Taking a sip of her wine, she strolled to the last room in the gallery. Her gaze skipped over the two smaller pieces on one wall and focused on the largest of her works, clearly the one Diego intended as the centerpiece of the showing. It was the one she and Diego had examined nearly a week ago. The one that had led to their first kiss.
Her hand shook as she gulped a bracing mouthful of wine.
Diego came to stand beside her, sipping his own wine slowly, gracefully, his movements fluid and sophisticated as always.
“It will fetch a nice sum, but I imagine you will be sad to see it go,” he said, apparently misinterpreting the reason for her yearning.
She half turned and gave in to the need that had been building since the other night. She cradled his jaw, slipped her thumb over his lips wet with wine. “Sometimes there are things more important than money.”
More than most, Diego knew the truth of that statement. Honor. Duty. Love. All things more important than the lucre most humans were so greedy to hoard. That she understood that brought hope that she wasn’t like his wife. That she was the kind of woman who could be trusted.
He somehow divested them of the wineglasses, laid his hand over hers and stroked the soft skin there. He took a step closer to her and bent his head, whispering as he did so, “I hope this is one of them.”
He kissed her as he had been longing to since a few days ago, exploring the edges of her lips, slipping his tongue past the seam of her mouth to taste her.
It wasn’t enough, he thought, dropping his hand to her shoulder and tracing the fine lines of her collarbone. From there he followed the gap at the collar of her shirt, brushing his fingers against the soft skin there before cupping her breast.
Beneath his palm her nipple crested into a hard peak, and he couldn’t resist. He took the tip between his thumb and forefinger and gently rotated it, dragging a ragged gasp from her.
It urged him onward, and he dipped his head to the crook of her neck, where her pulse beat erratically. Inhaling, he brought her scent into his memory and dropped a kiss at the juncture, resisting the demon’s urge to bite and feed.
The human wanted to bite something else much, much more.
Ramona should have protested as he quickly undid the front of her blouse, parting the fabric to reveal the lace bra beneath. With a deft flick of his wrist, he undid the front clasp and her full breasts spilled free, allowing him access. For a fleeting moment, she considered withdrawing, until he closed his mouth over her nipple, sucking it into his mouth. She moaned and cupped his head to her urgently. The reality of Diego as a lover was more than she had dreamed, and she set aside all reservations to allow herself this special moment.
When she moaned, the sound vibrated deep within Diego, stirring his soul. He forced away all doubts about the wisdom of this. About how little he knew of Ramona and how little she knew of him.
Such as the fact that he was a vampire.
The thought sobered him, quenching the sharp desire that had risen so swiftly between them.
Slowly, regretfully, he tempered his caresses, rearranged her bra and shirt and eased away. But he kept his connection with her by grasping her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen again.”
“Me, neither,” she replied, and gently eased her hand from his. “Maybe we need to think about whether we should keep it just business between us.”
What Ramona said made sense, but something inside of him wanted to challenge her too-logical suggestion. “Business?” He motioned to the canvas on the wall, pressing his point. “Is that what you imagined between us when you created that painting?”
A wide range of emotions roiled through her, chief among them embarrassment that he had seen through the images on the canvas to the passion that had driven her to paint it. That discovery had exposed her soul.
The need to flee overwhelmed her. Ramona raced from the room, pausing only to grab her coat and slip it on. Somehow, Diego beat her to the door in a blur of speed and blocked her way.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“But you did.” She placed a hand on his chest to urge him aside, but he remained firmly in position, preventing her from leaving.
“I’m sorry,” he stressed again, and laid his hand on her shoulder in a gesture meant to comfort. “What can I do to make it up to you?” he added, almost as an afterthought.
It wasn’t how she had imagined raising the issue. In fact, as the night had progressed, she had almost forgotten what she would ask of him. But now that the moment had presented itself, she couldn’t ignore the opportunity.
“I need a favor.”
Diego scrolled through the contacts on his PDA, prolonging the moment with the hope of discovering just what Ramona wanted. The request for Alicia Tipton’s phone number had caught him off guard, and Ramona’s failure to provide any reason for the request troubled him greatly.
It wasn’t just that Alicia was a valued client and had helped put his gallery on the map by referring her rich and famous friends to him. He sensed Ramona’s worry, but her lack of trust in him created worry of his own.
The promise he had made himself so long ago reared up—to never place his faith in another beautiful woman. He had trusted his wife and she had betrayed him.
Would Ramona do the same? Was she asking for the phone number for something less than trustworthy?
He paused, the stylus poised over the PDA screen and the entry for Alicia’s number as he stared across his desk to where Ramona sat, waiting. She fidgeted with one sleeve of her coat, clearly nervous.
He pressed for an answer once again. “Why do you need Alicia’s number?”
“I would understand if you don’t want to give it to me. I know she’s an important patron of this gallery.”
“She’ll be here on Friday night. I could introduce you to her then.”
Ramona flinched under his intense gaze. “It’s okay. Don’t worry,” she said, but everything about her seemed to deflate, as if his refusal had sucked all the life out of her.
He couldn’t stand to see her spirit falter like that, and even though common sense and his long-ago vow warned him not to do it, he opened the contact entry for Alicia and copied the number down on a slip of paper.
Holding it out, he said, “Here it is. Don’t make me regret that I gave it to you.”
“I won’t, Diego. I promise you that I would never do anything to hurt you.” Ramona took the small piece of paper, folded it and slipped it into her coat pocket as she rose from the chair.
He examined her carefully, knowing her well enough to see that she was greatly troubled. No doubt it was about the reason she needed Alicia’s number.
Protectiveness welled up in him, which should have set off warning bells about the idiocy of having any feelings for her other than distrust. But he couldn’t forget how she stirred him. How her passion called to him after he’d felt alone for so long.
He didn’t want to admit it, but the last few centuries with Esperanza, while entertaining, had at times been trying and difficult as he strove to fulfill her needs.
He suspected Ramona was quite a different creature that way—able to take care of herself and independent enough to constantly challenge any man lucky to be in her life. She was passionate and caring, judging both from her pa
intings and his voyeuristic visit as she’d satisfied her needs. Diego was certain that any life with Ramona would be intensely rewarding.
And because of that, he ignored all the sensible warnings coming from his inner voice and asked, “Would you like to have dinner with me?”
Chapter 6
R amona didn’t want to think about dying. She had woken this morning feeling more alive than she had in weeks. Last night with Diego, as frustrating as it had been on some levels, had sparked a fire within her, creatively and emotionally.
Dinner had been pleasant, both the food and the company. They had kept it to business at first, but as they walked out of the restaurant, Diego had reached for her hand, the action cautious but promising.
At the door to her apartment she had been tempted to invite him in and continue what they had started in the gallery. Common sense had reared its head, however. They had shared some kisses, which began chastely but ended with them straining against each other, wanting more.
That want now manifested itself on the paper in her hands. With fast, efficient strokes, she began the charcoal sketch. She might not have time to complete it in oils, she realized, but soon forced such negative thoughts from her mind.
The general outline of the drawing took shape as she sketched quickly. She was intent on drawing when her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, but answered. “Ramona Escobar.”
“We seem to have a problem, Ms. Escobar,” Frederick van Winter stated. “I’ll drop by your loft at twelve today.” And with that, he ended the call.
Ramona smiled. Her ploy of faxing him Alicia Tipton’s number had worked. Van Winter was coming to her just as she had wanted.
Now she had to think about what she would do with him once he got there.
The familiar clunk and clang of the refurbished warehouse elevator provided an early warning system for arriving guests. Ramona pulled open the large rolling door precisely at twelve, as the elevator deposited Frederick van Winter at her doorstep.
“Ms. Escobar,” he said with a polite nod of his silvery head.
“Mr. van Winter. So good of you to come,” she said, and gestured to the entry to her loft.
With another nod, he strolled in, the aroma of an expensive cologne wafting past her. From the soft leather soles of his handmade Italian shoes to the Savile Row suit and stylishly trimmed hair, van Winter was the picture of understated sophistication and old money.
Possibly other people’s money, Ramona reminded herself as she pulled the door closed and stepped forward to guide him toward her kitchen table. She had laid out coffee and tea in the hopes they could discuss the apparent misunderstanding civilly, but van Winter stalked past the table into the center of the loft.
Glancing around the large space, with its industrial-style lighting and rough brick walls, he seemed displeased, until he turned and noted the charcoal sketch on her easel. The morning light streamed in from the skylights above, casting a natural glow on the half-finished portrait of Diego. She had wanted to immortalize the look on his face after he had kissed her last night.
Van Winter brushed his hand across the edge of the paper, murmuring, “Is this someone I know? He looks familiar.”
“I don’t believe you do,” she said, and motioned to the rough-hewn oak kitchen table with its place settings. “Would you care for some coffee?”
“I’m trying to understand why you faxed me Alicia Tipton’s phone number. As a threat, maybe?”
Van Winter didn’t budge from his spot before her easel, making it clear he would be in control. But she wasn’t about to be cowed by him. Her honor was all she had left, and nothing would stop her from clearing her name. She took a seat at the table and poured herself some coffee as she explained her concerns.
“I saw the paintings that you put up for auction. My copies. Not the originals.”
Van Winter didn’t look her way as he said, “We used your copies for security reasons. We felt it best to keep the masters in one place until it was time for them to go to the buyers.”
She had thought of that as a possible excuse herself, but nothing about van Winter’s actions since the auction had allayed her fears. If anything, his avoidance of her during the last few days spoke volumes to the contrary.
“I’m glad to hear that. It will be nice to see the original when I personally deliver my painting to Ms. Tipton. She’s apparently quite interested in one of my new works,” Ramona bluffed. Satisfaction filled her when tension stiffened van Winter’s body.
He turned and approached the table, then tightly gripped the top rung of one of the chairs. “Don’t play with me, Ramona.”
Barely suppressed rage laced his words, and above his pristine white collar, a telltale flush crept up his neck.
“Why did you do it?” she challenged, her hands wrapped around her coffee cup to keep her own anger at bay. In her youth, she might have resorted to violence, but she had learned that calm was sometimes a more effective weapon in a fight.
“I had no choice but to sell the paintings. I had borrowed from the foundation and needed to make things right before the auditors discovered what I like to call a ‘personal loan.’
“I knew I was going to miss them, and needed something to hang in their place, so I thought, why not have copies made?”
“Why me?” she asked, and took a sip of her coffee.
“An associate visited some local art schools and noticed your name on a project.”
A smile came to his face, and its malevolence leached up to his cold, silver-gray eyes. “You’re a dead woman walking. Even the copies will be valuable one day.”
He moved away then, his stride brisk and almost joyful. “How important is it to you that your mother stays well? What will it take to make the last months of your own life more comfortable?”
Her coffee cup rattled against the saucer as she battled her rage. She released the cup, laid her hands on the table and slowly rose, counting to ten before she walked to the door and pulled it open.
“I believe we’re done here, Mr. van Winter.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “You’re not understanding me, Ms. Escobar.”
Walking toward her, he paused at the door and looked down at her from his slightly greater height. “Say a word to anyone…anyone about your mistaken impressions, and you and your mother might find the rest of your lives quite difficult.”
As she met his gaze, Ramona realized that all of his wealth and trappings couldn’t hide the evil in his heart. She knew then that he wouldn’t hesitate to make good on his threat. The realization created a chill deep within her. But she knew she couldn’t back down from bullies like van Winter.
“Touch my mother and you will regret the day you were born, Frederick. I’m a dead woman walking, remember, and I’ve got nothing to lose by taking you down.”
He lost all his bluster and bravado then, and stormed to the elevator. But she didn’t wait to see him leave before yanking the door shut.
She leaned against it and took in a deep breath, her body shaking from the delayed reaction of the confrontation. A cold knot of fear tightened in her gut as she considered his parting words.
He was a rich and powerful man with all kinds of connections. Could he really harm her mother?
R
amona wasn’t about to take the risk, but didn’t know whom she could trust. Diego? Would he believe her? Could he help her?
Walking to the easel, she glanced at the portrait she had begun. She imagined that the passion she already saw in it was real. That he would actually care what became of her. Only she didn’t dare hope.
Diego hated the nervous butterflies that danced in his stomach as he double-checked every single inch of the gallery space. He wanted it to be perfect for Ramona.
He stalked to the anteroom, where the guests would mingle for refreshments and his staff would process inquiries or sales of Ramona’s paintings. Diego suspected there would be quite a few of the latter.
Nervously rubbing his hands together, he took a last look at the paintings in each room, making sure they were hanging just so and that the lighting created the proper effect. Satisfied with the displays in the first two rooms, he moved to the last, and to his favorite painting. The one he regretfully knew would fetch the highest price. The one he should have kept for himself, only doing so would have been like an act of self-flagellation, reminding him of all that he desired but couldn’t have.
He was standing there, admiring the painting one last time, when someone slapped a hand on his back.
“It’s not good to pine, Diego,” Julio quipped. “Why not just end your misery and put the bite on her?”
Diego glanced around and saw they were alone in the room. “Who let you in?”
With a theatrical wave of his wrist, Julio said, “You know I’m irresistible when I want to be.”
Unlike Diego, Julio was not above using his vamp powers for his own benefit or amusement. A subtle suggestion coupled with a blast of undead energy could accomplish quite a lot. Together with a shot of vamp speed, it would explain how Julio had crashed the opening. Which prompted Diego to remind his friend, “No more antics tonight.”
Desire Calls Page 9
