Provocative

by Lisa Renee Jones

  I open the door to find North standing in front of me looking like Clark Kent if Clark Kent was skinny and geeky. But that’s the thing about North. There’s more to him than meets the eye. He will slay you with facts. Superman-slay you. And damn it, there is more to Faith than meets the eye. I know it. I feel it. And I need to find out what and now, before a surprise-slays me.

  It’s eleven when I finally have my house to myself again, and I walk into my office and bypass the pine carpenter-style desk that is the centerpiece. Instead, I walk to the oversized brown leather chair in the corner, a floor-to-ceiling window beside it, and sit down. Beside it is a stack of paperwork from my father’s office and another from his home, that led me to Meredith Winter in the first place. I’ve been through it all ten times, and there is nothing that gives me the answers I need. Who killed him? I’ve told myself that it is simply my need for closure, but the truth is, the idea that that man was thwarted by anyone but me in his death, claws at me. Bastard that it makes me, I wanted the man around just to show him his son would always be better. Someone took that from me. And my gift to myself is to find that person. That’s my form of grief. There is no guilt to it.

  Guilt.

  That’s what I keep sensing in Faith, but my mind goes back to lying in bed with her last night. When she’d asked if I had cried for my father. When she felt she should have for her mother.

  Guilt.

  Acceptable guilt that I can live with and help her live with. It’s nothing more than that. I let that thought simmer for several minutes, with space between myself and Faith, and I still feel the same. She didn’t kill my father or her mother.

  I remove my phone from my pocket and dial her. She picks up on the second ring. “Nick,” she says, and damn it, how is it that my name on this woman’s lips, can make my cock hard and my heart soft.

  “Hey, sweetheart.”

  “Did you finish your prep?” she asks, once again showing concern about my work that I’ve never given another woman a chance to express. Maybe they would have. Maybe they wouldn’t have. I just didn’t care to have them try.

  “We’re ready,” I say. “We’ll kill it at every turn.”

  “I’m glad,” she says. “I was worried I’d distracted you.”

  “You do distract me, Faith, but in all the right ways. Where are you?”

  “My house,” she says.

  “I thought you were staying at the winery?”

  “I was inspired to paint.”

  I lean back in the chair, shutting my eyes, imagining her standing at her canvas, beautiful, gifted, focused. “Are you painting me, Faith?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Actually I am. I’m still trying to understand you. Now that you’re gone…”

  “Now that I’m gone, what?”

  “I don’t know. Something.”

  “Something,” I repeat, opening my eyes and standing up, facing the window, the glow of the lights on the Golden Gate bridge before me. “There is something, Faith,” I add, wanting her to tell me what I sense. “What is it?”

  She’s silent for several beats. “Are we talking about you or me, now?”

  “You,” I say. “I’m your attorney and the man in your bed and life. What haven’t you told me?”

  “We’re new, Nick. There’s a lot I haven’t told you.”

  I feel those words like another claw in my heart and every warning that’s been thrown at me the past few hours digs it deeper. I have never been a fool who thinks with his dick. I’m not starting now. “I want you to tell me, but you know I’ll find out.”

  “Of course you will. You enjoy a challenge. Goodnight, Nick.”

  She hangs up.

  THAT CONVERSATION WITH FAITH HAUNTS me most of the night, and by seven in the morning, I’m at work behind my desk on the fifth floor of the second tallest building in San Francisco. By eight, I’ve woken up three clients, and drafted a contract. All while wearing a black suit with a royal-fucking-blue tie that reminds me of Faith’s dress. Her ripped dress, and that moment in the car when I’d leaned in and tasted her. The pencil in my hand snaps.

  It’s at that moment that North pops his head in the door. “Can we—”

  “No,” I say. “If you aren’t ready now, you won’t be. You have three hours before they arrive and you need a set of balls. Go find them.”

  He shoves his glasses up his nose. “I actually know the location of my balls. The use of said—”

  “I’m not going to teach you how to hold your balls,” I bite out. “Go play with them alone.”

  He has the good sense to leave. Unfortunately, my assistant appears in the spot he’s just left. “I have coffee,” she says.

  “You never bring me coffee,” I say, but nevertheless, in a rush of bouncing brown curls and sweet smelling perfume, a cup is in front of me. I glance at it and her. “When I ask for coffee, you say ‘fuck you.’ What the hell is going on?”

  “It’s my twentieth wedding anniversary,” she says waving fingers at me. “I woke up to a sapphire this morning. I guess at fifty I’ve still got the goods.”

  And at fifty, she’s beautiful and devoted to one man, where Meredith Winter was devoted to many. “Happy fucking anniversary. Use my card and go to a ridiculously expensive dinner, and I need two things from you.”

  “Item one,” she prods.

  “I need a dress.”

  She arches a brow. “Is there something you need to tell me, boss?”

  “Royal blue. A slit in the front. Expensive.”

  “I need more than that, starting with size?”

  “Petite.”

  She grimaces. “I’m good or I wouldn’t be working for you, but that isn’t good enough.”

  “Look up artist Faith Winter. It’s for her. Make your best guess.”

  “Am I shipping it to her?”

  “Reid Winter Winery in Sonoma,” I say, and hand her a sealed note. “Include this and have it delivered by tomorrow. And I need a gift to celebrate an artist’s success that says art. A necklace. A paintbrush. Both. I need options. Lots of options. I’ll know when I see it.”

  Her eyes go wide. “Do I dare believe a woman finally has your attention?”

  “I hope like hell the one standing in front of me.” I push to my feet. “I need to know where Montgomery Williams of SA National Bank is by the time I get to my car.”

  “You have a deposition here in two hours.”

  “Good thing this won’t take three hours.” I round the desk and head for the door, on a mission to see a man I despise and try not to think about the woman I can’t stop thinking about.

  Considering I work in the financial district a few blocks from SA National, Montgomery Williams isn’t hard to find. He’s at a coffee shop a block from my office, and considering he’s short, fat, bald and has a twenty-something girl sitting next to him with her hand on his plump thigh, I have no issue interrupting.

  I walk to their booth and sit down across from them. “How’s the wife?” I ask. Montgomery turns red-faced. The girl straightens and looks awkward. I simply arch a brow.

  She purses her ridiculously red lips. “I’ll see you tonight, honey.” She slides out of the booth.

  “Was she talking to me or you?” I ask.

  “What do you want, Rogers?”

  “Faith Winter,” I say, and while I mean it in the literal sense, he simply registers the name.

  “Why do you care about Faith Winter?”

  Aside from the best blow job of my life, she’s as talented and intelligent as she is good in bed, but I leave out the details. “I’m representing her.”

  “You work for some of the biggest companies on planet Earth. You don’t do probate.”

  “I’ll supply a cashier’s check for a hundred and twenty thousand dollars, which covers her back payments and six additional months. In exchange, I want you to stop holding up the execution of the probate, and drop all claims aside from the promissory note to the winery.”

  “We w
ant a re-evaluation of the property before we agree to anything.”

  “With what end game?”

  “We’ll decide when we have the re-evaluation.”

  “And you ask why I’m involved,” I say. “I’m involved because we both know this isn’t just probate.” I lean closer. “And we both know you’re shitting your pants that I not only know you’re fucking around on your wife but that I’m now involved.”

  I stand up and head for the door, my gut telling me that the winery is connected to murder. And the murder is connected to Faith. I step outside and dial Beck, who answers on the first ring. “The bank wants the winery, which means someone powerful wants that winery. You need to find out who and now. And get someone watching Faith around the clock,” I say, doing what I should have done before now. “Today.”

  “I assume we don’t want Faith to know she’s being watched?”

  “No,” I say. “We do not.”

  “Then you don’t trust her.”

  I inhale deeply, cool air blasting me right along with his words that he’s using to bait me. He wants me to argue my reasoning, outside of her guilt. But I don’t give people ammunition to analyze me, and his paycheck is all the justification he deserves. “Just do it,” I say. “I’m headed into depositions. Text me when it’s done.” I end the call.

  I WOKE ON THE HARD floor of my studio, a smock over my clothes, and I have no idea how I let that happen. Or maybe I do. Nick was on my canvas and in my mind, but he wasn’t in my bed downstairs, where I’d be alone again. And those words: I’ll find out. They’d haunted me then and do now as I sit at my desk inside my tiny office at the winery. Those words made me ask again: Are we friends or enemies? I’m confused and irritated that I somehow ended up in a black skirt and royal blue blouse today, the color reminding me of that damn dress he’d ripped. Of that moment he’d leaned in and licked me and then promised—I won’t stop next time.

  “Why are you flushed?”

  I look up to find Kasey in my doorway, his gray suit and tie as perfect as the work he does here at the winery. “Too much caffeine. Can you shut the door when you come in?”

  “Of course,” he says, doing as I’ve asked, and glancing around my box of an office. “Why do you stay in this hole? There are three bigger choices, including mine.”

  “You get the corner office,” I say, as he sits down. “You’re the boss. I’m just your assistant.”

  “You never wanted to be here. It hurts my heart that you feel you have to be. I can handle this place, Faith.”

  For the first time in a long time, I take those words to heart, despite knowing they’re true. “You can run this place. You do run this place. But there was my mother. No one but me could manage her.”

  “Yes, well,” he says. “That’s a conversation we should have, Faith. She’s gone. I hate to say it, but that changes things. You are an artist. You have a budding career. You had a show again, which I still hate I couldn’t get a ticket to, by the way. How was it?”

  “Wonderful,” I breathe out, because I just can’t stop myself. “It was really wonderful.”

  “Good,” he says, his eyes warm with a pride I never saw in my father’s. Not in regard to my art. “There is no reason you can’t get back on that path.”

  “Right now, we need to talk about the legal issues.”

  “And the bill collectors,” he says. “We’ve been avoiding the white elephant in the room too long. Why wasn’t your mother paying the bills? What don’t I know?”

  Nick’s words echo once again in my mind: What haven’t you told me, Faith? And I shove them aside. “I don’t have the answer to that question. We’re making money. Not what we were before we lost part of the vines, but we’re making money. And we never stopped making money. Right now, without a will, I’m locked out of her accounts and there are legal steps I have to take to protect us. Nick Rogers, who you met yesterday, is coming on board to help.”

  “I looked him up and I was hoping like hell you were going to say that.”

  I breathe out, thankful to Nick for the relief I see in Kasey’s eyes right now. “He wants to call you. He’s weeding through this mess and needs input.”

  “I’m not sure how I can help, but of course,” he says. “Anything to get this mess behind us and get you out of this office.” He narrows his gaze on me. “There are at least three people here on staff that could step up and take on more, so you can get back to being you.”

  “You know my father—”

  “Was obsessed with you running this place. We all know that, but Faith, life is short. This place is my life. It’s why I get up in the morning and do so with excitement. Have you said that for even one day of your life that you’ve spent here?”

  Yes, I think. This past Friday when I knew I had a show and I was going to stay at my house.

  “I didn’t think so,” he says, when I haven’t answered quickly enough. “You pay me well, little one. I get incentives that made a difference before we lost the vines. This is not your dream. Go chase your dream.”

  “The bill collectors—”

  “You must think I’m a delicate flower,” he says. “I am not. You have Nick Rogers now. You’ll get your mother’s bank accounts unlocked and get everything up to date.”

  I pray he’s right. And as confused by Nick as I am right now, I’m glad he’s involved.

  “Your mother threatened to fire me,” he adds, “and I believed she’d do it. That’s why you had to run interference. The bill collectors can’t fire me. Only you can and frankly, getting you the hell out of here is job security.”

  His walkie-talkie buzzes. “I need you, Kasey,” comes a female voice.

  “I’ll be right there, Shannon,” he answers, speaking to our garden manager before refocusing on me. “Stay at your house, like you did this weekend. It’s a start. And I’ll talk to Nick and whoever else needs to help you get past this probate issue.” His walkie-talkie goes off again. “Ah. I need to go.” He’s on his feet and at the door, gone before I can issue the words, “Thank you.”

  I let out a breath and turn my attention to my computer, doing what I haven’t done up until now. I google Nick Rogers. The minute his picture fills my screen, my stomach flutters, and I know that I am in trouble with this man. He affects me. He peels back the layers that are safer left in place. And he doesn’t trust me, which means he’s going to keep peeling. And why do I want to be with a man that doesn’t trust me?

  My phone buzzes. “Faith, you have a call,” the receptionist tells me. “Bill—”

  “Winter,” I supply, anger spiking through me. “I’m not available.”

  “Understood.”

  I inhale and let it out. My father did not forgive him. I don’t believe that for a minute. I key up my email and my heart skips a beat at Nick’s name, when I haven’t even given him my email address. I hit the button to open it and read:

  Faith:

  What the fuck are you doing to me?

  Nick

  P.S. Don’t stop.

  I sit back in my chair and pant out a breath, feeling so much right now. Feeling too much. I am one big emotion and I can’t even name it. Maybe because I stopped recognizing anything but guilt. Guilt over not wanting this place. Guilt over my answer to my father. Guilt over so many things with my mother, when she doesn’t deserve to make me feel that. I know that. But I still feel it.

  But these feelings Nick stirs in me…They aren’t guilt. But I think there’s some fear. Yes. Fear. I hate fear. It’s a weakness. But I am afraid of Nick and yet, that fear is almost a high. Everything about that man is a high that I crave. Maybe I’m obsessed because he’s on my computer screen right now and I want to feel him next to me again. I want to call him and hear his voice.

  And yet I don’t.

  I can’t.

  Why am I being this stupid?

  He will find out who I really am. He will.

  I stare at the email and I wonder how his deposition is going. I imag
ine him sitting in some big conference room, his suit as perfect as his body, those keen eyes of his intimidating the hell out of one person after another. I imagine those eyes, which tell a story I have yet to understand.

  My phone buzzes again. “Another call,” the receptionist says. “This time it’s a man named Chris Merit.”

  “What? Chris…Merit? The artist?

  “I don’t know. Should I ask?”

  “No. No, put him through.” The line beeps and I answer. “This is Faith.”

  “Faith. Chris Merit.”

  “Chris. Hi. I…thank you so much for including me in the show this past weekend.”

  “Thank you for being a part of it, Faith. I understand we have offers on your work.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes, but your agent underpriced you. I’m going to adjust your prices unless you have an issue with it.”

  I hesitate but I say what I have to say. “I need that sale.”

  “You’ll get your sale, and then some, and for what you’re worth. Trust me, Faith.”

  When Chris Merit tells you to trust him and it relates to art. You trust him. “Why are you doing this?”

  “My wife has decided to showcase a mix of new artists and established artists in her gallery in San Francisco. She and I both took a liking to your work. In fact, we’d like to showcase you in the gallery for our grand opening.”

  “You…I…” Oh God. I’m never speechless. “Thank you.”

  “I’d like you to present at least four pieces. You pick, but I’ll need them in the gallery in four weeks.”

  “Of course. Not a problem at all.”

  “Excellent. We’re holding a little VIP party at the gallery this weekend, Saturday night, which just happens to be Sara’s birthday. We’d love it if you’d come. And bring a guest, of course.”

  “I’d love that. Thank you.”

  “You have talent, Faith Winter. Believe in you. We do.” He ends the call.

  I set the phone down and I’m not a crier. Not at all, but my eyes pinch. My chest is tight. This is my dream. This is everything. I grab my cellphone to call Nick. That’s my first instinct. To call Nick. but I don’t dial his number. He’s in a deposition. I can’t believe he’s the one person I wanted to call. But I still do. Instead, I dial Josh and he answers on the first ring. “He called you,” he says.