by Avery Flynn
“Because,” Helene said, drawing out the word in that upper-crust accent of hers. “It’s a Friday night and you’re at an art gallery trying to snag a new client instead of out wining and dining a beautiful woman.”
He loved Helene. Hell, she’d been as much of a mother to him as his own mom, and without the histrionics and melodramatic public scenes that had scarred him right down to his bone marrow. However, that didn’t mean he was willing to be up next in the Carlyle matriarch’s matchmaking project. Time to deflect and disarm.
He turned on the sly grin that knocked the knees off women half Helene’s age and their mamas as well. “Have you taken a look in the mirror lately?”
She didn’t roll her eyes—too old money for that—but her lips thinned into a flat line. “I’m a widow.”
Michael Carlyle had died of a sudden heart attack more than three years ago, a loss Helene still seemed to carry with her—even if she’d gotten good enough at hiding it to make people forget that she’d all but disappeared into mourning after her husband had died. Over the past year, though, she’d come back, rejoined society, and maneuvered both her sons into solid relationships. It was obvious the woman was bored.
“You might be a widow,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and giving her a reassuring squeeze, “but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t stand to have a little fun.”
“Of all the ridiculous…” But the rest of Helene’s denial trailed off as she clasped her hands together and looked around at the art lovers and pretenders, her regal attitude returning. “So are you going to go over there or spend all your time making me your verbal security blanket?”
Direct hit again. Damn, she was good.
He planned to walk over eventually, but first, he needed to rethink his plans for the evening a bit. Luckily, it took only a few seconds for the outline of a better idea to form, the best kind that would be a win-win for all involved. All he had to do was get the woman who hated his rice-scorching guts to agree to help—in other words, a total cakewalk.
Chapter Four
Mr. 2-fucking-B was headed straight for Everly. Obviously, it was proof that she’d been a very bad person in a former life—the kind who pulled wings off flies and stole children’s baseballs. Or worse—wore Crocs. Shiver.
She’d spotted Tyler the minute he’d swaggered—yes, swaggered like a cowboy wearing a black hat in an Old West movie—into the Black Heart Art Gallery. She hadn’t been avoiding him when she’d had to rush into the back room to check on the party caterers from her friend Kiki’s company, she’d just been a good business owner determined to make sure everything for the show went off without a hitch. And then, when she’d come out, it had been of utmost importance that she touch base with the valets outside to make sure everything was in order. After that, she had to check in on the artist, Umberto Bradley, who was either puking or doing blow in the bathroom. Was it wrong that she was relieved to hear the sound of retching through the bathroom door?
So, when Alberto Ferranti—patron saint of starving artists and antacid-addicted gallery owners—showed up to see the work of the artist she’d been raving about to him for a solid week, she didn’t have any choice but to stroll over as he gazed at the piece entitled The Thrill of It All and find out what he thought. None of it had been done to avoid her annoying downstairs neighbor—or to block out memories of that knee-knocking kiss in the parking garage two weeks ago.
And now Tyler was heading straight for her. Sure, he was having to weave through the healthy crowd at tonight’s show, but there was no question about his destination. This didn’t bode well. The closer he got, the wobblier her stomach became and the higher her blood pressure spiked. By the time he was only a few steps away, she was primed for an argument or another kiss or a bare-knuckle, God-you’re-annoying brawl—metaphorically speaking, of course. Her nunni wasn’t gonna get to stay in that upscale facility if the cops hauled Everly away, so she’d keep her anger locked on the inside.
Steeling her shoulders and clamping her molars together tight enough that her dentist would be giving her a firm talking-to, Everly turned in her four-inch heels ready to engage the enemy and looked Tyler directly in the…chin. The man was too damn tall.
“2B,” she said, the nickname coming out weird because her jaw was clenched.
Tyler winked at her. “3B.”
Next to her, Alberto looked from her to Tyler and back again, his head cocked a little to one side. “Why are you calling each other numbers?”
For…reasons…each of which sounded dumb in her own head and saying them out loud wasn’t going to make them any better, so she zigged instead of zagged. “This is my downstairs neighbor.”
“Does he not have a name?” Alberto asked in a stage whisper, which was probably as close to an actual whisper as he got.
“Several that she’s saying in her head right now, I’m sure.” Tyler chuckled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Most of which can’t be said in polite company.”
A loud laugh erupted from Alberto. “I’m too old to worry about being polite. Don’t worry, Everly, someday you’ll get there.” The older man held out his hand for a handshake. “Alberto Ferranti.”
“Tyler Jacobson or 2B, whichever you prefer.”
The men laughed together, easy friends from the word go—of course. With Alberto, she believed it. He was as genuine as he was completely loaded. But Tyler? He was up to something. Ultra aware of him as always, she could feel the extra something in the air. The spark of trouble and the whiff of danger ahead were as identifiable as the smell of ozone on the wind after a rainstorm.
“What did you ever do to my Everly to make her scowl like that?” Alberto asked.
“I cooked. Badly,” Tyler said, all appeasing good-old-dude bro. “But I’m pretty sure she has a soft spot for me anyway.”
A look passed between the two men, one of complete understanding that left her on the outside. Ugh. Men! Alberto, she could make allowances for because of generational and cultural differences. Tyler? He was as close to being an ass as a donkey. Too bad he kissed like a god.
Determined to regain control of the conversation and her own mutinous mind, Everly exhaled a calming breath and yanked her thoughts away from her exasperating neighbor and back to what had brought Alberto here tonight.
“Alberto,” she said, turning and taking a step toward Umberto’s The Ecstasy of It All. “There’s a truly fascinating piece I wanted to show you. Another buyer has already expressed an interest, and I wanted you to see it before they put in an offer.”
The older man nodded, but before they could move away, Tyler made his move.
“I can’t wait to get a look at it, too, if it’s as exceptional as you say,” he said, falling into step beside them.
She leveled a glare at Tyler, turning her head enough that Alberto wouldn’t catch sight of it. “It’s not of cake.”
“Well,” Tyler said, his gaze dropping to her mouth. “Perfection is hard to come by.”
Heat slammed into her, smacking her on all four cheeks. She teetered, which, if she fell in her heels, would have been a timber of epic proportions. Tyler’s arm shot out and he grabbed her, steadying her before she went down and holding on just long enough for her to recover. Sensation sizzled up her bare arm even without his touch, and her breath caught. Damn. The man was a fucking menace to her equilibrium in every way possible.
“You’ll only find perfect in a good woman,” Alberto said, seemingly unaware of the snap, crackle, pop going on around him. “Trust me. I’ve got decades more experience.”
Since there wasn’t any way to get rid of Tyler, she vowed to ignore him and her own body’s reaction as she strode over to Umberto’s most popular painting during the preshow when critics and high-end collectors made an appearance. It was fantastic. The bold use of color and exuberance of his technique made the rest of the world fade into black and white. It was like falling into a place where there was only joy. No memory loss, no di
sappointments, no fighting for every little scrap. Her chest filled, growing with an absolute crystalline joy that couldn’t be measured. Umberto might be a nervous wreck who couldn’t work a crowd if he tried, but the man was a phenomenal talent. Give him a few years and he’d be as well known as Helene’s son, Hudson Carlyle’s artistic alter ego, Hughston.
Heart half stuck in her throat, she turned to ask Alberto what he thought when what she saw made the largest beating muscle in her body drop to her toes. Umberto stood in the corner by the bar, a mostly empty bottle of wine dangling from his fingers and the sweaty, green-tinged face of a man about to spew all over his life’s work. That couldn’t happen. Her insurance didn’t cover debut show nerves, and The Agony of It All had a one-hundred-thousand-dollar asking price.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment,” she managed to get out before she slow-walked across the gallery as fast as she could without attracting attention.
She made it halfway there with what she hoped was not a terrified expression on her face—never let them see you freak the fuck out—when the ever no-nonsense Kiki swooped in, hooked her arm through Umberto’s, and hustled him toward the bathroom while still managing to shoot Everly an I-got-this look of reassurance. If Kiki wasn’t already her best friend, and had been since third grade when she pushed Sadie Almadore in the mud for calling Everly a daddy-less freak, at that moment Everly would have pledged her undying devotion to the woman.
Helene stopped next to her. Obviously the woman had the uncanny ability to know when danger was imminent—of course, raising two boys probably did that to a person.
“That was a narrowly avoided disaster,” Helene said.
“I’ll take the wins where they come.” Especially tonight. Practically on autopilot, her gaze snapped back to Tyler, who was still chatting it up with Alberto. Helene might have a sixth sense for trouble, but Everly could smell a bullshit artist at a hundred yards—and Tyler Jacobson couldn’t cover his scheming stench with the woodsy cologne that made her pulse quicken. “So what’s he doing here?”
Helene would know. From what Hudson had told Everly last week, Tyler’s batshit insane fiancée tried to fuck his best friend, coincidentally Helene’s eldest, Sawyer Carlyle, the night before she was supposed to marry Tyler. Sawyer had turned her down, but Tyler had walked away from the bitch fiancée and the friendship. Definitely a “cut off your nose to spite your face” move of tragic douchebaggery—the kind that showed what kind of loyalty-free dipwad her upstairs neighbor really was. And no, she wasn’t the least bit upset to learn of his true colors after she’d stuck her tongue down his throat.
“Tyler?” Helene asked with a nonchalant sniff. “I suppose he’s expanding his collection.”
“He has an art collection?” Of stick-on-your-wall photos of old-time tycoons, she could believe.
“Why else would he be here?” she asked, her attention focused anywhere but on Everly.
The other woman might scare the Richie Rich set, but Helene and she had been like pepperoni pizza and crushed red peppers since Hudson had first introduced them years ago. Like recognizes like, and they were both horrible liars.
“You know something.”
Helene leveled an imperious glare at her. “I know lots of things.”
“Don’t try the scary Harbor City matron thing on me,” she said with a laugh, then planted one hand on her hip and narrowed her gaze. “Now, tell me what you know.”
Helene seemed to consider her options, pursing her lips together and drumming her fingertips against her thumb. She opened her mouth, but before even a sliver of truth could escape, Alberto and Tyler joined them.
Alberto turned his most charming smile on Helene and made a deep bow before straightening and giving her a teasing wink. “Everly, you must introduce me to this vision.”
If she could have spoken at that moment she would have, but all the words in the world deserted her as she saw a slight flush color the other woman’s cheeks. Embarrassment? Enjoyment? Interest? Helene sure wasn’t giving any of it away.
Helene held out her hand—her left hand with the glittering diamond wedding band adorning her ring finger. “Mrs. Helene Carlyle.”
Seemingly oblivious to the message she was sending, Alberto accepted her hand, brought it up to his lips, and brushed a quick kiss across her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m sure.” Helene freed her hand, flexing her fingers as if she wasn’t used to someone flirting with her—which she probably wasn’t. “If you’ll excuse me, Everly, I’ll go check in on Umberto.”
Doing her damnedest to suppress a grin as Helene strode away, weaving regally through the clumps of potential art buyers gazing at Umberto’s work, Everly turned her attention back to the two men by her side. Tyler looked as surprised as she was. Alberto looked like he was up to something. Oh, this was going to be interesting to watch from a distance.
“I think she likes you,” Tyler said, one admiring dude to another.
Alberto waved one hand in the air. “Of course. Women love me. I’m rich, happy, and I know how to make a woman smile.”
Everly snorted. “And you’re very humble.”
“Never a day in my life,” Alberto said without an ounce of humility. “Now, do I have your yes for lunch on Saturday? Carlo’s fiancée will be there, and I’m sure she’d love to meet you before the wedding. Anyway, it will give me the opportunity to show you a few of the pieces I’ve decided to sell.”
Her gut twisted, her Pavlovian response whenever he spoke of splitting up the Ferranti collection that ranged from the old masters to the art world’s up-and-comers. “You can’t break up your collection.”
Pieces of art were like family. Some belonged together; they complemented one another and strengthened one another. She’d had this argument with Alberto many times without getting him to budge an inch. She glanced over at Tyler for possible backup, but his attention was focused on whatever he was reading on his phone.
“There’s a time for everything, tesoro,” Alberto said, using the term of endearment, “treasure,” he’d been using since they’d met in Italy years ago, as he patted her cheek with affection. “And now is the time for someone else to enjoy some of my treasures.”
Ugh. She hated it when he made it sound so logical—when it came to art she liked to deal only in passion. “I’m not going to win this argument, am I?”
“Not in this lifetime,” Alberto said with a grin.
“Everly, sugar,” Tyler said, looking up from his phone. “We had that thing on Saturday, but I’m sure we can make lunch with Alberto work.”
Her brain slammed to a stop. What the— “We?”
The smarmy snake slid his arm around her waist, pulling her in close to him and making it difficult for her to breathe because of the fury making her heart speed up—and nothing else. The quick pebbling of her nipples and butterflies in her stomach were obviously a side effect of her efforts not to go all Riverside on his rich-boy ass.
For his part, Tyler either lacked a basic sense of survival or thought he was badass enough to take her on. That was the only explanation she could come up with for how he had the balls to circle his fingertips over the small of her waist.
“Don’t tell me you forgot about our cooking class,” he said.
“Bah,” Alberto said with enough authority to declare the matter closed. “Learn to cook another day. I insist you both come over for lunch. Saturday. One thirty. Now I must go see to that fantastico Helene Carlyle, who looks like she’s about to disembowel the nervous artist. We can’t have that. He has talent.”
And with that, he strolled off through the gallery crowd, leaving her fuming beside Tyler.
She pivoted, put steel in her glare, and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “You are not going with me to lunch. And how dare you imply we’re in a relationship to one of my closest friends and best clients.”
“Come on, sugar,” he said, leaning down so that his answer tickled h
er sensitive earlobe. “Don’t be mad at me.”
Just as her body said, “Hello,” her brain said, “Goodbye.” She went with the smart one and pulled away from his distracting touch. “As if there’s any chance of that.”
The teasing upward curl of his full lips did things to her stomach and her lungs’ ability to function.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “I’ll flip you for it.”
“Forget it.” Fool me once and all that.
He slipped the same quarter—or one just as beat up—out of the small front pocket. “You’re not still upset that I won the parking spot, are you?”
Mad? No, not exactly. She’d lost fair and square. It’s what happened after that had her fuming upset. At herself as much as him.
The upturn of his lips turned into a full-on sexy smirk. The bastard must think he’d already won. “Double or nothing? And if I win, you throw in lunch with Alberto.”
Would he stick to his word? All signs pointed to no, but the stubborn optimistic side of her that she usually kept under lock and key had managed to escape. Thank God, that little part of her personality wasn’t stupid either, though. “If I win, no cooking for two months.”
A group of five that had been moving from painting to painting chose that moment to look at The Agony of It All next to where she stood with Tyler. To accommodate them, he took a step closer to her. She didn’t move because a couple was in deep discussions behind her about The Excitement of It All, and she didn’t want to intrude. It gave her a chance to be only inches from Tyler, close enough to smell his cologne and feel the electricity buzzing between them bounce off his body to hers. It was horrible.
Yeah, you’ll just relive it tonight when you’re under the covers alone, you big faker.
“Are you trying to starve me to death?” Tyler asked, lowering his voice so she had no choice but to shift so she nearly touched him in order to hear his words.