Provocative

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Are you?”

  “Yes,” I say, offering nothing more, and nothing more is how I always liked that man.

  “How did he die?”

  “Heart attack.”

  “My mother too, and I’d say that’s ironic, but it’s a common way to die.”

  “It is common,” I say, and, I silently add, and the perfect cover up for a murder. Or two.

  She sets her fork down. “Right. Common. And this is a bad subject. I think I’m done eating.”

  “You’ve hardly touched your food, Faith.”

  “I just…like I said. It’s a bad subject.” She starts to get up and I catch her hand. “Sit with me.” She hesitates but nods, settling back into her seat. I glance at her plate, then at her, letting her see the heat in their depths. “I’m going to make you wish you ate that.”

  She studies me right back for several beats and then picks up her fork. “I’ll eat, and I’ll do so because my growling stomach will distract me when I paint, and then I’m going to paint while you get ready for your call.”

  “Not about to let it be about me, now are you?” I challenge, but I don’t give her time to fire back. “Are you going to finish painting me?”

  “Maybe,” she says, her eyes filling with mischief. “We’ll see if you inspire me again.”

  I remember the way she’d thrown that painting on the ground, the way she’d shouted at me. “If inspiring you means making you think you can’t trust me, I’d rather not.”

  “There are other ways to inspire me,” she says, taking a bite of her food.

  “How should I inspire you, Faith?”

  “I’ll consider letting you know when it happens.”

  “All right then. When did you first get inspired to paint?”

  “I always wanted to paint. From Crayola to paintbrush at age five. And Sonoma is filled with art to feed my love.”

  Now she says love, but she’s used the word “like” when talking about wine. “And you went off to college with a plan to turn it into a career.”

  “I did.”

  “And your parents had to be proud.”

  “They were supportive enough, but as an aspiring artist, I’m just like half of L.A. trying to make it to the big or small screen. No one takes them serious until they do it.”

  “And Macom? Did he take your art seriously?”

  “He’s an artist.”

  “So he understood the struggles.”

  “Yes,” she says, reaching for the bottle of water. “I suppose you could say that.” But something about the way she says those words, says there’s more to that story than meets the eye.

  I open my mouth to find a way to that story, when her cellphone rings and I finish my food, while she pushes to her feet and walks to the counter where her purse, which looks like it’s seen better days, sits. She retrieves her phone and glances at the screen. “The mechanic.” She answers the call.

  I stand and dump my take-out plate into the trash, and Faith seals hers and walks to the fridge as she listens. “Okay. Yes. No. Just please tow it to the winery. Thank you.” She ends the call and stuffs her phone into her jeans.

  “That didn’t sound good.”

  “All I heard was the price and I’m not spending that without another opinion and some time. I have another car at the winery. I’ll just have to ask you to please take me to pick it up when you leave.”

  “And when am I going to leave, Faith?”

  “According to my hard limit, before we sleep tonight.”

  “No sleep then,” I say. “So be it.” I don’t give her time to argue. “Let’s call Frank.”

  “My paperwork related to the winery is all upstairs. We should call with the documents in front of you. And if you want, you can just work up there while I paint. Or not. You’re welcome to stay down here.”

  “Upstairs,” I say, the significance of her going from not wanting me up there, to wanting me up there not something that I miss. Neither is the fact that she just invited me to sit at that desk, where I can nose around in anything I want. And she has to know this. I gather my work and we head up to the studio. Faith straightens the desktop, but sets a stack of files on the desk. “Taxes. My father’s will. Collection letters. Random other items. If you need anything specific that isn’t there, just ask.”

  I reach for a file that catches my eye and flip it open, looking at the forty-five-million-dollar valuation of the vineyard, with the note for thirty-five. “Faith, you could sell for ten million?”

  “That evaluation was done before that freeze and the substantial loss of business that followed. I still believe it would sell for a profit, but nowhere near that. But I’m not selling, Nick. This is my family business.”

  “Did your mother know the value had gone down?”

  “I tried to tell her that, but she didn’t care enough to listen.”

  Or she did listen, and the freeze lowered the price and made the vineyard a steal for someone like my father, who would rebuild it. It makes sense, except for the fact that my father wouldn’t put money down on something Meredith Winter had no right to sell. He was not that stupid. Not to mention the fact that both of them are dead now. “Let’s call Frank.”

  She pulls her cellphone from her pocket and dials on speaker. “Faith,” Frank answers. “What’s happened? Is it the bank harassing you again?”

  “I’m here with Nick Rogers.”

  “Ah yes. Nick. I knew this call was coming when you brought up his name. I might be old but I still have instincts. Am I being fired?”

  “No,” Faith says quickly, her eyes meeting mine, a silent plea for me to say the right thing right now.

  “I’m going to play second counsel,” I say. “But I need to be brought up to date.”

  Frank doesn’t hesitate. “Well for starters, we have no will, and the bank sees this as a chance to make a profit, thus they have a substantial interest in claiming the property.”

  Speaking to Frank I say, “Which is an asinine claim that will never hold up in court. I can name five ways to Sunday how they’re pushing the limits of the law.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Have we made it clear to the bank that you’ll counter-attack?”

  He gives a long, rambling answer, that amounts to “no” and does not please me. “We need to order another evaluation of the property,” I say.

  “It’s not her property until we clear this probate issue,” he argues.

  “The bank has an end game here,” I say. “The way I see this, they’re either representing a buyer who has some interest we don’t yet know in this property thus wants to force Faith to sell. Or frankly, Frank, they’re hoping you’re weak enough to let them take it from her before she can sell for a big payday.”

  Faith’s eyes go wide, and I hold up a hand, while Frank says, “I don’t want to let, Faith down.”

  Faith shuts her eyes and then says, “You won’t, Frank. You won’t.”

  “We need to get you out of probate,” Frank says. “Then you can take a loan on your winery and pay off the debt your mother left you.”

  “But the bank won’t let that happen,” Faith says.

  “They will,” I assure her. “I’m taking care of this.” Her eyes meet mine, shadows and worry, in their depths, and I repeat, “I’m taking care of this.”

  She gives a tiny nod. “And I’m going to leave you two to your attorney talk.” She tugs on her shirt to whisper, “I’m going to go change.”

  I nod this time, watching her depart, before I take Frank off speaker phone. “Tell me the players in this game.”

  He begins a detailed rundown of who is involved with what and what’s happened, which on his part is a pathetic example of legal work. He has no fire left in him and Faith needs fire on her side right now. Fifteen minutes later Frank and I end the call just before Faith appears in the doorway, now wearing paint spattered jeans and a t-shirt. “Well?”

  “He’s not done enough. I will. W
e’ll talk through a plan before I leave.”

  She studies me several long beats. “Thank you, Nick.”

  “Tiger on this, sweetheart. That’s a promise.”

  “Tiger,” she says. “There’s a coffee pot in the corner. And a mini-fridge with random creamers which shouldn’t be expired because they last a scary long time when you think about it.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” I say. “You’re going to paint?”

  “I am.”

  “Will I get to see the results?”

  She gives me a coy smile. “Maybe.” She slips away and I glance down at the paperwork in front of me, craving time to review it in more detail I don’t have.

  I grab my briefcase from the ground beside me and pull out my MacBook and review what North has sent me. That’s when Mozart fills the air, a sign that Faith remembers I work to classical music. And what’s crazy is that no other woman has ever known that about me. I’ve only just met Faith, and I’ve let her see parts of me no one else has. I stand and walk to the door to find her standing at the easel, my painting no longer on the ground. It’s in front of her, pleading for her brush, and I wonder if she’s still looking for the lies that I’ve sworn I despise but can’t stop telling her.

  NICK AND I SPEND THE rest of Saturday afternoon and into the evening inside my studio, him in my office, and me sitting in front of a once-blank canvas with a brush in hand. And I do what I love, what I have denied myself for far too long.

  I paint and I do so without hesitation.

  I paint without what I now believe to be the fear of the past few months. Fear of failure. Fear of disappointment. Fear of seeing myself through my brush when I do not like who, and what, the past few months have made me.

  I paint Nick.

  His strong face.

  His piercing eyes.

  His tattoos. The Tiger. The words: An eye for an eye.

  And I do all of this while trying to understand a man who seems to understand me perhaps too well. I also do so quite entertained by the way he paces my office, throws paper balls at a trashcan, talks to himself, and then repeats. His creative process. And what I like about seeing this is that the hard work beneath it shows me what’s beneath the arrogance.

  Amazingly too, at random times, I look up from my canvas to find him standing at the office door, his broad shoulder resting against the doorway, a force that consumes the room while he intently watches me work, and I do not withdraw. I’m okay with him being here. I’m okay with him observing my creative process when I have never allowed anyone to watch me work, including Macom. But then, Macom was always critical of every creative choice I made and Nick…is not.

  But then Nick and I are new to each other and time changes people. I’ve often wondered when my father became my mother’s man-child rather than her husband. Was it instant? Was it at one month? One year? Ten years? Every question leads me back to the paint on my brush, and the man in my office. That’s the great thing about a one-night hard limit: It never has time to go sour. The person can never see too much or know too much. And yet, any minute now, Nick and I will be at two.

  Unless I send him away.

  As if he senses where my thoughts are, I feel him, rather than see him, step back into the doorway of my office. And after hours of this push and pull of wordless energy between us, I don’t have to look at him to know that one of his broad shoulders rests on the doorway. Or that his piercing blue eyes are on me, not the sun fading and washing the green from the mountainsides, soon to disappear and leave them black. But this time, I do not allow him to watch me work.

  Instead, I clean my brush and remove my smock. Then, and only then do I lift my gaze to meet his. He doesn’t speak, but his piercing blue eyes are softer now, but still warm. So very warm. Not the kind of warm that says he’s about to strip me naked and remind me why I can’t resist him. But warm with affection, and that kind of warm, mixed with the fact that he sees too much and knows too much, should be exactly why I send him on his way.

  Hard limit: One night.

  Inhaling, I tell myself that limits are not made to be broken. My limit was meant to protect me.

  I start walking toward him, and I know immediately why I need that protection. Because he affects me on every possible level, inside and out. Because as those warm eyes of his track my every step, I feel his attention like a touch when it’s not a touch at all. I feel this man in so many ways, inside and out, that I have never felt with another. And I have only just met him. What impact might he have on me, what things might he see in me that I do not want seen, if he were with me beyond my hard limit?

  There is little time for me to answer this question, as my path to him is short, and when I stop in front of him, he doesn’t touch me. Free will. The decision about tonight is in the air.

  “All done painting?” he asks.

  “For now,” I say.

  “That’s a good answer. It means you plan to pick up that brush again tomorrow. Do I get to see today’s work?”

  “No,” I say without hesitation. “You already saw it before it was finished.”

  “And what, Faith, makes a painting of me ‘finished’?”

  “I’ll know when it happens.”

  “But we’ve established it won’t be tonight.”

  “No,” I say. “It won’t be tonight.”

  There’s an inference there that he will be around to see it another day, or night, but unique for Nick, he doesn’t push. Instead, his gaze lifts beyond my shoulder and he scans what I know to be the now shadowy horizon. “It’s peaceful here,” he says. “I see why you were drawn to this place.”

  “It’s easy to feel alone here.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Yes,” I say, my stare unwaveringly on his, my answer the truth, for so many reasons I will never explain to anyone.

  His eyes hold mine as well, and that warmth I’d seen in his stare of minutes before expands between us. “Tonight, Faith?”

  “No,” I say softly, because while alone is good, he feels better. “Not tonight.”

  His big hands come down on my waist, and he pulls me to him, our bodies flush, and when his gaze lowers to my mouth and lingers, I know he is thinking about kissing me, I desperately want him to kiss me. But he does not. Instead he says, “How about those gourmet pancakes?”

  “Mine or yours?” I ask, finding a smile isn’t so hard to come by with this man as I’d once thought.

  “I’m thinking we better go with mine,” he says. “But we’re going to have to make a run to the store.”

  To the store.

  With Nick.

  Hard limit number two: Just sex. Don’t get personal.

  I have to put the brakes on everything but sex.

  I should tell him this, but he’s laced his fingers with mine, and he’s leading me toward the stairs.

  I repeat my new hard limit often for the next hour. In my head, and not to him, and I do this for what I consider a logical reason. He likes a challenge. I’m not going to issue him one on something I can’t afford for him to win. So over and over, I mentally recite: Hard limit number two: Just sex. Don’t get personal.

  The first road block to maintaining that limit is that I go to the store with Nick in the first place. I should have said no to this trip, but the fact that he’s absolutely consuming, assuming, and arrogant while there, should have made limit number two easy to follow. The opposite proves true. I learn little things about him and he learns little things about me, like that I hate mushrooms, and he hates olives. He loves orange juice and so do I. Cereal is a necessity, the more marshmallows the better.

  In other words: Hard limit number two is a failure. And when it comes to Nick Rogers, resistance is futile.

  The man finds ways to touch me the entire time we’re in the store, drawing attention to us that he seems to enjoy, while I dread the wagging tongues to follow. And I know every moment that I should tell myself to back him off, but I don’t. Instead, I help him l
oad up bags with nuts, strawberries, cream, and various other items, and before long we are back in my kitchen, both of us working on his specialty pancakes. And we’re talking too much. We have on too many clothes. This is not what I signed up for, but I don’t stop it from happening. Somehow, we end up on my bed with our clothes on but no shoes, eating pancakes. Talking again.

  There is so much—too much—talking going on. And yet I’m doing a lot of the talking. What is wrong with me? “Tell me about your most memorable courtroom experiences,” I prod, my excuse for prodding, my need to finish my painting, to finish the story in his eyes.

  Nick laughs. “Where to start?” He considers several moments. “Okay. How’s this for memorable? I’m giving the biggest closing argument of my very young career at the time, and I have enough adrenaline pumping through me to fuel an eighteen-wheeler. I’m halfway through it and it’s going well. Really damn well.”

  “And you nailed it.”

  He laughs again, that deep, sexy laugh, that seems to slide up and down my spine, before landing in my belly. “No. I would have, or so I tell myself to this day, but the judge let out a burp so loud that the entire courtroom went silent and then burst into laughter that went on eternally.”

  “Oh my God. Did you—what did you do?”

  “I had to finish, but no one was listening. Thankfully no one listened to the opposing counsel either.”

  “Did you win?”

  “I won,” he says, setting our empty plates on the nightstand behind him, before adding, “and I was proud of that win then, but looking back, the case was a slam dunk anyone could have won.”

  I study him, charmed by this man who gave me humor over the grandeur I’ve expected. “Humble pie from Nick Rogers? Really?”

  That warmth is back in his eyes. “There’s much about me that might surprise you, Faith.”

  “So it seems,” I say, but I do not tempt fate, or his questions, by once again telling him the same is true of me, nor do I have a chance to be lured into that misstep. He reaches for me and pulls me to the mattress, his big body framing mine, his powerful thigh pressed between mine. “There is much about you that has surprised me, Faith Winter, and I should tell you that I am so far from fucking you out of my system that I haven’t even begun.”