by Bella Andre
“Archie doesn’t live in San Francisco anymore,” she told him. “When he left, he shut down the gallery in the city. He’s somewhere out in Vegas now.”
Gideon’s eyes took on that dark, stormy cast. “Las Vegas doesn’t mean you’re safe.”
For a guy who didn’t talk much, he sure as heck was doing a lot of talking now. “Look, really, I can handle it.”
“Rosie—”
“I’m just going to get Jorge and take him home. We’ll be fine.” She sidestepped Gideon and headed to the bedroom door.
But when she opened it, the boys were already fast asleep in the twin beds, their faces angelic.
Foiled at every turn. She sighed as she closed the door on them. “All right, you win. He can stay.” In fact, now that she had calmed down a bit, she could see that Jorge might even be more protected here. Because if Archie was planning something, then the safest place her son could be was with big, strong Gideon. “I’ll head out now and be back early, before they wake up.”
But Gideon was shaking his head. “I don’t think you should go home by yourself. Not when you’ll be safer here too.”
“I really can’t.” Her mind worked to find a valid excuse. “I mean, I don’t have a change of clothes. Or even a toothbrush.”
Even as she spoke, her heart was urging, Stay.
“I’ve got an extra toothbrush,” he countered. “Brand new. And I can lend you a clean T-shirt until we get back to your place tomorrow morning.”
“You have all the answers, don’t you?”
He grinned. Gideon Jones actually grinned. With her. And without the boys nearby. It was amazing.
It might even be a miracle.
Plus, he was right that she would be safer here. She shuddered at the thought of Archie prowling around outside her cottage. What if he showed up tonight and she was alone? What would she do? What could she do?
The truth was she didn’t know exactly what Archie was capable of, or to what lengths he’d go to get what he wanted from her. All she knew was that he had a lot more money than she did. If it came to a fight in court, he might win. No matter what, she needed to keep her son out of a potentially ugly court case.
Then Gideon added one more inducement. “I’ll worry about both of you all night long if you go. Please stay.”
The wind went out of her remaining protests. Yes, she wanted to be independent, but she wasn’t stupid. And her heart squeezed tight at the thought of Gideon worrying about her.
“Okay,” she finally said. “I’ll stay the night. Thank you.” She held out her hand to shake his, as if they were making some sort of deal. As if they were business associates instead of—
She didn’t know what they were. Even friends didn’t seem quite right anymore.
When he took her hand in his, there was nothing even remotely businesslike in his touch. She felt the earth move, felt it shake, felt her world tilt. The way it had when she was dancing with him. And when he’d cupped her cheek only minutes before.
“You can have my bedroom,” he said in a low voice, “and I’ll sleep out here on the couch.”
“I can’t let you do that.” She fluttered a hand at the love seat, then raked her eyes over his long, tall, gorgeous frame. “There’s no way you’ll fit.”
“It’s a pull-out sofa. I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t mind taking the sofa.”
“Nope. Ari would read me the riot act if I didn’t treat you right.” He followed up his words with another smile.
She’d already been a goner before this. But when he was charming? And smiling? And touching her every five minutes?
No woman alive would stand a chance.
She held up her hands in surrender. “All right, I’m sold. I’ll take your bed. But I’m going to make you a really nice breakfast tomorrow in return.”
“Deal.”
Who would have guessed that tonight she’d be sleeping in Gideon’s bed?
The only thing better would be if he were sleeping in it with her.
Chapter Sixteen
Gideon handed Rosie a new toothbrush, then showed her where the extra pillows and blankets were. “If you need anything else, just tell me.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Not just for your bed tonight, but for listening. And not getting all judgy about any bad choices I might have made.”
“You heard my story, so you know I can’t make judgments.” Not that he would have anyway. Rosie was the world’s best mom to Jorge and the world’s best friend to Ari. Nothing in her past could change that. “I’m glad you’re staying, Rosie.”
It was the most he’d ever allowed himself to say about his feelings for her. Considering everything they’d shared tonight, shutting down again no longer seemed the only—or the best—option. Actually, it was kind of impossible now. They’d come too far.
“I am too,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”
She stunned the hell out of him by going up on her toes and kissing him, her mouth pressing against his.
Then her lips were gone, she was on her own two feet again…
And his heart was full to bursting.
He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. But it hadn’t been that kind of kiss. It had been something better, something more important. Sweet and rich with gratitude and friendship.
And trust.
He backed out of the room, waving his hand stupidly. “Good night.” He closed the door. Ten seconds later, he had to knock again. “Sorry. I need to get some sweats to sleep in.” He also grabbed his toothbrush, his shaving kit, and a T-shirt.
She was smiling when he closed the door behind him again.
“She must think I’m an idiot,” he muttered as he grabbed his laptop, unable to stop reliving the moment her lips had touched his.
No one would ever be as enticing to him as Rosie. He’d known it almost from the first time he set eyes on her. And now that he knew how it felt to kiss her, even if the kiss was barely more than a breath of air over his lips, he couldn’t imagine ever feeling for anyone else what he felt for her.
He wanted to slay her dragons, but to do that he needed to find out more about Archibald Findley. He’d make sure Findley didn’t dare to even try taking Jorge from Rosie.
He was typing Archibald Findley Impressions Gallery Las Vegas when it hit him why Rosie painted only for herself: She was afraid Jorge’s father would find her if she put her artwork out there.
All the more determined to help her, Gideon silently vowed to do whatever it took to make sure Jorge and Rosie were safe.
* * *
Gideon had been floored when she’d kissed him, his eyes dazed for long moments afterward.
Truthfully, Rosie had surprised herself. She hadn’t planned the kiss—but she hadn’t been able to ignore her instincts either. Not anymore. Not after everything they’d shared today, from his humorous memories about life in the army, to his heartrending story about the death of his comrades, to her complicated confession about her mistakes with Archie.
What would he have done if she’d asked him to share the bed with her? She had been so tempted, when her lips were on his and his muscles were hard and enticing beneath her fingertips. She’d ached for it.
But she hadn’t acted on it. Gideon wasn’t ready for that. And in all honesty, neither was she.
For Gideon’s part, he’d only just begun to trust her. It meant so much to her that he did, but she couldn’t make the mistake of moving too fast with their bodies while their hearts still needed to catch up. Especially when he wasn’t the only one wrestling with his choices from the past.
Since learning she was pregnant with Jorge seven years ago, Rosie had steered clear of dating. After all, she’d made a truly crap decision in letting herself fall for Jorge’s father, and with a son to raise, she couldn’t afford to trust another man unless she truly knew him and his intentions. Gideon was different. Despite his silences and stony expressions, he’d interested her fro
m the start. With all the glowing things Ari said about her brother, with every moment Rosie had watched him with her kid, with Noah, she’d learned to see past Gideon’s walls to the man he really was.
A good man. An honorable man. A caring, loyal man.
Even if he no longer seemed to believe those things himself.
Post-kiss, with her lips and her body still tingling, she wasn’t tired. With her iPad in her lap, she knew exactly what she had to do for Gideon: find more info on the painting. Over the years, she’d learned a lot about Miguel Fernando Correa, since she and Jorge both loved the painting in the Legion of Honor museum. Tonight she would research Gideon’s painting specifically, since it was so different from Correa’s other work.
Fortunately, one of her electives in college had been art research—what resources to mine, what clues to search for, how to dive into the rabbit hole of a piece’s origins.
At last, she could put all that knowledge to use. For Gideon.
* * *
The boys had yet to come out of Noah’s room the following morning when Gideon heard his bedroom door open. His heart stopped at the sweet sight of Rosie, her gorgeous curly hair wild around her beautiful face, her tempting mouth beckoning him over for another kiss.
As he’d tried to fall asleep last night, he kept thinking about her smiles, her laughter, about her lying in his bed…and sleep became a distant memory, knowing she was only a wall away.
She stopped in the middle of the living room when she saw the sleeping bag wadded up on the bean bags he’d pushed together. She pointed in horror. “You didn’t sleep on those, did you?”
He’d jumped into the shower in the hall bathroom before everyone got up and hadn’t put the living room to rights yet. Grabbing the sleeping bag, he started stuffing it into its carrier bag. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve slept in worse places.”
“Right.” Her pretty smile was nowhere in sight as she hugged her iPad to her chest. “Of course.”
She must be imagining what it had been like in the Middle East, with the dust and the sand and the wind and the death. But he didn’t want her to go there, just as he didn’t want to go there himself anymore. He wanted them both to remember only the good things he’d told her yesterday, about him and Zach, about building schools, about helping villagers.
“The boys are playing in Noah’s room,” he said. He smiled thinking of them. Being with Rosie and the kids made him smile more than he was used to. A lot more, considering zero smiles was his default expression. “They said no parents allowed.”
Thank God the mention of the boys brought back Rosie’s good humor. “They’re probably building an amazing Lego structure ten feet tall to show off to us.”
“Probably.” He found himself smiling again, just from the look on her face when she talked about her son.
“Well, I promised you a nice breakfast.” She clapped her hands lightly. “Time to get started.”
“I already made coffee.”
“Man of my dreams.” Her lips curved up, and his heart beat faster with how badly he wanted that to be true.
In the kitchen, she poured coffee into the mug he’d left on the counter for her. She must have had more than just a swimsuit in that bag she’d brought with her, because she was wearing a different shirt from yesterday, and not one of his. Colorful and slightly sheer, the flowery cover-up was spiced up with a bright tank top underneath, leaving her bare shoulders a mouthwatering sight through the filmy material.
He needed to control himself. Especially the need to truly be the man of her dreams. In her bed, in her life, in every way possible…
When she turned, leaning back against the counter, her eyes sparkling from the hit of caffeine, he had to confess what he’d done last night. Her trust meant everything to him. He wouldn’t break it now, or ever.
“Look, I have to tell you—” he began.
She said, “I think you should know—” at exactly the same moment.
As they both stopped speaking, he lost himself in her coffee-colored gaze, in the scent of her in his kitchen, in the vision of her asleep—and naked—in his bed last night.
“You go first,” he suggested.
“Okay.” She paused a beat, before saying, “I looked up more about your painting. Did some research.” She held up her hand as if warding off potential objections. “I know I should have checked in with you before my deep dive on the Internet, but you know how much I love art. And I’ve got this majorly huge feeling that your painting is rare and totally awesome.” Her eyes were alight with excitement.
That’s who Rosie was. She threw herself into things, whether it was playing Marco Polo in the pool with the boys, or jumping her heart out at a trampoline park, or creating an incredible painting at a museum. He was sure she’d even be enthusiastic about accounting too. Rosie would never do a half-assed job at anything.
Now it seemed she’d found a cause in him. Or at least, his painting.
He could never be angry that she’d tried to help him. “What did you find out?”
“I’m not completely sure yet,” she admitted, “although my gut tells me I’m on the right track. Miguel Fernando Correa always signed his work with just his initials. And since he was born in Mexico City in 1705 and died in 1798, he had a huge body of work. Some of which could have been unaccounted for until now.”
“I’m pretty sure Karmen’s family came from Mexico City.”
“That’s good to know,” she said. And then, “He did a lot of city scenes like the one at the Legion of Honor. He did tavern scenes or people in salons or churches. There was even a series of bullfights. As well as ordinary people going about their business, like women carrying water. He was a people guy, not a landscape guy.”
Gideon thought back to the painting he’d seen in the museum. It had an amazing amount of detail, from the clothing to the faces, even the buildings and trees.
“He also did portraits, especially of famous people of the time.” Rosie opened her iPad and tapped to bring up a photo of a painting he hadn’t seen before. “This is a portrait of Diego and Catalina Sanchez. I gather they were a prominent family, to be able to hire him.”
“Karmen never said anything about prominent ancestors.” Although she had been extremely wealthy. She’d told him her dad was an important business type, but it hadn’t seemed significant back when making it from one day to the next was the only thing that mattered. For the first time, Gideon wondered if Karmen’s distinguished roots originated much further back than two generations. How long had the painting of the angels been handed down?
“The only break in Correa’s usual style was during this one period around 1775, when he did a series of religious paintings. Angels, mystical themes that represented God or Jesus looking down from the clouds. I found a photo of a huge painting of a battle between the angels and Satan called Battle of Angels. It’s at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.”
“Have you been there?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never been out of California.”
He should have guessed that. Every penny went to raising her son, so how could she have bought a plane ticket to New York and splurged on a couple of nights at a hotel, just to go to a museum?
But he could take her there. He had the money. He could take Rosie and Jorge, book a plane and hotel for them right now if they wanted to go. If only he could suggest something like that without freaking her out, or making her think he wanted anything from her beyond friendship.
Especially because he absolutely wanted more, when he couldn’t stop thinking about kissing her again, whether he deserved Rosie or not.
She tapped the iPad again, snapping him out of his crazy thoughts. “This is the one at the Met.”
The painting was a masterpiece of armor-plated angels fighting Satan and his demons. Though he wasn’t an art buff, Gideon could easily see the similarity in style to the portrait of Diego and Catalina Sanchez and the painting in the Legion of Honor. But w
hat about Karmen’s small painting?
Rosie zoomed and pointed. “See the initials? See how similar the flare of the letters is?” Clearly reading his mind, she added, “I know it seems crazy to think that Karmen’s angels are by an artist so famous his work is in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But look at this.” She flipped to another open tab in her browser. “Here’s another one from Correa’s religious period.”
A godlike figure with a flowing gray beard and snowy white robe reached down from his perch on a pink and gray cloud.
“It’s not very big,” she said. “Twelve by twelve, like yours.” Then she scrolled to the headline of the news article: Lost Painting Discovered. “This was just last year.” She lowered her voice to whisper, “This painting sold at auction.” She held her breath one long moment. “For fifty million dollars.”
His stomach felt like it had dropped out of a skyscraper. “Fifty million?”
“I’m no expert, Gideon. You’d have to have someone authenticate the painting. More than one person, probably. But from everything I’ve found online, it looks like Miguel Fernando Correa’s work. And,” she added, pointing at the iPad, “that trademark signature of his looks just like the one on your painting.”
Though he couldn’t argue with any of her research, Gideon could barely wrap his head around it. “Fifty million,” he repeated in a voice hoarse with disbelief.
“While all of his work is valuable, the religious paintings are even more so because they’re rare. He painted eight that are known, though his journal entries pointed to the possibility of a ninth.” She put her hand on his arm. “Yours could be the ninth.”
He shook his head slowly, words beyond him now. For years he’d carried Karmen’s painting around in his pack from one run-down apartment to another. The most he’d ever done for its safekeeping was to lock it in the cabinet of his bookshelf after he’d moved here.
