“I know you run your life, sweetheart. I can’t tell you enough times, I get it. Let me be clear. It makes me hot. It makes me want to bend you over the counter. But let me also be clear. I’m now your attorney, Faith. Unless we’ve deviated from that plan, I’m getting that door.”
I purse my lips and release him, only to have him lean over, kiss me, and then he’s on the move in about two flat seconds. “At least he has his pants zipped this time,” I murmur, taking off after him, overwhelmed by Nick’s desire to protect me and I tell myself to be smart enough to accept it, but to be strong enough not to count on it, now, or ever.
Clearing the hallway, I enter the foyer at the same moment that Josh, dressed in khakis and a button down, walks in the front door, but he doesn’t seem to notice me. He shuts the door and faces Nick, the two men crackling with opposing male energy. “Nick Rogers, was the name, right?” Josh asks, and I’m not sure if he’s being a smart ass or playing coy, considering he knew Nick’s name immediately at the art gallery.
Nick doesn’t respond. As in, at all. Seconds tick by and then more, and I can’t take it. I have to break the tension before Josh does, and it ends badly for him. “Josh,” I say, hurrying forward, remembering now. “I forgot you were stopping by.”
“Obviously,” he says, his tone acidic. “And clearly this isn’t the time to have a serious business discussion. Call me Monday and we’ll talk through decisions that need to be made, or perhaps, forgotten.” He turns and walks out of the door.
Certain this is about Macom, that this is personal not professional, I’m instantly angry and indignant, and I charge after him, not bothering to shut the door behind me. “Stop,” I call after him, a cold gust of morning wind blasting me but I’m too hot-tempered to care.
Thankfully, he does as I’ve ordered, halfway down the stairs, turning to face me. “Now is clearly not the time, Faith.”
“Because I dare to have a life again?” I demand, walking to the edge of the porch.
“That man in there is none of my business,” he says. “But you are.”
“My work is your business,” I snap back.
“Exactly,” he agrees. “And when I find out you’ve finally started painting again, that’s a good thing. A distraction is not.” He motions to my shirt. “You’re wearing an art shirt. This gives me hope that we’re back on track. You need to stay focused and get your career back on track.”
“I painted Nick,” I snap back before I can stop myself. “He inspired me to paint. Having a life again inspired me to paint.”
He goes very still. “You painted a portrait?”
“Yes. I did. And I might do more. I might do a lot of things, but not now. Now, I have to save the winery and you know what, Josh? I know you need people who make money for you. I understand if you can’t wait this out with me.”
“I do need to make money, Faith. But more than anything I need clients who are actively involved in the career I’m representing them for. You need to be painting. I need to be placing your work. I got a call after the show, from a representative of the L.A. Art Forum. They’re interested in your work for next month’s show.”
My eyes go wide at the mention of one of the most prestigious events in the art world. “They are? They never—”
“They are now because you actually got out there and did something for your art. But I’m not saying yes, when you’re telling me now is not the time. So think about that, Faith. How much can you fit in your life right now? Cut what won’t work, and if that’s your art and me, I need to know and know quickly.” He turns and walks away.
And I stand there, watching him cross to his white Porsche, because why wouldn’t my agent drive a Porsche like my ex, who he’s best friends with. Still pissed, really baffled about what just happened, I don’t wait for him to leave. I walk into the house. The minute I’m inside, Nick shuts the door and pulls me to him.
“That wasn’t about your art, sweetheart,” he says, his hands at my waist. “You know that, right?”
“I don’t know what the hell that was.”
“He wants to fuck you. He’s probably in love with you.”
I blanch. “What? No. No. No. He’s best friends with my ex.”
“Come on, Faith. Some part of you knows that man wants you. And you need a new agent.”
“Because you think he wants to fuck me?” I demand, angry all over again at these men trying to run my life. I push away from him, darting down the hallway, where I can have some coffee and get more wired and angry at the rest of the world.
Nick’s on my heels, I can feel him, a heavy force of alpha pain-in-my-ass man right now, that while sexy as hell at moments, is not now. I enter the kitchen and round the island, fully intending to keep it between us, but he has other ideas. I turn and he’s already with me, pressing me against the counter, his big, delicious, pain-in-my-ass body, crowding mine.
“He wants to fuck you, Faith. He’s thinking with his dick, not his head. That isn’t good for you.”
“And what are you doing, Nick?”
“Sweetheart, I have no hesitation in telling you that I want to fuck you, and then do it all over again. But this isn’t about me and you fucking. This is about your career.”
“You don’t know me enough to care about this.”
“When do I get to care, Faith? One week? One month? Two? Tell me. Because this is new fucking territory for me.”
“You can’t—”
“I do and the one thing that your dickhead agent and I agree on is the fact that you need to paint. And I’m going to make you paint. And when you do, you need an agent who isn’t thinking about fucking you instead of selling you.”
“He’s my ex’s best friend,” I say, returning to the explanation I’ve given myself every time I felt awkward with Josh.
“You said that already and it still changes nothing.”
“You want me to change agents because he wants to fuck me and so do you.”
“Sweetheart, I’m going to make sure you’re well enough fucked that he never has a shot. And that’s only going to piss him off more. Be ready. His wrath is coming but before it comes. Tell him to set up that show he mentioned.”
“It’s not that simple,” I argue. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand that I want to fuck an artist. So you’re going to be an artist.”
I blink at the ridiculousness of that statement. “So I have to be an artist because you want to fuck an artist?”
“You are an artist, Faith. End of story and everything else you do is simply a distraction.”
“Including you?”
He strokes a lock of hair behind my ear. “I’m okay with being second to your art.”
Once again, Nick surprises me, delivering an answer that is nothing that I expect, and everything I didn’t even know I wanted.
“Second to your art,” he adds. “But not another man. New hard limit.” He cups my face. “Whatever this is, it’s exclusive. You fuck no one else until we decide it’s over.”
“And you, Nick?” I ask. “Will you fuck someone else?”
“Sweetheart. You have my full attention and not only do I want no one else. I want all of you and I’m not going to settle for any less.”
I’m not sure what he means by this. All of me. And I don’t ask because he can’t have all of me. Which is why this should be the end. But when he kisses me I’m alive. When he touches me I’m on fire. When he’s with me, I’m not alone, even though I would be with anyone else. So when he says, “Hard limit, Faith. Only us,” I don’t push him away and I don’t push back. I live dangerously. I say, “Hard limit. Only us.”
And just like that, Nick has proven I was right about him from the beginning. He is dark lust. He is all-consuming. He is an escape I crave. Maybe he’s even an obsession as he’d called me. But more so, he is dangerous. I sense it. I feel it like I feel this man in every part of me inside and out.
But then, so am I.
; NICK PACKS UP HIS WORK and most of my documents, and we head to the winery with the intent of having lunch there and reviewing his legal plan with the bank. And now, sitting in the passenger seat of his car, I am aware of this man next to me in ways I have never been aware of another man. It’s not about looking at him and being aroused. Or looking at him and thinking about how sexy he is. It’s about how I feel him inside and out. The way I know him beyond logic and reason. And maybe that means things are going too fast, but to where? We agreed. No love. No forever. This is just “us” and “us” makes me feel something that isn’t guilt and pain. And I need that. I guess that means I need him, and that’s a terrifying thought, to need someone else. My father needed my mother and that made him a fool.
“What are you going to do about Josh?” Nick asks.
I breathe out. “Have a heart-to-heart with him.”
“You can’t reason with a man who’s thinking with his dick, sweetheart.”
“I really hope you’re wrong about his feelings for me, but even if you’re not, he kept me on despite Macom telling him to drop me, and he placed my work when I was doing nothing to support it myself. No agent would have done that.”
He glances over at me. “Macom told him to drop you?”
“Yes,” I say. “I learned that he’s all about an eye for an eye. I left him. It wounded his ego. He lashed out. And as much money as he makes Josh, Josh had the courage to tell him that professional and personal are two different things. I’d like to think that’s about my work, not some personal agenda.”
“Your work is exceptional, Faith,” Nick says. “And any inference you took from my evaluation of Josh’s interest in you otherwise was not intended. I also know his reputation. He’s a good agent, but he’s a good agent acting badly. He indirectly threatened you today when he said he’d cancel the your art in the forum, and he did so because I was at your house.”
“You’re right. He did, but he deserves to have me talk to him not drop him right when I might find some success that he helped create. Like I said, and this is big: That man kept me on and helped place my work, when I was doing nothing to support that work.”
He turns us into the winery property and glances over at me again. “Loyalty is a good quality, but once a man is in the place he’s in with a woman, there’s no room for delicate conversation. My advice that you didn’t ask for: Be frank.”
“You say this like it’s from experience.”
“I’ve never been shameless over a woman. Ever. But as I said. Love and hate wear a fine line and I’ve fought many a battle in court over that line.”
“Noted, counselor,” I say. “Be direct. I really don’t have a problem with direct.”
He gives me a sexy, half smile. “And yet you’re damn good at talking in circles. You would have been a hell of an opponent in court.”
“Oh no,” I say. “I hate the spotlight. I would have hated the way people would stare at me and be hanging on my words.”
“And yet your art puts you in the spotlight.”
“My art is the spotlight,” I say. “And that’s how I like it.” He turns us into the drive of the mansion. “And speaking of the spotlight. Because I’ve never brought a man here, everyone is going to be talking about the two of us.”
“Not even Macom?”
“No,” I say simply, saved from more when we pull to a halt at the front of the mansion.
But Nick still tries. “Just no?”
“Just no,” I say, as the valets open both of our doors, but my mind is already on the way my father hated the idea of me with an artist, and how much I was certain my mother would like me with Macom a little too much. Not for the first time, I wonder how my father would have justified forgiving that one.
I make small talk with the valets, and Nick rounds the car to join me, his hand settling at my lower back, and the heavy weight of their stares stiffens my spine. “They’ll get used to me,” Nick promises, and the fact that he knows what I feel, and that he’s made it clear he’s sharing that burden with me, is more impactful to me than anything else he’s done to this point. It’s not about sex. It’s not about legal matters. It’s about a small moment of time that he recognized as mattering to me.
We walk the steps and as we reach the top level, the doors are opened for us, and just inside the foyer, Kasey greets us. Tall, and silver-gray at fifty, he is a good looking man who is friendly, well-liked, and still manages to be reserved in his personal life. “Fair warning,” he says. “We have a bridezilla in the house. I’d recommend taking cover.”
I laugh. “You are a bridezilla expert,” I say and as he glances at Nick, surprise in the depth of his stare, Nick offers him his hand.
“Nick Rogers.”
“Kasey Gilligan,” Kasey greets, and the two men shake hands and exchange small talk that doesn’t last. Kasey’s walkie-talkie goes off on his belt. “Trouble in the garden,” a voice says.
“That’s about the bridezilla,” he says. “I need to go focus her on her vows.”
Guilt over his dilemma, and my weekend away, wash over me. “Do you need—”
“No,” he says. “I do not need your help. I’m quite capable of running this place.”
“I know that.”
“This weekend gave me hope that you might mean that statement.”
He leaves me no room to argue. In a blink, he’s gone and Nick glances down at me, arching a brow. “It’s not about how he handles the management of the winery. It’s about the challenges that were my mother, and now the bank.”
“Then let’s go talk about overcoming those things,” he says. “Because my hard limit was made with an artist.” He urges me forward and I guide him to the stairwell and a path behind it with a second stairwell leading down. The way he pushes me to paint, affects me in ways I’ll analyze later, alone.
Once we’re in the basement level, where there is a gift shop and a restaurant, we find our way to a rare vacant table among the fifteen that are mostly occupied, the floral tablecloths and designs in the center my mother’s choice.
“What do you recommend?” Nick asks, grabbing the menu on the table, and I wonder if he knows the way he fills the room, or the way men look at him with envy, and the women with desire.
“Any of the five quiche choices,” I reply. “The chef trained in France, and apparently, that’s a thing there. She knows her quiche.”
“Quiche it is,” he says right as Samantha, our waitress appears.
Nick turns his attention to her, and I watch, waiting for her gorgeous brunette bombshell looks to affect him, but if he notices, he shows no reaction at all. In fact, his hand finds my knee under the table, his eyes looking in my direction more than not.
And it’s only moments after we’ve ordered that, compliments of another waiter, we have coffee in front of us, and I find myself in the center of Nick’s keen blue eyes. “I can’t believe you’ve never been to Paris, considering the wine culture.”
“My parents went. I stayed home.”
Awareness that shouldn’t be possible flickers in his eyes. “They invited you. You didn’t want to go.”
“I wanted to go,” I say. “Just not with them.”
“How bad was your relationship with your mother?”
“I’d say it ranked about where you describe that of yours with your father.”
“And everyone here knew?”
“No,” I say. “We put on a good show.”
“But Kasey knew.”
“Kasey didn’t know until after my father died and I was forced to become the wall between the two of them. Honestly, it’s made Kasey and I closer. He loved my father and was confused by his relationship with my mother as well. I mean, my father was tough, charismatic and dynamic in business. His willingness to take my mother’s abuse was illogical.”
“Love is blind,” he says wryly. “Or so it seems.” He changes the subject. “I like Kasey, by the way.”
“He’s a good man,” I say. “And a
friend.”
“How have you explained the bill collectors?”
“He knows there are probate issues, which knowing my mother as he did, does not surprise him.”
“So you aren’t going to lose him?”
“No. Not now. But I’m nervous about this dragging on too long and giving him cold feet.”
“I’d like to talk to him next week, if you’re okay with that?”
“Why?”
“I’m looking for any insight into your mother’s activities he might give me that, as an outsider, might stand out to me, and not you.”
“Of course,” I say. “That seems logical. I’ll tell him you’ll call, but you have your deposition, Nick. You need to focus on that.”
“I can walk and chew bubblegum at the same time, sweetheart. I do it all the time.”
Our food is set in front of us, and in a few moments, we are both holding forks and Nick takes a bite. “Well?” I ask.
“Excellent,” he approves. “No wonder you never learned to cook when you could eat here.”
We chat a moment and I’m struck by the easy comfort I have with this man in any setting. It’s not something I have with people and I’ve often thought that I stayed with Macom so long because I needed a connection to another human being. Not because I needed him.
“Tell me about the show Josh mentioned,” Nick urges, a few bites into our meal.
The show again. He’s mentioned it twice, and I haven’t even let the possibility of being in that show sink in yet, nor do I want to talk about it. “You listened in on the entire conversation between myself and Josh, didn’t you?”
“Unapologetically,” he says, his eyes challenging me to disapprove.
But I don’t. I feel envy instead at his ability to be frank and unapologetic about pretty much everything. Who he is. What he is. How he feels about his father. God. To be that free. What would it be like?
“You told him you painted me,” Nick says.
“I shouldn’t have,” I reply without hesitation.
“Why?”
“Because I used it to justify me being with you.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes. “I realized that,” he says. “I wasn’t sure you did.”
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