Rogue Affair

by Tamsen Parker

  “And by then, I should have the second half of the money. I hope.”

  “Jenny—”

  “I’ll cancel my sittings with Bigelow’s cronies and head home tomorrow.” More money lost. Jesus Christ, what was she going to do about her health insurance premium next month? “Once I’m back in Virginia, I’ll work on Bigelow’s portraits as quickly as I can. I should be finished by the end of the week. And that gives you a few more days to research the foundation and see whether you can find another smoking gun.”

  He didn’t try to interrupt again. Instead, he turned their clasped fingers until her hand was on top, and then reached out his free hand to cover it, surrounding her chilled fingers with warmth.

  “But I want something in return.” The hands encasing hers tightened, but she didn’t hesitate. “If you mention my name and show those damn Napoleon paintings in your story, you have to include one of my normal portraits too. Something that shows I can do better.”

  His eyes closed, and his chin dipped to his chest once more. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  “You can’t do that?” That burn at the back of her eyes was getting stronger. “David?”

  He licked his lips, and she took a breath that shuddered for at least two reasons. “I’ll try. I promise you I’ll try. But I can’t promise my editor will agree to it.”

  As predicted, she was fucked. So totally fucked.

  And in that case, she had nothing more to lose. Might as well go out in a blaze of glorious lasciviousness.

  She extricated her hand from his. “I have a second demand, then.”

  He was looking down, contemplating his empty fingers as they curled in on themselves. But when she spoke again, his chin jerked up, and his eyes focused on her behind those adorable black-framed glasses.

  “In exchange for telling this story on the record, I want to paint a portrait of you.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Of me? I don’t—”

  “You. Here. Tonight.” She raised her brows. “You get your byline, I get you on canvas. Agreed?”

  His chest rose and fell in a harsh breath. “It won’t go in the story.”

  “I don’t want it for the story. I don’t want it for the public.” She met his stare. “I want it for me.”

  He tilted his head and considered her for a long minute, the muscles in his thighs visibly tense beneath those thin suit pants, jaw tight. Those dark eyes piercing her as he evaluated her demand and decided how to respond.

  When he finally spoke, the last vestiges of professionalism had disappeared from his voice. It was low and rough and gorgeous.

  “In that case…” He leaned forward until his mouth was only a breath away from hers. So close she could almost taste him. “I agree.”

  It was unfair. A man so smart, so talented, shouldn’t be so fucking sexy too.

  “Fair warning.” She raised her brows. “This may not be my best work. I’ve never painted in the throes of lust before, so I don’t know how that’ll affect my technique. I may get drool in my paints.”

  When he laughed again, she felt the heat in his eyes, the way they crinkled with amusement, down low in her belly.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  His laugh softened to a smile. “You.”

  “Was that a compliment or an insult?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Because if it’s an insult, I have ways to make you pay, visually speaking. Don’t make me break out the wilted mushrooms and flaccid eggplants.”

  After a moment, his creased brow cleared with understanding, and those dimples reappeared.

  “No need for limp vegetation.” He tucked one of her curls behind her ear. “When I say you’re funny, I mean it as a compliment. You’re not only ethical, but also entertaining as hell to be around. Not to mention…” His fingers traced along her cheekbone. “Not to mention, very pretty.”

  Her lips parted, and she leaned against his touch. Too soon, though, he moved away, slouching back onto the sofa and spreading his arms wide.

  He was grinning again, a very male expression, full of confidence and sex appeal. She wasn’t certain whether to slap him or kiss that smile right off his face.

  “Jenny,” he said, “draw me like one of your French dictators.”

  4

  “Did you pose me like Rose in retribution for my bad joke?” David shifted onto his side, unsure what to do with his hands as he lay on the couch. “Because if so, I should really take off this tee and put on an oversized heart necklace of some sort. Possibly one dredged from the bottom of the ocean.”

  This was—both literally and figuratively—the most unprofessional position in which David had ever found himself. But at the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when heat arced between him and Jenny with every glance. Not when she’d sacrificed her dreams and financial security for her ethics, despite her obvious frustration and fear. Not when he felt like a suffocating man gulping in lungfuls of oxygen for the first time in years.

  He shouldn’t have said yes to her demand. But did he regret the answer?

  Fuck, no.

  He wanted more time with Jenny. He wanted more Jenny, period.

  She was mixing different colors of paints in cups, her attention focused on her work. And she was mixing quickly, since—as she’d explained—acrylics dried way faster than oils. Still, at his comment, she glanced up at him with that broad smile stretching her adorable face.

  “I wouldn’t object if you took off your shirt.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, confirming her status as an enticing adult Muppet once more. “But feel free to keep it on and position yourself however makes you comfortable. I was just fucking with you.”

  With a sigh of relief, he propped himself up on his elbow and stopped trying to flutter his hands around his face or whatever she’d told him to do. “How did you choose those paint colors? As far as I know, I don’t have any turquoise patches.”

  He’d changed out of his work shirt and into the fresh tee he’d packed for a gym stop that evening. It was gray. His pants were black, as was his hair. His skin and eyes were brown. Although he couldn’t claim any artistic ability, he didn’t see much need for the greens and blues and pinks and oranges she was mixing.

  This time, she didn’t look up. “No one is just three or four hues, however rich and deep. There’s more to you than that.”

  He swallowed over a dry throat. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe not.” She slayed him with a look, her characteristic smile vanished. “But I do.”

  He wasn’t sure he agreed. Work consumed most of his waking hours, interrupted only by visits to the gym and the occasional trivia night at a bar with his colleagues. He ate alone. He slept alone. He dreamed about stories and sources and headlines.

  At one time, he’d dreamed about flying and sex and winning an Olympic medal.

  When had that changed?

  “I read your story from a few years back about that cooking pageant in New York.” Dipping her brush into a cup, she eyed him for a moment before turning to the canvas on the easel. “Maybe not your most important work, but definitely your most fun.”

  “The Mr. Molecular Gastronomy competition?” He huffed out an amused breath. “That was a hoot to report. I’d never seen so many handlebar mustaches in one place before.”

  “I love that there was an anti-griddle round, as well as a sous vide-off for the finalists.” Her smile warmed her voice. “And that was one memorable swimsuit competition.”

  “I worried about them putting dry ice and smoking guns so close to their Speedos, but the effect was truly impressive.” The memory, for good or ill, would remain seared in his brain forever. “So much dramatic fog as they strutted onto the stage and presented their various foams and gelées and tiny little passion fruit spheres to the judges.”

  She snorted. “Based on the pictures in the article, I’m pretty sure some of them froze off their pubes. But at least they had tweezers handy for emergency medical intervention a
nd/or microgreen placement.”

  “More than their pubes.” He rested his head on his propped arm. “One guy fled the competition yelling, ‘My junk! Oh, God, my junk!’ But he recovered. Eventually.”

  “Why don’t you write stories like that anymore?” Her brush dipped and lifted, dipped and lifted. “I haven’t seen a byline from you about anything or anyone other than Bigelow for months now.”

  “I was randomly assigned to his campaign, back when no one expected him to outlast the primaries. And then…” David sighed. “He did. By that time, I was the expert on him and his inner circle, and I’d gotten good feedback on my reporting. So now I’m on the Bigelow beat for the foreseeable future.”

  Bigelow’s orbit contained a variety of colorful individuals and scandals and astoundingly brazen and profane soundbites. All excellent story material. And God knew David’s stories about that constellation of potential criminals and would-be strongmen had raised his professional profile and earned the respect of his peers.

  But the time and freedom to report less critical, less political stories had vanished along the way. Why hadn’t he mourned that loss before now?

  “So that’s what you do for a living. What about your free time?” She chose a new brush, pink paint now splattered on her thumb. “Do you still train for all those decathlon events?”

  He blinked. “You did your research.”

  “Some of your first Google Image results showed you in college wearing tight, shiny shorts and basically doing a full split as you leaped over a hurdle. I mean…” She poked her head around the canvas. “I’m only human, David. I had to know more. And find multiple other images, just for the sake of thorough research.”

  Oh, Jesus.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “Please tell me you didn’t find a photo of that meet where my shorts ripped.”

  “If I decide to paint your butt, let’s just say you won’t have to pose.”

  Nope. Not going to address that topic. “To answer your question, no, I don’t train for all those events anymore. When I go to the gym, I just run on the treadmill and lift some weights.”

  “So the running parts were your favorite?” She settled behind her painting again. “I only run when two-for-one margarita night is about to end and I’m still in the parking lot.”

  He hadn’t considered the issue for years, not since his long hours of work at the Chronicle had left him enough time for only the most basic physical training. “No. The high jump was my favorite.”

  “But you don’t do that anymore.”

  He recognized the studied neutrality in that voice. Understood it. God knew, he’d employed it often enough.

  “No.” He shifted on the couch. “I don’t do that anymore.”

  “Hmmm.” That was all she said.

  Shit. Talking to sources and colleagues didn’t challenge him this way. Didn’t force him to review his life from a distance and take stock of what it had become, how it had narrowed and narrowed until he could barely move within its confines.

  “I do trivia nights with my colleagues sometimes.” Did that sound defensive? It probably did. “I’m good at questions about ’90s movies and music.” He let out a slow breath and admitted the painful truth. “Largely because that’s the last time I watched movies and listened to music.”

  He glanced down at the shiny fabric of the couch, plucking at the corded edge.

  A long silence. Then she spoke again, her voice tentative in a way he hadn’t heard before. “My career tanked when gallery owners and potential buyers met me, rather than seeing my work on its own.”

  That made no sense. “I’d have thought contact with you would sell hundreds of paintings. Thousands.”

  On their own, those large-scale explosions of color she painted, those very personal depictions of men and women going about everyday tasks, should have attracted attention from buyers and exhibitors. But upon meeting her, how could a gallery owner or collector resist opening their walls and wallets to her work?

  How could anyone resist her, period?

  The movements of her arm slowed, then stopped. “Some people already dismissed my work because of my choice to use acrylics, instead of oils, and because I used such bright, cheerful colors. But my earlier paintings had more angst to them, because I thought serious, reputable art had to be grim. I think that helped offset the other factors, at least before everyone met me. So I got several group shows right out of college.”

  When he’d researched her work and seen images from those exhibitions, he’d noted the unhappiness of her early subjects, the way their mouths pinched and their necks bowed. The expressions hadn’t fit what he now understood about Jenny, but what did he know about artists and how much their work reflected their personalities?

  “At those exhibitions, I talked to influential people. Critics. Collectors. Gallery owners and museum curators. And I’m not…” She paused. “I’m not elegant. Or distant and unfathomable. Or angsty. I’m just me. And that hurt my career.”

  “I don’t understand.” And he didn’t.

  She thought for a minute before continuing, her bare, paint-stained toes tapping on the tarp beneath her. “People buy art or choose to display it in their museums and galleries for many reasons. The art itself, of course, and how it speaks to them. But also the sense that by purchasing or hanging that art, they’ve captured something ineffable, something important, something mysterious.”

  Tap, tap, tap. Her toes weren’t following the rhythm of the music from the clock radio, though. Not anymore. Those movements were a small, telltale sign of distress.

  She was speaking quietly now, her liveliness muted. “Some artists can cultivate that mystique, either by design or because they’re naturally reserved or beautiful or tragic. But I’m not a mystery, David. I contain no tragedy and very little angst. And I’m definitely effable.”

  With effort, he stopped himself from agreeing that he found her extremely f-able.

  “So given who I am and the materials and colors I use,” she continued, “my art didn’t seem important enough to buy or include in an exhibition. Or so I found out.”

  He abandoned his pose, jerking upright. “People told you that?”

  “Not directly. But my friends in the community reported what they heard to me. The bottom line was that once people met me, they didn’t take me or my art seriously.”

  His hands fisted at his sides. “So what did you do?”

  “For a while, I stopped attending openings or exhibitions, and it helped. I sold a few paintings, got a few more leads on exhibitions that might consider me. When my work was displayed, I sent friends to speak for me, ones who could cultivate their images better than I could.” Her big toe traced a line on the floor. “Better to imagine me a tormented recluse than someone who looks and acts like your niece who went to clown college and honks her nose and makes balloon parakeets at children’s parties.”

  She paused. “That’s harder than it sounds, by the way.”

  “Clown college?”

  “Also the parakeets.”

  He tried to smile, more to acknowledge her attempt at humor than out of any amusement. “A woman’s got to make a living somehow.”

  Other than her feet, she hadn’t moved in minutes. She was hiding behind that canvas now. Not painting. Just shielding herself.

  He’d never wanted to hold and comfort someone more. But she was still talking, and he refused to interrupt her story. Whatever she wanted to tell him, he wanted to hear.

  “But I couldn’t hide forever. I didn’t want to hide forever. And I wanted my paintings to reflect my life and personality, so I switched to happier subjects. One of my friends lounging on the grass or reading a paperback or painting her toenails. I had one last exhibition.” She let out a long breath. “And that was the end of everything. The invitations to shows dried up, and the money I could expect for my paintings tanked. I had to move back home to Virginia and find other ways to make a living while I kept painting
.”

  He had the full picture now. Could summarize her tale in a pithy lede, if he so chose. “Thus clown college and your job inserting people into famous paintings.”

  “Yep.” When she spoke next, he could barely hear her. “And this is it, David. After your story comes out, I can’t pretend I’ll be able to claw my way back into that world. Not ever. No matter how hard I try or how much I sacrifice.”

  He couldn’t stand it anymore. Not the thought of her vibrant art remaining unappreciated forevermore. Not the resignation he could detect in every quiet word she spoke. Not the way she was hiding from him.

  Without letting himself think about it, he rose to his feet and rounded the easel. She was still holding her brush, crusted with drying blue paint, and the canvas contained the barest hint of a man’s figure sprawled on a couch. Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes too shiny as they raised to him.

  When she saw him coming toward her, her lips parted, and those blue eyes rounded. He took her hands and tugged her to her feet, heedless of the paint cups surrounding them both, and then slid one arm around her waist. The other hand he let glide up her spine, until he could tangle his fingers in her curls and cradle the back of her neck in his palm.

  Then he pulled her close, guiding her head to his chest. He dipped his chin until her hair tickled his neck and simply held her. Rocked her. Breathed in the smell of paint and oranges. Reveled in the press of her breasts against him and the way her breath caught at his touch.

  He spoke into her hair. “When my wife left me, she told me I’d turned into a boring automaton of a man. A workaholic who didn’t have anything but a decent paycheck to offer her. And she wasn’t wrong.”

  At that, Jenny made an odd, adorable sort of growl. “Bullshit.”

  “I don’t think she understood that part of the reason I pushed so hard at work was because things already weren’t great at home. Not over the dinner table, not in bed, not anywhere.” He pressed a kiss on the crown of Jenny’s head. “I’ve lived alone for a decade now. But I always wanted a strong, loving marriage, like my parents had. Maybe a kid or two. So I know how dreams can wither over time, Jenny.”