Provocative

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “You know already,” I say, and my voice cracks.

  “I know. So, are you in on this or not?”

  “I’m in,” I say. “How can I not be in?”

  “Pick up the paintbrush and get to work.”

  “Josh—”

  “I was out of line. I fucked up, Faith. I’m protective. That’s personal and there’s no place for that in business. I’m your agent because you’re good at what you do. The end.”

  “Thank you, Josh. I’m fortunate to have you in my corner.”

  “That said, on a professional note that has a personal influence. Macom is my best friend, but creative types are inherently insecure. He put down your work because of his insecurity. It affected you and I think it’s why you’ve used everything else as an excuse to stay away from painting. Make sure Nick Rogers does what you said. He inspires you to paint. If he does, I’ll back off. If he doesn’t, I’m not going to lose another two years of our work. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough,” I say, appreciating the fact that he doesn’t expect me to respond about Macom. He’s right. Macom affected me in all kinds of ways. He still does.

  “News on those sales soon and the show. I’ll be in touch.” He hangs up.

  I set my phone down and lower my lashes. I’m so confused right now. And angry. If my mother hadn’t created this mess, I could just let Kasey run this place. Now, that man trusts me and lives for this place, and I might lose it. He might lose it. And Chris Merit called me. Chris Merit! And I am painting again and that is because of Nick.

  I look at the email again.

  Faith:

  What the fuck are you doing to me?

  Nick

  P.S. Don’t stop.

  I have so much I want to say to him and I decide that in the sea of lies that is my life right now, honesty rules and so I type:

  Nick:

  I hate what you made me feel last night and yet when Chris Merit called me today to invite me to an event this weekend, I thought of only one person: You.

  Faith

  P.S. Stop being an asshole like you were last night.

  I lean back in my chair, and glance around my office, pictures of the winery on my walls. Not a one that is personal. Nothing in this office is mine and yet, I guess if I inherit this place, everything is mine. My cellphone rings and I glance down to find Nick’s number. Adrenaline surges through me with crazy fierceness and I look at the clock that reads noon.

  “Nick,” I answer. “Don’t you have a deposition?”

  “We’re on our lunch break. How did I make you feel, Faith?”

  “Like you’re my enemy again.”

  “I’m not your enemy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why would I be your enemy?”

  I inhale and let it out. “You’re making me feel like the minute you discover any mistake I’ve made in my life, it’s over. We’re done. You’re making me feel I can’t ever let you see a flaw, of which I have many.”

  “That is not my intention, sweetheart. You’re perfect to me. Too fucking perfect for my own good.”

  “See. I know you mean that as a compliment, but the underlying inference is that you want to find a flaw. Stop being an asshole, Nick Rogers.”

  “Right. Stop being an asshole. This is new territory for me, Faith.”

  “You said that. I get that. It is for me too, and I don’t even know what this is, but I apparently need to know.”

  “That makes two of us, sweetheart. Tell me about Chris calling.”

  “You have work.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He wants to showcase my work. I’ll fill you in later, but I apparently need a date for Saturday night in San Francisco. Will you be my date, Nick?”

  “You damn sure aren’t taking anyone else. Yes, Faith. I’ll be your date. I’ll arrange to have a charter plane pick you up and bring you to me.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Can you come up Thursday night?”

  “Friday night.”

  “I’ll call you tonight with details. Faith?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re an artist. My artist.” He hangs up.

  I smile. I think it’s my first real smile since my mother died. And for the first time in years, I am filled with possibilities: for my art and for this man who’s taken my life by storm. And the possibilities are amazing.

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON COMES QUICKLY, BUT not quick enough, and brings me to my house to pack, since I’ve been staying here all week. And I stayed here despite the fact that the winery has been crazy busy, but none of it has been collection calls. Nick assures me he has things under control, and to trust him until he can give me a full update in person. And I do. I tell myself it’s because he’s an amazing attorney, and he is, but after spending hours on the phone with each other every night, it’s the man I’m connecting with, not the attorney. And while our conversations have been more about our youth, his school and mine, it’s groundwork. It’s a path to more. It certainly brings more to my canvas. I start a new canvas. The gardens. My mother’s gardens. It’s somehow therapeutic.

  But it’s staying here and I’m heading to San Francisco where I hope maybe I’ll get news of those sales that I still hear are pending, but I’ve had no confirmation. I’d really like to hear about the L.A. show too, but Josh swears I’ve not been ruled out yet. More so, I am going to the Chris Merit event, with Nick by my side. Nervous and excited, I pack my weekend bag and fret over what to wear tonight. Nick wants to stay in at his place and have quality time together, so jeans should work. But jeans feel so plain. I’ve finally decided on black dress pants and a pink silk blouse, when my doorbell rings. Dread fills me that the bill collectors are back, and I walk to the door to find a delivery driver standing there.

  Frowning because I’ve ordered nothing, I open the door.

  “Faith Winter?”

  “Yes.”

  “For you.”

  He hands me a big box and my stomach flutters because I know this is from Nick. “Thank you.” I sign for it and carry it to the kitchen where I set it on the counter. Feeling ridiculously nervous considering it’s a package, I cut away the tape and paper and find a beautiful silver box inside. I open it to find a card on top with neat, masculine script that reads: Faith.

  I open the card.

  I was going to send this earlier in the week, but I decided that if it pisses you off, I’ll see you in a few hours to fight that battle in person. But know this. I’m happy to rip this version up too, as long as it’s on you at the time. And I owed you a pair of panties anyway.

  I actually hope you want me to rip it off you again.

  All of it.

  Looking forward to it and you,

  Nick

  I set the card aside and pull back the paper to first find gorgeous royal blue lace panties that I do not want him to rip. They’re too beautiful. Beneath them is a dress. I pull it from the box and while it’s not an exact replica of the one that was destroyed, it’s close. I inhale and let it out. I wait for that feeling of being bought, but even with this and Nick flying me to San Francisco, I don’t feel that. Maybe because he’s done these things just because. Not to make up for something. And the dress. He turned it into something we shared and will share again. He made it special.

  I gather everything up and walk into the bedroom. And right before I pack the panties, I take a picture of them, and laughing, text it to Nick with the words: New challenge. And I love the dress. Thank you, Nick.

  He calls me. “You’re not mad.”

  “No. Because you made it…about us.”

  “There’s a lot of us going on this weekend, sweetheart. The plane is waiting on you. Hurry the hell up. The pilot is going to call me when you take off.”

  “I’m leaving here in fifteen minutes.”

  “See you soon, Faith Winter.”

  There is a deep, raspy quality to his voice that I feel from head to toe. “See you soon, Nick Ro
gers.”

  He ends the call.

  With a grin on my face, I finish up packing. I’m about to leave when I open the nightstand by my bed and find the card from my father. I still haven’t read it. I stare at the script and I shake myself before stuffing it in my purse. I need to read it and I might just need that spanking I mentioned. I don’t know that I want to be under Nick’s hand to forget something this weekend, though. I think I’d rather be there just because. Still, I decide to leave the card in my purse.

  My cellphone rings and I remove it from the spot under that card, and the minute I see Josh’s number, my heart starts to race. With a shaky hand, I punch the answer button. “Josh?”

  “You’re in, baby! You made the show.”

  “What? No. Yes. No?”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. You’re in. I’m walking into a meeting, but I’ll send you details. They love you. They say you are the next ‘it’ artist. So, drink some wine and start fucking selling it. I have to go. Congrats, baby.”

  He hangs up and I dial Nick. “You can’t be at the airport yet.”

  “I got in the show. I got in.”

  “The L.A. show?”

  “The L.A. show. I got in.”

  “Then why the hell are you not here already so we can celebrate. Get your sweet, spankable ass to the airport.”

  “I’m leaving now.”

  “Faith.”

  “Yes?”

  “Congrats, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you.”

  We disconnect and in a rush of adrenaline I hurry to the door, exit to the porch, and lock up the house, then move on to load up my car. No. My mother’s car. I hate driving this thing. I climb inside and I swear I smell flowers. I can never escape the flowers, but I’m not trying anymore, I remind myself. I’m painting them. I’m facing them and every demon associated with my mother. I start the car and glance at the house. I love it. I always have. If I can live here and paint, and just be near the winery, maybe, just maybe that’s the path to compromise with my father’s wishes and my own.

  I’m about to place the car in gear when the rapidly setting sun catches on something in the yard. Frowning, I decide I must have dropped something. I place the car in park and get out. Walking to the spot I’d spotted something, I bend down and pick up what appears to be a money clip engraved with an American flag. It must be Nick’s, but I’m not sure I see that man with an empty money clip. Maybe it’s the delivery driver’s clip. I take it with me, slide back into the car, and stuff it in my purse. If it’s not Nick’s, I’ll call the delivery company next week.

  Fifteen minutes later, I pull into the private airport and another fifteen minutes later, I’m the only person on a small luxury jet, with leather seats and even a bottle of champagne on ice. I pour a glass to enjoy while the pilot finishes his checklist and promises to call Nick. I’ve just taken my first sip when my cellphone rings. Certain it’s Nick, I dig it out of my purse and freeze with the number. Macom. He heard about the show. And probably not even from Josh. He’s an insider. He’s a name in the business that I am not yet. But at least, I can say, yet. Not never. And while it’s inevitable that I’ll see him at the L.A. show and otherwise, if I’m to reignite my art career, I don’t have to welcome conversation. I hit decline.

  And I hate that as the plane starts to taxi, he’s in the cabin with me. Old times. Old demons. A past that I don’t want to exist. Of a me that I don’t want to exist. Of a person I never want Nick Rogers to know. I’m reminded that on some level, he knows that person exists. What aren’t you telling me, Faith? he’d asked. I will find out.

  And he will. I know he will. Maybe he’s more forgiving than I am of myself. Then again, he’s Tiger for a reason. He’s vicious. He’s cold. He’s not forgiving at all. But my sins were not against Nick.

  I’VE JUST HEARD FROM THE pilot that Faith is on the plane in Sonoma when Rita walks into my office and sets a stack of papers on my desk. “You were served. It’s all a bunch of nonsense meant to slow probate. Boy, the bank really wants to keep that place, don’t they?”

  I thumb through the stack of, as she called it “nonsense,” and it’s exactly that.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Did she get the dress?”

  “Yes. She got the dress.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s good.”

  “And you’re happy with the other gift?”

  “Yes. I’m happy.”

  “But not about that stack of papers. Got it. Removing myself from the line of fire.” She turns and leaves and I thrum my fingers on the desk. The bank wants her in default. I don’t know why and I don’t care. They’re gambling on the fact that I’ll advise her not to pay the money until I’m sure she won’t lose it. And without all the hidden facts, they seem to know and we don’t, that’s exactly what I’d do.

  I stand up and walk to the window, the fifth floor of the building allowing me the feeling of looking down on a city of millions and it’s here, doing just that, that I find answers. And now is no different. Faith can’t pay that money, but I can. I dial my banker. “Charlie,” I say. “I need a hundred and twenty thousand dollars delivered to SA National Bank by closing today in the name of Reid Winter Winery. I need you to personally talk to him and confirm it’s done.”

  “You got it,” he says. “What else?”

  “Note that this is back payments, fees, and six months in advance. And email proof to Rita and text me when the transaction is complete.”

  I end the call and walk to my desk. “Rita.”

  She appears in my doorway. “Yes, boss?”

  “You will be receiving proof that the Reid Winter note to the bank is paid to date and six months in advance. I’ll be filing a slaughterhouse of documents Monday morning.”

  “In other words, be here at six.”

  “That will do it.”

  “Got it. What else?”

  “Go home and do whatever people who have been married forever do.”

  She smiles. “We do the same things you do, Nick Rogers, but better, because we’ve been practicing. Have fun with Faith this weekend.” She disappears, and I’m already back at the window and dialing Beck.

  “I just paid Faith’s past due bank note and six months in advance,” I tell him. “I like to know my enemies when I make them. And I pay you a lot of money to tell me who they are.”

  “I found a secretary at the bank that was at a party your father attended three months before he died. That same secretary visited Reid Winter Winery a year before Meredith Winter died. The interesting part about this is that Faith’s agent, and her ex, were at the gallery where she just had that show, that weekend.”

  “With Faith?”

  “Faith was in L.A.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “It gets even stranger. Her uncle was in Sonoma that weekend staying at his cottage, without his wife.”

  “You think he was still fucking Meredith Winter?”

  “I damn sure wouldn’t rule it out.”

  Which will absolutely kill Faith. “How does the secretary connect to that bastard, Montgomery, I’m dealing with?”

  “She’s his boss’s boss’s secretary. I don’t know what your father got himself into, but it’s dirty. I’m gambling on that murder connection. And I’ll figure it out, but you need every bit of evidence when I do to take this to the police. You still believe Faith Winter is innocent.”

  “I don’t remember saying either way.”

  “Well, let her tell you if she’s innocent or guilty. We need two bodies and two autopsies. If she’s innocent, she’ll request one on her mother. If she’s not, she’ll refuse.”

  “Just keep working this,” I say, and end the call, leaning a hand on the window.

  Faith is innocent. The problem is, I’m not. I’ve lied. I’ve deceived her. And eventually, I have to tell her. And when I do, I’m at the risk of losing
her but I’ve never lost anything I wanted in my life. And I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want Faith Winter.

  I’m standing in the private hangar when Faith’s plane pulls to a halt and the minute the doors open and she steps into the opening, adrenaline surges through me. Her eyes meet mine, and I feel this woman like I’ve felt no other. I’m obsessed with her when I have never been obsessed with anything but success. With how she looks. With how she feels. With how she tastes. With the way she trusts me when I trust her. The way she doubts me when I doubt her. I have read people as well as I read Faith, but no one has ever read me the way she reads me. And out of nowhere, I think: I’m falling in love with her. Which is insane. I don’t believe in love and neither does she and she’s new to me. I’m new to her. But when does someone know they are in love? A day? A week? A year? It doesn’t matter. It’s not love. Whatever the hell this is though, Faith feels it too. I see it in her eyes. She lowers her lashes as if battling what I’m battling.

  I watch her inhale and let it out before her lashes lift and she starts walking down the stairs, her eyes on mine, and in them I see an echo of what I am thinking. We need to fuck this out of our systems. Fucking makes everything better. I meet her at the bottom of the steps, and in the quiet of the private hangar I do exactly what I want to do. I mold her to me and I kiss her like the starving man I am. And she tastes like everything I have ever wanted and didn’t even know I wanted.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say, tearing my mouth from hers.

  “Yes,” she whispers, and I swear this woman’s voice gets me hard and hot. I want her mouth everywhere, most definitely on my damn cock, and that’s her fault for being so damn good at putting it there.

  I grab her bag from the flight attendant and waste no time guiding Faith to the parking lot. Once her bag is in my back seat, I walk her to the passenger side of the vehicle and when she’s about to get inside, I pull her to me again and kiss her. “I’m really fucking glad you’re here.”