by Stacy Gail
Rejection.
On feet she couldn’t feel, she moved to his desk, flipped her tablet open, turned it on, then propped it up to display the image she’d completed of a much happier time. Staring at her depiction of a sleeping Payne, she wished with all her heart she could go back in time to that moment, when she hadn’t known what rejection felt like when it came from him.
“Hope you like it,” she whispered, and headed for the door.
Though Becks called herself an idiot for listening hard for him to call her back, she made it all the way up the stairs and to the bedroom in deafening, damning silence.
Becks tried not to look nervous as she smoothed a hand down the leather skirt she’d finally given in and bought for the occasion. For a moment she wished she’d listened to her first instinct to wear flats. Now that her feet were grumbling in stiletto black lace-up boots, their seductive “fuck-me” allure didn’t offer a huge amount of comfort. She should have remembered that artists in general had the reputation of being eccentric, not sexy. She probably could have gotten away with wearing her Betty Boop slippers and no one would have looked twice at her.
At the thought of Betty, Becks’s preoccupied gaze slid over the crowd gathered in House Of Payne’s first-floor gallery area until she found Payne. He looked exceptionally dangerous tonight. She wasn’t surprised when her heart banged against her sternum as if wanting to tunnel its way out and run to him. In jeans so dark they appeared almost as black as the House Of Payne shirt he wore under a black leather biker jacket, he seemed like a deliciously menacing dark hole amidst a glittering backdrop.
And it glittered in more ways than one. Stars from every facet of society imaginable surrounded him, most of them women and all of them looking like the human equivalent of moths to a flame. In the crowd fawning over him were at least two Hollywood A-Listers, a reality-TV personality, a couple members from the local media outlets and a supermodel who no doubt was breaking the city’s teen-curfew law by simply being there.
By any standard, the exhibit was a smashing success.
The way Becks felt, though, it may as well have been a world-class flop.
Something big had changed in Payne. In them. And she was a veteran of recognizing all the not-so-subtle hints. He was throwing her way.
Story of her life.
Her jaw clenched until her teeth hurt. Making herself face the thought that Payne had decided she was a disposable kind of person ripped a jagged hole in her. It was like she was bleeding to death inside, and it took every ounce of her control not to curl up into a ball of agony. This was supposed to be her greatest night, a night that all artists dreamed of, but triumph was the last thing she felt now.
She’d give anything just to be alone in a room with Payne and ask him why he and everyone else in her life wound up not being able to love her.
That question ground down on her like a drill until she was half-convinced her heart had been hollowed out. She knew he lived for House Of Payne. Hell, that unrelenting drive threading through everything he did made him irresistible in her eyes. All too well she understood his determination to keep the House on the international map when it came to all things cutting-edge and new.
That was how he found her, after all.
Was it possible his obsessive interest in that facet of the business had transferred over to her, and now that the exhibit had successfully launched the new line of 3D tattoos offered by House Of Payne, his interest had waned?
That horrible dread twisted like poison through her until she gave serious thought to throwing up right there in front of the world’s Beautiful People. Not that she’d care. Nothing mattered, because the suspicion that had been growing for days was now making a terrible kind of sense. Nothing lasted forever, especially relationships. She knew that better than anyone. Payne wasn’t the type of man to use seduction to manipulate a woman into giving him what he wanted; she knew that. But she could see how, subconsciously, his interest in her and her art could have gotten a little… confused. Now that he had the art, he no longer needed the woman who’d created it.
And there it was.
Payne didn’t need her.
But oh, God, she needed him.
Her eyes squeezed shut on a wave of pain. Stupid, she berated herself as her throat burned. She was so fucking stupid, setting herself up for this kind of fall. A few soft words and some amazing sexy times, and she was all about rolling over and exposing her soft underbelly. If she suffered now, she had no one to blame but herself.
Before she could stop herself, Becks opened her eyes and looked back to Payne, only to find his attention was locked unwaveringly on her. The intensity of his gaze was startling, almost as if he was trying to read her mind. But before she could figure out if that was good or bad, her vision was blocked by a wide chest covered in pale blue, button-down silk.
“Forgive me, but you seem to be in some distress.” A French-accented baritone seduced her ear, and in surprise Becks looked up into ice blue eyes under ebony brows. A semblance of a smile touched the man’s mouth but never reached those startling eyes. “Perhaps you need a drink?”
“Oh. Um.” A drink wouldn’t help. It might uncork her quiet misery and make it spectacularly public, but it seriously wouldn’t help. “No, thank you.”
“You are the artist, no? Becks.” When she slanted the man a cautious look, he smiled, again only with his mouth. “A solemn, deep-thinking artist is not difficult to spot amongst preening peacocks who wouldn’t know art if it came up and kicked them in their pampered asses.”
“Do I really stand out that much?” That wasn’t good.
He offered one of those expressive shrugs the French seemed to be famous for. “Perhaps. But I’ve also seen you in interviews connected with House Of Payne. I decided that, should I get the opportunity to meet you, I would leap at the chance.”
“I see.” She had absolutely no idea if she should feel creeped out by that or not.
“Ivar Fournier, though most simply know me as Ivar. Enchanté.” He graced her knuckles with a brush of his lips before meeting her eyes over their clasped hands. For a second she glimpsed a flash of genuine concern there. “Such cold fingers, ma belle. Are you sure you are well?”
No. “I’m fine, thank you. Just, you know… nervous, I guess.”
For a long moment he simply stared at her before he leaned, ever so slightly, into her space. “They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I suspect this must be the truth, for I have always had a certain…talent for being able to see through these windows, past the pretty surface glitter and into what most people do not want me to see. I can see a person’s true self.”
“I see.” She didn’t, but it seemed the polite thing to say.
He tilted his head with a wry smile, almost as if he’d read her thoughts. “Forgive me for saying this, but you are not nervous.”
“I’m not?”
“No. Nerves are not what I see at this very moment in you. I see beauty, and a deep appreciation of it. I see strength, because you know of no other way to be. But above everything else, and so vast it touches all of who you are, I see a great understanding of what suffering is.”
“Um…” She wasn’t sure what to say about that. All she knew was that this guy was either a fruitcake, or he had a rare set of eyes that could apparently see everything while revealing nothing that went on inside of him.
Must be nice.
“Suffering, of course, is a necessary evil for any great artist. This I understand all too well.” He gave her fingers a squeeze, and she had the strangest feeling that despite his blank, arctic eyes he was trying his best to warm them. “We who achieve greatness with our expressions of art do so because all too often we have known only ugliness, and pain. It is out of self-preservation for our sanity that we make our corners of the world more beautiful with our creations. We do it because we fear the ugliness will win, and swallow us whole.”
Becks stilled, and with renewed interest she searche
d his face. He was physically beautiful, and if Payne hadn’t already etched himself into her psyche as her personal definition of masculine perfection, this guy would be a major contender for first place. Ink black hair swept back from a square brow, cheekbones a girl could cut herself on if she wasn’t careful, and a jaw that could have been chiseled with the aid of a square ruler, he was beyond gorgeous. But, like him, she didn’t see the surface glitter, distracting though it was. It was his eyes that she found haunting, if not downright sad. So totally closed off and shuttered, she didn’t have any choice but to believe that whatever defenses he had built to lock out the world, it had also locked him in.
She looked at their hands, still joined, and she realized she was now the one holding onto him. “Maybe for some of us, ugliness is all we’re destined to have.”
“Don’t give in, ma belle. There is always something to fight for. You just have to find it.”
The effort it took to not look Payne’s way nearly killed her, and to her horror her eyes began to sting. “What if you do find it, but it’s out of reach?”
“There is no such thing, if you want it badly enough.” His fingers tightened on hers. “But I have upset you. Forgive me. Should we perhaps find the lovely Scout and see if she cannot find you a quiet room for a few—”
“Becks.” Smoothly another hand came down over theirs and freed her fingers from Ivar’s. She looked up to see Payne smile at the other man while draping a possessive arm around her shoulders. When his hand slid over her upper arm in what felt like a reassuring caress, confusion swarmed her. What. The. Hell. He’d been avoiding her like she carried a contagion. Yet now without warning he was gripped with the touchy-feely urge? Maybe he was reacting to another male’s presence like a reflex action. Baffled, she stared up at him and wondered when it was that he’d become so impossible for her to read. “I’m glad you could make it tonight, Ivar. I had a feeling you would have more appreciation for the art displayed here than most.”
“As I was just sharing with your magnificent new artist, I have an appreciation for all things beautiful.” He bestowed another smile at Becks before sending a nonchalant glance around the room. “Including your assistant. I’ve been trying to locate Scout, but she seems determined to avoid me.”
“Scout’s busy behind the scenes and won’t be available for a few weeks after tonight. I’m sure you’ll connect eventually. Until then, help yourself to the open bar and enjoy the exhibit.” With a departing nod and smile, Payne steered Becks in the direction of the lobby, where the crowd thinned noticeably. “Ivar Fournier,” he murmured just above her ear, and his breath was a hot caress she couldn’t help but soak up like a sponge. Which made her a complete moron. If she had any survival instincts left, she’d scrunch up into a protective ball and pray she wouldn’t be destroyed when he pulled the plug on them. “French-Canadian. Former child model, former runway model, former supermodel. He’s now arguably the hottest fashion photographer in his field. He’s been a pain about wanting to put together a photographic collection of tattoo designs. Apparently he seems to think that just because he wants something, everyone should trip over themselves in their haste to give it to him. That, I hope,” he added, coming to a stop so he could pull her into the circle of his arms, “explains why I interrupted like I did. I know you can take care of yourself, but I didn’t like the way he kept holding onto your hand. I get to hold your hand. No one else.”
“I’m…” The relief at his admission was so vast she automatically fought against it. As nice as his words sounded, his hands-off actions over the last few days spoke much, much louder. “Wow. Okay, I’m just going to say it. You’ve got me seriously confused.”
A faint frown darkened his eyes. “About what?”
Was he frigging serious? “I’ve been getting the very clear message for the past several days that you were no longer interested in holding my hand, or any other part of my anatomy. But now you are? Or is this just a show for the public eye?”
His expression froze with a guilty awareness that stabbed through her like a dagger. “Becks—”
“I thought at first it was because you were so busy. But since I was just as busy and I still wanted to be with you, I finally figured out that was where things were going wrong. You haven’t wanted to be with me. You’ve been avoiding me.”
He stared down at her, his jaw knotting, as if biting down on something he didn’t want to say. Then he drew a slow breath.
Tell me I’m wrong. Payne, please tell me I’m wrong and needy and crazy. Tell me…
“You’re right. I have been avoiding you.”
Something vital shattered inside. She knew what it was. It was the death of hope. Of dreams. Of love. The pain of it was so excruciating, her entire being went into shutdown. All she could do was stand there and try not to scream.
“But it’s not what you think.”
Oh God. Now came the clichés. She’d rather be flayed alive than hear the let-her-down-gently bullshit.
“Don’t worry about it.” The words came out as ragged as she felt. Bleak anguish clamped around her chest like an icy fist until it was almost impossible to make her lungs work. But she didn’t need to worry about unimportant things like breathing. Not when he’d just killed her. “I get it. Really. And I’m not into drama, so no worries there. I’m not going to make a crazy scene. If it’s over, it’s over. That’s fine with—”
“Stop.” Shock zipped through her at the violence packed into that hissed word. Then, when she at last lifted her gaze to his, she realized it wasn’t violence at all. It was sheer, unadulterated desperation. “What the fuck, Becks? Why would you ever think we’re over? How could you say you’re fine with that? Jesus, why is it so fucking hard for you to believe that I will always want to be with you?”
Because no one had ever wanted to be with her. Not in her world. “There’s no such thing as always. Not for me.”
“There is when there’s love, baby. Miracles like always and forever happen all the goddamn time when there’s love.” He suddenly looked beyond her shoulder, and his expression hardened into a mask that looked like it had been carved out of a glacier. “Try and remember that over the next hour or so, Becks. Try and remember that we can have that miracle if we just… love.”
Bewildered and alarmed that he’d guessed she’d fallen in love with him, she looked over her shoulder. “Why? What do…?” Her voice stopped in its tracks along with her heart when she saw her parents move into the lobby surrounded by four beefy security guards.
Chapter Nineteen
The noise from the exhibit, which had evolved into a laughter-spiked party and paparazzi free-for-all, vanished with the shutting of Payne’s office doors. To Becks’s amazement, Scout was already there and appeared to be waiting for their arrival. Her face showed no surprise as she greeted them with a courteous nod.
“Mr. and Mrs. Delgado, I presume. Welcome to House Of Payne. I’ve made coffee, or if it’s too late for caffeine, I could offer you herbal tea or a soft drink. Champagne, I feel, would not be appropriate for this meeting.” As she spoke, Scout handed them each a glossy black file with the House’s logo embossed on the front. “These files are for you. I suggest you look through them thoroughly before we proceed. Now that you’ve had a moment to think about it, may I get you anything?”
“What is this?” Looking as disgruntled as any kid who’d been made to stop shoving toddlers off a swing set, Martin Delgado glared down at the file he held. “What the hell is this?”
That’s what I’d like to know, Becks wanted to say. Instead she kept her silence as she moved to perch on the edge of Payne’s desk to watch the show unfold.
“You sound disappointed.” The mockery in Payne’s voice was so subtle it wouldn’t have surprised Becks if her father was oblivious to the razors hidden in every syllable. “I guess gate-crashing your daughter’s debut art exhibit didn’t go quite as you’d hoped?”
“Gate-crashing?” Unable to keep silent any l
onger, Becks looked from Payne to her parents. Only then did she catch her mother’s painfully embarrassed expression, the look she often got when she felt the need to apologize for her husband’s behavior. “You mean you didn’t invite them?”
“No way. I don’t want them anywhere near you, and after tonight I’m hoping you’ll never have to deal with them again, unless it’s on your terms.”
“You rich guys, you’re all the same.” Her father seemed to have trouble pushing the words out through the barrier of his clenched teeth. “You always think you can do whatever you want.”
“So speaks the guy who rolled up uninvited like he was king of all he surveyed.” Payne didn’t bother to hide his contempt as he returned the other man’s hostility in spades. “What were you going to do, publicly humiliate your own daughter by telling the world she ‘murdered’ your son?”
“She did,” came the fiery answer, while Janine’s shamefaced grimace told the truth behind their presence at the highly publicized exhibit. “Everything I’d ever hoped for and dreamed of was killed because she was drunk.”
“For the millionth time,” Becks shouted, coming to her feet in fury, “some moron manning the ER phones fed you the wrong information. Why is it everyone knows this except for the two of you?”
Janine shifted. “Actually, the police did tell us it was Justin who was—”
“You were the one driving,” her father yelled until his wife stopped with an inaudible mutter. “Alcohol was involved. You were the one who crashed at a high rate of speed. I did the math.”
“And came up with the wrong answer.”
“If you’ll have a seat, maybe we can shed some light on the subject.” Scout came from behind the Delgados and guided them to a sofa before they knew what was happening. “Once you open the files I’ve given you, you’ll see the cover page is actually a printout of House Of Payne’s launch party press release. That party occurred four years ago, the same night your son died and your daughter was seriously injured in a car accident two streets over from where we are now.”