Millionaires' Destinies

by Sherryl Woods

  “I should go now,” she said, unhappy with the way her voice shook when she said it.

  “Seen what you came to see, so now you’re ready to run?” he taunted. “Or are you running scared?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she insisted. “It’s time to go.”

  For an instant she thought he might argue, but he finally nodded. “I’ll take you, then.”

  Kathleen was silent on the brief trip home. She was grateful to Ben for not pushing. It had been an emotional day for her, not just with the probing questions about her marriage, but with the tantalizing intimacy she’d experienced decorating the nursery. She wanted to get home and sort through all of the emotions. She couldn’t help wondering if that would help or hurt. Were there any that she could trust?

  At her door, Ben gazed into her eyes. “It was a good day, wasn’t it?”

  Unable to deny it, she nodded. “A very good day.”

  “We’ll have to do it again.”

  “You have more nurseries that need decorating?” she asked, deliberately flippant because the prospect held so much appeal.

  He stroked her cheek, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “No, but I think we can find other things to do.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should get this back on a more professional footing.”

  “Meaning you chase after my art and I keep saying no?”

  She smiled sadly. “Something like that.”

  His fingers still warm against her face, he traced a line along her jaw. Her pulse jerked and raced at the tender touch. His gaze held hers.

  “I think we’re past that, don’t you?” he asked.

  “We can’t be,” she said emphatically.

  He covered her mouth with his, ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. Her pulse scrambled, proving that she was a liar, or at the very least denying the truth. To her relief, though, there was no satisfaction in his expression when he pulled back, just acceptance, which was something she wished she could attain. It would be so much easier if she could go with the flow, if all that past history hadn’t made her jumpy about all relationships, much less one with an artist who had his own demons to fight.

  “Ben,” she began, then fell silent, uncertain what she could say that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. Denying the attraction certainly wouldn’t be believable. They both knew it was there, simmering and on the way to a boil.

  And if she were being totally honest, it was also inevitable that they would do something about it. The only real question was when…and maybe how much risk it would be and how much pride it would cost her.

  “Never mind,” he said, apparently reading her confusion. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. I can wait till you catch up to where I am.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “You will,” he said confidently.

  “Arrogance is not an attractive trait.”

  “Don’t all artists have to have a little arrogance just to survive?” he taunted.

  “But you say you’re not an artist,” she reminded him, regaining her equilibrium. “And for the moment, I have no real proof to the contrary.”

  He laughed. “But you seem so certain, Ms. Expert.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been known to be wrong.”

  “When?”

  “That’s not something I like to spread around.” She gave him a thoughtful look. “Perhaps if I were to see a few more paintings, I could be sure.”

  “Nice try,” he told her, laughter dancing in his eyes. “You’ll have to be a bit more persuasive than that, though. I still don’t know what’s in it for me.”

  Kathleen fell in with his lighthearted mood, because it got her out of the far more dangerous territory they’d been in only moments before. “I’ll give that some thought,” she promised. “Since money and fame don’t seem to matter to you, I’m sure I can come up with something else.”

  “I can think of one thing,” he said.

  He made the claim in a suggestive way that threw them right back into the same dangerous fires she was so sure they’d just escaped.

  “Something other than that,” she said, ignoring the eager racing of her heart.

  He laughed. “Too bad. If you come up with something—I doubt it could be better—keep me posted.”

  “You’ll know the minute I do,” she assured him, an idea already taking shape in her mind, something that would render him incapable of forgetting about her for a single second without putting her own flagging defenses to the test.

  Already lost in her planning, she gave him a distracted kiss. “Good night, Ben.”

  Before he could recover from his apparent surprise, she stepped inside and shut the door in his face.

  The doorbell rang almost immediately. Fighting a smile, she opened it.

  “Forget anything?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Sure you did,” he said, stepping into the house and dragging her into his arms.

  He kissed her till her head spun, then walked back outside and closed the door behind him.

  Kathleen stared at the door and touched a finger to her still-burning lips. There was no escaping the fact that this latest round had gone to him. She wasn’t sure whether to start plotting a way to get even or to run for her life.

  Ben was getting far too much enjoyment out of rattling Kathleen. He was forgetting all about protecting himself. He needed to lock himself in his studio and get back to work. It was the most effective way he knew to block out the world.

  And up until a few days ago, it had been more than enough for him. He hadn’t craved anyone’s company, hadn’t yearned for any woman’s kisses. Maybe he could get that back again.

  Not likely, he concluded a few hours later when Kathleen breezed in with a bag of freshly baked banana nut muffins and a large latte. She was like a little whirlwind that touched down, left a bit of collateral damage and was gone an instant later. He stared out the door of his studio after she’d gone, fighting the oddest sensation that he’d imagined the entire visit.

  But the coffee and muffins were real enough. So was the edgy state of arousal in which he found himself.

  “Well, hell,” he muttered and tried to go back to work.

  Inspiration eluded him. All he could think about was the faint scent of Kathleen that lingered in the air.

  She did the same thing the next day, this time leaving him with an entire blueberry pie and a container of whipped cream. His vivid imagination came up with a lot of very provocative uses for that whipped cream that had nothing at all to do with the pie.

  By the weekend he was the one who was rattled, which was exactly what she’d obviously intended. He was also vaguely bemused by the fact that not once had she lingered in his studio or attempted to sneak a peek at his paintings. She’d come and gone in a heartbeat. In fact, one day she’d paid her mysterious visit even before he got to the studio. He found raspberry tarts and another latte on the doorstep, as if to prove that she hadn’t even attempted to take advantage of his absence to slip inside the unlocked studio for a look around.

  Ben sat in front of his easel, munching on a tart and considered not the painting he was working on, but Kathleen and these little sneak attacks designed to get under his skin without putting her own very delectable skin at risk. He couldn’t help wondering if the baked goods were meant as bribes or simply as taunting reminders of her. He suspected she intended the former, while the effect was most definitely the latter.

  Since he wasn’t accomplishing a blasted thing, he stalked back inside, picked up the phone and punched in a familiar number. Two could play at this game.

  “Studio Supplies,” Mitchell Gaylord said.

  “Mitch, it’s Ben Carlton.”

  “How are you? You can’t possibly be out of supplies. I just sent a shipment out there a few weeks ago.”

  “This isn’t for me,” Ben said. “Here’s what I need.”

  Ten minutes later he hung up and sat back, satisfied. “That oug
ht to get her attention.”

  Kathleen was feeling very smug about her little forays to the country. Maybe it was ridiculous to drive all that way just to torment Ben with coffee and a few pastries, but she had a feeling it would pay off eventually. He’d feel so guilty—or get so annoyed—he’d have to let her poke around among his paintings just to get rid of her and restore his much-desired serenity.

  She was in the back of her shop planning the Christmas decorations, which needed to be up by the first of the week, when the bell over the front door rang. She went out expecting to find some browser who’d come inside primarily to get out of the cold. She rarely got serious customers this early in the day.

  Instead, she found a delivery man.

  “You Kathleen Dugan?” he asked, looking from her to his clipboard and back again.

  “Yes, but I’m not expecting anything.”

  “Hey, Christmas is coming. ’Tis the season of surprises.” He handed her the clipboard. “Sign here and I’ll be right back.”

  Kathleen signed the page and waited for his return, feeling an odd sense of anticipation, the kind she vaguely recalled feeling as a very small child at Christmas, before things with her mother and father had gone so terribly wrong.

  When the deliveryman walked back inside, her mouth gaped. He was pushing a cart laden with what looked like an entire art store. There was an easel there, a stack of canvases, a huge wooden box that could only contain paints, a ceramic holder filled with brushes. Everything was premium quality, meant for the professional artist.

  “This can’t possibly be for me,” she said, but she knew it was. She also knew who had sent it. This was Ben’s retaliation for her little hit-and-run visits to the farm.

  The delivery man stood patiently waiting.

  “What?” she asked, half-frozen by a mix of anticipation, annoyance and something she could only identify as fear.

  “Do you want this in the middle of the floor or somewhere else?” he asked patiently.

  In the basement, she thought, locked away where it couldn’t torment her. Aloud, she said, “In the back room, I suppose. Just pile it up anywhere.”

  When he emerged a moment later, he had a card in his hand. “This came with it. Happy holidays, Ms. Dugan.”

  She accepted the card, then dropped it, her nerves jittery. She managed to get a tip for the man from the cash register, then continued to stare at the card long after he’d gone.

  Just then the phone rang.

  “Yes,” she said, distracted.

  “Is it there yet?” Ben asked bluntly.

  “You!” she said, every one of her very raw emotions in her voice.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Have you read the card?”

  “No.”

  “Call me back when you have,” he said, then hung up in her ear.

  She stared at the phone, not sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Instead of doing either one, she dutifully opened the card.

  “For every canvas you complete and show me, I’ll show you one of mine,” he’d written.

  Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. She hadn’t thought it possible, but Ben had managed to find the one thing on earth that could get her to back off.

  When Ben still hadn’t heard back from Kathleen by late afternoon, he heaved a resigned sigh, climbed into his car and faced the daunting rush-hour traffic to head to Alexandria. Apparently his gift hadn’t gone over the way he’d anticipated.

  Or maybe it had. He’d meant to shake her up, though, not infuriate her. Judging from her lack of response, he worried he’d done both.

  He wasn’t entirely sure what was driving him to head over there and find out. It could be intense curiosity, or maybe a death wish.

  He found the gallery already closed by the time he arrived. The window shade in the door was drawn, but he could still see lights in the back of the shop, which suggested that Kathleen was still on the premises.

  As he had once before, he banged on the door and kept right on banging until there was some sign of movement inside.

  He heard the tap of her footsteps coming toward the door, saw her approaching shadow on the other side of the shade, but the door didn’t immediately swing open.

  “Go away,” she said instead.

  “Not a chance,” he retorted, alarmed by the hint of tears he thought he heard in her voice. “Open up, Kathleen.”

  “No.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “No,” she said, despite the unmistakable sniff that gave away the blatant lie.

  “Why?”

  “I said I wasn’t crying.”

  “And I don’t believe you. Dammit, open this door, Kathleen.”

  “I don’t want to see you.”

  “Because I sent you a few art supplies?” he asked skeptically.

  “That’s one reason.”

  “And the others? I assume there’s a whole list.”

  “Yes,” she said, then added more spiritedly, “And it’s getting longer by the minute.”

  “I annoy you,” he guessed.

  “Yep.”

  “And I ripped the scab off an old wound.”

  She sighed at that. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Sweetheart, please let me in. I want to see your face when I’m talking to you.”

  “I should let you,” she muttered.

  Ben laughed. “All puffy and red, is it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You’ll still be beautiful.”

  “It’s too late for sweet-talk, Ben. I’m mad at you.”

  “I got that. I want you to tell me why.”

  “You said it yourself.”

  “But I want you to say it. I want you to scream and shout till you get all the insecurities that man filled your head with out of your system.”

  “It’s not that simple,” she said impatiently. “Tim said a lot of cruel, hurtful things to me while we were together, that’s true. But what he said about my art wasn’t one of them.”

  “Are you so sure?”

  “Yes, dammit. Do you think I would have quit painting just because of what he said?”

  “I don’t know. Did you?”

  “No. I quit because what I painted could never measure up to what I saw in my head,” she said.

  Ben could hear the misery in her voice and saw his mistake then. He’d assumed they were just alike, both being modest about their talents. He’d supposed that she was good but had been told otherwise, not that she had such a low opinion of her own work.

  “Maybe—” he began, but she cut him off.

  “There are no maybes,” she said flatly. “Not about this.”

  He sighed. “I’m sorry I upset you. I thought I was helping.”

  “I know you did.”

  “Can I come in now?” he asked again, wanting to hold her, to offer some sort of comfort.

  “I suppose you’re not going to go away until you’ve patted me on the head,” she said, sounding resigned.

  “I was thinking of something a bit more demonstrative,” he said, fighting the urge to chuckle. “A hug, maybe.”

  “I don’t need a hug. I need you to drop this.”

  “Consider it dropped,” he said at once. “I’ll haul all that stuff right back out of here tonight and toss it in the nearest Dumpster, if it’ll make you feel better.”

  A key rattled in the lock at last and the door swung open. She met his gaze. “It was a nice gesture, Ben, even if it was misguided.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his heart twisting at the misery in her eyes. She’d been telling the truth. Her face showed evidence of a long crying jag, but he’d been right, too. She was still beautiful.

  She forced a smile. “Maybe we should get out of here,” she said before he could set foot inside. “Give me a second to turn off lights and I’ll lock up.”

  Something in her voice alerted him that there was a reason she didn’t want him coming in, which, of course, guaranteed that he followed her t
o the back.

  There on an easel sat an unfinished painting…of him. He must have made a whisper of sound because she whirled around and her gaze flew to clash with his.

  “I told you to wait,” she said accusingly.

  “I know.”

  “I didn’t want you to see it.”

  “Because it was meant to be a surprise?”

  “No, because it’s awful.”

  He stared at her in shock. “Awful? How can you say such a thing? Kathleen, it’s wonderful. You’ve got every detail just right.”

  “No, I don’t,” she insisted adamantly. “Maybe if I’d had a photo I could have gotten it right. This is awful. It looks nothing like you.”

  As if to prove her point, she picked up the brush with which she’d been working and started to take an angry swipe at the canvas. Ben caught her arm before she could do any damage.

  “Don’t you dare ruin it,” he said heatedly.

  “It’s no good,” she said again.

  He held her, looking down into her tormented eyes. “I can see that you don’t believe me,” he told her quietly. “But let’s get another opinion, one you will trust.”

  She searched his face as if desperately wanting to believe he wasn’t lying to her, but not quite daring to hope. “Whose?”

  “Destiny’s,” he suggested. “You trusted her to be unbiased about my work.”

  “Not at first,” she said.

  “But enough to believe her when she said those old wall panels were decent,” he reminded her.

  She sighed and he could feel her muscles relaxing.

  “Okay,” she said eventually. “But only when it’s finished. Will you let me take a picture or two?”

  He could understand why she wanted it to be the best it could possibly be, but he wasn’t sure that waiting was wise. She could suffer another one of these attacks of inadequacy and ruin it.

  “Will you promise me that you won’t damage it?”

  “Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze evenly. “I promise.”

  “No matter how discouraged you get?”

  “Yes,” she repeated, this time with a trace of impatience.