jittery in a one-too-many-cups-of-coffee way, but caffeine wasn’t the reason for her nervousness. Meeting her first potential client was. She wanted to appear cool, calm and professional. She felt anything but. “You can do this,” she murmured softly as she turned off her new, extremely used Ford Explorer. She’d bought it two days earlier. Yes, it had a gazillion miles on the odometer and it needed tires, but the engine was sound and the price was right.
Her Porsche was in storage, along with all of her belongings, save the boxes stuffed into the luggage compartment behind her. She’d arrived in Sentinel Pass too late last night to unpack more than her suitcase and her laptop.
She stretched across the console to grab her purse, and a piece of paper caught her eye. She snagged it, too, and sat back.
Jack’s handwriting on the back of a bank deposit slip.
You’re gonna rock Rufus’s world. Go for it.
She smiled. Her previously self-absorbed, somewhat diffident brother continued to surprise her. Maybe there was hope for their mother, as well.
“Doubtful,” she muttered, opening the door.
Her laptop was behind the driver’s seat. She wrapped her hand around the handles of the leather satchel and squared her shoulders to face the Sentinel Pass Community Center. To her left was the green, slightly goofy, pony-size dinosaur named Seymour. She gave him a little wink as she passed.
A blast of warm air hit the instant she opened the door to the brightly lit reception area. She could see the computer area to her right.
She nodded at the woman behind the information desk. A large I Heart Sentinel Passtime pin with the name Marva Ploughman rested on her chest. She scrutinized Rachel as if she might need to give the police a detailed description at some later date.
Rachel’s chin rose defiantly. “I’m looking for Rufus Miller.”
“Oh,” the woman grunted and pointed. “In there. Been pacing like a cat that’s short one litter box.”
Maybe that meant he was nervous about their meeting, too. Rachel hoped so.
He wasn’t pacing when she found him, though. He was standing beside a window, gazing outward. She hadn’t realized until that moment how tall he was. And she couldn’t remember now why she’d thought he was fat. His upper body seemed disproportionately large compared to his lower half, but that might be due to his numerous layers of wool and flannel. She felt a tiny bit of sweat form on her upper lip simply from looking at him.
“Hello. I hope I’m not late. None of my clocks can agree. I think there must be some kind of time warp in this part of the mountains.”
His head swung her way, and she was struck again by the odd feeling his heavy beard was fake. She’d stood close enough to him the last time they talked to know better, but a part of her would have given anything to see him beardless.
“I got my e-mail up for you to see.”
No small talk. Okay. Two could play at that. “I entered your name in one of the search engines and only six entries came up. All related to your online sales. That’s not good.”
“More than I thought there’d be.”
“When I set up your site, I’ll do some key-word research to optimize your site’s presence in the big search engine’s organic search results. After a few days, we’ll probably be looking at multiple pages of entries. First step toward making Rufus Miller a household name,” she quipped.
His pale skin went a shade whiter.
“Just kidding,” she quickly added. “My job is making you accessible to people who didn’t even know their lives were incomplete without a Rufus Miller original. How far we take that depends on you. Demand depends on supply to keep the wheels of the economy greased. And you’re only one person, so I expect the demand will exceed your output.”
“You sound happy about that.”
She nodded as she set down her bag and withdrew her computer. “I am. Scarcity will keep the price up and that’s a very good thing.”
He pulled out a chair for her. “How much will this cost me?”
While she waited for her laptop to connect with the public Wi-Fi, she pulled a file folder from her bag. “Since I’m new to the business, I decided to offer you a flat rate for a new Web site. Then, once we’ve agreed on a finished product, you can hire me at an hourly fee to maintain the site. Processing sales would fall into a different category. I’d be happy to help you set up a flow chart. Or maybe you have an office manager to handle that.”
A low, rumbling sound filled the air around them. He was laughing, she realized a moment later. The vibration passed through her chest and left her a little breathless. “I make the damn things. That’s all. Kat helped me sell a few, but she’s too busy to do that anymore. That’s why you’re here. How much do you charge?”
“Good question. How ’bout we work that out as we go? I promise to be fair. I’m not trying to scam you. If you had DSL where you live, I could work from your place, and then you could be sure you were getting your money’s worth,” she said, returning her focus to her screen.
“Kat mentioned something about a satellite.”
“Do you want me to find out about it?”
He hesitated. “Maybe.”
She motioned toward an empty chair. “Have a seat. I’ll show you a few mock-ups. These are simple, simple prototypes. If you like any of the ideas, we’ll start there and build a more personalized site. If you don’t, I’ll bring you some more choices in a day or two. After I’ve unpacked.”
His head lifted and he looked out the window. “You bought a new car.”
She thought she detected a hint of approval in her choice. “Used, but functional.”
He didn’t speak again until she started showing him the ideas. The first three were met with silence, but not a condemning air. “I like this one,” he said when she pushed the arrow key for number four.
Her personal favorite. The background was a generic mountain scene with a giant coniferous pine in the center of the page. “There are several ways to showcase your work in the foreground. The navigation buttons are on top. I left a spot for your photo right here,” she said, pointing to the screen.
“No.”
“Okay. You can keep it on your personal page then.”
“No photos of me. Period.”
“But people will want to know that you’re real. That this isn’t a mass-market hoax. To paraphrase from Field of Dreams, ‘If you build them, people will come to your Web site.’ They’ll want to be part of your online community, and they’ll need to put a face with your name.”
He shook his head. “Either the pieces sell on their own merit or they don’t. Nobody’s gonna buy one because they saw this mug. In fact, it might scare them off.”
She would have agreed if she hadn’t spent the past few days obsessing about him. True, he resembled some people’s image of Bigfoot. But in her mind, that over-the-top rugged backwoodsman look was sexy—and very marketable.
But she sensed she’d have to handle this part of the negotiations delicately. “What if we used a group shot of you and the dogs? More dogs than you.”
His lips pulled to one side. “Maybe. I’ll have to ask them.”
“Excellent,” she crowed triumphantly. “I have the release forms right here. A single paw print will do.” She waved a blank piece of paper.
He didn’t laugh again, as she’d hoped, but she could tell by the glint in his wonderful, dark chocolate eyes that he wanted to. It was enough to fill her with hope. At least, that’s what she called the skittering sensation that dashed up her spine.
“Time’s up, Rufus,” a loud, not particularly friendly voice said from behind them.
Rufus ducked his head as if the woman approaching them might recognize him. Odd, Rachel thought. Didn’t everybody in this small town know each other? “I’m sorry,” Rachel said, turning in the not terribly comfortable chair. “What do you mean?”
“The rules say half an hour per sign-up. Rufus’s been here an hour, already.”
Rachel glanced around. “Nobody’s waiting.”
“I gotta go some place, and I’m the only volunteer who could make it in today. I’m locking up.”
Rachel wasn’t always good at spotting liars, but she’d gotten better since her marriage. This woman wasn’t telling the truth. Rachel could only assume she had something against Rufus. “No problem. There’s Wi-Fi at the restaurant, isn’t there?”
“The Tidbiscuit closes at two.” The woman looked at Rufus. “You could have come in earlier, you know.”
He didn’t appear to hear her. He turned off the computer he’d been using and stood. The chair he’d been sitting in made a loud, screeching sound.
The woman pivoted on her heel and stomped back to her desk.
“She doesn’t like you,” Rachel said.
“I know.”
“Why doesn’t she like you?”
His lips pressed together, virtually disappearing into his beard. Rachel assumed that meant he wasn’t going to answer, but when she looked up from putting away her computer, he’d bent down close enough to whisper, “I donated one of my early bird feeders to the community center. She said it was dirty.”
Rachel shrugged. “They’re made out of wood and acorns and stuff. Why would she expect it to be clean?”
“Pornography kind of dirty.”
Rachel blinked. She tried with every ounce of self-control not to grin but her lips had a mind of their own. “How could a bird feeder be pornographic? Did you have little naked creatures doing…things?” she barely choked out.
She looked up. His lips were present again. They were tweaked in the most gorgeous way. A smile that magically reached his eyes. Her laugher died the moment some other emotion took hold.
Lust.
No, no, no, she silently cried. Nope. Not that. They’re lips. That’s all. Nothing magical and sexy about them. Nope. Lips.
Then the lips spoke. Low and private, for her ears only. “There were two pieces of wood. Yin and yang. I found them separately and put them together. I hung it from the eaves out there to attract birds.”
Trying to picture what he described didn’t ease the sexual fission she was experiencing one bit. “Do you still have it?”
He nodded. “I took it home when the mayor gave it back.”
Rachel reached out and touched his arm. “Please tell me she’s not the mayor,” she whispered, nodding toward the woman shooting them the stink eye.
His thick mop of hair shook back and forth.
“Whew.” She pretended to wipe her brow. “I would have had to move before I unpacked.”
There was a look of approval in his eyes. “Listen, I’d really like to go over this proposal as soon as possible. Is there any way we could continue this at your place? I have four-wheel drive now. I could follow you home.”
He moved his shoulders uneasily and turned to start toward the door. The mean lady was nowhere in sight, thank goodness. Rachel didn’t want to fake a thank-you.
He opened the door for her—a courtesy she hadn’t expected. That and the pulling out of her chair added up to lovely manners that didn’t quite jibe with his backwoodsiness. If there was such a word.
“Where are your dogs?”
“Home. The little one got her foot caught in a tangle of branches and needed to rest. She can’t control herself in the truck, bouncing from window to window, afraid she’s going to miss something.”
“So you left all three of them at home?”
“To keep her company.”
To keep her company. She was touched more than she thought wise. Maybe they should put this meeting off a day or two. Or ten.
“I walked in. To town,” he added as if she were the simple one. “I guess I could ride back with you. Probably the only way you’d find the place.”
She swallowed, loudly. “Okay, then, let’s…go.”
WHAT AM I DOING? Rufus silently asked himself, not for the first time since climbing into her vehicle back at the civic center.
It wasn’t as if she’d put a gun to his head. But something about this woman played havoc with his usual self-restraint. People thought he was shy, when in truth he simply didn’t want to connect with anyone. And he was damn good at avoidance.
Until today.
Maybe it was her earnestness. Or her chipper can-do air. He’d replayed their first meeting at Native Arts in his mind way too often over the past few days. He’d been bracing for this get-together with equal parts anticipation and dread. And now, for some inexplicable reason, he was bringing her home.
Not a single, non-four-legged entity had entered his inner sanctum—his studio. Not that he called it that. He preferred the term “workshop.” Even though he associated that word with Santa.
“Why would someone buy a birdhouse for a Christmas gift?” The question had been bugging him ever since she suggested they had to jump on creating an online presence to make the most of the holiday market. “Aren’t they more of a summer thing?”
“I don’t think so. Besides, it’s always summer in some part of the world.”
The world? Come on, he silently scoffed.
His art wasn’t for the masses. In fact, he knew from experience most consumers preferred generic, mass-made crap to something that made them think. Time and again as a model he’d been told his look was too different, not boy-next-door enough. Of course, they never complained about the view of his backside. Provocative seemed to work when you were selling men’s bikini briefs.
“Why me?” he asked, after pointing out the mostly invisible fork in the road. No signs or numbers or cutesy flags to announce his place in the world.
“Pardon?”
He could tell by the look of concentration on her face she wasn’t completely comfortable driving the bulky vehicle. The Explorer was a huge leap in size and maneuverability from the Porsche. He wondered if she resented having to downsize in style because of her divorce. Assuming, of course, that was the reason, he reminded himself. What little he knew of her came from an online snippet he’d found before she arrived at the community center.
“Why pick me for your first client? I’m not gonna make you rich.”
She glanced sideways, her smile wide and filled with irony. “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t expect that. I’ve been rich—for a brief moment in time—and a wealthy lifestyle is not all what it’s cracked up to be.”
He blinked in surprise. He agreed, but the sentiment was not shared by very many people. He doubted if she really meant it. Probably she was still bitter about her divorce from some big-name golfer. Rufus had never heard of him, but the guy’s press agent had done a pretty good job of making his client appear the victim of his blinded-by-love impulse to marry Rachel—a woman who “didn’t understand the complexities of the professional athlete’s life.” Or some such baloney.
“Your road doesn’t see a lot of action, does it?”
The innocent remark triggered an odd reaction somewhere in his libido. He’d seen more than his share of action in his twenties. Enough to last a lifetime, he’d thought, but suddenly he felt the old juices stirring.
“Just the mailman,” he answered, forcing his mind to stay focused. “Once or twice a week.”
“Well, that’s going to change,” she said with conviction.
Rufus swallowed and shifted to look out the window. He’d known any increase in sales would necessitate logistical changes. He simply hadn’t extrapolated every ramification. Her earlier comment hit home. It wouldn’t take a very large jump in sales to make his current system of handling every aspect of the transaction himself impractical and obsolete. He’d need help. And for the short term, at least, she seemed the best person for the job.
But he needed to do this on his own terms. As a model, he’d been tossed hither and yon by the demands of his profession. By the mere nature of the job, he was a commodity. That mind-set took a real toll on a person’s self-worth—even if that person was in demand and at the top of his game. It wasn’t surprisi
ng how many people in his profession had suffered breakdowns and burnout. Many self-sabotaged through drugs or alcohol. He’d gotten out in time…but not by choice. That’s why he planned to established concrete boundaries with Rachel right from the start.
“My place is just ahead. Better slow down. The road gets a little rough.”
Her laughter was unexpected and it caught him midchest. “It’s going to get rough? I love it.” She beamed happily. “We honestly could play up the yeti factor in your Web design.”
He wondered if he should feel insulted. “What’s a yeti factor?”
“This,” she said, making a global gesture. “Think about it. You live alone in the deep woods of the profoundly spiritual Black Hills. You create amazingly unique pieces of art from natural materials found in your world. You are an enigma. Larger-than-life, but rarely spotted by regular folk. Like the yeti.”
She braked hard to creep over a pothole, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. As the SUV lumbered across the section of washboard, she shot him a quick glance. “This is a good thing, by the way. It sets you apart from other artists. They call it branding.”
He silently cursed. He knew all about branding. He’d lived by the brand, and damn near died by it.
“Like Greg Norman, the Shark? Or the Grey Pearl?”
She slammed on the brakes, tossing him forward and back against his seat belt. “I beg your pardon? Were you checking me out online before I got there today?”
He nodded. That’s where he’d seen her ex-husband’s excellent Web site. He didn’t know if it was Rachel’s design or not, but the home page featured the tanned, blond poster boy for pearly whites, which the site had cleverly explained was how he earned his nickname. Always smiling Trevor Grey is a positive force on the course, a caption below the guy’s headshot had claimed. To Rufus, the man’s warm blue eyes—probably computer enhanced, in his opinion—lacked any real depth. The guy reminded Rufus of a store mannequin selling golf shirts and accessories.
As the car continued to idle, she gave him a thorough once over, as if seeing something different in him all of a sudden. “Smart move. As I said, I did the same with you. And, to answer your question, yes. Trevor’s nickname plays on his natural charisma. Also, pearls connote success, achievement and warmth.” She stepped on the gas, muttering softly, “Two out of three ain’t bad.”
Until He Met Rachel Page 4
