Love Me Later
Page 28
Kate had loved her “Blancs”—not that Lissa had reached that lofty, last-name-only level of acclaim—while Cole had wanted to use them as bonfire kindling. Where his wife had touted Lissa as an up-and-coming genius, mark her words, Cole had questioned the mental faculties, let alone the artistic integrity, behind paintings that could potentially be copied by a posse of well-trained five-year-olds.
Lissa stiffened, all the welcome-to-the-big-tent theatrics draining away in an instant. “Unlike you, Mr. Rathlen, I don’t consider my work a joke.”
He bit his tongue. She flushed when she got mad. The pinkening of the smooth skin rising above her black corset held his interest more than the paint she’d thrown at the canvas. “I’m critical, Ms. Blanc. I have not called you a joke.”
Mostly because circumstances hadn’t thrown him the chance. He was a photographer, not an art critic, so other than becoming a bona fide Internet troll, he lacked a platform to rant about the “talent” his wife had so admired.
“Sorry,” Lissa sneered, examining her nails. “I was having a gin and tonic in my mind just now and missed your point.” Slender arms wound across her chest. “What gives you the right to criticize work you can’t possibly understand?”
“A mouth,” he said dryly, “and a rampant superiority complex.” Might as well be honest. Certainly less had allowed fools to masquerade as fine minds.
Turning to the painting once again, he marveled at the blobs Kate would have called brilliant. “There,” she’d have informed him, “where the green prowls toward the black but can’t reach it for the yellow. That’s the essence of disrupted nature—a park.”
“What’s interesting about you,” Cole told Lissa casually, “is what you don’t understand. Art is more than critical acclaim. If great, ordinary people connect with the work.”
And pay for it. He let the undeniable thrust of his words hang between them. Lissa had wormed her way into a few of New York City’s most hallowed show spaces, but a big seller she was not.
Her do-or-die smile receded. Inexplicably, Cole wanted that particular danger to return. But professional relationships, like all others, began best in honesty.
“I hear the highway business is booming these days.” He paused, eyeing her famously philanthropic parents in the crowd. Together they ran one of the country’s largest construction companies. “Rumor has it these swank gallery showings have more to do with your family’s heavy machinery than your hand with a brush.”
The red blooming on her chest darkened to an angry purple. He got his smile back, but only in the form of a tight stretch of lip set against clenched teeth. A shame because, apparently unlike him, Lissa Blanc was photogenic as hell. The pictures he’d seen had portrayed her looks with staggering accuracy. They’d highlighted the thick chestnut hair that now gleamed auburn in the light and revealed the dark eyes that assessed him with cool intensity, at odds with the delicacy of the surrounding bone structure. They’d even done justice to her skin, showcasing the exact shade of white tulips, at least when she wasn’t flushed with anger or frustration.
Most of all, her pictures had hinted that Lissa Blanc would be magnificent were she to stretch those generous lips wide with the proper smile she withheld.
“So that’s it. You don’t like it.” Lissa stated the obvious, probably still out mentally sucking gin and tonics. “You sought me out for an appointment, then traveled to Manhattan, all to share your—with all due respect—less-than-worthy disdain.”
“No.” Taking her in, he drifted closer and breathed deep. Notes of fruit and an unrecognizable spice hit like an apple orchard in August, one he badly wanted to explore. Kate had smelled like Chanel No 5.
He froze, rejecting the thrall of long-denied senses rushing to life. Betrayal started small. First an innocuous observation, then… a crisis. Had Cole not believed in the power of temptation so ardently, he’d still have a wife.
Shame lashed at the part of him he kept on lockdown, not for insulting Lissa’s painting or for tearing a chink in her armor, but for enjoying the tease and wondering what color she’d turn next.
He cleared his throat. Yet Lissa’s the one I need, the one Kate would have chosen. Choosing Lissa himself—no matter how distracting the woman or how virulently he disagreed with his wife’s prematurely-silenced admiration—would pave a path to absolution.
Without uttering a single superfluous syllable, he made his point, “I want you to paint for me.”
Acknowledgments
As they say, it takes a village, and this book was no exception. From the very beginning, so many offered their valuable time and advice. I’m truly at a loss for how to express my gratitude to all the people who read and made this book better: Amy Denim, Erin Bradmon, Julie Sheridan, Lindsey Donakowski, Viola Estrella, Jen Maitlen, Larie Brannick, Lorna Bryan, Kimberley Anderson, Spice Jones, Krista Hwang, and Judy Adams.
I owe so much to the lunch crew, filled with women who’ve blazed trails in both traditional and self-publishing: Thea Harrison, Courtney Milan, Jenn LeBlanc, and Elise Rome. Thank you for your willingness to share all you’ve learned with a newbie who redefines the definition of inquisitive.
Viola Estrella deserves special thanks (and a case of red wine!) for all she did to mentor me over the last two years. Not only did Vi volunteer to be one of my first beta readers, she introduced me to my agent, designed my gorgeous cover over at Estrella Cover Art, and answered endless questions about “the biz” along the way. You’re the original badass, Vi.
My agent, Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein, provided valuable insight into this book and my publishing choices. While I ultimately decided to embark upon an indie career, I am so grateful for her intellect, her honesty, and her guidance.
So many others, literally too many to list, provided moral support and a “get back on the damn horse” when the waters got rocky. To all my friends with the Colorado Romance Writers, I salute you! I count myself lucky to be part of such a vital, supportive organization. And to my “non-writing” friends and family, who didn’t bat an eye when I embarked on this lark and have remained steadfast in their belief in my ultimate success, thank you for being such wonderful people.
And, finally, I could write sonnets to my husband, Tom. Not many husbands would appreciate their spouse’s decision to chuck lawyering in favor of writing. You made sacrifices for my books, and you’ve made them with a smile and said, “I love you, and I always will.”
Ditto.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Gateway Publishing Ltd.
Copyright © 2014 Libby Rice. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. www.libbyrice.com
eBook Edition ISBN: 978-0-9903536-0-7
Paperback Edition ISBN: 978-0-9903536-1-4
Cover design by Viola Estrella
Edited by Kathie Middlemiss