“I’m Art. Art Fletcher.”
“The guy I’m leasing this place to?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
He backed up, pushing the door of the shop open with his elbows. He held the door for her as she stepped past him and into the shop. A waft of her perfume floated over him as she passed by—something sweet and fruity, but with a citrus tang. He stepped away from the door, allowing it to swing shut behind him. The other guys lifted their heads from their work and clients, curious to see who the new arrival was and even more curious when they spotted the woman, and Art hauling the huge suitcase along behind her.
“Gonna be a bellboy now, Art?” Kane called out to him.
Rocco laughed. “Did you get into the wrong business?”
They were breaking his balls, and he shot them a scowl, which only made them laugh harder.
“This is Theresa Dawson,” he said, his voice containing a warning tone to the guys he employed. “She’s the new owner of the building.”
He at least took some pleasure in watching their faces drop.
“Ah, shit.” Rocco stood from the sketch he was doing and approached to shake her hand. “Good to meet you.”
Kane was inking someone and he lifted the tattoo needle and waved it in her direction. She gave an uncertain smile and lifted her hand in a wave back.
The only access to the upstairs flat was via the staircase at the back of the building. It had its own door at the top of the stairs, which she’d be able to lock, but they’d always left it open to allow them to come up and down whenever they wished. Of course, that was out of the question now. Art tried to picture in his head what sort of state they’d left the bathroom and the small kitchenette in. Three guys using one space where they hadn’t expected women to be—it wasn’t going to be pretty. He briefly debated telling her to wait down in the shop while he ran upstairs to clean up a bit, but then thought screw it. It was her own fault for not telling him she was coming early. If he’d known that, he would have made an effort... Perhaps.
He jerked his chin at the back of the building. “This way,” he growled.
Art carried the case out the back, Theresa hurrying along behind. He hauled it up the narrow stairwell, towards the front door of the flat, which stood open at the top of the stairs. He reached the top and stepped into the place the American was going to be calling her home, and dropped the suitcase on the floor.
The woman came to a halt beside him and looked around uneasily. “This is it?”
“What were you expecting—a palace? We don’t all live in castles here, you know?”
She narrowed her dark eyes at him. “I know that. My father was British. Plus, I’m not a complete idiot. I guess I’d just thought someone would have been in to clean up after my aunt passed. You did get the letter from the lawyer, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I got it. Together with the suggested rent increase.”
He saw her bristle.
“That increase is more than fair. If anything, you should be paying more. You’ve been taking my aunt for a ride for the past few years.”
Every muscle in Art’s body tensed. “I’m guessing you weren’t exactly watching out for her, or you might have been aware of that and done something about it while she was still alive.”
Tension vibrated in the air between them, but he spotted hurt in her eyes at the mention of her aunt no longer being alive. Had he taken it too far? No. He hardened his heart. He didn’t need some chick stepping into his business, and this one hadn’t just stepped in, she’d thrown her entire body in and then rolled around in it. If he lay down with her, she’d tread all over him.
Theresa Dawson needed to know he wasn’t going to be a pushover.
Chapter Four
Oh, God. This place is disgusting.
Tess was kicking herself for not sending a team of cleaners in here before she’d packed her bags and flown over. What had she been thinking? It certainly hadn’t occurred to her that the apartment would be in this sort of mess. She’d known about the tattoo studio downstairs, but she’d figured the two places had remained independent of each other, with the doors shut between them. She’d thought the apartment might have been dusty and in need of a good airing, but she’d been told it had been left to her furnished, and so she’d assumed she’d have been able to move straight in. She certainly hadn’t thought the guys downstairs would have been using it as some kind of doss house.
She stared around at the mess. Empty beer cans, pizza boxes, and overflowing ashtrays filled every surface. She didn’t even want to think what the bathroom would be like.
This guy, Art, was a dick, too. Her whole ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ thing had been completely wrong. She absolutely could judge this one. He looked like a hard-ass, and he acted like one, too. She was amazed he’d carried her suitcase for her and hadn’t just watched her struggle up the stairs with it while he laughed with his friends.
She hesitated. She had two options—she could turn around and walk out again, and find a hotel until this place was cleaned up, or she could roll up her sleeves and get stuck in. While the hotel option was more appealing, she wasn’t exactly drowning in money. It had cost a lot to fly out here, and even though the property might be worth a fortune, she wasn’t exactly cash rich. A hotel and cleaning crew would set her back several hundred pounds, which was even more in dollars. Plus, she could tell this guy was spoiling for a fight. She bet he’d deliberately left it like this, hoping to frighten her off. Well, it wasn’t going to work.
Instead, she forced herself to smile brightly. “What time do you guys finish?”
He narrowed his blue eyes. “Why? Are you taking us out?”
“No, you’re going to come up here and help me sort this place out.”
He barked laughter. “The guys are never gonna go for that.”
She glanced at the empty boxes and cans. “How about if I throw in free pizza and beer.” She didn’t think she should need to bribe them into doing the chores—after all, they weren’t ten years old and this was their mess, but she figured a few pizzas and some beer was going to be cheaper than a professional cleaning crew and a hotel. “Besides,” she continued, “it looks like a lot of stuff here belongs to you all, and I’m sure as hell not going to be sorting through it. If you can’t be bothered to come up and help, I’ll be throwing everything into black bags and it’ll be going in the trash.”
He scowled at her again, but she knew she’d won this battle at least.
“Fine,” he snapped. “I think the last client is at seven. We’ll be up after that.”
“Great.”
He leaned into her, and for a moment, she had the strange idea that he was going to press the side of his face against hers. Her heart beat hard, the masculine scent of him making her heady and her stomach swirling in a sensation she hadn’t felt for some time. He was totally male, unrefined, coarse, yet somehow her body reacted to him on a purely primitive level.
He snatched something from behind her and moved away, and the moment was gone.
“Sorry.” One side of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “I need this for later.”
He held a folder, which she realised he’d taken from the bookcase behind her, and waved it at her.
With that, he turned around and stalked out of the apartment, leaving her standing there, watching his back as he left.
She exhaled a breath and leaned her shoulder against the wall. Wow. She hoped every meeting with him wasn’t going to be as fraught as that one had been. She’d end up a nervous wreck within a week. He was clearly the sort of man who didn’t like the idea of a woman stepping into his territory. Well, tough. She was here and she wasn’t going to allow herself to be bullied out of a place she owned. It wasn’t in her nature to take people on, but she also wasn’t going to be walked all over by some British meathead.
The exhaustion of all the travel, plus the jetlag, swept over her. She desperately wanted to sleep, but there was no way she coul
d bring herself to lie down on the bed in the small bedroom. She couldn’t imagine when the sheets had last been washed, if they’d ever been washed. She’d go out and buy herself new ones. A new bed would be nice, if she could afford one, though she thought she might have to make do, for a while at least.
Tess sighed again and pushed herself back upright. She wished she wasn’t so tired. She was sure everything would be easier to handle without the fog of exhaustion surrounding her. It might be mid-day here in England, but it was still the middle of the night in the States, and she’d barely slept on the flight over. She’d been so worked up about starting this new life, and wondering if she’d made the wrong choice, she hadn’t been able to get her mind to switch off. She was still questioning if she’d done the right thing.
Tess shook the doubts away.
No, she’d had to leave. There was no question. Staying in the small town where she’d grown up wasn’t going to work. Everyone knew too much about her business and she was sick of all the patronising, twee enquiries into how she was doing, when all people really wanted was a bit of gossip they could pass onto their friends over coffee. When this place had landed in her lap, it had been like her aunt had handed her a lifeline. Tess had only ever met her aunt once—during that trip here she’d taken with her father when she’d been ten—but she’d been her only living relative, so it made sense that she was the one who’d been left the property. Even so, Tess couldn’t help wondering if both her father and aunt were looking down on her, seeing her struggling, and gifted her something from heaven.
Right, now, however, this might turn out to be closer to hell.
Figuring she needed something to do that didn’t involve cleaning up another person’s mess, Tess decided to go grocery shopping in preparation for the clean-up crew later. Besides, if she was going to stay awake until what constituted a reasonable bedtime, she was going to need coffee.
She headed downstairs and sneaked out through the rear exit so she didn’t have to come face to face with the angry, hot tattooist again.
No, not hot. She didn’t think he was hot.
He was an asshole, and she’d do best to remember that.
Chapter Five
Art spent the day struggling to concentrate on his work, finding his gaze constantly drawn to the ceiling and any movement going on up there.
When he’d told the others how they were going to be spending their evening, he’d been met with laughter and back slapping.
Kane snorted. “She’s only just got here and Art’s already under the thumb!”
Rocco joined in the ribbing. “You going to give her a foot rub when we’re done?”
“She is fit though,” Kane said. “I wouldn’t say no.”
For some reason, Kane’s words caused a rush of jealousy to surge up inside Art. With his long blond hair and flirty attitude, Kane was popular with the women who visited the shop. He didn’t want Kane to hit on Theresa while they were all up there, sorting out the flat and drinking her beer and eating the pizza she’d bought. She didn’t seem like the type of woman who would fall for Kane’s obvious come-on tactics, but he didn’t want to take that risk either. Art didn’t need any more complications, and having one of his staff get involved with his landlady would only end in a mess.
Yet he found himself anticipating being in her company again. He was certainly no domesticated god, but he could help her sort the place out, even though he was only in it for the free beer and pizza.
The hours passed and the three of them shut up shop and then prepared to head upstairs. Rocco and Kane were still ribbing him about being at her beck and call, but neither of them had refused to help with the clean up and headed home either.
She must have heard them coming up the stairs—which was hardly surprising considering the noise they were making—as she opened the front door of the flat before they’d reached it. She smiled sweetly as they approached, with Art leading the way. He didn’t return the smile, and his scowl deepened when she held out something rubbery and yellow to him. The smile didn’t flinch from her face.
“I believe they’re called Marigolds,” she said.
He snatched the rubber gloves out of her grip.
Kane snickered behind him. “Do we hand in our balls as a deposit?”
The expression on her face didn’t falter. “Only if you have a pair to leave.”
Despite his irritation, Art bit back his smile at her retort.
“You can go without them if you want,” she continued, “but we’re going to be using some industrial strength cleaning stuff for this place. If you like to bleach your skin off, go for it.”
“Fine,” Kane grumbled, taking a pair of the rubber gloves from her. “I don’t want to bleach my fucking tats off.”
Rocco just grinned and accepted his without a grumble.
Looking around, Art saw she’d already made a start on the place.
“I didn’t want to touch anything that looked like it belonged to the shop.”
There were a few chairs, some filing cabinets, and older folders of tattoo designs. Boxes containing inks from when they’d changed suppliers a few years ago. Some broken machines he’d thrown up here instead of trying to dispose of. Art wished he’d had the opportunity to empty the place out before she’d arrived. He should have done it as soon as he’d received the letter, but he’d truly believed he’d had more time. Circumstances had meant he’d been unable to. He hoped she hadn’t come across anything he wouldn’t want her to see.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said, trying to figure out where he was going to store all this stuff in the shop. He’d probably have to get rid of it.
The other two had already got stuck in, picking up rubbish and shoving it into black bags. Rocco turned on some music with his phone, the sound coming through the speakers, and they helped themselves to the cans of lager Theresa had provided as promised. He tried not to watch her as she worked, the way her jeans moulded to her hips and backside as she bent over to pick something up. She must have sensed him watching, as she turned her head and caught his eye. He forced himself to hold her gaze. She didn’t intimidate him—no woman intimidated him. But then why did his heart rate step up when she looked at him.
Her lips tweaked in a smile, her long dark lashes flicking down over her eyes.
Art’s scowl deepened and he looked away.
Someone rang the bell.
“Pizza!” she declared, and vanished down the stairs, only to reappear a few minutes later balancing a stack of boxes on top of one another. The pile was so high, it was impossible to see her around it, and Art found himself smiling at the sight. He quickly snapped off the expression before she saw.
Rocco and Kane whooped at the sight of the food, and before long they were all chowing down on slices of meat feast and double pepperoni pizza. The girl had done good.
He hadn’t noticed she’d slipped away. He finished what he’d been eating, took another swig from his drink, and got up to see what she was up to. The couple of hours with the four of them working on the place had already made a massive difference.
He walked into the bedroom to find her standing beside the window, flicking through an A2 sized pad of sketching paper. He stopped short, frowning. Was she an artist, too? Was that why she’d wanted to live above the studio, because she appreciated good art? He took a step closer, something still not sitting right with him. As she flipped the page, it dawned on him that the paper was his—a sketch pad he’d not wanted to look at for the past ten years.
“Hey!” he snarled, storming across the room and snatching the item out of her hands. “You shouldn’t be looking at that.”
She didn’t seem frightened by his aggression. “Is it yours? Those drawings are beautiful. Who is she?”
“None of your fucking business.”
She held up her hands. “You’re right, it isn’t. The pad slid out onto the floor and it was open. I couldn’t help but see them. You’re really talented though.”
“Yeah, I know I am. I’m an artist for a living, remember?”
“You’re a tattoo artist,” she said.
“What the fuck do you think tattoo artists create if they’re not artists? The clue is in the name.” His voice came out sharper than he’d intended, and she shrank back.
“Sorry.” She glanced away. “Of course, you’re completely right. I’ve just never had any experience with tattoos.”
He looked at her in disbelief. “You don’t have any tattoos? Not even one, like the lower back or foot one all girls seem to get.”
Slowly, she shook her head. “Nope, none. It’s never been my thing.”
“And yet here you are living above a tattoo studio.”
She gave a tight smile. “Yeah, go figure.”
“Why?” The beer had loosened his tongue. Where normally he’d have just left it, and not bothered getting into a conversation with some chick he didn’t even like, he found himself wanting to know.
She lifted her dark eyes to his. “What?”
“Why have you come all the way from America to live in this dump? Why didn’t you just put the place on the market and take the cash?”
She shrugged. “It was the right time for me to make a change.”
“You could have made a damned big change with the amount of money this place would have brought in.”
Her face grew pinched, and he suddenly noticed the dark smudges beneath her eyes. “Money wasn’t enough,” she said. “I had to get away, and this place kind of landed in my lap. I didn’t have time to start putting a property on the market. I had to get away.”
He felt himself soften at her words. He wondered what had made her up and leave everything to come to a strange city alone, to live in this shithole, with the three of them working beneath her.
“Sorry. I didn’t realise it was a touchy subject.”
Her gaze flicked to the sketch pad he was still holding. “Just like I didn’t realise that was a touchy subject either.”
He pressed his lips together. “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s not touchy—at least it shouldn’t be. It was a long time ago.”
Carved by Ink (London Inked Boys, #1) Page 2