by Mary Campisi
She pulled her bottom lip through her teeth and fixed her gaze on him “You bought me one of his pieces. Red with white and black swirls. I have it on my coffee table.”
“And after that?” He needn’t pull from the dregs of his memory because the events lived in the center of his brain—vivid, real, pulsing.
Her voice fell to a whisper. “We bought croissants and a bottle of wine.”
Oh, yes, she remembered. “The croissants were stuffed with ham and cheese.”
“Horseradish cheese.” Those full lips twitched. “And we had strawberries with cream.”
…which he fed to her, one delicious bite at a time. When he kissed her, she tasted of strawberries and passion. When she sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck, he made love to her, toppling the berries onto the white sheets… “I can never get enough of them.” Or enough of you.
“I haven’t eaten them in over two years.”
Because of him, he guessed. Because they would remind her of them. “Bad reaction?”
The muscle in her jaw twitched. “You could say that.”
“Maybe they just need a little sugar.” Drizzled along her belly…
“Or maybe I need to avoid something that makes me sick.”
They both knew they were not talking about strawberries—they were talking about their relationship or rather, what had been their relationship before he disappeared. Ash dug his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t touch her and moved closer.
“Are you ever going to forgive me? Because if you could give me a little hope, no matter how small, that maybe someday you’d find a way to let me in your life again, I’d really appreciate it.” That sounded like begging. Damn, it was begging, but he didn’t care. He’d do anything for another shot.
Night sounds stretched around them as he stood before her with his heart at her feet. She stared at him, eyes bright, then cleared her throat and turned away. She was going to say no. It didn’t matter that he would never be able to forget her or that he’d broken the engagement to protect her. Even if he divulged the real reason for his leaving, what good would that do? Arianna was a private person and throwing her past life in front of her, one that included theft and a pregnancy, was not going to earn him any points and certainly not an opportunity for a second chance.
“Meet me at Ian’s tomorrow morning, 10:00 a.m.” She opened her car door, slid inside, and drove away before Ash had a chance to respond.
Chapter 5
Arianna grabbed her coffee and headed toward Ian’s gallery. The Frame was located ten minutes from the city in an upscale shopping plaza. Quinn said Ian Debenidos could spot talent and bullshit in less than five seconds, in people and their work, which made him one of Quinn’s favorite people. Ian liked Arianna’s work, called it “riveting and compelling,” and wanted to showcase her jade collection this fall. His findings appeared regularly in the Arts section of the Sunday paper, along with his bi-weekly commentary on man and art and the interrelationship between the two.
Why did Eve have to offer Arianna’s services to Ash? Couldn’t she tell from last night’s dinner that Arianna had no desire to be around him? Of course she could. Eve was very intuitive, especially about people and relationships. Hadn’t she been the one to see the real Quinn Burnes behind the arrogance and bluster? And hadn’t she been the only woman to draw out the sensitive side of the man, make him admit he needed her, loved her even? Eve had been watching Ash and Arianna most carefully last night as though she were writing a thesis paper on rebuilding relationships gone bad.
Why hadn’t Quinn told Ash to go to hell and never come near Arianna again? She’d wanted him to do exactly that, wouldn’t have minded if he’d given the man a black eye. But he’d done neither. He’d actually asked in a roundabout way to consider giving Ash another chance. Interesting, since Quinn usually attacked a situation head on, no dancing around or feigning. So why the unspoken suggestion to forgive and try again? Was he serious? It would be a disaster. She ignored the thumping in her chest. She had to keep her emotions vacuum-packed because if she didn’t, Ash would swoop in like a gush of air and invade her senses, smother her doubt, and capture her heart. Again.
She could not let him do that.
Could she?
Sleep hadn’t come last night, not when all she could think of was his plea for another chance, spoken in such earnest tones, those dark eyes filled with regret and a smattering of hope. He wanted to start again with the truth, not lies. He admitted he wasn’t who he said he was, but what he didn’t know was, neither was she.
And how exactly would she throw the truth at him? A truth he might think he wanted to know but wouldn’t, not the real story, unadorned, naked, covered in so many lies as to appear unrecognizable. If he knew who she’d been, what she’d done, would he still want a life with her? Marriage? Children? Or would he shun her as “trash” and accuse her of being the one who had betrayed him.
And if he did those things, would he be wrong?
The quest for self-respect never ended and no matter the awards, the write-ups in newspapers and magazines, the requests to design a new line for celebrities, she could not move past what she’d done. She’d betrayed her family, stolen from them and discarded them, all before she’d reached eighteen. It didn’t matter that she’d tried to repair the damage; her father would hear none of it. The money she sent was returned, though it was five times what she’d taken from them. There’d not even been a note with the return, just a simple Void slashed across the center.
She’d thought she could start anew and open up her heart to someone, and she’d thought Ash Revelin would be that someone. But he’d left her, which deep down made her believe she wasn’t deserving of anyone’s love. When he walked back into her life a few days ago, she’d forgotten the pain of loving and losing him, forgotten who she really was, where she’d come from, and for the briefest moment, she’d let her heart embrace him…let a spark burst in her soul…and that was dangerous, because despite what she told him, despite the lies she told herself, she could love Ash again. Worse, maybe she’d never stopped loving him…
“Great painting, huh?”
Arianna turned toward the voice, not that she needed to identify the owner. Only one person spoke in a way that made her lightheaded. “Hello, Ash.” She pointed to the painting and said, “Quinn’s mother did this.”
“His mother? I thought she was dead.”
“It’s a long story.” With gaps and enough questions to make her certain there was more to the “abducted mother returns” story Quinn had pushed on them. She never questioned because she understood about leaving the past buried and even creating a new past.
“Ian never mentioned anything about Quinn’s mother painting this. In fact”—he rubbed his jaw and frowned—“he didn’t seem too happy to talk about these paintings at all. They’re really mesmerizing with the silhouettes dropped against the sun. Kind of tragic in a way.”
She was still stuck on the implication that he’d met Ian before. “You know Ian?”
That grin spread. “I met him about an hour ago. Nice guy. Doesn’t much like Annie’s husband, but then guys don’t usually like men who steal the women they love from them.”
“What are you talking about? And why were you here so early?” She checked her watch. “I said ten o’clock, not nine.”
He shrugged. “I haven’t slept past seven in over two years.”
She ignored the comment; somewhere buried just beneath the surface of those words was the reason for the early rising and it had to do with her. With them. There had been weekends when they’d spent half the day in bed. She was not even going to tiptoe near that memory, so she focused on the other, equally disturbing half of his statement. “What do you mean, Ian’s in love with Annie? Where did you conjure up that story?”
He faced her and his expression grew serious, his dark eyes almost black. “No conjuring necessary. Didn’t you notice the way Annie tossed Ian’s name out like a rott
en egg? And Michael took every opportunity to voice his opinion on Ian and his ‘artists are freaks and he’s a king freak,’ which is really interesting considering Quinn and Eve are artists and so are you. So, what’s with the guy?”
“I don’t know.” And she didn’t. But Ian in love with Annie? Surely Quinn would have said something…surely Quinn would have noticed. “I think you’re way off base with Ian. He’s extremely focused and intense.”
“Code for obsessed and in love.”
Was he speaking from experience? About her? She smothered the thought and offered a possibility for Annie’s distaste of Ian Debenidos. “Annie might still be resentful because for a time she thought the paintings Ian sold for her were purchased by real admirers.”
“Ah. Let me guess. Big brother’s checkbook?”
“Pretty much.”
“I can’t fault the guy for trying to help his sister. Let’s go inside before you tell me he’s donating all of his money to charity and volunteering in soup kitchens.” His voice tickled her neck. “Ian gave me a few suggestions, but I want your opinion.”
She nodded. “Ash?” She clutched the door handle and eyed him from the reflection in the door window. “The question you asked me last night about another chance.” She paused, pushed the words out before she couldn’t say them. “Yes. That’s my answer.”
He blew out a breath that spoke of relief and hope. “Thank you.”
“My terms. Slow.”
“I can do slow.” Those lips twitched and sent chills through her. “I’m very good at slow.”
***
Ash bounded out of the elevator and headed for the suites of Lancaster Development. Life was good. No, life was great. Arianna was going to give him another chance. He threw open the wide glass doors and waved at Megan who sat outside of Pete’s office. “Hey, Megan. Is Pete in?”
“Hi, Ash.” She motioned to him and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I think he slept here last night. His clothes are all wrinkled and he needs a shave.” She scrunched her nose. “I smelled alcohol and Pete hardly ever drinks. Poor man.”
“Let me check in on him.” Why was it that just when one part of a person’s life straightened out, another went to hell?
“He hasn’t eaten anything either, but he asked for black coffee. Do you want me to order something in?”
Efficient and empathetic. Her lips parted and she waited. In that split second before he answered, Ash spotted the truth. Megan was in love with Pete. Or thought she was. That’s why she’d broken up with the linebacker. Poor girl, she wasn’t the first or the fifteenth to lose her heart to her boss. Nice suits. Power. Money. Ash guessed there was a certain quiet charisma to his brother, but if Megan had fallen for that, she also would have noticed his steadfast loyalty to things he loved—like his wife. “Why don’t you order in Chinese?” He pulled out his wallet and plunked a few twenties on the desk. “Whatever Pete likes. I’ll take the General Tso’s and a spring roll. Don’t forget to make sure they include hot mustard. Order something for yourself, too.”
Megan tucked the money in her pocket and said, “He’s glad you’re back. So am I.” She blushed and added, “You’re good for him.”
“Thanks.” She was doomed for a big fall. Did Pete suspect or was he so caught up in his own agony with Caroline he hadn’t noticed? He moved toward his brother’s office and knocked. “Pete?”
“In here.”
When Ash entered the executive office, he noticed two things: Megan had not underestimated Pete’s condition, and from the signs of the seriously depleted bottle of scotch on the desk, his brother was in for a major hangover. He eyed the half-empty glass near Pete’s right hand. Or maybe he was on the tail end of his drunk and the hangover would kick in later. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t think she loves me anymore.”
The words fell out part moan, part misery, but their message bounced off the walls: The man was in pain, deep, visceral, all-encompassing. And the pain had to do with a woman. No surprise there. Wasn’t that kind of pain always about a woman? Ash sank in the chair opposite Pete’s desk and eyed his brother’s stubbled jaw, half-buttoned shirt, bloodshot eyes. “You look like shit.”
Pete drove both hands through his hair, making the ends stick up. Jack Nicholson in The Shining had nothing on him. “I asked her to go away for a few days, anywhere she wanted. Palm Springs. Chicago. New York City.” The bloodshot eyes held his, watered. “Do you know what she said?”
The key was to remain calm and let Pete reason through it like it was a business deal. If the man could buy and sell chunks of Philly real estate, he could sure as hell see what his wife wanted, which wasn’t a trip. “What did she say?”
“That trips and jewelry weren’t going to fix things.” He traced the edges of the four-leaf-clover paperweight. “I bought her a bracelet. Tiffany’s. Rubies and diamonds.” He shook his head. “She didn’t want it. All she could talk about was that damn graduate school and how I was stifling her.”
“Pete.” Maybe his brother really didn’t get it. “Caroline doesn’t want ‘things.’ She needs the freedom to have her own success, not one you’ve created for her.”
“Do you think I should dye my hair?”
Where had that come from? “Absolutely not.”
Pete pointed to Ash’s head. “Maybe a few reddish highlights, like yours. Or should I grow it longer?” He ran a hand along the back of his neck. “Caroline always liked your hair. What do you think?”
“No.” Women could make a guy second-guess breathing. Once they were in your head, you were doomed. He could look at Pete’s situation and see a clear way out of it, but his own issues with Arianna? That was another story. “Don’t go mid-life crisis on me. You don’t need a new haircut, or a new wardrobe.”
“What if I joined the gym?” Pete stood and patted the small paunch above his belt. “The Club has a personal trainer that specializes in Pilates and body sculpting.”
“No.” Ash was going to have to spell it out. “Let her take the grad class. No driver, no bodyguard.”
Pete smacked his hands flat on the desk, eyes wild, jaw tight. “I don’t think I can do that.”
Ash’s next words turned his brother’s color to paste. “You don’t have a choice.”
***
How many times had he dreamed her beside him, close enough to smell the lilac scent she loved. Close enough to let her voice roll over him, creating all kinds of crazy longings. She was damn sure close enough for him to lean forward and touch her. How many times had he dreamed that?
He hazarded a glance at her as she studied the photography hanging above the fireplace in his condo. It was a black-and-white shot of a country road somewhere between Wichita and Albuquerque. Brush and dust on either side amidst outcroppings of rock with a horizon that started and ended in pink-streaked blue. Arianna was like that road—mysterious, compelling, and layered in a caution that, if ignored, would toss you into an abyss from which you would not recover. He’d take it slow because he couldn’t risk her disappearing from his life before he had a chance to show her how much they belonged together. They hadn’t been wrong about each other before, and they weren’t wrong now. She was scared. Well, so was he, even if he hated to admit it.
What if she refused to open up about her past? Could he really pretend he didn’t know she’d had another life, one that included a miscarriage and an estranged family? No matter how hard they tried to deny their past, it was always there, looking them in the eye, shaping the decisions they chose to make or not make. And driving a fancy car or traveling to the Caribbean was not going to change a childhood. Or lack of one. It had taken losing Arianna and going on the road with nothing but two saddlebags and a camera to learn what people were really about. It had been an opportunity to learn about himself as well, much of which he hadn’t liked. How long could you blame dead parents for your behavior and self-serving attitude? He didn’t look at life as a right anymore, but a privilege, like the
people he met while traveling: hardworking, good people who believed in integrity and family. And tonight, after dinner, he planned to show Arianna what he’d been doing these past two years. He would not, however, tell her about the trips he’d taken to her hometown.
She turned away from the photograph of the open road and made her way to the island in the kitchen where Ash was slicing a handful of portobello and shiitake mushrooms. “When did you start cooking? Last I knew you were stuck on Reheat and High.”
He smiled and shrugged. “It was a fluke. My bike broke down in some little town along the Indiana-Illinois border and I had to wait ten days for parts to arrive. The mechanic’s wife was this little Italian lady who believed olive oil and garlic could fix everything: squeaky doors, faucets, broken hearts. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do, so I started showing up in the morning for coffee and cannoli. Next thing I know I’m tilling her garden and planting Swiss chard.” He grabbed an onion and peeled the skin. “And then she’s teaching me to make marinara sauce and a balsamic vinaigrette.” He chopped the onion and tossed it into a pan. “I stayed an extra week to learn how to make homemade pasta.”
He didn’t miss the smile she tried to hide. Probably picturing him with dough caked on his fingers and flour on the dark T-shirts he favored. He’d been a mess all right, but there’d been a certain calmness to the whole process that prompted him to search out the kitchens of the friends he made along the way. Fajitas, pizza, egg rolls, stromboli. Homemade cuisine with a touch of local flavor. “If you peek on the deck, you’ll see the garden I’ve started. Basil, parsley, rosemary, oregano.”
“I’m impressed.”
He sliced away at a red pepper. “I wanted corn, but that requires a little re-thinking my living situation.”
She laughed, an actual, honest-to-god laugh, accompanied by a real smile. “Maybe you can ask your brother if you can borrow a hunk of that prime real estate for a few ears of corn.”
