"You're nuts." Julian stepped back and studied the bureau. A knob was missing along with the leg, and the top was scratched. "This is a piece of junk."
Mia jiggled the drawer until it slid into place. "Solid construction, great lines. Look at that carved detailing! I probably won't even paint this one—it needs only fixing and refinishing." She ran a hand along an ogee edge. "I might even keep it for my place. I need a place to store my collection of vintage silk flowers. Mrs. Snookums has been shredding them."
The limo driver had swung around the block and parked at the curb. The bemused doorman watched as Julian removed his cuff links and rolled up the sleeves of his formal white shirt. He and Mia put on the gloves and helped the driver hoist the bureau into the trunk.
Mia saluted the doorman. "Thanks, sir. She'll have a good home."
After that, she decreed the limousine the perfect undercover vehicle for her salvage operation. It belonged in the neighborhood, so the roving street pickers overlooked them as the limo purred by, swooping in upon choice lots. They had a minor tussle over a headboard with a hotheaded trio of gay men wheeling a dolly, then another race to the wire for an armchair and matching footstool that Mia gave up when their rivals—dancers from American Ballet Theater—convinced her they needed to furnish a barren apartment. "I always support the arts," Mia said, and received a backstage invitation to their next performance.
When the limo returned to her building hours later, the capacious trunk and extra seat were both full. Julian had torn his shirt on a jagged piece of trim molding and jammed his thumb dropping a chipped marble bust of a laurel-wreath-wearing philosopher into the trunk, whereas Mia had thrived. She was now fast friends with their driver, Joe Damone from the Bronx; over a broken coffee table, she'd taken the number of a girl who stood a skinny six feet tall and wanted to be a model; she'd even left business cards at the doors of several houses undergoing renovation.
"I hope that wasn't too horrible for you," she said when they parked near her building and started unloading the loot. It was nearly 4:00 a.m. and the street was as quiet as a city street ever could be. Meaning that even the insane people were home in bed.
"It was a fascinating evening," Julian said. He looked up and saw that the skies had lightened to a charcoal-gray tinged with rose. "Morning, I should say. Sort of a distaff Lady and the Tramp."
"If you're the gentleman, that makes me the tramp." Mia shrugged and skipped down the steps from unlocking the front door for Joe, who had volunteered to cart the furnishings to the fifth floor. Julian had already decided that the bedazzled chauffeur had earned a very large tip.
"You know what I mean," he said.
"Sure." She patted his cheek with a gloved hand. "But what I meant was that I hoped you weren't embarrassed about running into that couple—the Stuckuppers?" Her blink was altogether too guileless.
"The Stukenvilles." Longtime friends of his parents'. They'd arrived at their Lexington town house after a late evening at the opera, only to find Julian and Mia evaluating the merits of their neighbor's cast-off dining table. The double take the older couple had given them after belatedly recognizing Julian as a scruffy street scavenger had been classic.
"Didn't bother me a bit," he said, although he imagined that his mother would be informed via the Upper East Side grapevine. As long as the Silk Publishing board of directors didn't get wind of the adventure, he was okay.
Mia adjusted her bandanna, maintaining the pleasantly false expression. "They were awfully nice, inviting us in for a nightcap."
"Agreed."
"Poor Joe didn't mean to knock over the Llacho shepherdess. There was just so much clutter. Not much room for a big man like him to move around in."
"No harm done," Julian said easily. He ignored a twinge at the thought that Mia preferred Joe's bulging muscles and simple, straightforward personality. It was difficult to tell, with the way she openly embraced everyone she met.
She'd assumed that the Stukenvilles' dutiful invitation had been sincere and had included all of them, so she'd prodded Joe inside even though he was reluctant. Julian had relished the surprise on Esther Stukenville's face when the three of them had sat side by side by side on her Louis XIV love seat.
"The museum benefit that Mr. Stukenville mentioned does sound like a lovely event. I certainly hope that you attend—for the sake of the endowment fund."
"Another boring affair." Julian shrugged. "I'll write a check instead."
Mia's features puckered. "That's nice, but meaningless. I adore museums and galleries. When's the last time you went to one?"
"To view the exhibits? It's been a while." Was she angling for an invitation? He could just imagine the buzz Mia would create with the staid museum crowd. She'd probably show up in a garish dress with tassels or sequins, drink too much champagne and lead the party guests in a samba line.
Julian smiled at the image. No affair with Mia would be boring, which was the understatement of the decade.
"Saturday afternoon," she said. "I'll take you to a gallery I know and open your eyes."
"Are you asking me for a date?"
"Oh no. I'm welcoming you into my world, as a friend."
He'd take that, as often as he could, even though her secretive little smile was impossible to read. He felt as if she was stringing him along, but for what reason? Maybe only for fun.
Joe lumbered out of the building to collect another piece of furniture. Julian flexed his muscles, shifted Plato to one side and helped the driver unload the bureau. "Can we get spaghetti afterward?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at Mia as they carried the heavy piece up her stoop.
"Why spaghetti?" She closed the trunk and followed close behind.
"Don't you remember your Disney movies?"
It took her a moment to think of the noodle kiss between the cartoon dogs in Lady and the Tramp. She shook her head at his nonsense, smiting up at him from beneath the bandanna that had slipped down her forehead. "If that's your way of asking for a kiss, I can see why you're only Bachelor Seventeen."
"Hey, man," Joe Damone said under his breath as they maneuvered inside. "Next time, don't ask. Ya just gotta grab the girl and kiss her."
For the following week, Mia woke with an unfamiliar feeling in her stomach. An excitement. She'd always been an optimistic person who greeted every new day with enthusiasm, but this was different. This was unprecedented, stimulating and alarming all at once.
She'd enjoyed herself immensely.
Over the weekend, Julian had taken her to the Frick and they'd wandered around the quiet shining rooms with their hands in their pockets and an unspoken electricity crackling in the air between them. When the drawing-room elegance became too tasteful to bear, she grabbed his arm and brought him to the gallery where Stefan, Leslie's guy, was showing two of his ink drawings.
The shoestring operation wasn't like any gallery she could imagine Julian attending, such as the swank spaces in Soho with paintings as expensive as houses on the walls. Stefan's gallery was two dark, dank rooms on the third floor of a nondescript building, with bad lighting and experimental artists who sneered at success. Julian studied the weird, complicated drawings, so dense with pen strokes they were almost black, moved on to another work that featured mangled doll parts and broken eggshells, then looked at Mia with an admirably straight face to ask her if he could get his spaghetti now, as a reward.
They returned to her street to eat at Mambo Italiano, an inexpensive but cozy bistro, where they discussed the meaning of art and beauty, moved on to a debate about whether or not talent was corrupted by money and finally finished with a long, lovely chat about their favorite places in the world. Their choices ran the gamut from Yankee Stadium in September to eating chocolate sundaes at Rumpelmayer's to the view of the Saturday night action from Mia's fire escape. But if she had to pin it down, her ultimate favorite place was sitting in an empty pew in her father's church, on a quiet afternoon with the sun flooding through the stained-glass windows and th
e organist in the choir loft practicing a hymn, sustaining each note until the music grew so grand it hummed in a person's bones.
"Why?" Julian asked, and she explained that it wasn't about religion or solitude, exactly. There was simply no better definition for any word at anytime than her favorite moment and exalted.
Julian was reluctant to choose his favorite, but finally she dragged it out of him. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he said the place he returned to in his mind was the knee cubbyhole in his father's enormous walnut-burl desk. He remembered hiding there as a child, waiting for his dad to come in after dinner to smoke a cigar and finish the newspaper. They'd played a game where his dad pretended not to see him and announced that the squeaks and movements under his desk must be mice and he would have to lure them out with bits of biscuits and cheese.
When Julian finished, his voice was hushed and his face somber despite a fond smile; tears welled in Mia's eyes.
But she'd blinked them away and leaned in for the promised kiss. No noodle, just garlic and tomato, Italian spices and the deeply satisfying but frightening pleasure of knowing that she was beginning to fall in love.
* * *
8
"Please, please, please, can I get prints of some of these shots?" Nikki asked. Even though her article was focusing on body painting, she'd come to observe Mia and Cress at work, as they lit and styled the Gorman ballroom for shots to go into their portfolios. Mia's next clients would be impressed by the work she'd done, just as the Gormans had oohed over the Hudson River Valley mural she'd restored for the Keenes, et cetera, et cetera.
Mia straightened from peering through the camera viewfinder. Et cetera, et cetera? Apparently she was feeling very Anna and the King of Siam. Must be the ballroom. Buffed and glowing, it made her think of hoop skirts and waltzes and men in tuxedos…
She smiled to herself. Julian would do very well.
"Then I can submit photos with the article," Nikki prodded. "Especially if you'll give me reprints from your body-painting portfolio. I've got to have the infamous peach."
Mia gave a start. "Oh. Sure. No problem. I'll print extras."
"Head still in the clouds?" Cress said slyly, sidling up to her with a fistful of clipped stems. He'd arranged several extravagant bouquets in the gold-leafed niches. Flowers were his favorite finishing touch.
Even though he'd crawled out of bed at 4 a.m. to search for bargain blooms at the flower market, the extra cost had made Mia wince. After paying her models in advance for the plaid shoot, recently completed, she was pinched for ready cash until the fees for her past few jobs arrived in the mail. Despite doing fairly well, self-employment was a constant struggle in an expensive city like New York. Luckily, she'd received a number of feelers lately for the more lucrative body-painting jobs. Perhaps word had leaked out about the Hard Candy cover.
"You've been walking around with that dumb look on your face ever since the other weekend," Cress continued. "Which you just happened to spend with Bachelor Seventeen."
"Shhh." Mia's glance touched on Nikki, jotting into a new spiral-bound notebook, seated on a window seat out of die way. "I don't want my love life detailed in Hard Candy."
"Don't worry. That magazine is all about sex. You and Julian belong in the pages of Chaste Confessions."
She snorted. "Just because we haven't done it yet, doesn't mean we won't."
"It's taking you long enough. Even Stefan has stopped taking swipes at Julian's intentions. Fred's halfway in love with the guy himself. What are you waiting for, girl?"
"We're still pretending we're friends." Although she'd never made out with a "friend" in the back of a movie theater at a weekday matinee the way she had the past week with Julian, unless she counted the awkward forays of an art school classmate who hadn't realized he was gay. Mia had known as soon as he squeezed her breasts as if they were mangoes ready to burst. She'd introduced the guy to the glories of gay bars, and he'd been much happier with his fruit shopping ever since.
"Are you holding out on him to prove you're different from the rest of his women?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Mia saw Nikki's head lift. She was listening. Shit.
"Absolutely not. You know I don't play games like that."
"You're playing some kind of game." Cress lowered his Gucci shades. "I just haven't figured it out yet."
"Clue me in when you do." Mia sighed. She truly didn't know where she was going with Julian. A friendship? A fling? A full-blown affair?
Were those her only choices?
Something inside her clicked into place and she reflexively squeezed the shutter button. The camera whirred. Both she and Cress jumped. "Hold on! I didn't set the music stands yet," he said, darting off.
Mia stood stock-still. Oh damn.
Not only was she falling in love with Julian, she was hoping for a real relationship. A long-term love affair. A commitment. Maybe even—
Oh double damn!
The man was a notorious bachelor. And even if he wasn't, even if he actually wanted a—a—
A W word, Mia said inside her head, not willing to voice the term to herself. Julian might want one of those apron-clad creatures, but she was an unconventional artist. A bad fit. She'd seen the life her parents had pushed her toward—always, like the road to hell, with the best of intentions—and she'd rejected it.
Rejecting the same from Julian was another thing.
Not that he'd ask. The M word was not on his mind. He was having fun with her, stepping out of his box for brief interludes, pretending that they could play Skittle-flavored tonsil hockey at 3 p.m. and still be pals. "All set," Cress called.
Mia got busy snapping photos of the gleaming ballroom. Nikki came over to watch and ask questions about upcoming body-painting jobs, looking for a sexy angle. Mia told her about an advertising concept she'd recently been hired to create for a new chocolate-scented perfume. Someone at the Hard Candy cover shoot had recommended her, according to a rep from the perfume company. Probably the photographer. Mia had made a mental note to send him a thank-you.
Cress set up from another angle, and then they did close-ups of the detail work. They were packing up and Nikki was standing around picking at her nails when the butler opened the doors and announced, with an aggrieved air, that yet another visitor had arrived, insisting he be let in. "A Mr. Julian Silk."
He appeared beside the butler. "Is this a party, or what?"
"Julian!" Delight flooded Mia at the sight of him in a navy-blue pinstriped business suit with a silk tie in gleaming pewter and a precisely folded pocket square. He looked rich, but not in a way that was only about his wealth. Julian was rich with character and heart, and basic male sex appeal.
In that area, he was a gazillionaire.
"What are you doing here, Jules?" Nikki tossed her head, making her long dark hair fly. "Are you spying on me?"
"I had no idea you were here." He stopped and looked from her to Mia and back again. A frown drew his brows together. "Why are you here?"
"Why are you here?" came the sassy retort.
"Mia mentioned that she'd be doing the final shoot of the ballroom today, so I wanted to see it." He lifted a hand to wave at her, holding the other behind his back. "Surprise."
Mia returned the gesture, feeling a little unsure, the way she often did around Julian. He upset her balance, yet she wanted nothing more than to let go and fall into his arms.
"What do you have behind your back?" Nikki clipped across the marble floor. Julian tried to back away and she rushed him, playfully attacking until she'd forced his arm out. He held a bottle of champagne and a florist's tissue-paper cone out of her reach—barely, as Nikki was only a few inches shorter than him in her steep sandals.
Nikki read the label. "Veuve Cliquot. My, my. What are we celebrating?"
Julian held his sister's hands away as he brought the bottle down. "This is for Mia. A congratulations for her new job. And finishing the old one."
"What?" Mia was flustere
d, especially when she took the bouquet and saw that he'd also brought her a dozen red roses. "That is, thank you, Julian. But I don't understand. I only got the perfume job this morning. How did you—"
"He's romancing you," Nikki said, standing beside her brother, one arm wrapped around his shoulders. She laid her head on his chest and made kissing noises. "Jules and Mia, sittin' in a tree…"
He elbowed her. "How old are you again?"
"Just having a little fun." Nikki smacked his cheek. "I'm out of here. I'll see you around, Jules baby." She whipped up her red leather attaché and slung the long strap across her chest, making an unusually hasty exit.
"Hold on," Cress said, grabbing the aluminum photographer's case he'd finished packing. "I'll come with you."
Ditto, Mia thought. Could they be any more obvious?
She peeled the paper away from the roses. Red velvet petals, long-stemmed, bountiful. Talk about obvious. There could be no question about this gesture being romantic. Extremely corny, too, she tried to tell herself.
Her brows arched at Julian. "Champagne and roses in the middle of the day? Is this how the upper crust lives?"
"Too ostentatious?" He stepped closer, looking sheepish. "You've been working hard. I wanted you to have a little luxury." His hands slid into the pockets of his trousers, a brushed chrome watch glinting at his wrist where his sleeve rucked up. Except when he dressed down to be with her, he always seemed to gleam with prosperity. "I didn't intend to run Nikki and Cress off like that."
"'S'okay. We were finished anyway."
"Please tell me that you haven't hired my sister to be your assistant."
"No."
"She ran out without answering my question. Why was she here?"
Mia chewed her lip. Blatantly deceiving him was not her style. "Mmm, well … Nikki's been interviewing me. She wants to do that article—the way you suggested." Sort of. "I'm not sure how far she's taken the idea…"
Not a lie, but not full disclosure, either. It was up to Nikki to give him the news about her attempts to break into print with Hard Candy.
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