“What?”
“Con’s heritage, I know it’s French, but is he Cajun, or Creole? It matters, you know. The food. We’re choosing the menu today.”
“What’s the difference?”
Maisie glanced down at her clipboard. “One is based on French cuisine, and the other is…based on French cuisine.” She raised an eyebrow. “But they’re different.”
“Hmm. How about a bit of both?”
“Why don’t I call Conroy and ask?” Maisie raised an eyebrow.
Lizzie’s pulse jumped. “Cajun. Mudbug Flats is the heart of Cajun country.” Wasn’t that what he said?
“Good. We’re going to bring the chef with us from New York, and I had three lined up to choose from—all native Louisianans—until I found out about this Cajun and Creole thing. This narrows it down to one.”
“Does Celebrity Access really care about making sure all the details are fully authentic?” Lizzie was ready to laugh.
Maisie blinked. “I’m here now, so we care,” she said stiffly. “My reputation is on the line.”
Lizzie kept a straight face. “I’m sure Con will be touched by all the trouble you’ve gone to. But why bring a chef from New York? Don’t they have plenty of them down there?”
“Quality control, darling. Once you leave Manhattan you just never know what you’re going to get.”
By the time she returned home she was bloated with delicious samples from the West Village restaurant where the Cajun chef worked. She’d tried to think about her waistline, especially in front of Maisie, who didn’t seem to eat at all, ever, but the food was just too good. At least she wouldn’t have to beg Con for dinner.
Con was nowhere to be seen as she walked up the driveway, but she could see light coming through the garage window.
She went in through the side door. Con, dressed in only a pair of athletic shorts, was applying newspaper and masking tape to the windshield.
“Why did you put it in here? I told you to leave it outside. And how come the lights are working?”
“Hey, nice to see you too.” He winked. She made sure not to look at his bare chest.
He pulled another piece of tape from a huge roll with a loud rasp. “Brought the car in to keep dust off while it’s painted. I called the electric company and got the lights turned on.”
“How did you do that? You’re not a Hathaway.”
“I didn’t tell them that.” Rasp. “You’re a spray gun artist, right?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I did some work with spray guns in college.”
“Still got the equipment?”
“It’s in the basement.”
“Good. Let’s go get it.”
“Why? Are you going to use my spray gun to paint a car?”
“No. You are.”
“I am not.”
“Let’s go look at your tools anyway, okay?”
She wasn’t sure quite how it happened, but at 1:00 a.m. she was standing in the garage, wielding a spray-gun loaded with #522 Black Ice. Con had the nerve to go yawning off to bed after patting her butt in the most infuriating way and telling her he was sure she’d do a great job.
She’d do a great job alright.
Even the respirator couldn’t dull the invigorating scent of enamel that always made her want to paint the town red. Or black or whatever else was in there. She couldn’t think why she hadn’t painted in so long.
Con had made a big deal about how with Corvettes you had to maintain the integrity of the original. Respray the exact original paint color, keep everything just the way it was.
Come on! This car was from the 1980s. Hardly a priceless antique.
And she wanted to see Con’s jaw drop.
At first she thought she’d do something funny like paint cheesy flames all over it. But the base coat spraying had reinvigorated her muse and she figured she might as well get creative. She’d found quite a few cans of the automotive enamel she used to use, lids tightly sealed and the remaining paint fresh. Spent the last forty-five minutes cutting templates out of bits of leftover cardboard moving boxes. Then mixing colors with a drill mounted paint stirrer to create a palette of metallic off-blacks.
As her design took shape, her guilty glee at messing with the vintage-car integrity of Con’s “investment” mutated into the sheer joy of creation. Her fingertips tingled with the thrill of making images, and her mind buzzed with ideas, urging her to try new things, push the envelope of possibilities.
It was almost dawn when she was finally satisfied. The car’s panels shimmered with overlapping shapes in various shades of silvery black, almost seeming to ripple as her eyes scanned over them. The effect was subtle but powerful, transforming the car into a living thing rather than a hunk of metal. She lowered her respirator and pushed the button on the garage door opener, ready to let some air in now the paint was pretty much dry.
At that moment, Con appeared in the doorway leading from the house, light shining behind him. “How come you’re up so… Holy shit.”
He came down the stairs, eyes riveted to the car. A nasty sting of fear raced through her. Would he be mad? Really, really upset? He had sold his beloved Mercedes to buy this thing, after all. His money was tied up in it.
Hell, he asked her to do it. She didn’t volunteer. Still, she stiffened, searching his face for signs.
He looked up at her, eyes wide. “You’re a bad girl.”
She raised an eyebrow, swallowed hard.
“But you’re very, very, good.” His eyes wandered back to the car, and he walked around it. He stopped and put his hands on his hips, surveying the pattern of interlocking shapes snaking around the rear. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He stood there silent, still wearing nothing but shorts. Her pulse threatened to break speed records.
At last he looked up at her. “Did you spray the clearcoat yet?”
“No, so I guess I can re-spray it all black.” She spoke between gritted teeth.
“Are you kidding? I just think you should sign it first. Maybe right here, on the rear bumper.”
Was he poking fun at her?
“A Lizzie Hathaway original? No, thanks. I’ll be anonymous.”
“If it was mine, I’d sign it.” He walked around to the other side. Let out a low whistle.
He wasn’t kidding. He was genuinely impressed. The realization gave her a warm thrill of pride.
“I can’t believe you’ve been hiding all this talent under a bushel.”
“Creative spray painting is not a highly valued skill in this society.”
“Maybe not in your kind of society, but there are plenty of people out there who will appreciate this, believe me.” He walked around the far side, peered at the lowest part of the car, checking out the details.
Did he think she’d skimped on the corners, done a sloppy job? She bristled. “I did all the edges, didn’t leave anything out.”
“I can see that. You’ve sprayed a car before, haven’t you?”
“Never, only did it on canvas. The finish is a lot more beautiful on metal.”
“I’ll say. I want to see some of these canvases of yours. Do you still have any?”
“Sure. They’re down in the basement under a tarp.” She’d noticed them lurking in a corner. A little surprised her parents hadn’t disposed of them.
“Can we go see them?”
“I guess so.”
Con insisted on bringing them all upstairs out of the basement gloom. He hung the huge canvases—some of them six feet across—on the nails left vacant by the Degas sketch, the Corot landscape and all the other vanished beauties. The rising sun illuminated the overlapping, interlocking shapes and colors, sparkled off the metal-flecked highlights.
“I haven’t seen these in years. Not since I graduated from college.” They brought back memories. Happy memories of being alone in her college studio cubicle, painting into the night, with music blasting in her headphones. Back when she was going to be an artist.
>
That was before she came home to her parents’ laughter and the offer of a boring but respectable job in the family firm.
Con wasn’t saying anything. He just kept walking around, hanging the pictures. Annoyingly he was still wearing only his shorts, so it was hard to avoid the bulge and flex of gym-toned muscles as he hefted the big canvases into position.
There were eight of the large ones and about twelve smaller ones. The sun beamed across the wood floors by the time they were all hung. “The place looks like a gallery,” she murmured. Embarrassed to see her hopes and dreams shimmering on the wall.
“Sure does. We should get some people in here. Would you mind selling them?”
“Selling them? Who’d want to buy them?”
“I don’t know. I’m no art critic, but I think they’re beautiful. I’d want one.”
“You can have one. Shame you don’t have a wall to hang it on.” She snuck a sideways glance at him. Did he really like them? Why did that give her a funny feeling? “Besides, I suspect you’re my only fan. My teachers didn’t like them much. I didn’t have enough conceptual bullshit to go along with them or something.”
Con stood, hands on hips, surveying a gray-and-silver abstract with amorphous shapes melding into each other. “You’re an amazing woman, Lizzie.”
“Yeah, right. If I was so amazing I’d have stuck with my so-called passion instead of forgetting all about it as soon as I got out in the real world.”
“You got sidetracked. It can happen to anyone. But you’re an artist.”
A shiver of sensation rippled through her as he said it.
Am I?
She wanted to run and hug him, but she held herself in check. She was just sleep deprived and hopped up on paint fumes. If he did admire her work, it was only because he saw dollar signs popping out of it. Like he said, he was no art critic.
Still, that was the best night she’d had in ages. In fact, it almost rivaled all those nights of steamy passion she’d shared with Con before their One True Love went down the crapper.
“Well, thank you. I’m glad you like my work. Now I have to go get ready, I’ve got a train to catch.”
“On no sleep? No way. Go to bed.”
“Can’t. I’m meeting with the florist at 9:30 and it’s a very long train ride. I’m already running late. I’m glad the hot water’s back on as I’ll need it to get all this paint off my skin.” A fine black mist covered the backs of her hands and arms, not to mention her ratty gray T-shirt and jeans. “I’m off to shower.”
“I can help you scrub.” He winked at her.
She narrowed her eyes and gave him a dirty look. Then she turned and fled before she started wanting to hug him again.
He’d given something back to her. She wasn’t sure what, but it made her take the stairs two at a time.
Chapter 10
The smell of roses made her feel sick. Reminded her too much of the “old days” only a few weeks earlier and that stupid scent she wore.
“No roses.”
“But roses are the bloom of romance,” protested Sven, floral artiste of the minute. “You cannot marry without roses.”
Three pale pink roses, each almost the size of her head, mocked her from a handblown glass vase in the center of the conference table.
“Oh, come on, Lizzie, they’re lovely.” Maisie ripped off a pink petal. Sven winced. “Not a sprig of baby’s breath in sight, thank God. I love what you’ve done, Sven, it’s luxe, yet wonderfully modern. I think it’s perfect.”
“But the bride…”
“The bride will love it. Besides, she’ll be too busy to think about flowers.”
Maisie glowered at Lizzie as Sven gathered his blooms and departed. When the door closed behind him, she leaned across the table. “Are you nuts? No roses?”
“I’m sick of roses. They’re so…Predictable.”
“I’d think you’d like that about them. You used to be the rose queen. You even smelled like one.” Maisie shuffled her papers into a stack.
“Those days are over.” Lizzie stretched. “Since I met Con I’m a new woman.”
“You certainly are different, I’ll give you that. I can’t wait to meet this mysterious Con. He must be quite a character.”
“Oh,” Lizzie looked her right in the eye. “He is.”
“So really, no guest list? What about his friends and family in the area? His parents? Siblings?”
Does he have any? Her questions about his family had been met with swift evasion. For all Lizzie knew he’d emerged from the swamp on webbed feet, alone. While she was curious to find out where, and who, he did spring from, she was a little nervous about it too. She couldn’t bring up the subject of a guest list without tipping him off to their destination, and she certainly didn’t want to do that.
“Con and I want our wedding to be an intimate celebration of our love. Just the two of us. As if we were getting married on a deserted island.”
“What about your parents?” Maisie’s steely gaze made her stiffen.
“Maisie, you know my father is under house arrest.” She wasn’t going to be cowed.
“Your mother, then? What does she think about the wedding?”
No idea. She’d tried calling the ashram and been told her mother had left for an expedition into the mountains. With no contact information.
“Just the two of us.”
“And Donald Trump. Ha ha. Luckily, it’s far too short notice to get any real celebrities so I can pretend I tried and look all sad when I tell Don no one could come. He loves the tight timetable on this show so he won’t complain too much. You came along at just the right time. All the new season shows are bombing so he was ready to grasp at straws. It was this or buy a new Brazilian soap opera, and frankly, you’re cheaper.”
“I’m honored to be the final straw for Celebrity Cable.”
Even in the late-afternoon sun, Lizzie could see lights on inside the house as she walked up the driveway. It was one thing for Con to get the electricity turned on, but did he have to run up the bill like this in broad daylight? She’d begged off a styling meeting and taken the long train ride back early. Who cared how the stinking napkins were folded? Their flight was booked for the following day, and she wanted to get her stuff together. Get her head together.
She pushed the door open. “I’m back.” Dropped her bag inside the door. Heard voices.
The voices were coming from outside. Con and a woman.
The Realtor. She wasn’t going to make an ass of herself screaming like a shrew over Con again. Jeez, anyone might have thought she actually cared if he’d been between the sheets with some middle-aged harpy.
Still, she didn’t stroll around the back and say hi, either. She crept across the wood floor of the living room, past all her brightly lit paintings, to the French doors. They were standing near the pool, backs to her.
And it wasn’t the same Realtor.
Must be another one. You’re the de-facto homeowner, go out and introduce yourself. She lifted her chin and headed for the French doors out to the pool area.
“Hellooo” she called, aiming for breezy confidence. Stepped onto the bluestone terrace. But her confidence withered and died as the woman turned and she saw that this time it actually was Frankie Allen. Aka Mrs. Stavros Gianopolous.
He’d brought her here. To her house.
“Lizzie, hi!” Con waved.
She froze. She didn’t even feel anger, just deep hurt. Humiliation.
A woman he’d been in bed with—who’d paid him with expensive gifts for it—and he was standing there talking to her by her pool.
She struggled for breath as they walked toward her.
“Lizzie, you know Frankie… Gianopolous, right?”
“Yes,” she managed.
“Hi, Lizzie.”
“We were just talking about your paintings. Frankie’s a collector. I thought she’d be a good person to ask for advice about how to sell them.”
Lizzie sta
red at him, then at her. She was beautiful, in a fragile, birdlike way. Translucent skin stretched over fine bones. Thin as a rail.
“Lizzie, they’re stunning. I’ve never seen anything like them. I’d like to buy one myself.”
“No.” The word flew out on instinct. “They’re not for sale.”
Con had the wisdom to hold his tongue, and there was a pleasantly uncomfortable pause.
“Congratulations on your wedding, Lizzie. You’re marrying a very special man.”
Lizzie glanced at Con, who ran his hand through his hair awkwardly. She noticed with a jolt that he wasn’t dressed up. In fact he looked downright scruffy in navy sweatpants and one of her old T-shirts. Somehow that made the little scene disturbingly intimate.
“Why didn’t you marry him, then?” she shot, unable to control herself.
Frankie didn’t even flinch. “He’s far too young and handsome for me. He deserves a lovely girl his own age, like you.”
Had he told her the wedding was a sham?
“I was so sorry to hear about what happened to your father, Lizzie. He was so well liked. He told the most wonderful stories. I was at a dinner party with him once…”
Heart pounding, Lizzie cut in. “Thanks for the memories, but I’d like to get changed. These high heels are killing me. Con, darling, could you unzip me?”
Con’s eyes widened. She turned her back to him and Frankie. The dress she wore had a long zipper from neck to waist.
Con unzipped it.
“Do excuse my lack of formality, but after all this is my home. At least until someone buys it.”
“Frankie’s looking for a place in the Hamptons.”
Lizzie blinked rapidly. Did Con really mean to try selling her parents’ house to his ex-lover?
Words rushed from her mouth. “I’d recommend a house on the beach. The town’s frightfully built up. The traffic is terrible on weekends.” Her voice shook as she realized this woman was probably rich enough to buy the house and not even notice the dip in her bank account. It was barely four million, after all. Chump change to the wife of a Greek shipping squillionaire.
She straightened her back. Put on a poker face. “Has Con given you a tour of the bedrooms?”
A Bad Boy is Good to Find Page 10
