But she hadn’t, not the way her gaze had been glued to him. If he were honest, he didn’t mind the fact she’d seen him nude. He regularly worked out, and her response to his body stroked his ego. He prayed she attributed his erection to the fact a beautiful woman studied him and not because he wanted her.
Madre de Dios. Every searching sweep of her gaze had ignited his desire into a flame, the wondrous look in her eyes inviting him to touch her. Instead, he’d summoned the self-control necessary to extinguish the fire threatening to explode beyond its boundary.
After this morning’s incident, he dreaded facing her again. He delayed leaving the bedroom, running a comb through his hair so many times it was a wonder he had any left. When he spotted her outside, he’d used the opportunity to return her top to the laundry room.
Engrossed in reliving the morning’s events, he didn’t hear anyone come into the kitchen until a familiar voice broke the silence.
“Planning to stare her skin off?”
Carlos whirled around. Miguel lowered his bulk into a chair at the table. An artery-clogging breakfast of assorted doughnuts and Danishes plus two cartons of milk sat before him.
Carlos had confessed Louis’ dying request only to his cousin. As a result, Miguel had passed on an opportunity to work a young Hollywood celebrity’s bodyguard and had gone to work for Trella, instead.
“Seen anyone watching the house?” Carlos asked. “Any cars driving by slowly?”
His mouth full, Miguel shook his head. A full minute passed before he answered. “No.”
“Someone drove around the fountain last night. Wish I’d been able to get a look at the license plate.”
“Did you tell her?”
“No. No need to worry her.” He opened a cabinet, extracting a colorful mug with the words artists do it better emblazoned on the front. Carlos filled the cup with coffee.
With a nod, he indicated the food on the table in front of Miguel. “That stuff’ll kill you one of these days.”
“Probably, but I’m going to enjoy every bite.” Miguel swallowed then gave a low whistle. “You need to get laid or what?” He sucked his teeth. “Guess Trella wasn’t down for what you were up for, right?”
Carlos choked on a swig of hot coffee. “You talk like that around her?”
Miguel waved away Carlos’ concerns. “Chill. Trella and I are friends.”
The doorbell pealed melodiously throughout the house. Miguel heaved himself from the chair. “I’ll get it.”
Alone again, Carlos returned his attention to Trella. Maybe he’d inspired her. Whatever she worked on, her pencil moved across the paper as if she couldn’t wait to see the finished product.
His cousin returned with a large vase containing an explosion of three dozen peach roses. With a low whistle, Miguel set the display on the table. “Whoever sent these wants folks to know he’s interested.”
Carlos wondered who sent them. Not that he cared…but out of concern for Trella. Right.
“Did you send them?”
He blew his breath out in an effort to release the sudden tension flowing through his body. “Nope.”
“You should’ve.” Miguel chuckled. “Have you looked at her? Banging body, intelligent and a sense of humor.”
“She is an amazing woman,” Carlos agreed.
“Make a move, man.”
He didn’t need advice on women, especially from his cousin. “What’s the plan for the day?” he asked, changing the subject.
Miguel finished his juice. “We’re stopping by the gallery and taking scenic photos from South Mountain.”
“I’ll check on an updated security system.” He divulged the hang-up calls Trella received. “Has she mentioned any other calls?”
“No. Did call return yield any info?”
Carlos shook his head. “Nothing. I’ll have a trace initiated on the line.” He finished his coffee then rinsed out the mug. “See you later.”
“You’re not letting her know you’re leaving?” Miguel mumbled around a mouthful of food.
Carlos glanced back out the window at the woman now imprinted on his brain. “Tell her I’ll be back.”
Miguel smirked. “I’m not getting any details about why you spent the night?”
“Nothing happened.”
His cousin eyed him as if Carlos had sprouted a second head. “Fine with me if you take it slow.”
“I’m not interested.” If he said it enough times, perhaps he’d actually believe it.
Miguel threw his empty cartons in the trash with the flair of an NBA player’s jump shot. “She’s a gorgeous woman. You wouldn’t be a red-blooded male if you didn’t at least acknowledge the fact.”
“Fine. She’s gorgeous and intelligent.” Carlos retrieved his keys from his front jeans pocket. “But I’m not interested. I have enough female friends.”
“Yeah, and they all appear in ‘for a good time call’ ads. Should tell you something.”
“Tells me I need to find a new cousin.” Carlos left the kitchen with Miguel’s laughter ringing in his ears.
* * * * *
With Miguel at her side, Trella entered Renault’s Fine Art Gallery, her sketchbook tucked under one arm. In a bid to stay as cool as possible in the hundred-degree heat, she wore a white linen wrap dress with strappy navy sandals.
“Ah, the flowering cactus has returned.” A tall, gaunt man with wisps of steel gray hair covering his bald spot approached them. Francois lived and breathed art and his had been the first gallery to feature her work. He nurtured her, coaxing her not to be afraid to let her work shine. He alone had done more to help her advance her craft than her years of collegiate study.
He pulled her into an embrace, kissing both cheeks. “You look beautiful.”
“You’re full of it.” She squeezed his thin shoulders.
“It’s why I am successful, no?” He regarded Miguel at her side. “Are you dating again?”
She placed a hand on Miguel’s arm. “He’s my assistant. Miguel, Francois is the owner of this fine gallery.”
The older man seemed to question Miguel’s occupation as he subjected Miguel to intense scrutiny.
Trella suppressed a giggle. She never introduced him as her bodyguard. Plus, he carried a briefcase. Having peeked inside it once, she discovered he carted around snacks and a couple of skin magazines. It still bothered her Louis never mentioned to her he wanted to hire a bodyguard. Then again, he had been preoccupied for the last few weeks of his life. She’d thought work was the source of his distraction, but after discovering his notes about the IWP, she knew better.
Francois laughed, clapping Miguel on the back. “You have a hard job with this one. She is stubborn.”
Trella grimaced. “Thanks for identifying my finer points.”
“Come.” He led the way down the lighted hallway. “I have a couple you must meet. They are fans of yours.”
She followed Francois into his office, while Miguel settled onto an upholstered bench.
A statuesque blond dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and a white silk blouse stood near the desk as they entered the spacious office. Trella judged her to be in her mid-to-late thirties. Her companion stood five inches shorter and appeared about thirty years older, with a balding spot he attempted to conceal by combing over five strands of auburn hair.
“Trella, this is Candy and Lawrence Rodgers.”
“Oh, Mrs. Arnold. This is such an honor. I love your work,” the woman effused. “It’s so intimate.” She grasped Trella’s hand in a warm embrace before glancing at her husband. “Lawrence and I visualize ourselves in your paintings.”
Trella smiled, happy to hear the couple enjoyed her work. “Thank you. I’m flattered.”
“The Rodgerses are interested in having you paint a portrait for their new home,” Francois offered.
Candy released Trella’s hand then turned to pick up her purse from the chair. “Oh, yes, we bought a fantastic Tuscany-style villa, and your work would mesh well w
ith our ideas for the interior.”
The unlikely couple intrigued her. “I’d be honored, though I can’t commit to anything until after the show.”
“Candy and I look forward to it,” Lawrence piped up.
“I hope I don’t disappoint.”
“We’ll hammer out the details after the show. I’ll walk the Rodgerses out.” Francois ushered the couple from his office.
Trella placed her sketchbook on Francois’ desk while she waited for his return. The offer to show her paintings at his gallery couldn’t have come at a better time. Paris had eased her grief, and the camaraderie of the art world helped her heal. Now she was ready to get on with her life.
Moments later, Francois returned to his office, shutting the door behind him. “We have a month to prepare for your show. I know you can handle the deadline crunch, but it’s not a lot of time for you to get it together, my dear.” He pinned her with a hard stare. “You’re holding back.”
Knowing he was right, she didn’t respond. The average buyer wouldn’t notice a lack of depth in the work, but an experienced art connoisseur would.
She smoothed the front of her dress. “The drive to create is returning,” she acknowledged.
He adjusted black, square-framed glasses on his aquiline nose. “You can’t run from processing grief. You love what you do. Passion,” he said, waving his hands around in his usual demonstrative way, “cannot be faked. You are either born with it, or you’re not.” He pointed at her. “You were born with it. Stop trying to control it, temper it. If you hurt, paint the hurt. You have a right to feel. Passion must be free to breathe, to be alive and affect others.”
He removed a set of keys from his pants pocket. After unlocking a door, he motioned for her to follow him into a smaller room. He flipped on a light. Francois pointed at five canvases. Instead of her usual intimate settings of bedrooms, dressing rooms and cars, for which she had achieved critical acclaim, her latest works featured landscapes.
“None of these portray the warm palettes people are accustomed to seeing from you.”
“Francois—”
He shook his head. “They are not representative of your best work. You need a key piece, and you have not provided it yet.”
“I can’t paint what I don’t feel.”
“True.” He nodded as he studied the canvases. “Maybe you needed to exorcise the pain before moving forward.” He stroked his chin. “None of these are your key piece. The last time you showed. I was so moved I cry, no?”
She nibbled her bottom lip as she studied the painting of an old palm tree, half of its fronds a muted green, the other half a sullen brown. Sadness and remorse emanated from the canvas.
“Grief does strange things to people, Francois.”
“True. The reason the landscapes don’t work isn’t because they aren’t good. Your emotions seeped through, but I can sense you feel you have to show what people have come to associate with you.” He tugged her to him then folded her in his arms. He tilted her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “The young woman who first waltzed into my gallery was eager to take on the world. Bring her back. Paint with abandon. One doesn’t control a fire. It either flares into bright flames or is extinguished.”
Didn’t he understand she wanted to have her old mojo return? She eased from his embrace, wrapping her arms around her middle. “Nothing I’ve tried works,” she whispered.
He sighed. “You’re trying too hard. Art needs space to create.”
“The loss of Louis—”
“He died. Yes, it is sad. But you didn’t die. No one blames you for living.”
Francois shooed her from the room, back into his office, before locking the door behind him and returning the key to his pocket. He picked up her sketchbook from his desk, flipping the pages one at a time before closing it with an audible snap. He didn’t say anything, and she glanced at him.
He held a hand over his heart. “Your key pieces,” he whispered. “Why are you hiding these?”
She froze in sudden shock. She’d forgotten to remove the drawings of Carlos.
“Look.” He flipped to a page. He held it up for her perusal. “The longing, the wanting. I feel it from the sketch. This is it!”
She bit her bottom lip as she studied the rendering of Carlos, naked and proud. If Francois recognized the latent desire she possessed for her husband’s former partner, would anyone else?
“Why the gloomy face?”
She sighed. “I’d rather not use any of the drawings.”
He tapped the page. “These must make the show.”
He couldn’t be serious. If, by some miracle, Carlos did agree to be used as a model, could she withstand the pressure of people dissecting what they’d believe to be the intimate nature of their relationship? “I can’t. I never used a painting of Louis.”
“It’s no one’s business why you never used your husband as a subject. I figured you didn’t want to display your marriage to the world’s perusal.”
She nodded. Everyone assumed that, including Louis. In her soul, she knew her paintings of her husband wouldn’t be on par with her other work.
“Francois, this man…I can’t.”
He perched on his desk. “I’ve been where you are, Trella. Art does not lie. There is no subterfuge. You cannot pretend what doesn’t exist.”
But could she pretend what existed, didn’t? She paced the length of his office. “I can’t use him,” she insisted.
“What is he to you?”
“Louis’ former partner.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders, stopping her back and forth motion across his office. “It’s understandable you’d feel closeness to this person. Don’t make it a mountain, and it’ll be a molehill.”
She grinned, not bothering to correct his misspoken statement. “A molehill, huh?”
“Relax and create.”
The sound of someone clearing his throat made her glance at the doorway.
Miguel grimaced. “Sorry for interrupting, but you have a customer.”
How long had he been there? She prayed he didn’t hear her talking about Carlos. She closed the sketchbook. She rose on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on Francois’ cheek. “I’ll take your advice.”
“Good.” He walked to the door and nodded at Miguel. “Nice to meet you. Take care of her.”
As Francois left them alone, Trella gathered the sketchbook and her purse.
“Where to now?” Miguel asked.
“Lunch, then off to South Mountain Park for scenery photos. Oh, but before we eat, I need to stop by City Hall.” Dropping in unannounced on Councilman Rodriguez was a long shot, but catching him off guard might prove beneficial.
“Lunch. My favorite meal.” Miguel followed her from the office.
She laughed. “By the look of you, every meal is your favorite.”
Chapter Three
Trella’s heels clicked along the polished floor as she sauntered down the hallway toward Councilman Rodriguez’s office. He might be surprised to see her, but after sending her such beautiful flowers, surely he’d expect her to give thanks.
Miguel waited in the car, having bought her vague statement about “handling business”. She was happy he didn’t question her further. She squared her shoulders before entering the office.
A middle-aged woman sitting behind a reception desk gave a welcoming smile. “May I help you?”
“I don’t have an appointment, but I hope the councilman can squeeze me in. My name’s Estrella Arnold.”
“I’ll check with him. Have a seat, please.”
As the secretary picked up the phone receiver, Trella admired the office, noting the huge Majestic palm situated near the wall of windows. Opposite, one of her paintings depicting couples dancing outside at dawn held center court.
The receptionist returned to her desk. “He’ll be out in a few minutes.”
A young woman dressed in tight white pants and a yellow halter top sashayed down the hallway.
She kept her head lowered, face concealed by a swath of straight, ebony hair parted in the middle, and walked out the door.
A minute later, the councilman appeared from the same direction. He straightened his tie as he approached. “Trella, what a wonderful surprise. Come on in.”
She rose to her feet. His slacks weren’t zipped all the way, and the white collar of his lavender dress shirt bore a swipe of tan foundation.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Not at all.” He ushered her into his office then closed the door. He led her to a comfortable-looking loveseat across from two club chairs.
The overpowering floral scent of an air freshener assaulted her senses. Her eyes watered, and she blinked rapidly to clear them. She perched on the end of the loveseat, while he settled into a chair.
“Thank you for the flowers. How did you know peach roses were my favorite?”
“You’re welcome. I must’ve read how much you enjoy them in an interview somewhere. I figured why not send them? You deserve flowers every day.”
Smooth but not smooth enough. He was photographed with plenty of young, well-connected women. There were rumors of his preference running to females barely out of their teens. She stifled a smirk. He expected her to believe he was interested in her? She’d indulge him because she had her own ulterior motive.
After the gallery showing, I’ll have plenty of free time. I’m interested in providing assistance with your community projects, specifically, the immigrant work program.”
A brief look of panic crossed his face. He leaned forward. “What do you know about the program?”
* * * * *
Carlos parked outside Horizon Home Security. After he secured the installation of a state-of-the-art system, he would return to Vegas. Avoiding a woman was out of character for Carlos, but so were the unsettling feelings of awareness he experienced whenever he was near Trella. Her body called for him to touch her, and he heard it loud and clear. If he wanted to stay out of trouble, it was best to leave.
He strolled into the store. Unassuming white walls and plastic brown chairs served as the background for glossy advertisements and displays touting the latest gadgets. He walked farther into the store, setting off a buzzer to alert the owner of a customer’s presence.
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