White-Hot and Hard

by Catherine Chernow

Usually talking to Miles made everything seem clearer. It made everything all right.

  This time she was positive nothing would.

  Chapter Seven

  A little while later, a shrill buzzing noise permeated every nook and cranny of Dallen’s brain. When he realized it was the buzzer to his loft, he bounded up from the couch, his head aching.

  “All right, all right. I’m coming.”

  He tripped on the area rug, righted himself, hoping the hammer in his head would stop pounding on his brain, hoping that when he got to the door it would be Sloan.

  He looked through the small viewing lens on the door.

  A man stood on the other side.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Dallen O’Neal?”

  “Who wants to know?” He scowled.

  “I’m Miles. Sloan’s assistant.”

  Maybe this was Sloan’s way of contacting him. He peered through the small lens again, looking at the big galoot that stood on the other side.

  When he spoke to Miles, he could finally make things right with Sloan.

  Desperation clawed at his insides. This was his chance.

  He opened the door.

  The next thing he saw was hundreds of stars. They danced in front of his eyes.

  He blinked then realized his jaw was on fire.

  “What the…”

  He looked around, noticing that he lay sprawled on the floor.

  Miles stood over him, extending his hand toward Dallen. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, we can talk.”

  Dallen got to his feet, cradling his jaw in his palm. He took a swing at Miles, but his aim was completely off. The effects of drinking and Miles’ blow made him unsteady on his feet.

  Miles deflected Dallen’s feeble attempt to hit him.

  Dallen flopped onto the couch, nursing his aching jaw. He glanced at Miles. The damn guy had at least six inches on him. There’d be no advantage to fighting him.

  Miles angled his head, his gaze fixed on Dallen’s chin. “I’ll get some ice.” He walked to the kitchen and rummaged through the freezer. A few moments later, he handed Dallen a damp kitchen towel filled with ice cubes. “Hold it on your jaw. It will minimize the swelling.”

  Dallen placed the icy cold towel against his skin. “Shouldn’t you be placing Sloan’s electronic signature on some contracts?” He sneered then winced, the action of speaking and moving his face making his jaw hurt all over again.

  Miles ignored his comment, his gaze settling on the broken glass near the living room wall. “Rough night?” he asked.

  “Did Sloan tell you what happened?”

  Miles settled his tall frame on the arm of the couch. Folding his arms across his chest, he replied, “Sloan and I go way back. I’ve been with her for years.” His voice shook. “And I’m damned sorry that I ever convinced her to accept your invitation to your studio.”

  “You did that?” Dallen’s voice filled with surprise.

  “Yes. I did, and only because I heard such great things about you.”

  Dallen winced, in part because his face hurt. Another part of him felt ashamed.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he felt such shame for what he’d done to another human being.

  He narrowed his eyes and spoke. “Why did Sloan send you here today? To break our contract?” Derision and bitterness were the only defenses he could muster against feeling such regret for his actions.

  “Sloan didn’t send me anywhere. Least of all to break a contract. She’d never do that.” Miles didn’t speak for a few seconds. When he did, his voice was soft. “Sloan gave me a job when I was at one of the lowest points in my life. She helped me leave an abusive lover. I was a mess, physically and emotionally.” He swallowed hard. “A very low period in my life, but thanks to Sloan, I got through it.” He nodded his head. “So did a lot of other people. Sloan has helped a lot of artists, getting them through some tough times when no one else would.”

  The towel dripped. Dallen tossed it on a nearby table. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “Nothing can probably make you feel better.” Miles lifted the empty vodka bottle, studying it. “Including this.”

  Dallen cradled his head in his hands. “My head is still pounding.” He fingered his jaw. “And thanks to you, so is my face.”

  “Can’t say I’m sorry for that, because I happen to be partial to Sloan.”

  Dallen got up from the couch and went over to the kitchen. He put coffee into a filter and shoved it into the percolator. “If you can believe this—because for the life of me, I certainly can’t—I am as well.”

  “What?”

  “I’m partial to Sloan.”

  “Let me tell you something about Sloan. She’ll probably kill me, but if it means her happiness, then I’ll suffer the consequences.” He sighed. “Do you know who her father is?”

  Dallen shook his head. “No. Why?”

  “William Walters. The painter.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “How come she goes by the name Sloan Benton?”

  “It’s her mother’s maiden name. When Walters died, his fortune was left largely in trust to Sloan. When she was thirty, she was legally allowed to collect on it. She chose not to.”

  “Why in hell not? It would have been millions. A painting by Walters goes for big bucks.”

  “He walked out on her mother…and Sloan. It all happened when Sloan was quite young, yet she still remembers how it felt.”

  Dallen couldn’t imagine it. He had a mother and father who loved each other. Walking away from their marriage wasn’t on their radar…

  And if his father ever found out how shitty he’d treated Sloan, he’d probably kick his ass from here to the next century. He glanced at Miles. Thanks to him, his father wouldn’t have to.

  A strange longing for permanence trickled into Dallen’s consciousness.

  He wanted what his parents shared together all these years.

  Well, maybe not exactly what they shared. His heart lifted a little, and he mentally grinned. He wanted to share all that kinky sex with Sloan for the next hundred or so years.

  It was a very sobering thought because he wanted it more for her than he did for him. He wanted to give her a gift…

  The gift of knowing that he would never walk away.

  It was just too bad he’d fucked it all up.

  “She’s got one of his paintings hanging in her office. It’s probably worth a million dollars,” Miles told him. “She’s got several more that she won’t part with and she hasn’t used her trust fund. She’d rather die than use that.”

  “So she works to promote artists.” Dallen shook his head. It spun. He grabbed the kitchen counter for support. “Why? Why promote artists when her own father was an artist who abandoned her? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe she loves art more than nursing old emotional wounds.” Miles raised a brow. “Not like someone else.”

  “Okay.” Dallen stroked his chin. He felt the mental blow, as Miles intended. “I deserved that.”

  He also understood Sloan’s earlier passionate statement about loving art.

  Miles took a seat at the kitchen counter. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

  “About what?”

  “Winning Sloan back.”

  “Aside from groveling at her feet? I haven’t got a clue.” Dallen sighed.

  “Groveling is a good start.” Miles grinned. “She enjoys begging.”

  “I’m sure lots of people do that with her. It won’t be anything new for the great Sloan Benton.”

  “You were.”

  “I was what?”

  “New. You were a breath of fresh air for Sloan, personally and professionally. I never thought I’d see the day when someone would get under her skin the way you did.”

  “If that’s supposed to make me feel better.” Dallen heard the ping of the coffeemaker. He poured himself a cup. “It’s not working.” He held up his mug. “Want some
?”

  “No.” Miles shook his head. “I only want the answer to a question.” He paused. “Do you love her?”

  Dallen placed his mug on the counter. His heart raced. Permanence had not been on his radar, ever. There were times he’d sacrificed a lot to gain little. Recognition for his talent as a sculptor was hard-won and he enjoyed his casual, free life and making his own rules, even if it meant giving up something in return.

  Maybe he and Sloan were not so different after all.

  He’d gladly forgo all of it if it meant getting her back.

  “Yes. I love her.” The words slipped easily from his lips, surprising even him.

  Miles grinned. “Then my plan will work.”

  “What plan?”

  It was the first bit of real hope he’d had since he screwed up everything with Sloan.

  “I think I will have that coffee. And while I do, I can tell you how I think you can win Sloan back.”

  * * * * *

  After Miles left, Dallen went downstairs to his studio. He chose a large piece of white-hot marble, the same kind he’d used for his recent sculptures. He had not told Sloan where he got the unusual medium. Its smooth white patina reflected all the colors that shone down upon it.

  This time the marble seemed to pick up a pale blue color. Dallen smiled, for he knew the marble mimicked real life. This time it was his blue shirt.

  An idea bloomed.

  This would his masterpiece.

  Miles told him that the only thing that would win Sloan over was persistence.

  That and great art.

  Sometimes the best ideas were the simplest.

  He began to work, using his mallet and chisel to chip away at the marble.

  Dallen worked long into the night and into the next day, stopping only when nature called. He ate little and slept even less, determined to finish the sculpture.

  Miles said despite Sloan’s personal feelings toward Dallen, she’d still secured an opening for him at Lisa Tremayne’s gallery uptown.

  He had to have the sculpture done in just a few days.

  Covered with fine white powder from head to toe, he worked furiously, gripping the tools, his hands aching.

  It would be well worth it if Miles’ idea worked.

  His chest hurt just thinking about it.

  Funny, the gallery opening should be thrilling him. That should be the climax of his artist’s dream.

  In life, some dreams faded, to be replaced by others.

  The only one he wanted was Sloan. He wanted her back, naked and panting in his bed.

  His dick responded to the image.

  He loved the sound of her voice, her scent, her very being.

  Miles was wrong.

  Sloan had gotten under Dallen’s skin, not the other way around.

  The one woman he’d thought to destroy with revenge, the one woman who almost destroyed him all those years ago, was now the only woman who inspired him to greatness.

  Chapter Eight

  That same week, Sloan went to work, hoping to get lost in her job, mainly just hoping.

  She hoped she’d get over Dallen.

  Mixing business with pleasure was her first mistake.

  Falling in love with Dallen O’Neal was the second.

  She was stuck with a broken heart and a client who loathed her.

  True to his word, he was a thorn in her side, always calling her office. She refused to speak to him, deferring the calls to Miles.

  It didn’t stop Dallen from phoning or from trying to see her.

  She refused him on both counts.

  Miles strode into her office, interrupting her morose thoughts. “What are we going to do about Renee Sands’ invitation?”

  Renee Sands threw the biggest and best parties. Everyone who was involved in the art world in New York City was invited.

  Dallen would be there.

  She had Miles call him and tell him to go. A lot of networking went on at a Renee Sands party. Many of Sloan’s clients attended them, for it helped make the connections in the art scene that were so vital to an artist’s career.

  “What do you want me to say to Renee?” Miles asked again.

  That I’m not attending. That I don’t want to see Dallen O’Neal ever again.

  That I want to see him so much it makes my heart ache.

  If she didn’t go, her clients would think she wasn’t doing her job, that promoting them at this event wasn’t important.

  She had no right to jeopardize their fragile careers. One minute an artist could be the shining star of the art world, and the next they could be yesterday’s old news.

  “You have to attend that party, Sloan.” Miles’ voice cut through her musings, his statement paralleling her own thoughts.

  “I know I do.” She waved a hand at him, hoping the effect was casual. “Tell Renee we’ll be there.”

  Miles sighed and rolled his eyes. “Thank God for small favors.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “For a second I thought you were going to just go home tonight and lick your wounds.” He narrowed his eyes. “Sloan Benton, you look terrible.”

  She barely managed to roll out of bed each morning, never mind her usual maintenance.

  It all seemed such an effort.

  It was amazing how one man could have such an effect.

  After her father’s desertion, she’d felt the exact same way.

  Lost. Alone.

  Scared.

  This time she was frightened that time would march on and she’d live to be the ripe old age her mother had lived to, and she’d be alone, like her mother.

  Her mother always tried to make Sloan feel that it wasn’t her fault he abandoned them. Sloan didn’t believe it. She’d carried the guilty burden of her father’s desertion on her young shoulders, but the truth of the matter was that she and her mother cramped her father’s lifestyle.

  Like her father, Dallen O’Neal was too talented to ever be tied down to her. If he showed up at Renee’s party, she’d be able to hook Dallen up with lots of gallery owners, something that if he tried on his own would never work.

  Sloan Benton’s word was law.

  Everyone listened to her.

  Except Dallen.

  He made his own choices, his own rules.

  A niggling doubt crept into her mind. He could be so damn difficult, what if he decided not to go? A show in Lisa Tremayne’s gallery was the start he needed for more exposure.

  Oh, why in hell did she care, anyway? What was wrong with her?

  “Is Dallen really going to the party?”

  Miles shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Because he’s a pain in the ass,” Sloan muttered, tapping a pencil on her desk.

  Miles bit back a grin. “I suppose he is that.”

  “Trust me. He is. When it comes to promoting his work he can be such a prick. That day he invited me to his studio, he wasn’t nice to Griffin from the Times.”

  “So you’re still going to promote him, is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s his game, to torture me while we have this contract.” She sat back in her chair, an idea blooming in her mind. “If that is his intent, then I can use fire to fight fire.”

  Miles’ smile stretched from ear to ear. “And how are you going to do that?”

  She rose from her desk, feeling better than she had in days.

  “I’m going to make Dallen O’Neal regret every single thing he said to me, every lousy word. I’m not going to sit here and let him think that he’s got the upper hand.”

  Heat crept into her face when she thought about his hands on her ass, and every other part of her body. Oh how she missed his touch.

  She grabbed her jacket from the coat rack. Miles got to his feet and helped her into it.

  “Atta girl, Sloan. Don’t you take any shit from Dallen.”

  She was still a powerful woman in New York.

  Still a beautiful one.

&
nbsp; She glanced in the mirror on the wall across from her desk. The heavy, ornate polished glass reflected a woman who hadn’t taken care of herself in days.

  A woman who was letting herself go.

  All because of a man.

  It wasn’t going to happen, not in her lifetime.

  If she had to sum up her professional and personal life, it would be with one word—persistence.

  Sloan sailed out of the office that afternoon and headed for Bon Bon Salon on Lexington Avenue.

  She’d get the full-service treatment there and then show Dallen O’Neal exactly what he was missing.

  * * * * *

  That evening Dallen mingled with the who’s who of the New York City art scene. He made casual conversation with painters, sculptors, gallery owners, critics and patrons while his gaze kept straying to the entrance of Renee Sands’ magnificent town house.

  He wanted to make sure he noticed Sloan when she arrived.

  The thought of just seeing her again made his dick so hard it drove him crazy.

  He wasn’t going to attend this damn party but Miles talked him into it. At the last minute, he’d told Dallen that Sloan would be here.

  It would give him the chance to talk to her, to try to make things right.

  He’d been with many women before Sloan. None of them elicited the feelings in him that she did. It was a mix of deep longing and protectiveness. She might be able to take care of herself professionally, but in bed she wanted him in charge.

  He wouldn’t let her down.

  And he wouldn’t walk away.

  He couldn’t give her the upper hand, because the relationship would never work. In bed and out. She enjoyed that bit of dominance in him.

  She’d played him well, capturing his heart.

  Fool that he was.

  He was right to do what he did, damn it!

  He tried one last time to justify his actions. He was right to give her back what she gave him all those years ago, which was nothing more than a crushing blow to his giant ego. It was amazing the hurts he nursed in his life. The disappointments.

  But they were all minor compared to being without Sloan.

  He saw her walk in.

  “The real diva of the art world has arrived,” Renee whispered in Dallen’s ear. A deep chuckle followed.