Ignited

by J. Kenner

  And the buyer would frown and nod sympathetically, all the while thinking about this amazing bargain, and how they could one-up the Smiths at the next garden party.

  I'd never sold an actual work by an actual master in my life, but the pieces I had passed held an equal appeal, at least to the eye if not to the investment portfolio.

  But this painting before me put all the others I'd dealt with to shame. It was the view of a woman from behind. She was seated on the edge of a fountain, so that from the artist's perspective she was seen through shimmering beads of water that seemed to form a living curtain. A kind of barrier between her and the world. It gave the illusion that she was a creature of pure innocence, and yet that was not an asset. Instead, her innocence rendered her untouchable, even though it was clear that all anyone had to do was slip through the water to reach her.

  The angle of view was such that her hips were not visible. Instead we saw only the curve of her waist, the unblemished skin of her back, and her blond hair that fell in damp curls that ended near her shoulder blades.

  There was something familiar about her. Something magnetic. And for the life of me, I had no clue what it was.

  "It's one of my favorites."

  The familiar deep voice pulled me from my trance. Flustered, I turned to face Cole, then immediately wished I hadn't. I should have taken a moment to prepare myself first, because I heard my own gasp as I sank deep into those chocolate eyes.

  "I--" I closed my mouth. Clearly I had lost all ability to think or speak or function in society. I fervently hoped the floor would just open up and swallow me, but I'd be okay with an alien abduction, too.

  Neither of those things happened, though, and I found myself just sitting there staring at him while the corner of his mouth--that gorgeous, rugged, kissable mouth--twitched with what I could only assume was amusement.

  "I'm sorry I slipped back here. It was getting too crowded in there for me, and I needed some air."

  Concern flickered across his face. "Is something wrong, Catalina? You looked preoccupied."

  "I'm fine," I said, though I trembled a bit, unnerved as always when he called me by my given name. Not that he actually knew my real name. As far as Cole and all my friends in Chicago were concerned, I was Katrina Laron. Catalina Rhodes didn't exist to them. For that matter, she didn't exist for me, either. She hadn't for a long, long time.

  Sometimes, I missed her.

  About eight months ago, a group of us had been having dinner together. Cole started talking about an upcoming trip to Los Angeles, and how he intended to visit Catalina Island. I don't even remember the details of the conversation, but by the end of it, my new nickname had stuck.

  I'd rolled my eyes and pretended to be irritated, but the truth of it was that I liked the intimacy of hearing my birth name on his lips. It meant that we shared a secret, he and I, even if I was the only one of us who knew it.

  Not that Catalina was an exclusive nickname. Cole also called me "blondie" and "baby girl," though he tended to reserve the latter for Angie, who had been a teenager when he'd met her.

  Catalina was my favorite of the endearments, of course. But I wasn't picky. However Cole wanted to mark me was fine by me.

  Right then, he stood to my right and frowned down at me. "I'm fine," I repeated, with a little more force this time. "Really. I was lost in thought, and you startled me. But I'm back now."

  "I'm glad." His voice was smooth, almost prep-school cultured. He'd worked at it, I knew. He rarely talked about the time he'd spent in gangs, the things he'd had to overcome. Hell, he barely even talked about the two years he'd spent in Italy, studying art on scholarship. But it had all come together to make the man. And right then, in that moment, I was glad he never talked about it to the press or his clients. But I fervently wished that he would talk about it to me.

  Yeah, I was a mess all right.

  I stood up, then wiped my hands down the red material that clung provocatively to my thighs. I hoped it looked like I was smoothing my skirt. Instead, I was drying my sweaty palms.

  "I'm going to go track down one of the girls with sushi," I said. "I didn't eat dinner and I think I'm feeling a little lightheaded." I didn't mention that he was the reason my head was spinning.

  "Stay." He reached out and closed his fingers around my wrist. His hand was huge, but his grip was surprisingly tender. His skin was rough, though, and I remembered how much of the work in the gallery he'd done himself, assembling frames, hanging canvases, moving furniture. Not to mention painting his own canvases. He must spend hours holding a wooden brush, moving carefully and meticulously in order to get exactly what he wanted--color, texture, total sensuality.

  Slowly, as if he was intentionally trying to drive me crazy, he let his eyes drift over me. I fought the urge to shiver--to close my eyes and soak in the fantasy of this deliberate caress.

  Instead, I watched his face. Watched his expression grow hot, almost feral, as if he wanted nothing more in that moment than to touch me--to take me.

  Do it, I thought. Right here, right now, just do it and let me have thought and reason back. Take me, dammit, and free me.

  But he didn't pull me close. Didn't press his hands to my ass and grind his cock against my thighs. Didn't slam me against the wall and press his mouth to mine while one hand closed tight around my breast and the other yanked up my skirt.

  He did nothing but look at me--and in looking made me feel as though he'd done all those things.

  He also made me feel better about the abuse I'd put my credit card through to buy this outfit. The dress was fire engine red, had a plunging neckline, and hugged every one of my curves. And while I might sometimes think that my curves were more appropriate for a 1940s film noir wardrobe, I can't deny that I filled out the dress in a way that Cole seemed to appreciate.

  I'd worn my mass of blond curls clipped up, letting a few tendrils dangle loose to frame my face. My red stilettos perfectly matched the dress and added four inches to my already ample height, putting me just about eye level with this man. If you looked up "fuck me heels" in the dictionary, a picture of these shoes would be on the page.

  I wanted to stay right there, lost in the way he was looking at me.

  At the same time, I wanted to run. To get away and regroup. To figure out how in hell I could manage to control a seduction when I couldn't even control myself.

  Escape won out, and I tugged gently at my arm to free it.

  To my surprise, his grip tightened. I frowned at him, a little confused, a whole lot hopeful.

  "I'd like to hear your thoughts."

  "My thoughts?"

  "The painting," he said. "What do you think of it?"

  "Oh." Cold disappointment washed over me. "The painting."

  I gave my arm another tug and this time, to my regret, he released me.

  "You like it?"

  "I love it," I said, both automatically and truthfully. "But there's something--I don't know--sad about it."

  His brows lifted slightly, and for a moment I thought he looked mildly amused. As if he'd understood the punch line of a joke a few moments before I did. Except I never got there at all.

  "It's not sad?" I asked, turning back to look at the image.

  "I don't know," he said. "Art is what you make of it. If you think it's sad, then I suppose it is."

  "What is it to you?"

  "Longing," he said.

  I turned from the painting to him, sure that my face showed my question.

  "Not sadness so much as desire," he said, as if that explained his response. "Her desires are like gemstones, and she holds them close, and each one presses sharp edges into the palm of her hand."

  I thought about that as I looked back at the painting. "Do you think that way because you are an artist? Or are you an artist because you think that way?"

  He chuckled, the sound both mild and engaging. "Shit, Catalina. I don't know. I don't think I could separate one from the other."

  "Well, the m
ost eloquent thing I can say is that I like it. I realize it's not one of the featured pieces, but I hope you're going to show more of the artist's work. It's compelling." I leaned closer, looking for a signature on the canvas or an information card on the wall. I found neither. "Who's the artist?"

  "Don't worry, blondie," Cole said, his eyes flicking quickly to the painting. "We'll keep him around." Now I was certain I heard amusement in his voice, and since I wasn't sure what the joke was, it ticked me off.

  I cocked my head, feeling more in control now that he was irritating me. "Okay, tell me. What am I missing?"

  He moved to step in front of me, blocking the painting. Hell, blocking everything. He filled all of my senses, making me a little drunk merely from his proximity. From the sight of him before me and the scent of his cologne, all spice and wood and male. Even the echo of his voice played in my head, those radio-quality tones making me want to shiver.

  I didn't have his touch, but the sensation of his hand upon my skin still lingered, and I clung tight to the memory. And as for taste--well, a girl could only hope.

  Eternity passed in the space of seconds, and when he spoke, there was a musing note to his voice, as if he were speaking more to himself than to me. "How do you do it?"

  "Do what?" I asked, but by the time the words escaped my lips, the spell was broken, and it was as if he hadn't spoken at all.

  "It's an important night for Tyler and me," he said, his voice now tight with formality. "I'm glad you came, but I should get back to the rest of the guests."

  The abrupt change in his tone disappointed me, but I clung greedily to the words themselves, and tried to ignore the rest. He'd said I'm glad. Not we're glad.

  And I, apparently, had reached a new level of pathetic if I'd sunk so low as to be analyzing pronouns.

  "I wouldn't have missed it for the world," I said, hoping my own voice didn't reveal the loose grip I had on my sanity.

  He flashed me that killer smile, then turned toward the main gallery. But after only two steps, he stopped, then looked back at me. "By the way, you owe me," he said, and this time there was no denying the humor on his face.

  "Oh, really? And why is that?"

  "How is it you started working here three months ago and I didn't notice? That's not like me at all. And, frankly, Kat, if you'd spent that much time at my side, I assure you it would have caught my attention."

  That spark of heat was back in his voice, but I barely noticed it. Instead, I'd turned a little cold. A string of curses whipped through my mind, and I had to force myself not to spit out a choice one or two.

  Instead, I did what I'd been trained my whole life to do--I got my shit together and ran with it. "Oh my god, Cole, I'm so sorry. I meant to mention weeks ago that the mortgage company might be calling, but I got caught up in helping Angie with wedding prep stuff, and now I'm closing next week and I've been packing, and then--"

  "It's okay," he said. "I get it."

  "It's just that my hours at the coffee shop haven't ever been steady, and I didn't want the underwriting people to think I don't have the means to make my payments."

  "It's okay," he repeated. "Buying a house is a very big deal. It's cool. It's been well over a week since they called, and I verified everything. If they haven't requested any more information from you by now, then I'd say you're good to go."

  He met my eyes once more, trapping me in his gaze just a little too long for comfort. Whatever humor had been in his face before had vanished. Instead, I saw only a vibrant, sensual intensity. "But like I said, you owe me."

  I swallowed, and despite the dryness in my mouth, I managed to form words. "Whatever you want," I said, and I could only hope that he understood the full meaning of my words.

  His gaze lingered a moment longer. Then he inclined his head as if in dismissal. "I'll see you back in the main gallery."

  Once again he turned and walked away from me.

  This time, he didn't look back.

  two

  It took me a few minutes to gather myself before I returned to the party, and the moment I slipped around the rope barrier and felt the press of gaiety and chatter all around me, I knew that I should have taken a few minutes more.

  You owe me, he'd said.

  Whatever you want, I'd promised.

  Did he understand how completely I meant those words? Had it really been desire I'd seen when he'd looked at me? And, if so, what was he going to do about it?

  For that matter, what was I going to do about it?

  Apparently I'd just come full circle. I'd started the evening with the intention of seducing Cole August. And despite the electricity that had crackled between us, I don't think I'd come even the slightest bit closer to that goal.

  How's that for a complete failure to meet a mission objective?

  Once again, I was not doing my father proud. Maybe if I thought of Cole as a mark rather than as a man . . .

  I started to run my fingers through my hair, then caught myself before I accidentally pulled it out of the clip. Since I desperately wanted something to do with my hands, I waved down a svelte, dark-haired waitress. I spent a moment debating between a spring roll and sushi. I ended up taking one of each, then cursed myself. Food, Cole, my whole damn life. Apparently I was doomed to shoulder the curse of indecisiveness.

  Great.

  I moved toward a wall to get some breathing space away from the throng and tried to find Cole. It wasn't hard. He'd moved away from the crush of bodies and now stood in an alcove beside a portly man with a ruddy, unattractive baby face. The man was talking animatedly, his skin becoming more splotchy by the moment and his hands fluttering as if in punctuation of his words.

  Cole showed no reaction at all--which told me right there that he was pissed as hell and doing a damn fine job of holding it in. Cole's temper was famous, and whoever this man was, he wasn't scoring points by threatening to incite an explosion during the gala.

  I considered going over and interrupting--if nothing else I figured that should distract Cole's current nemesis. But fortunately, the gallery's business manager, Liz, slipped up, offered the man a drink, and artfully led him away.

  Cole watched them go, and I saw his fist clench at his side. I started to count, and when I got to ten, Cole pushed away from the wall. Anger management tricks, I knew, and he was putting them all to use.

  I wondered what he was angry about. I didn't, however, wonder enough to go ask him. No, I was much more selfish than that. I was still focused on my own problem with Cole--and it wasn't his temper that I wanted to see explode.

  I considered calling Flynn, my friend and roommate of the last few months. At best, he'd have a useful guy perspective on the whole mess. At worst, he'd offer a few soothing words. But I knew he was working tonight--if he wasn't, he'd be at the gala. Flynn wasn't one to miss a party. Especially not one that serves free alcohol.

  Even a girl perspective would be good, but Angie and Evan had been double-booked tonight, and had already left to meet her parents for a wedding-planning dinner, and Tyler's girlfriend, Sloane, hadn't yet arrived.

  I knew she was working late because last night over martinis she'd told me about the surveillance job she was on, but I'd thought she would be here by now. Selfish, maybe, but we'd become tight, and I wanted her around for moral support.

  I glanced at my watch, then frowned. Then I told myself that it wasn't fair to be annoyed when Sloane was off doing her job and had no clue that I was contemplating seduction and needed hand-holding.

  Then--thankfully--the gal pal fairies took pity on me, because when I glanced toward the front of the gallery, I saw her pulling open the glass door and gliding over the threshold.

  Despite the late hour, the air was stifling from an unseasonably hot May. Even so, Sloane looked bright and fresh and pretty--like the girl next door who just happened to have the hard edge and cynicism of a former cop. I started to head in that direction, then stopped when I saw Tyler approach her, his eyes bright with app
reciation.

  He pulled her close, and despite the room full of people, his welcoming kiss was long and lingering, and I swear I could see her glow from all the way across the room.

  My stomach tightened in sudden, unexpected longing. I wanted to be that girl--precious in a man's eyes. And with the power to bring him to his knees.

  No. Not just any man. Cole.

  I watched as Sloane brushed her hand possessively over Tyler's arm, then whispered something to him. He laughed, then kissed her cheek. She moved away from him to enter the party, and he stood for a moment, his gaze lingering on her as he watched her go.

  Since I was watching Tyler, I didn't realize that Sloane had been coming my way until she eased up beside me. "Any news on the house?"

  "We close next week," I said. "I'm suffering from mild terror that it's all going to get ripped out from under me. Like we'll find out that something is horribly wrong with the foundation. Or the sellers will back out. Or the loan will fall through."

  The house had started as a whim. My natural state is to be in constant motion, everything from my habit of fidgeting to my general tendency to uproot myself every few years and move to a new city.

  Over the last six years, though, I'd eased off that last trait. Instead of bouncing out of Chicago, I'd just bounced between apartments.

  A few months ago, I decided that living in a house could be fun. I'd started out looking solely at rentals, but once I saw the tiny two-bedroom frame house, I knew it was like Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. All it needed was a little love. More important, I knew it had to be mine.

  I hadn't even realized I'd been contemplating ownership until I'd picked up the real estate agent's flyer, but I was tired of feeling uprooted. I wanted to settle. I wanted . . . more.

  And now I was on the verge of having it.

  Honestly, I liked the way that felt.

  Sloane's brow was furrowed as she pondered my words. "You've had the inspections, the tenants have already moved out, and the sellers live--where? New Mexico, right? And I think you would have heard by now if there was something wrong with the loan." She narrowed her eyes. "The employment stuff checked out okay, right?"