by Adrian, Lara
I’m not ready to surrender that part of me.
Not even to Nick.
“Thank you for offering this to me,” I murmur. “I love that you want to help. But you’ve already given me too much. More than I can ever hope to repay.”
“Have I ever said anything about repaying me?” His voice takes on an edge as he looks at me now. “I want you to have it. You said yourself, you need somewhere to paint.”
“I have somewhere, Nick.” I pick up the silk cord and lift it over my head. “I hope you understand. When it comes to my art, I want to do it—I need to do it—on my own.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t open his hand to take the key when I hold it out to him. I set it down on the table between us, next to his phone. Then I fold my hands in my lap and wait for him to say something. It takes a long time.
Finally, he blows out a heavy sigh. “If you’re going to be making the trip to East Harlem on a regular basis, then do me the favor of allowing Patrick to take you and pick you up. I’d rather not spend most of the day wondering if you’re safe or if you’ve lost your damn phone somewhere and can’t reach me.”
“Okay.”
I nod, guessing this is about as decent a compromise as I can hope to win from him. He’s brooding, not happy with my rejection of his gift, but at least he’s talking to me.
When he caresses my cheek, his fingers are tender and affectionate against my face. “Your ride starts today. I’ll go with you, then Patrick can take me to my office.”
“All right.”
As he leans in to kiss me, his phone chimes again. He glances down at it, frowning. Andrew Beckham’s picture is on the display. Nick gives me a rueful look, then reaches over to swipes the screen lock.
“Yeah, Beck.”
“Sorry to call you at home.” The attorney’s baritone voice carries through the speaker. “You got a second? It’s about that condo project over in Brooklyn.”
Nick exhales, already stepping away from me. “I have to take this.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got all of this.”
I stand up and start clearing the dishes while he walks into the living room with his phone. I load the plates and silverware into the dishwasher, then wipe down the counter and table.
The key on its silken cord feels heavy and cold in my palm as I place it on the bar.
When I glance over at Nick, he’s watching me. He moves the phone away from his mouth. “I need to head in now. How soon can you be ready?”
“Give me five minutes.”
He nods, retrieving his suit jacket from where it’s folded neatly over the back of the sofa. “I’ll meet you downstairs. Patrick will have the car waiting out front.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Just the usual schedule delays and contract bullshit. Nothing big, just things I need to take a look at personally.”
“All right. I’ll be right down.”
He goes back to his call, heading out the door as he speaks, and I walk into the bedroom to get dressed. A few minutes later, wearing jeans and a layered camisole and gauzy tunic, I step off the elevator and into the lobby.
Nick isn’t on the phone anymore. He’s standing just outside the building entrance, talking with a beautiful strawberry-blonde. Although the tall, elegant woman has her back to me and I don’t know her well, I would recognize her anywhere.
But I didn’t realize that Nick knew her too.
They both turn my way as Manny opens the door for me and I step out of the building.
“Hi, Avery!” Claire Prentice beams at me, as vivacious and stylish as I remember her.
“Hello,” I reply, as she draws me to her for an air kiss at the side of my face.
Four months ago we met for the first time at Vendange, after a friend who was supposed to housesit Claire’s apartment here at Park Place stood her up at the last minute. On her way out of the country for an acting job for several months and left with no one to watch her place while she was gone, Claire convinced me to move in to her apartment instead.
Actually, it was her five thousand dollars in cash that convinced me.
On top of the fact that I desperately needed to find a place to live, since the crappy apartment building where I rented a tiny one-bedroom hole in the wall had been sold out from under me.
If not for Claire, I never would have had a reason to come to this building.
Nor would I have almost crashed headlong into Nick in the elevator that first night, when we both were hit with the intense attraction that drew us inexorably together—beginning with our chance encounter that night, followed by our explosive second meeting at his gallery, Dominion, which ended with the two of us in a hot, sweaty tangle in his bed.
It boggles my mind sometimes to think that I owe all of my current happiness to Claire’s shitty friend.
I take in her glowing tan and chic designer sheath dress. She looks like she just walked out of a fashion ad, while in my BoHo casual outfit and sparsely made-up face, I feel like the barista who should be serving her a skinny latte.
It boosts my confidence immensely when Nick casually wraps his arm around my back as if to tell her and anyone else in the immediate vicinity that I’m with him.
“I haven’t seen you around lately,” I say to Claire. “How’s the talk show going?”
She had been going to Japan to shoot the pilot when she hired me to housesit for her. Three and a half months later, she returned home and I filled her in on the basics of how I’d met Nick and was moving in with him.
She’d seemed excited for me, but I didn’t get the sense that she and I were going to be much more than occasional neighbors. She seemed fairly private with her personal life, and God knows Nick and I are too.
“The show got cancelled, unfortunately. I was just telling Nick about it. They ran a bunch of audience tests on the pilot recently and the producers decided to kill it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Smiling, she gives me a dismissive wave of her bejeweled hand. “Ah, well. C’est la vie. Or whatever the Japanese equivalent is. There’s plenty of other gigs out there.”
“We should get going.” Nick’s hand urges me toward the idling limo where Patrick waits to open the door for us. “Claire, nice to see you.”
“You too. I’ll see you around, Avery.”
I nod as Nick guides me to the car and we climb into the back.
I watch Claire Prentice step into the building, noting how Manny and every other male in the lobby can’t take their eyes off the stunning woman. Hell, even I find it hard to tear my gaze away from her smooth stride and radiant sex appeal.
But Nick stares forward, almost deliberately so.
I can’t deny the sudden, sharp stab of suspicion that needles me. With Patrick not yet inside the vehicle, I look at Nick. “I didn’t realize you and Claire know each other.”
He gives me a disinterested shrug. “I own the building. I’m acquainted to some extent with everyone who lives here.”
“But you never mentioned it. Not even when I told you that first night at the gallery that I was housesitting for her.” When I even went so far as to lie to him and tell him I was a friend of Claire’s, he never acknowledged her. Not at any time in the past four months. “You never said you knew her.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No. You didn’t.”
Now he turns his head to look at me straight on. “Is there something you want to ask me, Avery?”
I sense the challenge in his tone, even though his gaze remains unflinching, unreadable.
Jealousy reduces my voice to a whisper. “Have you and Claire Prentice slept together?”
He reaches out, tenderly cupping my jaw. “No. We haven’t.”
“Never?”
“Never. I don’t fuck anyone who lives in my building. Just as I don’t fuck my employees. Those are two long-standing rules that I’ve abided by forever.” He strokes my cheek, and the solemn look on his face obliterates all of my doubts.
“There’s only one woman who’s tempted me to break my rules, and she’s sitting right here.”
He draws me toward him for a sweet, slow kiss as Patrick slides into the driver’s seat. My heart is pounding heavily, my body quickening as Nick scoots me against him on the seat and drapes his arm possessively around my shoulders.
“East Harlem, please, Patrick. Take the slow way, so Ms. Ross and I can make out a little longer.”
Patrick chuckles. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter 12
As the week nears its end, I’ve not only completed another painting but started on a third. Whether my burst of creativity has been inspired by my new work environment, the companionship of other artists I share the space with, Lita’s ever-changing, eclectic taste in music, or a combination of all three, I can’t be sure.
I have no doubt that Nick has inspired me too.
Like the first painting I did a few days ago, these other new pieces are abstract and moody, unmistakably sensual. Although I didn’t paint any of them with the intention of producing something erotic, it’s difficult not to see the powerful sexual suggestion in the combination of aggressive lines and bold brush strokes juxtaposed against sinuous curves and fluid, entangled shapes.
I stand back from my easel and tilt my head, assessing the progress of my current piece. Matt pauses beside me, having just returned from cleaning his brushes in the studio’s small bathroom sink.
“I like what you did with the red in that one, Avery. Very hot.”
“Thanks.” I let my eye follow the twisting ribbon of scarlet that runs through the composition, binding the soft shapes that seem to glow in the foreground, lit by an unseen flame. In the background, pinpricks of light pierce a field of inky blackness.
“It’s actually pretty damn good,” Lita says, which, coming from her, is the height of praise. “My favorite so far is your other one, though.”
She uses the end of a ball-peen hammer to point at the first painting I completed since coming to the studio. The one that still makes my heart race and the cheeks of my ass sting deliciously every time I look at it.
I try to curb my private smile as I murmur the title I’ve given it. “Blue Hour, Black Leather.”
She nods. “You ever try to sell anything?”
“No,” I reply. “Well, I tried for about a year, soon after I came to New York. Only one piece sold in all that time—one of the first things I ever painted. Nothing sold since, and I lost my spot at the gallery.”
Lita purses her pierced lips, scrutinizing my work from across the room. “Were you painting like this back then?”
I glance back at my easel and the piece that reminds me of my candlelight dinner—and wicked dessert—with Nick a few nights ago. “No, this is something different for me.”
Matt crosses his arms as he looks at my newest. “I’ve got a friend with a gallery down in SoHo. I’ll bet I could get you some space there if I ask him.”
“Oh, thanks, but I don’t think so. I don’t think I’m ready for that.” And if I were, I would want to get the gallery spot on my own merits, not through favors or friendships.
“Speaking of galleries,” Lita says to me, “some of my shit’s going to be part of a multi-artist exhibition next week in Brooklyn. You wanna come?”
Matt nudges me. “Please, say yes. She’s already twisted my arm to be there. It’s at some chichi new gallery over in Greenpoint in the middle of the afternoon, for God’s sake. If you don’t come, I’ll be forced to find a corner and day-drink all by my lonesome.”
I smile, thinking that some time out with my new friends sounds like fun. “Okay, sure. I’ll go.”
As we settle on plans to meet up at the event, my phone chimes with an incoming text. There’s no dimming my smile when I see Nick’s message on the display.
Thinking about you all morning.
I sigh, catching my lip between my teeth in longing. He’s been in Boston on business since yesterday afternoon, and not due back to the city until later this evening.
Been thinking about you too. I turn away from Lita and Matt, who’ve already moved on to another conversation without me anyway. Missing you like crazy.
Good. I like you hungry.
My eyes narrow as I tap my reply. Not nice to tease.
His response comes back immediately. That’s not what you said the other night.
I’m grinning now, and wishing I wasn’t in a room with two other people when he’s making me think about all of the wicked things we did before he left town.
Are you hungry now, baby?
All right, Nick. Two can play this game. For you? Always.
That’s my girl. There is a pause before his next text arrives. How do you feel about lunch?
I freeze, staring at his message for a second. Suspicion, along with a fluttery thrill of hope, sends me over to the window that looks out over the street below.
Nick’s black BMW is idling at the curb.
“Oh, my God.” When Lita and Matt swivel curious looks on me, a small burst of giddy laughter bubbles out of me. “My, um . . . my boyfriend’s here.”
Lita frowns. “You have a boyfriend?”
Matt grins. “What are you waiting for? Tell him to come up here so we can meet your man!”
Two minutes later, they’re both gaping in disbelief as I introduce them to Dominic Baine and show him around the little studio.
He’s not been up here yet, even though I’ve invited him to come check things out and meet my friends. I know he’s busy, but part of me had been wondering if he was still brooding over the fact that I’m insisting on keeping this part of me separate from him for now. If the tables were turned, I doubt I would handle it much better than he has. Maybe a lot worse.
But if he’s upset or resentful, it doesn’t show as he talks easily with Matt and Lita, then follows me over to my work area while I fetch my purse and phone. I see his shrewd gaze travel over my canvases.
I can’t deny that the urge to hide my work from him is strong. Nick knows art—good art—and he’s made no secret of the fact that he found mine lacking. As much as it hurt to hear him say it, looking back, I know he was right.
But these new pieces are different. They are more a part of me than anything I’ve done before, and I’m terrified to see him look at them with disappointment.
“Ready?” he asks, his face adopting that unreadable mask that gives nothing away.
We say our goodbyes to my friends and Nick asks me to pick a restaurant I like in the neighborhood. I settle on an Italian hole in the wall that doesn’t look very promising from the street, but serves the best lasagna I’ve had in all of New York City.
“You like it?” I ask Nick as we both dig into the cheesy, saucy goodness.
He nods enthusiastically, looking somewhat out of place seated at our rickety little table with its red-and-white checkerboard tablecloth in his crisp white custom-tailored shirt and charcoal gray tie. He’s turned more than a few heads since we arrived. I’m sure it’s not often that one of the wealthiest, most recognizable men in the country sits down to enjoy a ten-dollar plate of pasta in Spanish Harlem in the middle of a Thursday afternoon.
I try to ignore the surreptitious stares we’re getting from the patrons and the restaurant staff alike. I don’t doubt that a lot of the curious looks are directed at me, too, even though Nick has never tried to hide the fact that we’re dating.
As for me, I’m just marveling at how he manages to avoid splashing marinara all over himself while I am eating under the constant threat of disaster.
“I knew you’d like it. Lita and Matt and I eat here at least twice a week because the food’s not only cheap but awesome. If I’m not careful, pretty soon it’s going to start showing on my hips.”
Nick grins. “You’re not going to hear me complaining. I love your curves.”
Our eyes connect and the hungered look he gives me makes more than just my cheeks flood with heat. I clear my throat, shifting a bit on the black v
inyl cushion of my chair. “How was the Boston meeting?”
“Promising. That technology company I invested in last year is ramping up to launch their first app very soon. It’s got all the indicators of a real showstopper, some really innovative work and ideas.”
“Nick, that’s great.”
“Yeah. There’s a big international tech expo coming up in London. They’ll be announcing the release to a packed house and media outlets around the world.” He lifts the raffia-wrapped bottle of cheap red wine and pours me another glass. “I’d like you to be there with me.”
“London?” I’ve never been outside the United States, and traveling to Europe has long been a dream of mine. But there is one slight problem. “I don’t have a passport.”
“I’ll take care of that for you. I’ll take care of everything you need.” He reaches for my hand. “I want you with me, Avery.”
I stare at him, mesmerized. Not only by his breathtaking handsomeness, but by his kindness. By the fact that in a few short months he’s made me feel more important than anyone ever has in my life, aside from my mom.
He makes me feel content and safe and cherished—so incredibly alive.
He makes me feel loved.
There are times, like now, when he makes me feel as if the time we’re sharing will go on forever. He makes me wish it could.
“Okay, Nick.” I turn my hand around beneath his and lace our fingers together. “I’m ready to go anywhere you want to lead me.”
His phone chimes and he curses under his breath. “That’s Beck again.”
“Go ahead and take it. I need to find the restroom, anyway.”
Taking my purse along with me, I wade through the tightly arranged tables, making my way to the back corridor of the gloomy little restaurant. The restrooms are hidden around a corner near the rear door of the place. To my amazement, the ladies’ room is unoccupied.
I push the battered white door open and step inside—
And before I can shut it and turn the lock on the tarnished knob, the door explodes inward. The force of it throws me back on my heels. I open my mouth to shout my outrage at the clod who barged in on me, but my voice evaporates on my tongue.
