He turned his attention to the passing scenery. If only he hadn’t seen her. Emily. It was bad enough he’d been kicking himself all day for being a shit. It was inevitable he’d see her, though he’d avoided the studio area all day. After last night, he didn’t know what to say to her. Standing there covered with plaster dust, she was still the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. Even more lovely than his purple-wrapped companion.
He was unsure what to do. He didn’t want Emily to be another woman to want Maximo Vega. He wanted—no, needed her to want him—Max, just Max. The man, not the myth. To do that, she’d have to know the truth, and that was how he’d lose her for good.
He hurt her last night. Read it on her face. He couldn’t continue to crush her feelings, but he couldn’t bear the possibility of not seeing her again. Her kisses and the way she responded to his touch had ignited a fire deep within. No woman since Judith had had such an effect on him.
Beverly leaned toward him and placed a bejeweled hand on his knee. “You know, you don’t have to look like I’m driving you to your execution. Relax. Enjoy yourself. I understand you love this opera.”
“Si. I do enjoy La Boheme.”
“I’ve never been. You’ll have to explain it to me as it goes along.”
“‘Tis a simple story. A poor man, Rodolfo, falls in love with a girl, Mimi. Loses her to a wealthy man who can care for her better than he, but she is ill and the wealthy man abandons her. Rodolfo finds her again, but she is too ill and even his love for her cannot stop death.”
“How sad.”
“Si.” Maximo finished his champagne and grimaced at the taste. “How sad indeed.”
The limo pulled up in front of the opera house. Beverly seemed thrilled to see some photographers lurking by the entrance. “The driver will open the door, you’ll get out first, and then offer me your hand. When I get out, we’ll stop for a tiny moment while I straighten your tie. The perfect photo op. It would be a nice touch if you kissed my cheek.” She looked about. “Where did I put my purse?”
Under his breath, Maximo mumbled. “It’s next to my tin cup and little red monkey cap?”
“Here are the tickets.”
The door to the limo opened. Showtime. The handful of reporters stood poised until someone recognized him. “Maximo Vega? Mr. Vega, over here!” “Look over here!”
The wine soured in his stomach as he helped Beverly from the car. She beamed at the cameras, fixed his tie and stood waiting an awkward half second too long for a kiss that wasn’t coming. Max took her elbow and led her inside.
The lobby was near empty as the time was close to curtain, and Max never broke stride. Beverly had to double-step to keep up. An usher escorted them to a private box, high to the left of the stage. Maximo waited until she was seated before he unbuttoned his jacket and settled into the seat beside her.
Beverly fanned her face. Tendrils of pale hair danced about her flushed cheeks. “Had I known we were sprinting through this evening I would have worn more sensible shoes.” She had a tinny laugh.
“You know I do not wish to speak with anyone.”
She rested her hand on his sleeve. “I understand, but we could have taken it a bit slower, don’t you think?”
He was saved from responding by the lowering of the theater’s lights. He sighed, ready to enjoy the next few hours escaping into the beauty of the performance. And he would have if the beaded grape Popsicle sitting next to him had given him a moment’s peace.
“You know, I’ve never been to an opera before.” “Is he the hero?” “What are they saying?” “Who is that again?” “Oh, this is lovely. What’s the name of this piece?” “The scenery looks a bit stark.” “Do they have to sing everything?” She used her opera glasses to scan the crowd. “Oh, I think I see the governor and his wife. I sold her a piece for her private collection last fall. We really should be polite and say hello to them.”
Thank goodness they were in a private box. Fewer witnesses when he killed her. At one point she pulled out her cell phone and began texting. The blue of the screen lit the entire box.
“You can’t use your phone during a performance,” he hissed.
“The sound is off.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I promised a client.”
“The light. Shut it off!” He snatched it away and shoved it into his breast pocket.
She crossed her legs and jiggled her foot. “How many acts is this?”
By the time intermission arrived, he was done and ready to leave, but to do so meant wading through a sea of people in the lobby and waiting on the sidewalk for the limo to return through Friday night traffic. No, he was trapped until the bitter end.
Beverly used intermission to point out the who’s who in the audience, beg her phone from him to answer a call and visit the ladies’ room. The lights were dimming when she returned.
“I would have brought you back a glass of wine, but the usher downstairs stopped me. Evidently you can only drink in the lobby. That’s crazy. It’s not like we’re children and will spill on the carpet.”
“This is an opera house, not a Cineplex. I beg you, please be silent for the last act.”
“Of course, Maximo. I just thought it would be interesting to discuss it. I want to learn all the things you’re passionate about.”
“Silenzio,” he hissed. “I’m passionate about silence!” Several people looked their way and shushed them.
“Fine,” she whispered back. “I’ll be so quiet you won’t know I’m here.”
If only that were possible. “Grazie.”
“That means thank you, right? See, I’m learning.”
The lights rose finally after three curtain calls and an explanation that there were no encores in opera. Max’s head was pounding. All he wanted was to be rid of this woman and to get back to his apartment.
“Well, that was charming. Shall we go?”
“We wait.” He leaned back and folded his arms over his chest.
“You said there are no encores.”
“No, we wait for the crowd to thin.”
“No need for that. I’ve arranged for us to leave through a private exit. The car will meet us out back.” She snapped her purse shut.
“Perfecto.” Thank you, God! “Let’s go.”
Stepping into a small, discreet alcove, another usher slid back a hidden panel in the wall to reveal a gated elevator. He handed the man a generous tip. The car creaked and crept the two floors to ground level and opened onto a short hallway and a door marked exit.
Thankfully, Ms. Lavender was silent. Up until this moment, he had serious doubts about her abilities. He prayed her silence would last during the drive back to Stoddard.
Maximo swung open the door for her and was blinded by a sudden assault of flash bulbs.
Dozens of photographers and reporters cried out to him. Yelling questions and shoving microphones into his face. This was his nightmare. His own personal hell.
Beverly was at his side. She didn’t appear to be shocked or bothered by the intrusion. Did she know about this?
“Maximo! Did you enjoy the show?” a young reporter hollered and thrust his mic at them.
Beverly snatched it. “We had a lovely time. The performance was breathtaking.”
More questions were hurled at them. She held up one hand. “We’re not prepared to answer your questions this evening, ladies and gentlemen, but you’re free to contact my office if you wish to set up a private interview.”
Comments from the press corps swelled.
“But…but!” She held up one finger and regained their attention. “I can share with you some amazing news. The great Maximo Vega will open this season’s art tour with an exclusive ten-day showing at the end of this month.”
An explosion of flashes captured the look of pure fury Maximo shot in her direction. She orchestrated this whole thing. Private exit, my ass! Tour? Ten-day showing? He never agreed to anything on that scale, and she knew it!
“My office will be sending
out a full press release with all the details in the morning.”
“Mr. Vega, would you like to say a few words?” “Will FAME be a feature at the show?” “How about a comment?”
“No comment.” Grabbing Beverly’s elbow, Maximo bulldozed his way through the crush of media and didn’t stop until the driver shut the door to the limo, muting the rush of questions. “You’re fired,” he spit.
“Maximo, I’m sorry. I had no idea—”
“Stronzate! Bullshit! You arranged all this.”
“Fine, I confess.” She held up her hands in surrender. “You would never have said yes to a press conference, and I thought—”
“No, you didn’t think.” He ripped at his tie and unbuttoned the collar threatening to choke him. The limo inched its way through the crowd and turned onto the main street. “I’m not doing a tour or any ten-day show.”
“It’s all arranged.”
“Then un-arrange it. No, better. I’ll do it. You’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me. We have a contract.”
“I don’t care about your contract. I cannot work with a conniving, manipulative, insopportabile, insufferable—”
“You signed an ironclad, one-year exclusive with me. I’m afraid you have no choice.” She smiled and poured herself a glass of wine. “If you fire me, I’ll sue you for everything you’re worth.”
“Stop this car.”
“Don’t be foolish. We can discuss this rationally. Champagne?”
He grabbed for the phone to connect him to the driver. “Stop the car!”
“Maximo, don’t be ridiculous.”
He was out of the limo before the driver had a chance to open the door. Slamming the door he told the man, “Drive on.”
“Should I call another car for you, sir?”
“No. Leave me.”
“As you wish, Mr. Vega.”
They had been close to the highway. Max started walking back toward the center of the city to find a taxi. It was close to midnight before he found a cab driver willing to drive him all the way to Stoddard, and only after he agreed to pay the man twice his usual fare.
Maximo paced Dante’s office. Fury burned deep as he stood, reading over the fine print of his contract with Lavender Blue. Anger and frustration hit their peak. He was an idiot. Both Dante and he were duped by this woman, and there was no telling what she’d commit him to. It would only be a matter of time before it all blew up in his face.
He grabbed the phone to call Dante but dropped it back on the desk. It was one in the morning, and Dante was away for the weekend. It would have to wait until Monday.
He whipped the contract across the room. There had to be a way out of this mess, but he was too infuriated to spot the tiniest of loopholes, and having spent an excruciating evening with Ms. Lavender, he was sure the document was just as she said, ironclad.
He pulled a beer from the refrigerator and made his way into his work space. He was too wound up. Staring at the wrapped figure of Emily, he couldn’t help but feel here was another mess he could see no solution for. He unwrapped the piece. No, “mess” was not what this was. Emily was uncomplicated. Innocent wasn’t the proper word either, but there was an air of simplicity to her that translated into a level of sincerity. She had none of the cold calculation of Beverly. Emily was warm and passionate and honest in her feelings, and he’d pushed her away. He really was an idiota.
Max tossed his jacket and tie aside, and rolled up the sleeves of his starched shirt. He needed to be close to her, if only through his work. Habit had him reaching to switch on his music. “O Soave Fanciulla” filled the space. Rodolfo sang to Mimi, ‘Oh lovely girl…’ Max snapped off the CD, wrenched it from the machine and threw it like a Frisbee into the trash. La Boheme was ruined for him now.
Opening the tub of clay, his concentration returned to the back of the piece. In his mind’s eye, Emily peeked over her shoulder at him. Her perfume lingered. His thumb carved the dip of muscle hugging her spine as it swept into the arch of her lower back before flaring into her bottom. He wiped his hands on his pants. Holding the figure with both hands, he pressed his thumbs firmly into the clay to produce the two heat-inspiring dimples that decorated that delicious flare. He imagined kissing her there, feeling the soft warmth of her skin beneath his lips. Slipping his hands over her hips and between her thighs.
Max rubbed the back of his hand over his eyebrows at the realization that kiss would never happen. He’d be lucky if she agreed to finish the bozzetto. He wiped his hands on his thighs, ruining the fine pants of his tuxedo. He didn’t care. He must speak to Emily. Even if he couldn’t give her an explanation for his actions, he at least owed her an apology.
A feeling of apprehension settled over him. He’d ask her to pose again. The work needed her. Hell, he needed her. Needed her to forgive him for being the biggest ass on the planet. Forgive him enough to come back into the studio and help him finish the work. He needed to put his hands on her again and to try and soothe some of the pain he caused. How to do that he didn’t know.
Chapter Twelve
Sunday morning, Emily drank her coffee and shared the newspaper with Trixie. It was another tradition they had stuck with since her father passed away. From the time she could read, her father handed her the funny pages from the front of his thick paper. It always made her feel grown-up reading alongside him.
“What time do you have to be at the country club?” Trixie sat at the kitchen table.
“Eleven.”
“Don’t let time get away from you. Have you decided what you’re wearing?” So much for feeling grown-up.
Emily turned the page. “I’m thinking clothes.”
“So funny. You can’t wear a tank top and cut-offs to a bridal brunch at the club.”
“I know, Ma.” She fought the urge to roll her eyes.
Several seconds ticked by on the rooster clock. “Why don’t you wear that pretty sundress?”
Emily frowned and lowered the paper. “Sundress? What sundress?”
“The one with the little green and blue flowers.” Trixie made a U with her finger. “Scoop neck with cute ruffles on the straps.”
“You mean the one I wore in high school? You must be joking.”
Her mother lifted her coffee cup and propped both elbows on the table. “I love that dress on you.” She gave Emily a wistful smile.
“The last time I wore that dress, I was sixteen.”
“I bet it still fits. I’m sure I saved it.”
Em shook her head. She couldn’t fight the eye roll anymore. “I bet you did. I’m still not wearing it. I borrowed a teal-colored wrap dress from Suzanne.”
“Oh, that sounds lovely.” Trixie sipped coffee. “How about we hop over to the shop? I can do your hair. A quick wash and set. A few curlers.”
“I’ve got it, Ma.” Emily pushed her mother the rest of the newspaper and went to pour another cup of coffee. Adding milk and sugar to her mug, she leaned against the counter’s edge.
She was dreading this bridal shower. Why did she agree to this? After Maximo’s rejection the other night, her nerves were still raw. Was that why Jeremy’s wedding was starting to feel like another rejection? That was crazy. This had nothing to do with Jeremy and Cynthia and she knew it. This had everything to do with—
“Maximo Vega!”
Coffee sloshed over the rim of Em’s cup. Trixie held up the society section. There, front page, in all his glory, Maximo and the grape, Ms. Lavender.
“Would you look at him? God, he’s stunning in a tuxedo.”
Emily couldn’t argue with that. Stunning was the perfect word.
“Did you read this?” Trixie didn’t wait for an answer. “Resident artist Maximo Vega surprised opera fans at last night’s opening performance of La Boheme. Seen here accompanied by his agent, Beverly Lavender of Lavender Blue Art Agency. A source close to the artist revealed the reclusive Vega is planning to step out in grand fashion with his first major show in a deca
de at the exclusive Bruce Gallery located at Copley Place in Boston. Mr. Vega was reluctant to answer any questions, but details from the offices of Lavender Blue suggest we’ll be seeing a lot more of the handsome artist and his amazing works.”
A showing? Maximo didn’t do showings.
Trixie studied the photograph. “Wow, what a beautiful woman. I love her dress. That slit doesn’t leave much to the imagination, but she’s got the legs for it.” She jumped up and pulled a pair of scissors from the kitchen junk drawer and cut out the article, no doubt to add to her Vega fan scrapbook. “Now that’s a handsome couple.”
Em’s coffee was eating a hole in her stomach. She dumped the rest of the mug into the kitchen sink. “They’re not a couple. She’s his agent.”
“Sure look like a couple to me.”
They sure did. Could that be why Maximo stopped the other night? Maybe it had nothing to do with her. Maybe he was trying to be faithful to Beverly Lavender and she had literally fallen into his lap—naked.
****
At the country club, Em tugged at her skirt after she scooted out of her Jeep. She handed her keys to the valet and patted the hood of her Jeep. “Be nice to her, she’s a senior citizen.”
“Yes, miss.”
She entered the Kincaid Room of the Eagle Crest Country Club fashionably late in her borrowed dress and strappy flat sandals. The wrap of the deep teal linen dress allowed her the illusion of curves and much more leg than she was used to showing. She’d opted to keep her hair simple, no spiky mess today. Trixie insisted the straight comb back was classic and sophisticated. Silver hoop earrings were as fancy as she could manage, but the look worked.
Placing her gift among the tower of pink and white wrapped packages, Emily felt like a fool. For the third time in as many days, she second guessed her choice of sterling silver ice tongs for the lucky couple. It was the only thing on the registry list even close to affordable, and it was one of the few things left that hadn’t already been purchased. What was Jeremy going to do with silver ice tongs? Knowing him, he’d use them to pull toast out of the toaster and end up electrocuting himself.
Rock Solid Page 9
