Lance studied the picture for several moments. The woman was undeniably beautiful, and not exactly what he’d expected. He’d thought someone who exclusively painted storm scenes would appear a little more angst-filled. Caroline looked perfectly happy and peaceful. She definitely wasn’t his type, though. He didn’t usually go for the “elegantly dressed” crowd. He was more of a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy. Nothing was hotter than a girl in a pair of dark blue jeans and a tight, white t-shirt.
Lance sighed, and forced himself to stop imagining his dream woman. He had too many other things to worry about right now without adding finding a potential lifemate into the mix. He turned his attention to the text of the interview with Caroline.
“What inspired you to make such a big departure from your previous work?”
“[Laughter] I’m surprised that people are hailing it as such a huge departure. It’s a little different, sure. But to me, the images of a Coast Guard rescue team at work flow naturally with the energy of ocean storm scenes. I’ve watched their helicopters flying over for years. They’re the only ones I ever see willingly out in the middle of the crazy storms we get. They almost seem to become part of the storm to me. I know they’re not part of nature, but they’re so ingrained into the scenery of the storms around here that I almost view them as another force at work during those stormy nights.”
Lance raised an eyebrow at the woman’s description. He had never heard the rescue crew described as part of the forces at work during a storm. He always heard them described as a beacon of light in the middle of the chaos, or something along those lines. But he kind of liked the way Caroline had worded it. He didn’t always feel like a beacon of light when he was out on a mission. He often felt like he was just a small speck being tossed around in the middle of all the turmoil. He knew his work made a difference, but often he felt like just one more small piece in the huge puzzle that a strong storm system created.
Lance read through the rest of the article and didn’t find much of interest. Caroline described her painting techniques, and brushed off questions about whether there were any special men in her life. At the very end of the article, the interviewer asked whether the man in the paintings had been modeled after anyone in particular, and Caroline said no. She told the interviewer that the man in the paintings had been a figment of her imagination, and a representation of how she thought a Coast Guard Rescue Crew member might appear. Lance smirked. Sara had been so sure that it was him, but clearly “C. Hall” just had a good grasp on what a generic Coastie looked like.
At the very end of the article, the schedule and location for C. Hall’s Storm Chasers exhibition was listed. Lance hesitated for a moment, then tore the address out and stuck it in his pocket. He threw the rest of the paper in the recycling bin and left the coffee shop, unsure of what had suddenly possessed him, but knowing that he would be showing up at the exhibit tonight.
* * *
Lance stood in the entryway to C. Hall’s art exhibit and tugged at his suit jacket. He glanced around at the crowd already inside, and decided they were pretty much exactly what he would have expected. Wealthy looking men and women milled about, munching on hors d’oeuvres and sipping glasses of wine. Lance caught snippets of their conversations, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes at statements like, “This piece shows an appreciation for deconstructionism” or “The juxtaposition of the clouds and the helicopter shows unexpected symmetry.”
He almost turned around and left, but he had already put on a suit and bought a ticket. He might as well go in and take a look before dashing off. He grabbed a glass of red wine from one of the passing trays, and then made his way through the crowd to the first painting.
This painting was large, and didn’t have any Coast Guard elements in it. The piece was simply a large canvas covered in C. Hall’s depiction of a storm gathering over the ocean. Lance had to admit that the woman had talent. She had captured the essence of the wind and waves well, and even someone as illiterate in art as himself could see the deep emotion in the painting.
Feeling a little less skeptical, Lance moved on to the next painting. This one appeared to show the viewpoint of someone standing on a beach during a storm, looking up at the bottom of a Coast Guard rescue helicopter. The painting was stunning in its detail, and Lance found his skepticism fading even more.
But when he came to the next display, his mouth literally dropped open. There, right in front of him, was a large, dramatic piece showing a rescue crew member leaning out of a Coast Guard helicopter and staring at the wild ocean below him. The man’s face was clearly visible, and it looked exactly like Lance’s face. The details were so clear that the painting could have been mistaken for a photograph of Lance. Feeling a mixture of awe and trepidation, Lance moved on to the next painting. There were several in a row that didn’t show any faces clearly, but the last two again showed his face. First, performing CPR on a survivor in the helicopter, and then, walking triumphantly back into the air station after a presumably successful rescue mission.
Lance couldn’t believe it. Had this artist searched for photos of Coast Guard men and randomly chosen his face? He wasn’t sure whether he should feel flattered or annoyed. No wonder Sara hadn’t believed him when he’d said he hadn’t modeled for C. Hall. The paintings looked like intentional portraits of him.
As Lance stared up at the last painting, one of the other guests in the room—a tall woman wearing a dark blue cocktail dress and an overabundance of diamonds—stopped to squint at Lance’s face.
“Hey!” she exclaimed. “You’re the man in the picture. I thought C. Hall said she hadn’t modeled the man after anyone in particular, but it’s you!”
“It’s not me,” Lance said quietly, trying not to draw attention to himself. “I can see where you’d think there was a bit of resemblance, but it’s not me. It’s just a coincidence.”
The woman peered at Lance, and shook her head emphatically. She smelled like wine, and seemed unsteady on her feet. “Nope,” she said, speaking even louder than before. “It’s definitely you. The guy even has the same scar across the side of his forehead.”
A small crowd was starting to gather, and Lance felt horribly uncomfortable. He had to get out of here, but he couldn’t resist glancing back at the paintings one more time. The woman was right. The man in the painting had a scar on his forehead identical to Lance’s scar, which he had acquired in a fight years ago as a young cub.
“You’re mistaken,” Lance said to the woman firmly, and then turned to leave, pushing his way past the growing, gawking crowd. He saw a flash go off to his left as someone attempted to take his picture, and he sped up his pace, practically running as he reached the entrance.
“Sir! Sir! At least tell us your name,” someone shouted from behind him. Lance ignored the voice and kept moving forward, covering the sides of his face with his hand to prevent any other would-be photographers from getting a shot of him. As he rushed out the front door, he accidentally bumped into someone.
When he looked up to mumble a quick apology, he found himself face to face with Caroline Hall. He immediately recognized her as the woman whose photograph had appeared in the paper, and he found himself frozen in place. His inner bear awoke within him, immediately clawing at Lance and growling possessively over the woman in front of him. On the outside, Lance managed to appear calm, but inside he was instantly churning with desire. Caroline’s hair was pulled back tightly in the same sleek style as in the newspaper photo, but tonight she was wearing a shimmering, sleeveless black cocktail dress. Up close, she was even more beautiful than he could have imagined from the fuzzy newspaper photo.
Caroline appeared frozen in place as well. She had stopped in her tracks, staring into Lance’s eyes in disbelief. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Lance. I have to go,” Lance said, then finally found his feet again and made his way through the gathering crowd to his car. He sped off, his head swirling with confusion over everything he had just
seen. He kicked himself for leaving so quickly when she asked who he was, but he hadn’t had time to think of a good response. He had been too concerned with the crowd of people running toward him, and with the cell phone cameras they had already been whipping out of their pockets. No doubt the “art scene” in San Diego would be talking about him tomorrow, as gossip started buzzing about C. Hall’s mystery model.
Lance could only hope that no one had managed to snap a clear photo of him at the exhibit. He didn’t want to be part of any art scene, and he certainly didn’t want to be viewed as some sort of muse for a well-known artist.
Which was a little bit of a problem, since he did, however, want to see that well-known artist again.
The instant attraction his bear had felt to her was only growing stronger as he drove further away from the art gallery.
Chapter Three
Caroline turned in confusion to watch as the man, who had only introduced himself as Lance, ran to his vehicle and jumped into the driver’s seat. In less than a minute, he had sped away, leaving Caroline behind with a group of fans who were flooding her with questions for which she had no good answers.
The last thing Caroline had expected to see when she walked into the second night of her Storm Chasers exhibit was a man who looked like a carbon copy of the man in her latest set of paintings. The man had been a complete figment of Caroline’s imagination—or so she had thought. She’d never painted a face for one of her professional pieces before, and she’d decided that the best way to go about it was just to imagine what her dream man would look like and paint that.
“Oh my god,” Caroline whispered to herself as she looked around at the clamoring crowd. “Is it possible that I actually painted my dream man into existence?”
The crowd continued to clamor for answers, and Caroline wished she could disappear into a hole in the ground. She wasn’t fond of these fancy events, anyway. How was she supposed to make it through the evening now that she was going to be constantly asked a question for which she had no answer?
“Who was that man?”
They all asked her, over and over. And she smiled and said it had been a strange coincidence that a man she came up with in her imagination happened to look like the man in her paintings. She could tell that no one really believed her, but it was the truth. She didn’t know what else she could possibly say. She did her best to get through the evening, thanking her lucky stars that this was the last night of the exhibit. All of her pieces had sold, as usual. She could disappear for a month or two into her precious solitude, and hope that this all died down by the time she had to resurface to sell more paintings.
Caroline begged off after-show cocktails with the art gallery’s owner, making up an excuse about how she didn’t feel well. Caroline felt a little guilty, since the owner had been so kind to her. But she couldn’t stand to be out in public one minute longer. She thanked the gallery owner profusely, and then made a beeline for her car. She sped home and slipped into her front door, surprised to see that her roommate, Samantha, was home. Samantha was almost never around, preferring to spend all of her free time out clubbing rather than sitting at home. This suited Caroline just fine, since she enjoyed having the place to herself.
“Hey,” Samantha said, barely looking up from her laptop. “How was the show?”
“It was good, thanks,” Caroline said, stepping to the fridge to grab a bottle of water.
“Cool,” Samantha said, then went back to whatever she was doing on her laptop. Samantha was completely unimpressed by Caroline’s status as a local celebrity of sorts, which also suited Caroline just fine. Caroline was pretty uncomfortable with all the attention herself. It would have been unbearable to have a roommate who carried on about it.
Caroline excused herself politely and went to her room, where she took off her cocktail dress and slipped into gym shorts and a t-shirt. She went to her bathroom and washed all of the makeup from her face, then let her hair fall free from the tight bun it had been in.
“Much better,” Caroline said, then flopped backwards across her bed. She grabbed a book from her nightstand that had been severely neglected in the busyness of the last several weeks, and she settled in to read. She would do her best to lose herself in a good story, and she would try to forget about the man from her painting who had impossibly walked into reality earlier that night.
* * *
The following Saturday, Lance awoke, startled, as his alarm clock started blaring insistently into the early morning silence. Lance groaned, and slammed the beeping machine with his palm, wishing he could turn over and go back to sleep.
But he had to get up and get going, and he wouldn’t have a chance to sleep anymore until late tonight. He had stupidly agreed to an early morning workout with Brett, and, after that, the whole crew was holding an emergency meeting to discuss the growing threat from a group of scientists in Alaska. The scientists were working on a plan to wipe out all bear shifters completely. If Lance’s sources could be trusted, the scientists were beginning to make progress, and it was time to stop just talking about fighting them and to start taking action.
Fifteen minutes later, Lance met Brett at the Coast Guard air station. Lance still felt bleary-eyed and disoriented, but Brett, as usual, was already bouncing with excitement and raring to get started on a ten mile run. Damn rescue swimmers. Their energy was boundless.
Lance fell into step running next to Brett, who pushed them to the limit on speed. Both Brett and Lance believed that if you could still talk, you weren’t working out hard enough. Today, Lance was grateful for that rule. He didn’t feel like holding a conversation with anyone. He wanted some time to himself to think about Caroline.
He had a serious problem, and he knew it. He couldn’t get Caroline off of his mind. By the middle of the week, he had caved and tried to find a number to call her, but she was notoriously hard to find. She ran everything through a publicist, who had apparently been given very explicit instructions not to bother Caroline with any calls from men claiming to be interested in her.
Lance had thought that maybe explaining who he was to Caroline’s publicist would help, so he told the woman that he was the man who looked like the model for Caroline’s paintings. This information backfired, however, and the publicist clammed up even more. The publicist told Lance, in no uncertain terms, that Caroline had not used a model, and that he needed to stop calling.
So Lance had resorted to searching public records and the internet for any possible information on Caroline. Here, again, he came up with almost nothing. This woman liked her privacy, and she did a good job of hiding. But Lance did find a potential home address buried deep within documents regarding an estate sale and will probate for a man who appeared to have been a second cousin to Caroline. The documents were seven years old, so he had no idea if the address was even good anymore. But it was the only lead he had.
Yesterday, Lance had sat down to write a letter to Caroline. He had told her that he knew this might sound crazy, but he felt they were connected in some strange way, and that her paintings of him were evidence of this. He had asked her for a chance to get to know her better, and left his phone number and email address in the letter. Then he had sealed it and dropped it into the mailbox before he could change his mind. Today, he had started to think that this had been a foolish waste of time. What were the odds that she still had the same address as seven years ago? And, even if she did, what were the odds that she was actually going to want to talk to him. Lance frowned. He should have kept trying harder to convince her publicist that she’d want to talk to him.
“Why the long face, buddy?” Brett huffed out. “We’re not even halfway through and you’re already wimping out on me?”
“No,” Lance panted. “Just thinking about stuff. And, clearly, we’re not running fast enough since we’re both talking. Let’s go.”
Lance sped up his pace until he was nearly sprinting, and Brett let out a whoop before running to catch up. Lance’s lungs an
d legs were instantly burning from the overexertion, but at least he had avoided a conversation with Brett. He didn’t want to tell any of the guys about Caroline yet. He felt a little silly going on about a girl whose phone number he didn’t even know.
Two hours later, Lance and Brett had finished their grueling workout, showered, and eaten breakfast. They were back at Lance’s condo, where Ace and Ben would be meeting them to discuss what to do about the growing threats to bear shifters. The crew was no stranger to the scientists in Alaska. Years ago, those same scientists had concocted a virus that had wiped out all of the panda shifters in North America except Lance, Brett, Ace, and Ben. The four of them had only survived due to their alpha genes, which gave their immune systems extra strength. Now, though, the scientists were back at it, trying to come up with a stronger, more lethal way to kill off not just the pandas, but all bear shifters of every sort. Lance and his crew had been in touch with a clan of polar bear shifters in Alaska, the Northern Lights Clan. Neal, the alpha of the Northern Lights Clan, had recently sent Lance a message that polar shifters were starting to go missing from clans in Alaska without warning. No one could find the missing bears, and everyone feared that the bears were being used as guinea pigs to test new viruses.
When Ace and Ben arrived, the crew got down to business quickly.
“Any more news from Alaska since yesterday?” Ben asked.
Lance shook his head. “No. Ace and I have both been in constant contact with Neal, but no one has any more information. We called this meeting to discuss a suggestion Neal made that’s pretty serious, though.”
Lance paused for a moment to look around at the men before continuing. “Neal suggested that we put in for a transfer to Alaska. Ace and I checked into it, and there’s an air station in Kodiak that has an opening for a rescue swimmer crew. We could try to pull some strings and get transferred. It’s not exactly Glacier Point, where Neal’s clan lives. But it’s much closer than San Diego.”
An Alpha's Thunder (Water Bear Shifters 3) Page 2
