by AJ Nuest
He bit at the end of the tape stuck to the inside of his wrist and unwound the length with his teeth. After repeating the process to the other hand, he balled up the sticky mess in his aching fists and tossed it aside.
Maybe he should count himself lucky. He stepped off the grungy gymnastics mats he’d rescued from a nearby dumpster and navigated the odd bent nail protruding from the floor to the industrial wash basin and horizontal planks of wood that passed as his kitchen. The money his muse had earned him had bought him all this.
A bitter laugh caught in his throat as he swung open the freezer door. The ancient appliance wheezed an emphysemic breath as he retrieved four ice trays, cracked the plastic against the sink and dumped the cubes into the basin. He plugged the drain with a rubber stopper and twisted the cold tap. Clunks echoed inside the walls and the pipes shuddered before water showered from the faucet. Still—a sigh eased from his lips as he submerged his hands in the icy bath—this ramshackle warehouse with its greasy windows and sporadic plumbing far exceeded the penthouse suite his father had funded.
He could breathe here.
Hitching his hip against the sink, he trailed his focus over the box spring and mattress lying on the floor, the brushes and oil paints scattered over the scarred round table, the mismatched chairs with their wobbly, duct taped legs. In the far corner, a dented metal table stood beside a propane tank, his welding mask hanging off the dolly and staring at him like some cheap Iron Man knock-off. Sure, the furnishings were crap, but they were his. Items he’d purchased with money he’d made instead of luxuries provided by a dad who never showed and didn’t care.
The rumble of boxcars from the train yard shook the windowpanes and a layer of dust sprinkled down from the rafters. Nate had called him bat-shit crazy for using the money from his first legitimate sale to trade in his Gold Coast lifestyle for the seedy segregation of Chicago’s industrial south side. And maybe he was right. A good chunk of the funds had gone toward the purchase of the building. Most of the rest had been used to ensure the third floor had electric and heat.
Rhys shook the water from his numb hands and dried them down the front of his athletic shorts. Then again, it was pretty much guaranteed Nate’s southern Baptist father never treated his son like a useless, pathetic whore. Nate wouldn’t have a clue the suffocating shame that went along with being Leo McEleod’s heir, the need to escape or the constant reminders that his opinions counted for less than zero.
After dipping a hand towel in the sink, Rhys wrung out the excess water and yanked the plug. A quick stop to check the barren landscape of his fridge and his hand fluctuated between the lone long-necked beer waiting in the back and three innocent bottles of water.
What time was it, anyway?
Fuck it. Who cared?
He snatched the beer, popped the top with the calloused edge of his thumb and guzzled several deep swallows. This was supposed to be his vacation, after all.
Frigid water trickled down his back as he slung the towel around his neck. He strode to the brick wall that doubled as the headboard of his bed and the rough surface combed down either side of his spine as he sank to the floor.
Propping his arms on his bent knees, he raised his chin.
There she was, larger than life, staring at him from the wide span of his north wall. He’d whitewashed the damn thing so many times he’d lost count of the layers, but his efforts had paid off in the end. This version was closer than he’d gotten in his previous attempts.
He squinted. Still, something wasn’t right.
The rim of the bottle cooled his lips and a few droplets of condensation splattered his legs as he tipped the beer for another swallow. He’d hoped concentrating on her face, on her eyes, would do the trick and, for once, his instincts had hit the mark. Showing her from the center of her forehead to mid-chin had allowed him to focus on the problem—that god-damned haunting stare in her bottomless brown gaze.
He tipped his head. The strength was there. Same with the vulnerability and fear. The full curve of her lower lip and the slight arc in her brow handled the defiant, gut-fisting sex appeal. So what had he missed?
His cell vibrated on the wooden crate at his elbow, and he leaned over to check the caller ID. Nate. What the hell? He was the one who’d suggested this hiatus in the first place.
Another droning shimmy along the top of his makeshift nightstand, and Rhys snatched the phone. “Yeah.”
“Man, you need to get down here. Like, right now.”
Wrong. He thumbed the disconnect button and tossed the phone back onto the crate. Nate calling him to the gallery to face off against another potential buyer ranked immediately beneath ringing the old man for money. Rhys would rather be bound and stretched on a rack.
He rolled his eyes. And he was the one who supposedly needed the mental health break.
Pushing against the wall, he rose to his feet, the bottle neck dangling between two fingers as he strolled to the center of the mural. Everything Nate had asked of him, he’d done. Carting pieces to the gallery he had no intention of ever selling. Smiling and shaking hands, dressed like a goon in a tuxedo during the week-long string of openings.
The entire thing was moronic. Ever since that first—and most important—piece had walked out the door, it was like Nate had realized the work’s earning potential and been bitten by the greed bug. The dam Rhys held so firmly in place had finally collapsed only to spill a pile of money at Nate’s feet. In return, he’d hounded Rhys repeatedly to let the other pieces go…something he wasn’t about to let happen until he uncovered the elusive element they were missing.
Over the next few weeks, the tension between them had stoked to a low burn, until Nate finally suggested Rhys take a break, get his head together, get laid, and for Christ’s sake figure out his issues so Nate could do his damn job.
The phone buzzed another annoying jig along the crate and Rhys stormed across the room to answer it. Yeah, great, but how the hell was he supposed to concentrate when Nate refused to leave him alone? “What?”
“Listen to me, you miserable son of a bitch. You see that girl you’re looking at? The one watching you from your wall? She’s here, man. I swear to God. She just walked in off the street, easy as you please, and is standing in the center of my gallery.”
Rhys snapped his head around to stare at her picture. Not cool. “That’s not even remotely funny. I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to pull, but—”
“You think I’m joking?” Nate’s heavy sigh reverberated through the line. “I know how crazy you are, dumb ass. You think I would risk being the beneficiary of that Hail Mary shit storm? She’s here, man. With that dude and his partner who bought her picture.”
Oliver Forbes. The ease with which the multi-million-dollar antiques dealer had scrawled his signature and happily handed over a check for three hundred thousand mind-blowing dollars slammed into Rhys’ brain. Forbes knew her? He jerked upright. Or, the more obvious choice, he knew someone who looked like her. “What the fu—”
“Sober up, get dressed, straddle that god-damned Indian you love more than life itself and get your ass down here. Now.” The line went dead.
Rhys stared at the screen on his phone, blinked and shook his head. A second later, the phone beeped with an incoming text and he opened the message to find a blurry off-center picture of a woman dressed in white.
He scowled. What, exactly, was that supposed to prove? Either Nate wasn’t the best with his camera phone or maybe he’d tried to snap the photo on the sly.
Or maybe he hoped the picture would help validate his claim he wasn’t the cause of the bad joke. Okay fine, but what could a rich guy like Forbes possibly stand to gain by going to the trouble of finding a look-alike of Rhys’ muse and bringing her to Nate’s gallery? That made zero sense…unless this was Forbes’ lame attempt at getting Rhys to paint him another portrait.
Scratching at the dried sweat near his temple, he eyed his beloved Chief Classic motorcycle, parked saf
ely in the corner near the freight elevator. The cool ride was the one luxury he’d splurged on—hot off the showroom floor, sleek, black and chromed to the max.
If today’s spring weather was anything like the sunny skies and calm lake breezes of yesterday, it wouldn’t hurt to take his beauty for a spin. He could confront Forbes face to face and find out what the man was up to. Besides, the fresh air would probably do him good.
Tossing his phone to the bed, he headed for the shower.
Just another fucking day in paradise.
Hooking the heel of his boot along the kickstand, Rhys leaned his bike to the side and slipped the key from the ignition. During the entire trip weaving through the high speed curves of Chicago’s lakefront traffic, he’d told himself whoever Forbes had brought to the gallery, she couldn’t be real. What, did Forbes think he was an idiot? Rhys had done enough bed-bouncing research of his own to know girls like his muse didn’t exist. Not in his world, anyway.
He tugged the helmet from his head and stowed it in his saddlebags, checked the alley for any scalpers who might get the bright idea to hock the parts off his bike and strode for the back entrance to the gallery.
In his previous life, all the women he’d scored had been leggy, blonde and stacked. Being the only son of Chicago’s highest-grossing real estate tycoon held several disadvantages, but a shortage of women wasn’t one of them. Mention the last name McEleod and the difficulty of finding someone to fill his cold, empty sheets was suddenly no longer a problem.
Coupled with the funds at Forbes’ disposal, his fashion sense and keen eye, he wouldn’t have any difficulty recruiting a long list of women to audition for the scam. The only question remaining, was why?
The grime and stench of the alley gave way to the immaculate interior of the gallery as Rhys stepped inside, the overhead recessed lights shining a path of white spots along the marble tile of the narrow hall. Fortunately, once this was over, the joke would be on Forbes. No woman Rhys had encountered could hold a candle to the ideal aesthetic of his white-haired vixen. How could they when he’d dreamed her up and obsessed over every curve and contour of her body since he was old enough to hold a damn crayon?
He ducked his head inside Nate’s office to find the chair empty, the spotless stretch of his glass-topped desk vacant except for a maroon leather blotter, laptop and phone. One of Rhys’ welded sculptures stood in the corner, a tag marked SOLD hanging off one of the sharp metal spikes. His brows rose and he mentally slapped Nate on the back with a hearty “good job.” He was the one who’d spotted the side project at the warehouse and suggested it would be the perfect complement to the show. Looked as if he’d been right and Rhys would be eating next month, after all.
“Hello! I’m here! Call in the reinforcements.” The lazy clump of his untied boots echoed into the open gallery as Rhys spotted Nate on the far side of a free-standing partition, talking quietly with Forbes and his dark-haired lover, but where was the—
He stumbled to a stop. Jesus H. Christ.
She stood with her back to the room, staring at her picture on the wall—the one he’d painted with her black strip of hair caught in the wind and blowing across her eyes. Her wild mass of untamed waves tumbled down the shaggy fur coat she wore, the same ash blonde as her hair, the bottom edge stopping just short of her completely bitable ass. Her mile-long toned legs stood braced slightly apart, knees locked, tightly encased in white leather. And on her feet. Sweet Jesus, those white, stiletto knee-high boots were enough to drop any sane man to his knees.
She turned and met his gaze over her shoulder, and the breath whooshed from his lungs like he’d been slammed in the gut with a wrecking ball. That was it. The fleeting element he’d been missing.
Dark anger simmered in her gaze, one that simultaneously hitched his balls and zeroed his entire world into focus. How the hell had he forgotten something so obvious?
One of her arms lifted, and she aimed a sharp finger at her picture on the wall. “Would you care to explain the meaning of this…this abomination? And I caution you to speak plainly, or I shall be compelled to extract the truth by more than simple query alone.”
Holy mother of God, that voice. He slumped. The cutting British accent and old world dialect were so much better than he could’ve ever anticipated.
On leaden legs, he clomped forward a step…and then one more. Not a day had gone by he hadn’t fantasized about running into her like this. Someplace unexpected. Where he would never predict she’d been waiting for him.
But she couldn’t be real. No way, no way could he seriously be staring into the face of the one woman by whom he’d judged all others. The one who was so perfect she couldn’t possibly exist.
His hand instinctively lifted. Just one touch. One light caress of her cheek and he would know for sure. Had she walked into his life straight off the canvas? Or was this a twisted trick cooked up by some guy who had more money than King Midas?
She leaned away the same distance his fingers closed in. The sides of her coat fell open and the wink of a golden chain trailing down between her breasts snagged his attention.
The key? His hand changed direction. How was it even feasible she wore an object straight out of his imagination? He’d never shown it entirely in any of his paintings.
Her eyes widened. Her mouth parted on gasp and, before he had the chance to reassure her, she snatched his wrist, spun and flipped him ass first to the ground. The back of his head smacked the hard marble. Stars showered through his vision above the pounding steps of running feet. Black shadows danced before his eyes, but still, he smiled.
Oh, but she was perfect.
The light above narrowed to a tiny pinprick. A weak chuckle shook his chest.
His hand to God, she was fucking perfect.
Chapter 4
Shit. Exactly how many beers did he drink last night?
Rhys winced and tossed his arm over his face, trying to block the harsh mid-day light from penetrating the ineffective shade of his closed eyelids. He hadn’t gone on such a bender in years. Last thing he remembered was…
He sprang to sitting and immediately dropped his pounding head into his hands. She’d been at the gallery. A woman who looked like his muse. He hadn’t been drunk, he’d tried to touch her. No, he’d tried to touch the key and she’d freaked. He swung his feet off the couch to the floor in Nate’s office, propping his elbows on his knees. Christ, what had he done?
“Easy there, cowboy. That thick head of yours took quite the hit.”
Nate’s voice speared through the gonging pain, and Rhys glanced up to find his best friend of eight years sitting opposite his glass-topped desk, his round brown cheeks lifted in a cheery smile.
What did he have to be so god damned happy about? Rhys muttered a curse and swept his hand down the blunt clip of his recently buzzed hair, gingerly exploring the damage. No doubt Nate had enjoyed every second of his epic fail. Watching Rhys get tagged with a WWE smack-down by a woman half his size, sporting a pair of killer stiletto boots, no less, had to be the highlight of Nate’s week.
The quarter-sized goose egg which had taken up residence on the back of his head was tender to the touch but, other than the residual headache, his skull seemed intact…which was the least of his worries. “Where is she? Is she still here?”
“No. Her two bodyguards rushed her out of here PDQ.” Nate snatched a bottle of aspirin off his desk and tossed it in Rhys’ direction. It landed with a rattle on the cushion next to Rhys’ thigh. “Forbes asked me to call if you decide to press charges.”
“What?” That idea was just plain stupid and, based on Nate’s belly jiggling chuckle, he agreed. The woman had just been trying to protect herself—or rather, the key—and a fucking excellent job she’d done of it too. Rhys shook three pills into his hand, tossed them back and chewed them dry. “Hell no, I’m not pressing charges. Positioning myself as the enemy is the last thing I need.”
“That’s what I told him.” Nate lobbed a bottle o
f water across his desk and it landed with a thud at Rhys’ feet. “He also said to make sure I forward any medical bills which may result from your injuries.”
Rhys huffed a laugh, which quickly morphed into a groan under Nate’s high-pitched hee-hee-hee. He picked up the water and twisted off the cap, rinsed his mouth and swallowed. Nice of Forbes to offer, but he wasn’t heading to the ER…or anywhere else, for that matter. Not until he saw her again. The gallery was the one place she knew where to find him, and here was where he planned to stay. “Any idea when she’s coming back?”
Because she had to. Leaving him hanging like this wasn’t an option.
“None.” Nate crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, his full upper lip curling in a sneer. “Pretty freaky, huh? Can’t say I would’ve believed it had I not seen her with my own two eyes.”
Water shot up Rhys’ nose with his next choking swallow, and he jammed his forefinger and thumb into the corners of his eyes against the burn razing his nasal passages. “Is that your way of saying you actually believe she was her? My her is she?”
Shit, he wasn’t making any sense, but the mere concept he’d stood in the same room with the one woman he’d been drawing since childhood ranked right up top with getting abducted by aliens. Everything had happened so fast. “Did she say anything? Do anything that might have given you a clue why she was here?”
“Nope. Not a one.”
The chair squeaked an annoying tune as Nate rocked in his seat, and Rhys ground his molars against the urge to hop the desk and shake his friend by the lapels of his spotless, black, eight-hundred-dollar suit. How could the jackass have let her get away like that? Didn’t he realize how important it was for Rhys to see her again? “For Christ’s sake, Nate, did you at least get her name?”