by Jill Monroe
“No, it’s not. C’mon, man. Now you’re just inventing problems. It’s a dick move.”
“Don’t call me a dick.”
“Then don’t be one. The question you need to ask yourself is why. Why are you making this so hard? You’re two people who clearly want to be together. Why aren’t you?”
Yeah. Why wasn’t he? He shoved the backpack at Callie, then charged out of the equipment room. Owen didn’t stop until he stood outside, where the mountains framed the deep blue sky and the trees stood tall and green. He breathed in the clean, piney scent and wondered, for the thousandth time, if he’d ever get over Stella. Her smile. Her scent. Her love.
Things had changed since he’d returned from Texas. He no longer kept his family at a distance. His sisters had even taught Gram how to FaceTime, and they video chatted once a week. But when Gram mentioned Stella had popped by to see her, he’d made his excuses and severed the connection fast. He wasn’t ready to talk about Stella with his family.
But that night, he dug up her phone number and called her. Stella hadn’t answered. She’d probably been on some long late shift at the hospital. But he’d heard the inviting sound of her voice and had to squeeze his eyes shut. How had he been able to walk away so many months ago? Time was supposed to heal, but the ticking clock only made it worse.
That night he’d made a decision; Owen just had no idea how to make it happen.
The door he’d used to escape Callie’s questions opened and closed with a whack. But he didn’t turn around. Hadn’t him leaving the equipment room been enough of a hint for Callie?
“I used to think emotion clouded a doctor’s judgment and had no business in how I treated patients. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe a little investment will make me a better physician.”
Stella.
He fisted his hands tight, then faced her. Her gorgeous, untamable hair hung in waves around her shoulders. She wore the hiking boots he’d bought her in Texas, shorts and a T-shirt, and she’d never looked more beautiful to him. He’d never wanted her more.
“After all, bedside manner is important. Studies show patients will share more information with a doctor they like. And sometimes, actually a lot of times, that can save a patient’s life. It’s all about trust. I made that realization because of you.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “So is that why you’re here? To thank me?”
Stella shook her head. “No, I’m not here to talk about my bedside manner or about getting involved with my patients.”
“What are you here to talk about?”
Her gaze lowered to his lips, then back up to his eyes. “You.”
In two long strides he stood at her side.
“I used to think if I got emotionally involved and invested I’d be done in a year. But you...you make me feel...”
“What?”
“Everything.”
His body erupted in a slow burn. “That’s good, right?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s bad. Really, really bad. It causes chaos. Bedlam. Turmoil. But then I realized something while you were gone.”
“What’s that?”
“Relying on someone else doesn’t make you weak.” Stella took a deep breath, her dark-eyed gaze met his, and then she pressed onward. “I want to rely on you, Owen.”
His body went rigid.
“You’re not saying anything. I knew I shouldn’t have listened to Bethany.”
He reached for her wrist to prevent her from turning away and leaving him. “You talked to my sister?”
“Your whole family, really. Your mom’s been making sure I eat on my long days at the hospital. Your gram’s making a special tier in her garden with my favorite flowers. Roger is showing me how to build a proper campfire.”
He smiled. His family already loved and accepted her, though he knew their loud and overbearing natures overwhelmed her sometimes. “For all my family’s craziness, I don’t want to settle for less.”
“Maybe throw in a few moments of quiet and you have yourself a deal?”
“And personal space,” he added.
Stella sucked in her bottom lip for a moment. “Owen, I love you. I always will. Common sense and attachment theory would tell me that distance and time would lessen what I feel for you, but they haven’t. I feel more.”
He’d hungered for this woman, ached for her, and here she stood in front of him, like his every dream and wishful thought come alive. Stella dug around for something in her back pocket. “I also found this.”
She handed him a notecard, like the ones they’d discovered scattered all over their suite at the Market Gardens.
In case you don’t remember last night, let me just tell you that you are one lucky woman. Lucky because you get to discover all over again what a great kisser Owen is. In fact, he is everything you’d want in a man. Besides sexy as hell, he’s adventurous, caring and clearly knows how to give you org—
She took an unsteady breath. “I knew. That first time I knew.”
Reminded him of his own note he just hadn’t been able to get rid of. “What do you think that last word is?”
The woman he loved, would always love, shoved at his shoulder. “Owen.”
His hand curved around hers and then their fingers entwined. “Come with me.”
“But—”
Owen led her around the station, their feet crunching on twigs and leaves as they trekked toward the parking lot.
“I’m glad this won’t be wasted.” Owen reached into the glove box of his truck and pulled out a small jeweler’s case. He opened it to reveal a beautiful diamond ring.
She blinked up at him. “Wait, what? You already had this? You knew you were going to ask me to be with you all along while I stood there pouring out my heart like a sacrifice to the god of emotion?”
He frowned down at her. “You’re really ruining my big romantic gesture.”
A sexy smile lifted the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, I guess I am. Sorry.”
Owen drew her into his arms. Stella rested her head against his chest. “Figured I might not see that emotional side of you for a while.”
She laughed. “Or ever. But no, there’s a freedom in sharing my heart with my man. Of leaning on you and knowing you will lean on me, too.”
“So how about sharing the rest of your life with me?” he asked.
She nodded. “I love you, Owen.”
“I’d fist pump if that weren’t obnoxious.” Then he slid the engagement ring onto her finger. “I love you, Stella. You are my life. And now my future.”
She gazed down at the solitaire on her finger. “And you bought this ring even after...”
“You kicked me to the curb? Yeah. I knew after a few months without me I’d hear from you.”
“Seriously? I completely underestimated your ego.”
Owen lifted her chin and caressed her lips with his. “Actually it was more like wishful thinking. I bought it a few days ago. I was about to go find you. I wasn’t going to last another week without you.”
“Good thing I pursued you first.”
Then she settled her lips on his.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from ONE SIZZLING NIGHT by Jo Leigh.
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One Sizzling Night
by Jo Leigh
1
KENSEY ROBERTS MADE the short walk from the mansi
on to her boss’s office at a brisk pace. They’d been working out of his Tarrytown, New York, estate for a week now, and normally she enjoyed the leisurely stroll through the garden when she had occasion to meet with him. Not today. She paused outside his door and glanced down at her pressed linen pants and cream-colored blouse.
She’d paid particular attention to how she looked this morning. Her hair was simple, a little wavy now that it was past her shoulders. Applying makeup had been a challenge, but she’d had to do something to hide the fact that she hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. A final inspection assured her that she looked as cool and polished as usual.
Inside she was a complete mess.
Neil Patterson was sitting behind his immaculate teakwood desk. On any other day, she’d help herself to coffee first, exchange a few pleasantries if he wasn’t in the middle of something. Today Kensey headed straight for him and skipped the small talk.
“I hate to spring this on you at the last minute,” she said, ignoring the leather chair across from him. Too much adrenaline was shooting through her system. She couldn’t sit, hadn’t been able to sleep or stomach the thought of food since last night. “I need some time off.”
Neil leaned back, eyebrows raised. “Good morning.”
Kensey nodded. “Hopefully it will be just a week, so I’ll be able to escort the van Gogh to Vienna next month as planned.” Her voice, she knew, was well modified, and there was nothing about her expression that signaled anything but calm assurance. This mask had been her saving grace for years. She’d learned how to play a part from the best teacher in the world. “But it’s possible I’ll be away longer.”
Neil didn’t ask why. She doubted he thought it had anything to do with the weeks of vacation time she’d never used. He simply waited, his expression as neutral as her own, though she’d bet her Rolex he already knew what was going on. The CEO of The Patterson Group had made his first million at twenty-three and turned that into a billion-dollar empire before he’d hit fifty. Not only was he brilliant, he was careful and he did his research.
He was also the man who’d spotted something worthy enough in her that he’d taken her under his wing four years ago, giving her a life she’d never dreamed possible. Ironically, they’d met over a forgery.
God, Kensey didn’t want to disappoint him. But she had something very important to prove.
“I’d wondered if you’d seen this,” Neil said, and opened the folder sitting in front of him.
The second she saw the neatly folded copy of the New York Post she knew it was over. Her secret was about to unravel. In truth it had started to fray two years ago when Neil had guessed that she had a connection to the Houdini Burglar. But the thefts had stopped by then, and Neil hadn’t pressed her to fill in the blanks from her past. He would now, though, and she could hardly blame him.
He slid the paper across his desk. Every part of her wanted to run, but she stayed right where she was, her gaze lowered to the article that could change her life forever.
Art Collector Does a “Houdini” with $10M Degas
by John Witseck
Art lovers around the globe have been stunned by the report that Douglas Foster, highly respected art collector and import/export entrepreneur, is a person of interest in the investigation of a Degas landscape heist.
At nine o’clock Sunday morning, investment banker Clive Seymour discovered his security system disabled and The Wood, painted by Edgar Degas, missing from his private collection. Mr. Seymour was alone in his home at the time, although he and longtime associate Foster had dined together the previous evening.
NYPD Detective Sergeant Calvin Brown arrived at the estate at nine-thirty and confirmed that Foster had been Seymour’s only dinner guest before Foster left for Manhattan shortly after midnight. According to Mr. Seymour’s driver, he dropped Foster off at the Waldorf Astoria where he was staying. Foster, who lives in Paris, had arrived in New York early Saturday afternoon.
When police went to the hotel Sunday morning to pick Mr. Foster up for questioning, he could not be located. His suite had been cleared of his belongings, but a spokesman from the hotel stated Mr. Foster was not due to check out until Tuesday.
Seymour denied that Douglas Foster was the famous art thief dubbed the Houdini Burglar who has eluded authorities across four continents for three decades. Mr. Seymour has declined further comment, though he seemed understandably shocked as the two men have known each other for many years.
Detective Sergeant Brown, a thirty-year veteran of the NYPD white-collar crime division, is confident they will find Mr. Foster and bring him in for questioning. Brown, who will be retiring from the department in three months, has been after the Houdini Burglar for most of his career, although he stated that as of this morning there was no evidence to support the allegations that Foster is involved with the theft.
“Your father, I presume,” Neil said, as calm as could be. There wasn’t a trace of judgment or censure.
She looked up into his piercing blue eyes and simply nodded. The story hadn’t even hit the front page, what with yesterday’s oil tanker spill. But it had made page two and the scandal had the fine art world buzzing. Everyone who was anyone knew Douglas Foster. From the time she was young he’d been an A-list party guest.
“He’s innocent,” Kensey said. “I’m sure of it.”
Neil’s brows rose. “How would you know that?”
“It’s a forgery, a good one, I’ll give you that, but it’s not perfect.”
“You’ve seen the Degas?”
“No, but I dug up every digital picture of it that was taken after Seymour bought it, and some from the prior owner. Most of the pictures are shadowed or just plain bad. On purpose, I’m thinking. But seeing it up close? Foster would have written it off as a forgery and never given it another thought.” No one she knew, and she knew a lot of people in the art world, was better at spotting forgeries. “He taught me just about everything I know.”
“Circumstances might have changed,” Neil said. “You haven’t seen him in a long time. He’s older, slower. It’s possible he’s lost his touch. It happens.”
“He might have slowed down but there’s no way he would have taken a forgery. Or for that matter, be so stupid and careless. He was Seymour’s only dinner guest. Why on earth would he choose that night to go back and steal the painting? Please. And God knows he doesn’t need the money. He has enough to live out three lifetimes in luxury.”
Neil smiled. “It’s not always about money for people like him. It’s the thrill of the chase or the rush of being the smartest and the best. It gets in the blood and clouds people’s judgment. So they don’t know when to quit.”
Kensey’s chest hurt. She didn’t like the way those unnerving blue eyes studied her so closely. If he’d ever thought she was indeed her father’s daughter, or the possibility existed that she could be drawn back to her old life, he would’ve cut her loose by now.
But no, Neil had always been her champion. What her father never taught her about business or life, Neil Patterson had. He’d invested in her, encouraged her and listened to her opinions.
“All I know is that this thing smells like a setup. Seymour probably realized the painting was a fake ages ago, and knew he couldn’t sell it to any of his regular buyers. This con must have dropped into his lap like an early Christmas present. My bet’s on the cop. Brown’s retiring soon. He’s been after the Houdini Burglar for most of his career. He doesn’t want to go out looking like a fool.”
“A cop? About to retire with a pension?”
“Why not? He’s been obsessed.”
Neil gave her a slow, considering look. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s assume you’re right. What is it you want to do?”
She tried to relax, her gaze going to the Modigliani hanging behind him. It was one of her favorites, one he’d kept out of circulation far longer than most. She suspected because he knew of her fondness for the painting.
As his curator, she w
orked up a complete profile for each piece in his vast collection, checking and double-checking the provenances, all of which went into a very complex metadata formula that told them when a piece was ready to go into circulation, and where. Some of the pieces would be marked for sale, while other were to be held on to as an investment. All that mattered to her was that she had the rare and wonderful privilege of seeing the work up close, studying the craft and basking in its pure genius.
“I need to prove he didn’t do it,” she said, finally sinking into the leather chair. “As long as he’s on the run he can’t return to his home in Paris or access his accounts. I’m sure he has money stashed away somewhere in case something like this were to ever happen but who knows if he can get to it.”
“Do you think he’ll try to contact you?”
“No.” The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. She shook her head. “After ten years without a word? I doubt it.”
“You’re right. He wouldn’t want to involve you.”
Kensey stared in disbelief. “Are you serious? He doesn’t care about me. A letter, Neil,” she said, the pain as sharp now as the day she’d found herself alone in a Swiss hotel. She’d just turned eighteen and was about to start at Yale, which had the best undergraduate fine arts program in the world. She’d been over the moon about it. “Three lines basically telling me to have a nice life was all he left me before he disappeared.” He’d also left enough money to finance her Ivy League education, including a master’s degree in art restoration at the Istituto Superiore per la Conservazione ed il Restauro in Rome. Plus her Manhattan co-op. She hoped the overtures hadn’t eased his guilt one bit. “He’s probably forgotten he has a daughter.”
Neil hadn’t looked away once. But she did, before she could see pity in his eyes. “The smart thing would be to stay away from the investigation,” Neil said. “It’s not easy to trace you back to that old life, but it can be done. So, why risk it?”
“I don’t know.” Kensey sighed. “I honestly don’t, but... I can’t look the other way. I wish I could.”