that much time with him. But she knew him, knew him inside and out. Or at least it felt like she knew him. Sensed what was inside him.
She glanced across the street. Relief flooded her out of all proportion to the situation. Hank had just moved across the street. She paced the floor, waiting. He wasn’t coming in. The tough guy was going to spend the night in his pickup, trying to find out who was watching the apartment.
Fisting her hands on her hips, Bella tapped her foot. He was just being stubborn. There was absolutely no reason he couldn’t keep an eye on her and still be comfortable.
Grabbing her keys, she walked out of the apartment and took the elevator downstairs.
“Where are you going, Ms. Bella?” George asked, alarmed, as she headed out the door.
“Just across the street, George. You can watch me from right here.” She pushed through the doors. The cool night breeze of late March ruffled her hair. Standing under the streetlight, she looked up and down the quiet street then started across.
An engine purred softly.
“Bella, get back!” Hank yelled as he threw open the door and came racing toward her.
Startled, she looked up. The car, its lights off, came out of nowhere. For a moment she felt like a deer caught in the headlights, her jaw slack, her mouth gaping.
Hank tackled her. He knocked her to the ground, rolling over and over with her, absorbing most of the shock from the hard concrete with his tough body.
