Concierge

by Stella Barcelona

  With Gabe and Brandon, both tall men, momentarily blocking the partygoers from reaching her, she managed to breathe. As she loosened the death grip she had on Gabe’s arm, the smile that he gave her warmed her from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. The comforting heat of his body, pressed along her right side, felt…right.

  No. Not right. Incredible, because he’s making me forget I’m where I don’t want to be.

  “You two are doing a great job of looking like you’re on a date, by the way,” Taylor leaned in, keeping her voice low. “But now, you’ll have to offer a few more hello’s, because the crowd is moving in. Just look at everyone, imagine them naked—”

  “Oh God. Why did you say that? That is part of the problem,” Andi interrupted, muttering, “Damn. Did everyone I ever slept with come out tonight? I can’t believe I was so…loose. What the hell was I thinking?”

  “We talked about this yesterday,” Taylor said. “Don’t beat yourself up. You were bored, restless, and young—”

  “Sounds like I belonged in a mini-series.”

  “A lot of people in their early twenties do the same thing.”

  “But I know what plenty of these people really look like without clothes, and it’s making me ill.”

  Hearing Gabe’s low chuckle, she glanced at him. With her high heels on, her eyes were at his chin level, where it was easy to see the genuine humor in his smile.

  “Great,” she growled. “Can you at least pretend you’re not listening to us?”

  “Sure thing, Aphrodite.”

  Andi pinched under his arm, where most people had an inch or two of soft flesh. Not him.

  His smile broadened. “If you intend to hurt me, you’ll have to try harder.”

  Taylor took Andi’s clutch out of her left hand. She moved forward to lift the wrap from Andi’s shoulders.

  “No,” Andi said. “I want it on.”

  “Okay.” Taylor handed the clutch to Judith, her party planner and secretary. Judith pressed a drink into Andi’s left hand. “The next few minutes will go by in a blur. And one warning—Jacques and Sonja are being persistent about seeing your other paintings ASAP. I’ve tried to discourage them, but they will press the issue with you.”

  Crap.

  The semi-private group expanded by two, as her brothers, Phillip and Stone stepped into it. They both had dark hair and dark green eyes that matched Andi’s. Phillip, two years older than Andi, had premature gray at his temples. Stone, two years younger, had a full head of dark, tousled hair that was the same shade as hers.

  “So proud of you, baby sis.” Phillip touched her cheek with a quick kiss.

  “Makes two of us,” Stone said, sipping on a cocktail as he gave Andi an analytical once over. “You look fabulous. Doing okay?”

  After she assured them she was fine, they stepped away. With Taylor on her left, and Gabe on her right, time flew by in a blur of faces and nods, smiles, and comments.

  “OMG, honey, you look amazing.” Sarah Hanes, in sleek black Chanel, blue eyes asking questions she was too couth to voice, smiled a saccharine smile. “Fabulous to see you out. Let’s make it a trend. Please come to lunch next week. Stephanie, my oldest, is marrying a Koch. You know—those Koch’s. That Harvard tuition is paying off. She met him there. It will be a super show. You’re on the list, of course, for all the events.”

  Momentarily stunned at the woman’s lack of tact, Andi could only nod.

  Was I ever so shallow that I wouldn’t have seen how rude that name dropping was? Yes. I was. Just two and a half years ago.

  “Wonderful. Your work is evocative,” a tall man with glasses and blue eyes pulled Andi’s attention from Maria and Taylor. “I’m Stan Lovett, Director of Contemporary Southern Collections with the Met. I look forward to seeing more of your work. I’m glad I came by. You’ve got a rare talent.”

  “Thank you,” Andi said, thrilled and flattered.

  “Fabulous,” a thin woman with long, jet-black hair said. “Your paintings are remarkable. I’d like to interview you. Maybe next week? Tuesday morning? We could do it here, after you replenish the gallery with new work. It would make the cover.”

  Andi nodded to the woman, whom she didn’t recognize, then leaned towards Taylor for clarification as the woman moved on, pausing in front of Gabe.

  “New art scene reporter for NOLA Living Magazine,” Taylor whispered in her ear. “Wow. She did say the cover, right? Impressive.”

  Andi whispered, “Not going to do an interview.”

  “I know. Don’t worry about it for now.”

  “I’m so proud of you,” Simon Maissen said, as he parked himself in front of their tight group. With jet black, soulful eyes, and wavy black hair that fell over his forehead, Simon had been her favorite teacher at the art academy. “You’ve far exceeded my expectations, even though I knew you were talented. You paint with a rare, ethereal magic.”

  “Yes, and they’re all sold, as I knew they would be.” With her arm entwined in her husband’s arm, Sonja Long and Doctor Walter Long stepped forward.

  Urbane and sophisticated, with thick silvery hair, and glasses, Walter was as tall as his wife, who wore high heels that showed off her long legs. With sleek, platinum blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and high cheekbones, Sonja’s beauty was stunning and classic.

  Simon, squeezed out by the Longs, stepped closer to Taylor. Gabe, on Andi’s right, was in a conversation with two women she didn’t recognize. They looked perfectly content to stay where they were, gazing into his eyes, and nodding their heads.

  “Your art is amazing, Andi,” Walter said. “And, if I might add, it is nice to see you looking so well. I’m hopeful your appearance here tonight means we’ll be seeing more of you.”

  Jacques slipped through the crowd to insert himself in their small circle, lifting his champagne glass in a mock toast to Andi. “Every piece is sold. And there’s a strong interest in future work. We’re compiling a waiting list.”

  “I’d say a thank you is in order, Jacques. From you, to me. I have an eye for great art. And you, Andi,” Sonja said, her glance steady and lingering enough to suggest her mind was on far more than the current moment, “are a great artist.”

  As Sonja made small talk with Jacques, Dr. Long’s frank glance in Andi’s eyes made her wonder whether he knew that she’d once been intimate with his wife. It also made her wonder whether Sonja’s claim that her husband hadn’t cared about his wife’s female lovers had been true.

  Andi’s mind went back one particular afternoon with Sonja. Her tone had become insistent, almost hypnotic, as one of her well-manicured hands had slipped under Andi’s blouse. The other had slowly made its way up her thigh. Which meant Andi’s brain had been on pause and her body in overdrive, because if there was one thing the old Andi had enjoyed, it was the anticipation that came with good sex.

  ‘Walter’s sex drive is dwindling. He’s not getting younger and I’m in my prime. As long as his is the only penis in my life, he’s fine with what-and-who-ever I do. Come on. It’s a harmless way to spend an afternoon. I want you. Don’t you want to try me?”

  Now, Sonja was so close, Andi could smell her heady perfume. Shalimar. The heady, exotic scent brought more sudden, vivid memories. Dim lights. Silky, soft, sweaty skin. Sexual interludes that had been all feminine, but hard-edged. Sonja’s avid and demanding mouth. The feel of the woman’s supple and lush body sliding along her own. Sonja’s full breasts, the nipples forming hard peaks in Andi’s mouth.

  Sonja’s blue eyes shifted to Gabe, whom she gave a lingering glance before refocusing her attention on Andi. “From the moment I saw your painting at Taylor’s home, I knew we had to get your work in the public eye. Now the only question is, how fast can you deliver more material to Jacques? Tay’s indicated you have more that are ready—”

  “Sonja,” Taylor interrupted, “I believe I said Andi would decide when to submit additional paintings.”

  Sonja refocused her attention on Andi. “Well? Y
ou do have other pieces available now, don’t you?”

  Andi tightened her grip on Gabe’s arm, and he brushed his fingertips along her fingers. “Tonight’s enough for a while.”

  “Hm. Evasive. You’ve become a true creative soul,” Sonja said. “Tay’s told me that you’re one hundred percent dedicated to your art and you’re devoted to the cause of helping the street people. I love to hear that. All great artists need a backstory. It will make the art world pay more attention.”

  Sonja’s use of Taylor’s nickname wasn’t lost on Andi. When had they become such good friends? And was there more than just friendship between them? Had Sonja pursued Taylor, like she’d once pursued Andi? There were few secrets between Andi and Taylor, but Andi had never told Taylor that she’d slept with Sonja. For more than one reason, it just seemed like something better off unsaid.

  Tay wouldn’t go there. Would she? No. Absolutely not.

  Sonja glanced at her watch. “This ends at nine. Why don’t I go to your studio afterward and take a look at whatever else is ready? Tonight’s a perfect time,” Sonja added, “while we’re together and high on your success.”

  “That’s an excellent idea.” With an enthusiastic nod, Jacques added, “I’d particularly like to see some of your sketches of the street people. Taylor told us about them. Really, darling, now isn’t the time to be timid. The art world is clamoring for more. I’m here to help you give it to them. Remember—our other galleries will also exhibit your work. My mother just called in from Paris to suggest a New Orleans-to-Paris show. Sister cities, and all that.”

  “I have the feeling that what’s here is merely a delicious appetizer,” Simon said, reinserting himself into the conversation. “It’s rare that I have a student with such an aptitude. I’m not sure my skill as a teacher did you justice.”

  “You’re too humble. Your lessons are in every canvas I create,” Andi said, meaning it, as his dark eyes held her gaze. Despite her lack of a serious work ethic in her pre-kidnapping days, the en plein air painting skills Simon taught had become ingrained while she was in his classes. It was those lessons that she’d drawn upon when she returned to painting as a method of coping with the traumatic stress of her kidnapping.

  “Hello, Andi,” John McCaskey said, as Sonja and Simon drifted away.

  Great. I haven’t thought about sex for years, and tonight, my past sexual exploits are dancing before my eyes.

  John had blue eyes and a killer smile. Tousled waves of blondish-brown hair fell over his forehead. In his early forties, he was good-looking, in a perpetually boyish, carefree way that belied his reputation as a skilled cardiovascular surgeon.

  Andi had dated him. Which meant that she’d slept with him. More than once. Not that she’d slept with everyone she’d dated, but there’d been no compelling reason not to sleep with John, who she’d actually liked—out of bed and yes, in bed. In the first few months after the kidnapping, John had called her. He’d left messages. He’d even sent flowers. She’d sent a thank you note for the flowers, but hadn’t taken or returned his calls. “Your paintings are spectacular. I’m on Stapleton’s waiting list.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  “I’m thrilled to see you out. Let’s get together soon. Are you free for lunch? Next Wednesday?”

  Before she could answer, Gabe extended his right hand to John. “Gabe Hernandez. And you are?”

  “Doctor John McCaskey.” John shook Gabe’s hand.

  “Well, John, I don’t know how you guys do it in New Orleans, but where I come from, it isn’t polite to ask ladies out on a date when they’re so obviously on one.”

  John arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t mean to offend. She’s certainly capable of saying no if she’s not interested. Andi, I’ll call you tomorrow to see about Wednesday.” He gave Gabe a nod, then walked away.

  “Really?” Andi glanced at Gabe.

  Gabe gave her a shrug. He leaned in, so that his lips were at her ear, and whispered, so close that his breath felt warm and moist. “Just playing the part, Chief. And by the way, I’m figuring out your tells. You blush. Breathe in longer. Your voice changes when you’re talking to someone with whom you have a history. Like that guy. Your voice gets higher—”

  She drew in a deep breath, taking in a strong dose of Gabe’s delicious, spicy scent. As she looked into Gabe’s eyes, caught a glance of his broad shoulders, and squeezed harder on his rock-hard arm, her body clamored for sex. Impossibly, and with an intensity that surprised her. “It does not.”

  “Tells are subtle. You probably don’t even realize you’re doing it,” he said, his voice low, as a lull in the partygoers gave them a chance to talk. “Plus, you squeeze harder on my arm—”

  “Like this?” She moved her fingers to the inside of his arm, squeezed through the fabric of his sports coat and shirt, and gripped a roll of flesh on the underside of his bicep between her index finger and her thumb. She pinched as hard as she could.

  He chuckled. “Way more subtle than that. It isn’t just you. I’m watching them, too. I’m a paid observer, just doing my job.”

  “I really didn’t sleep with everyone here,” she whispered. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Yep. By my count, only seven.”

  Hah. Off by two. “Not correct.”

  “Now you’re asking for it.” With a devilish gleam in his eyes, he whispered, “Martin Blanda. That black-haired guy across from me, wearing a brown sports coat, whose name I didn’t catch. John McCaskey. Simon Maissen. Stapleton. Long, and not the male part of that couple.”

  “Stop!” Mortified, she pinched his arm harder.

  “Ouch,” he complained, readjusting his arm.

  Andi leaned in closer to Gabe and dropped her voice, once again, to the lowest of whispers. “No one knows I had a thing with Sonja. Especially not Taylor.”

  “I had money on one of the Longs. Took a guess.” He chuckled. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

  His teasing was exactly the kind of thing she would have done…before. Bawdy jokes with friends had been something she’d loved. His enjoyment of her discomfort, and ability to sense that she could handle a joke or two at her own expense, made her so damn grateful that he was treating her like a normal person, she felt like tip-toeing and planting a kiss on his cheek. It was a move the old Andi would have done in a heartbeat.

  But I’m not the old Andi any longer.

  With that thought, ever-present waves of Victor Morrissey-inspired reality crashed around her with a turbulent force that sucked away her momentary joy. Her thoughts returned to the dark, confined mental space in which she lived. Where the walls pressed in on her. Where anxiety stole her breath. Where living through each minute became an accomplishment.

  His smile flat-lined. “You okay?”

  “I’m different now. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  He studied her eyes, her lips, tracing the line of her jaw. In his eyes, concern replaced lightheartedness. “Yes. Understood. Perfectly.”

  “I’ll be ready to leave in ten minutes.”

  “Got it, Boss.” Eyes serious, he added, “Your secrets are safe with me.”

  “So, are Sonja, Jacques, and I on for a private showing later this evening?” Simon, her former art teacher said as he stepped in front of her again, drawing her focus.

  “Of course, we’re on,” Sonja said, sliding an arm through Simon’s. “Why wouldn’t we be? Let’s move forward while interest is high.”

  Oh hell. How do I get out of this?

  “We have other plans for the evening,” Gabe added, covering her hand on his arm with warm fingers that felt a lot more personal and intimate than they should have been. Still, she was grateful that he articulated the need for the pass, because it took the pressure off her. “However, we can certainly adapt our plans, if Andi would prefer to have you all over to her house.”

  “No,” Andi said, adding quickly, “not tonight.” I’d rather die. I’m barely making it here. A certain amount of
graciousness was in order, though, because were it not for Sonja, Andi wouldn’t be standing in Stapleton Gallery, and her paintings would probably forever be on the third floor of her home. “But I appreciate that you’ve all helped me shed light on Hope House.”

  “If not tonight, then tomorrow.” Sonja said.

  “Andi, now is not the time to be hesitant,” Jacques added as he returned to the group. “You’re this gallery’s hottest new artist. We can’t afford for these walls to be empty. If not tonight, may Sonja and I come to your studio tomorrow?”

  She nodded, reluctantly. “Four o’clock?”

  Jacques smiled. “Perfect. If your sketches of the homeless people that Taylor told us about have the ethereal qualities of your paintings, they’re going to set the art world afire.”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Gabe

  One second they were joking, then she said, ‘I’m different now.’ With those three words, everything changed. Her smile disappeared, her eyes became unreadable, and she seemed small in a gallery overloaded with pretentious people. The clash of too many perfumes and booze became cloying. Worse, whether the partygoers were in front of her art, at the bar, or talking to a friend, their eyes lingered on her as though they were watching a curiosity.

  When the ten minutes was up, as he leaned towards her to say, ‘let’s go,’ she glanced at him with a hard to decipher look in her eyes. Sad? Anxious? Whatever. It was unacceptable. “I’m ready.”

  She’d been silent as he and Tyre walked with her down Royal Street. He’d tried for small talk, to no avail. At eight thirty, they crossed the threshold to her townhome. In the foyer, she slipped off her high heels and hooked them onto a finger. The height adjustment made her seem even more vulnerable.

  “Ready for that workout we skipped earlier?”

  “No. Thank you.” Back straight, head held high, she continued towards the stairs.

  Tyre, stepping into the security room, glanced at Gabe. Voice low, Tyre whispered, “A typical dismissal, sir.”