by Wylie Kinson
“They’re reminiscent of RGK’s Northern Africa works, my favorite of all her periods.”
Ellis stared, stunned. “Are you telling me you’re familiar with an obscure artist like Regina Gertrude King?”
“Sure,” Simon grinned, showing off his stunning teeth. “And she’s hardly obscure. She was one of the foremost women painters of her time. Although, not many people knew the paintings were done by a woman because she only signed her initials.”
Ellis shook her head in disbelief. This burly alpha male, who should have been spewing the latest football stats, was actually giving her a lesson on a woman painter whose career spanned the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This had to be a lucky coincidence. Perhaps RGK was mentioned in He-Man Weekly—“How to Hook a Chick at an Art Show”.
“Really?” asked Ellis, a hint of skepticism in her undertone. “I didn’t know she was trying to hide her gender. I assumed her name was too long to sign on canvas.”
Simon realized that he’d confounded Ellis and felt the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement. He was going to make her work for this one.
“Oh no, she probably wouldn’t have sold much if her sex was common knowledge. Did you know her husband was a British diplomat and she traveled around the world with him, painting landscapes in all the exotic places he was posted—the Far East, India, Northern Africa, even Bermuda. Personally, I didn’t like her Bermuda works. They were too pastel-y for my taste.”
“How can you possibly know all this?” Ellis asked, suspicious.
“My sister.”
“Is she an artist?”
“Nope, she’s a curator at the Atlantic Museum of Arts and Antiquities.”
“Your sister works at AMAA? So you like art too?” Ellis was visibly impressed.
“Not initially.” Leave her hanging. Make her beg.
“I don’t follow.”
“Claire is almost ten years my senior. Our parents worked so she was saddled with me a lot. Instead of sitting me in front of the television like most babysitters would, she dragged me to every museum, gallery and art exhibition within a hundred miles. I spent hours sitting in stuffy old halls full of ancient paintings while Claire scribbled notes for her art history classes, lecturing me every chance she got. Eventually, I guess it stuck.”
“Have you ever heard of Suzanne Strathmore?”
“Of course,” Simon said, realization dawning on him seconds later. “Is she a rel—”
“My mother,” Ellis nodded.
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.” He’d heard of her mother. For some reason, this pleased Ellis immensely. And he liked art. Perhaps he wasn’t the Neanderthal she’d pegged him for.
They stood like that for a pause, in comfortable silence, each considering what they’d learned about the other.
“That’s quite a design,” Simon said, remarking on her mosaic. “Come up with it yourself?”
“Of course.”
“Of course.” He surveyed the fragments of glazed tile in an array of shades—yellow, orange, gold, brown and red, though he suspected Ellis would have exotic names for them like golden sands, tangerine dream, saffron and liquid fire. He smiled at the thought. It looked a little like a sunset but he couldn’t be sure at this stage. If it was as wacky as the cabinet she designed, there was no telling. She’d had his carpenters completely puzzled with the odd-shaped sections and nontraditional hardware configurations. He felt a bit sorry for the poor man who would be expected to make use of this business center. How could he write on a two-foot white-board that was four inches off the floor and mounted on the inside of a door? And what could he store in the tall skinny cupboard on the side? It resembled a tray cupboard like the one in the kitchen—too tall and too narrow for anything else Simon could think of.
“So, you’re happy with the built-in?” Simon asked tentatively.
“Couldn’t be more pleased.”
“Those odd-shaped nooks to your specifications?”
“Yup.”
“I’ve never seen or built anything like it. Mind telling me what those little holes are for under the hinged doors?” he asked.
“Toys.”
“Toys?”
“And other kiddie stuff.”
“Thought this was an office?”
“It is. It’s a working mother’s office,” she stated proudly.
“Ah,” he said skeptically.
“Come here, I’ll show you.” Ellis led Simon to the unit and started lifting the hinged doors that resembled little apothecary drawers on the bottom half of the unit.
“Kids love little nooks, moms like toys to be neat, organized and off the floor. I’ve got little baskets that slide into these nooks so mom can fill them up with dolls, trains, blocks, books or whatever. This little erasable board,” she opened the side door, “is for drawing pictures with nontoxic washable markers.
“And this,” Ellis announced proudly, opening the tall tray cupboard that Simon had puzzled over, “is for the barricade.”
“Barricade?”
“Baby gates, safety gates or whatever parents call them. It works just like those retractable guides that are used to control queues at the airport or bank. See this roller? A nylon mesh screen, like on a playpen, wraps around it. When mom wants to cordon off this area, she simply pulls it out, guides it around padded removable posts that screw into those holes,” Ellis gestured to the small brass keyholes in the floor, “and then hooks into the brass loops on the wall and voilà—instant playpen!”
“Very clever,” Simon muttered as he squatted to test the spring on the roller that would rewind the screen with a tug.
“Cool, isn’t it?” Ellis beamed, relieved that he understood. “And even if this becomes dad’s office, he can still watch the kids. Fathers are much more hands-on these days, right? And if the new homeowners don’t have children, they can stash anything in these cubbies—CDs, magazines, wine bottles…”
“Well, I’ll be,” Simon nodded, impressed.
Pride swelled through Ellis, making the corners of her mouth curl in a goofy schoolgirl smile. She shouldn’t have cared that Simon liked her work. It shouldn’t matter this much. But it did. She was flattered, positively exuberant over his “very clever” comment.
Ellis stood back as Simon opened drawers and peeked into nooks. Now that it made sense to him, she could see that he appreciated her concept, and while he admired the cabinet, she admired him. His worn-almost-to-tatters white polo shirt was pulled tight across his strong back, his jeans hung low on his hips and the ever-present tool belt completed the macho image. As he kneeled and reached forward, testing the depth of one of the cubbies, his shirt rode up just enough on his sides to show those G.I. Joe muscles that reminded Ellis of Brad Pitt in the movie Troy. Her fingers were itching to reach out and touch his flesh, feel the warmth and hardness of him. To hell with Brad Pitt! Simon Callon made her heart pound at the thought of him in a leather skirt and wielding a sword.
And speaking of swords, Ellis couldn’t stop her mind from wondering if Simon’s own sword would be proportionate to his tall, broad body. Ellis wiggled her toes in her shoes as a hot flash spread through her body. When he turned around and caught her staring at his backside, her cheeks burned red.
“Why, Miss Strathmore, I do believe you’re blushing. Is it modesty about your creative design, I wonder, or were you staring at—”
“Ahem.”
They both turned to see Remi standing behind them, arms crossed over his chest. He had been working so quietly in the adjoining bathroom that Ellis completely forgot he was there.
“It’s getting hot in here. I’m leaving,” Remi deadpanned, one eyebrow raised.
Shoulder to shoulder, Simon and Ellis watched Remi sashay out of the room with dramatic flair. He had a knack for breaking any tension that built up around him.
“He’s quite a character,” Simon chuckled, drawing Ellis’ agreement. “Is he right?”
“No, he’s gay,” Ellis answered.
“I didn’t ask if he was straight, I asked if he was right.”
“Right about what?”
“Right about the heat,” Simon said. He reached out and ran a callused hand up her bare forearm.
Ellis’ legs turned to liquid at his touch. She met his eyes and saw the green flecks glitter with emotion, with lust, as his hand trailed a caress up her arm then reached around her waist. She felt a tightening in her loins as Simon firmly tugged her toward him. The heat of him seared her everywhere their bodies made contact—thighs, groin, stomach, chest—all of it on fire. Blood roared through her system, making her heart pound against his chest.
His mouth inches from hers, he asked again, “Are you hot, Ellis?”
Yes, yes, yes! her mind screamed. Leaning into him was like being engulfed by flames. She couldn’t take her eyes off his shapely lips—the perfectly sculpted top and full lower lip, a mere breath away from her own. She wanted to taste them, nibble them with her teeth, run the tip of her tongue along his closed mouth before seductively stealing inside. Anticipating the mind-shattering kiss they were about to share, her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. She felt his other hand slide up her back until his fingers were entangled in her hair.
“Maybe a little warm,” she breathed as she moved forward to close the gap between their mouths.
“Knock, knock!”
Ellis jumped away from Simon just as Valentina entered.
“Am I interrupting?” she asked, pausing mid-stride in the doorway, her mind quickly registering the implications of what her eyes just witnessed. “I’m sorry, Ellis. I didn’t know if we were meeting here or upstairs…” she trailed, looking between a very flushed Ellis and a frustrated Simon. “Am I early?”
“No, it’s fine Val,” Ellis assured, finding a smile for her friend. “Simon and I were just discussing…um, he was just leaving. Come in.”
Simon, adjusting his tool belt as he headed toward the door. He turned at the doorway and gave Ellis a wink. A wink that could have meant a hundred things Ellis was sure to agonize about later. She felt terribly cold all of a sudden and reached for her sweater, thankful for a reason not to make eye contact with Val, who was busy watching Simon’s backside as he exited.
“Oh. My. God!” Val whispered, her luminous blue eyes as wide as saucers. “You and Simon Callon?”
“Val, it’s not what you think.”
“It better be what I think. He is so gorgeous!” Val punctuated by giving her a punch on the arm. “You lucky dog! What’s he like in the sack?”
“Val, please! There’s nothing going on, really.”
“That’s not what it looked like from where I was standing,” Val retorted, arms akimbo.
“Simon and I were just admiring the built-in and got caught up in the moment, you know?” Val simply raised her eyebrows. “And besides, you interrupted what would have been our first kiss.”
“Ooh, my bad,” Val winced.
Ellis, eager to change the subject, turned the conversation to business. Together, she and Val worked out the details of the visual and audio systems, discussed sharing the budget and came to a mutually satisfying agreement. Ellis’ office was already hardwired for most of the system but Val’s room would need some work, so they planned to discuss their idea with the IT experts in the morning.
“How’s it going up there in kiddy land?”
“Are you referring to the average age of Cynthia’s interns or my nursery?” Val asked, smiling at her own joke. “The kids’ room is almost finished, the bathroom between the bedroom and nursery is complete expect for accessories and the nursery is still a nightmare. Did you hear what happened?”
Ellis shook her head so Val explained, “I found this really pretty wall border with antique trains and teddy bear conductors in a shop that was going out of business. I’ve had it in my stock for ages and when I was chosen for this project, I knew it would be perfect. I based the entire color scheme of the room on that border and now it’s missing. Can you believe it?”
“Missing? Missing from where, here at the show house or from your shop?”
“Here! I brought it in a few days ago, left it in the bathtub with some other odds and ends so it would be out of the way and when I went to get it this morning, poof! Gone. Disappeared. Vanished.”
“Did you ask around? Maybe someone picked it up by mistake.”
“I hope you’re right. I’ve talked to a few people upstairs but I’m going to hunt up our foreman and see if he knows what’s going on.”
“And I’ll mention it to Simon if I see him before you do,” Ellis promised.
“Speaking of which,” Val paused in the doorway, “does Cynthia know what’s going on between you two?”
“Between Simon and me? Which is nothing, I might add,” Ellis joked. “No, why?”
“Ellis,” Val said gravely, “Cynthia has let it be known via her interns that Mr. Callon is hands-off.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want any hanky-panky when they should be focusing on the project,” Ellis offered naïvely.
“Or maybe she wants him for herself.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Ellis scoffed. “Cynthia’s almost old enough to be his mother.”
“Well koo-koo-ka-choo. Just don’t let ‘Mrs. Robinson’ know what’s cooking down here,” Val said, leaning one shoulder against the jamb. “Why does she hate you so much anyway? Didn’t you used to work for her?”
“I sure did.” It seemed like years ago, another lifetime even, since her years as one of Cynthia’s peons. “After my internship at Afflairs, Cynthia hired me on full-time. I must admit I learned a lot from her but I didn’t enjoy working for her. She’s a terrific designer but she has a mean streak a mile wide.”
Val gave an understanding nod. “That explains why her interns are always running off in tears.”
“That’s Cynthia’s style. Make them feel stupid and incompetent. She had me reaching for tissues on more than one occasion but that’s not why I left.” Ellis leaned against the wall near Valentina so she could keep an eye on the hallway. Ellis didn’t take pleasure in telling the story. She didn’t enjoy discrediting anyone and tried to leave the gossip to Remi, but she liked Val and wanted her to hear the correct account of the scandal, not Cynthia’s nasty version. She dropped her voice so none of the passing workers could hear. “I left because Cynthia took credit for a job that she’d given me complete control over.”
“Oh that’s harsh. But it is her company,” Val offered, knowing that the figurehead of any company usually gets the accolades when in fact it was a team effort.
“No Val, it wasn’t like that,” Ellis explained. “We had a contract for the interior of a brand-new home owned by a wealthy bioengineer. He wanted it completely environmentally friendly. A ‘green’ house, so to speak. Cynthia couldn’t be bothered so she handed it over to me. Gave me complete control. I did months of research on everything—paint, fabric, wood furniture. I worked with the architect on window direction, use of skylights and solar panels. Val, my life was consumed with the project for six months. I ate, slept and breathed environmentalism.
“When it was complete, the bioengineer gave Afflairs a huge bonus, not one measly dime of which I saw but I let it go. Chalk it up to experience. But Val, when the house won an award from a major environmental agency and Cynthia didn’t so much as mention my name when interviewed for Designers Weekly, that’s when I’d had it. She had the nerve to take full credit! She talked about the sense of ‘environmental responsibility’ she’d felt when she chose each element of the overall design and then refused to give any specifics to the interviewer, saying that they were industry secrets.”
Val shook her head in disbelief.
“I know!” Ellis agreed. “That’s why I gave her my letter of resignation. That’s why I left Afflairs and that’s why Cynthia hates me. She lost control of me.”
“But Cynthia tells anyone who asks that she fired you
because you tried to take credit for one of her designs.”
“Ah, so you have heard her version. Damage control,” Ellis confirmed. “Cynthia would never admit that someone actually left her firm. I dare anyone to ask Cynthia about the specifics of that house and she wouldn’t know where to begin. Thankfully, the architect I worked with was brilliant and has given me loads of recommendations, so my business hasn’t suffered because of her lies. But what gets my ass is that Cynthia is such a good designer, she doesn’t need to take credit for other people’s work. Why couldn’t she share the limelight? Why wouldn’t she give one of her own employees a pat on the back? That makes no sense to me.”
