“Time to stop being the big fish in a pond?”
“Exactly. Moving represented the next logical step in my growth, and I arrived with a smile on my face and stars in my eyes, but not enough hard information about my new business representatives.” She fiddled with the sheet, folding a corner into the world’s smallest accordion. “I ignored rumors about financial problems, and some not-so-legit deals. A couple months ago the owners got busted for selling forged Warhols on eBay, and the gallery shut its doors soon after.”
“That sucks. Can you get your work back and jump to another gallery?”
“Unfortunately it’s not that easy. They sold five of my pieces—presumably collected payment in full—but only paid me partial commissions for two. In theory, I can sue them for what they owe me, but Mit…um…my legal adviser said he didn’t see the Feds unfreezing their assets to pay my judgment while the mail and wire fraud charges drag on. Meanwhile, despite marketing myself like crazy to other reputable galleries, no one’s calling.”
“Screw ’em.” He stared at the ceiling again, a slight furrow in his brow. “Represent yourself. Get a good photographer and a web designer and open your own virtual showroom online. Who needs a gallery?”
She appreciated the show of support, but she knew better. “I do. In part because nobody knows who I am, so I need a gallery to publicize me and present me to potential collectors, and in part because my works are three-dimensional and respond to nuances of light and shadow. People need to view them in person to get the full impact.”
“I can’t drive a block around this city without running into an art festival or street fair—”
“And there’s nothing wrong with art festivals and street fairs, but many of my pieces are large, and all of them are breakable.” He was picturing embedded flower paperweights and Murano vases. She did six-foot waves of indigo glass curling into millefiori foams of silver, cobalt, and sapphire. Her vases came complete with cascading glass blossoms dripping with prisms of dew, attracting enough breathtakingly fragile glass bees and butterflies to make a Dutch master weep. “I can’t cart them around to every art festival in Atlanta. Even if the breakage risk didn’t deter me, my price point makes those venues a waste of time.”
His eyes cut back to her. “What’s your price point?”
“If you have to ask…”
“And yet you’re broke.”
“Because I haven’t gotten paid. Those slick-bellied sons of guns owe me over forty thousand in commissions, but I can’t devalue my name because of my current circumstances. If I started churning out twenty-dollar paperweights and fifty-dollar vases to sell at coffee shops and farmers’ markets, I might as well kiss my fine-art prospects good-bye.”
“What about your pen pals at the Solomon Foundation? Do they have a gallery?”
“The Solomon Foundation has everything.” She closed her eyes and imagined the palazzo on the Grand Canal. “Museums throughout the world, a network of galleries and collectors, plus patronage. They offer fellowships to selected artists. The foundation provides fellows with studio space and living quarters to enable them to pursue their projects.”
“You should apply for one of those fellowships.”
“I did, actually. The week I learned I’d been hosed by my gallery I kind of panicked and sent out applications and proposals to a bunch of different programs. Hence the letter you received by mistake.”
“And…?”
The prompt made her smile. She opened her eyes and winked at him. “They offered me a nine-month fellowship starting in January.”
“Congratulations.” The sincerity in his voice quickly shifted to curiosity. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? You could have celebrated the news with your family.”
“What? And steal the spotlight away from our big announcement?”
“We could have celebrated both.”
She let go of the sheet and snugged into his “guest” pillow. Her eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. She had to leave soon, or she’d fall asleep in his bed. “The two pieces of news don’t really mesh all that well.”
“How so? I’m all for your career.”
“Hmm. The fellowship is in Venice.”
The mattress shifted as he raised his head. “Venice, Italy?”
“Uh-huh. I’m afraid my career opportunity comes at the expense of my relationship.”
He settled back against his pillow. “Huh. I can’t believe you’re choosing Venice over us.”
“It’s the chance of a lifetime. If you really loved me, you’d support my decision.” Yeah, like Mitch. He’d encouraged her to apply, mentioned the firm had offices in Rome and how he could visit often and steal her away for weekends in Paris. And keep her at arm’s length the rest of the time, while he planned his wedding to another woman.
“This works, you know.”
“Yeah. I figure we make the announcement in between Christmas and New Year’s, and explain to our families we’re postponing the wedding until I return. Then during the time apart we realize we’re not meant to be. We break up. An Italian prince sweeps me off my feet, we have half a dozen bambinos, and live happily ever after.”
“I think they dismantled the Italian monarchy after World War II, but I have no doubt the men of Italy will line up to sweep you off your feet and make you happy.”
“Easy for you to say.” But then again, maybe it wasn’t. She detected a hint of something cautious beneath the humor. He didn’t believe in happily ever after. She wished she could see his face, but it was too much trouble to open her eyes.
“Are you falling asleep on me?”
“I’m awake.”
“Okay. So answer me this. What did I get you for your birthday?”
She frowned into the darkness. “Nothing. We didn’t know each other yet…or again…whatever.”
“We didn’t?” His rumbly voice sounded a little soft around the edges.
“No. I moved here in April. My birthday is February fourteenth.”
“Valentine’s Day?” His finger traced her upper lip. “How’s that working out for you?”
Hearts and flowers mixed with cake and presents? Could be worse. But she had a hard time finding her vocal cords to reply. Instead she rested her head against his shoulder, enjoying the combination of fresh-washed T-shirt and his scent. A random thought skipped through her mind. “You lied to me.”
“Huh?”
“You don’t sleep in the nude.”
“I dressed up for you.” He flexed his shoulder to scoot her head into a more comfortable position. “You do.”
She ran her hand along the collar of her robe. “I dressed up for you.”
“Savannah?”
Her name sounded sexy in his low, lazy voice. “What?”
“No need to dress up on my account.”
Chapter Eight
Beau’s feet were freezing, but the rest of him sweated under a strangely heavy fleece blanket. A way-too-warm fleece blanket. Apparently the blanket agreed, because it wiggled, and shifted, and then grew a leg and kneed him in the balls hard enough to make him grunt—and wake up.
A mass of blonde hair greeted his bleary eyes, and beneath the wayward strands he saw Savannah’s sleeping face. Dark blonde lashes didn’t so much as flutter. The imprint from the edge of the pillowcase creased one cheek. She had his blue comforter wrapped around her like a cocoon, with one smooth, slim leg kicked free and slung across his waist.
His abused balls immediately forgave her, and now he sweated for entirely different reasons. Reasons like imagining sliding his hand along her thigh, easing her onto her back and unwrapping her from the layers of blanket, sheets, and robe until he reached the warm flesh beneath. Waking her slowly—and then quickly—until she tangled her fingers in his hair and screamed loud enough to let everyone in the entire building know she was having a good morning.
Bad idea. They’d both agreed not to act on the attraction. Best to remove himself from temptation, because every se
cond he remained here with her he got a little dumber. He slid out of bed as stealthily as possible and turned off his alarm. Whatever plans she had this morning, he doubted they required her to wake up at six. She snuggled into the warm spot left by his body and mumbled something that sounded a lot like, “Gotta check the pie.”
Sweet dreams, Savannah.
He started his shower with a blast of frigid water, which took care of the lingering disagreement between his dick and his brain. After dressing for work, he headed to the kitchen and filled his commuter mug. Then he took a ceramic mug from the cabinet for his guest, but noticed the one sitting behind it and grabbed that one instead. It suited the occasion better. A brief rummage through his junk drawer turned up a notepad and pen. He scribbled a message to his fiancée and left both note and coffee on the nightstand next to sleeping beauty, who had managed to kick off all the covers and most of her robe in the time he’d been gone. She lay facedown across his bed, with one of nature’s best works of art on full display. Two shallow dimples guarded a perfect heart-shaped ass. For a pulse-pounding moment he imagined leaning over her, bracketing the spectacular sight, and rousing her with the kind of kiss destined to leave a mark on her and make him late for work. He could practically hear her moan his name in a sleep-husky voice, and feel her arch up, lift her hips to offer him—
A slap in the face, at worst, and a whole lot of complications, at best. Get moving, Montgomery. The only thing you’re riding today is a desk.
A half hour later he stood in the break room, pouring his second cup of coffee when his partner, Hunter, wandered in. The rangy blond propped his hip against the counter, sipped his coffee, and smirked. “So, Humpty Dumpty, do anything exciting for Thanksgiving?”
Beau deliberately took his time topping off his mug and setting the carafe back on the warming plate. He waited until his partner had a mouthful of coffee before saying, “Got engaged.”
Hunter choked, and then erupted into coughs. “Holy shit. I did not see that coming.”
“Me either.”
Hunter pulled a small flashlight from his chest pocket and shined the beam into Beau’s eye. “Exactly how hard did you get hit in the head?”
He jerked his head away. “Cut it out. My brain’s functioning just fine. In fact, I had a flash of genius.” To prove it, he laid out the pertinent points of his so-called engagement.
“Holy shit,” Hunter repeated at the end of the explanation. “You’re temporarily in bed with the tasty little blonde across the hall?”
“We’re not ‘in bed,’ blockhead.” But they had been, last night, and waking up next to her had felt better than he cared to admit.
“Hunter Knox, I’m not your maid, and I’m not cleaning the rig all by myself,” an exasperated female voice interrupted. “Fetch your coffee, kiss your work-wife good-bye, and get your ass out to the garage.”
Beau glanced past his partner to an irate brunette who managed to look like a Hollywood version of a paramedic despite the standard-issue white shirt and dark blue utility pants. “Hey, Ashley.”
The shift supervisor’s flashing gray eyes switched to him and grew a little less irate. “Hi, Beau. How’s the head?”
“Still attached.”
“Try to keep it that way. The fewer calls I have to ride out on with the deadweight you call a partner, the better off the greater Atlanta area will be.”
“Pardon me for taking an extra minute, whip-cracker. My partner just told me he got engaged.”
“Oh, wow. Congratulations.” She crossed the room and gave him a hug. “I’m really happy for you.”
Over her shoulder he sent Hunter a glare he hoped conveyed his utter What the fuck? But his so-called partner refused to look him in the face. Ashley drew away, and Beau dredged up a smile for her. “Thanks.”
“I’ll want all the details later.” She took a step back. “And you have to bring her to the holiday party and introduce her.” Her attention clicked to Hunter, and her smile disappeared. “If you’re not out helping me clean the truck in three minutes, I’m going to back it over you.” With the threat hanging in the air, she turned on her heel and walked out.
As soon as she left, Beau punched his partner hard in the chest. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Ow.” Hunter punched him back. “Nothing. I wanted her to know why I got distracted. You’re the one pretending to be engaged. I’m just making it look real.”
“I’m pretending to be engaged to my parents, and Savannah’s family. Not my coworkers. Not every ER doctor, nurse, and orderly in Atlanta.”
“So what if they think you’re engaged? Where’s the harm? It’s not like you’re dating anyone else, or almost dating anyone, or contemplating dating anyone.”
“But now I have to ask Savannah to come to the holiday party or everyone here will assume I think she’s too good for them. And when we break up, I’ll be the poor sap who couldn’t close the deal. No offense, but I’ve had enough sympathy for a lifetime.”
“Okay, fine. Sorry I didn’t think it through that far.”
“No, you were too busy trying to talk your way off Ashley’s shit list. It’s a lost cause.”
“I don’t know why.” Hunter picked up a stray napkin from the counter, crumpled it, and hurled it into the trash. “She treats everyone else around here like a professional, but with me, she’s all, ‘Get your lazy ass out to the garage and don’t hand me any excuses.’ I’m a nice guy. People like me—especially female people.”
“Could be you’re trying too hard. She smells the desperation on you.”
“What desperation? Normal women find me charming, dammit. I’ve got plenty of friends who can testify to my charm.”
“That looks a whole lot more desperate than you realize, Hunt.”
“Says the engaged virgin.”
“I’m no virgin.”
“You might as well be, for all you’ve used it lately.”
A memory of half-naked Savannah in his bed spun through his mind, taunting him more than anything his partner said. He held up a hand to reject all of it—the flashback, the powerful longing, the entire conversation. “I’ve used it.” One-night stands counted, and while he didn’t hook up often, he hadn’t taken a vow of chastity.
“Not in a meaningful way,” Hunter argued.
True. He avoided meaningful, unless one considered a few sweaty hours of strictly physical release with a like-minded partner meaningful. Even as the thought formed in his head, the image of Savannah stubbornly resurfaced. Time to shift the focus of this discussion away from him. “Your definition of meaningful involves having ‘plenty of friends.’ I think it’s safe to assume Ash doesn’t find the whole man-whore thing endearing.”
“Why should she care? She’s engaged to some jarhead—God help him—and I have a few morals about that kind of thing, anyway. All I’m asking is for a little respect.”
“I think you’re SOL, Aretha. Maybe you remind her of an ex, or something.”
“So I get my ass kicked just for showing up? How is that fair?”
“Why am I still waiting, Knox?” The question sailed into the break room from down the hall. Ashley’s patience had expired.
“Life’s not fair, Hunt.”
Hunter finished the last swallow of his coffee and banged the mug down on the counter. He tossed Beau a cocky smile. “I love a challenge.”
Beau waved at his partner’s back and tried hard not to laugh. Then he prayed for Atlanta, because Hunter and Ashley wouldn’t survive twelve hours together in the rig.
…
Savannah inhaled sheets that smelled like Tide, and the scent immediately transported her to her formative years. Were it not for the underlying notes of aftershave and testosterone, she might have believed she lolled in her childhood bed. But the havoc those additional scents wreaked on her system was anything but childish.
She cracked an eye open and stared around an unfamiliar bedroom. Well, not totally unfamiliar. It featured the same
basic shape, size, and layout as hers, and served the same basic purpose, but otherwise, this stark, clutter-free blank canvas couldn’t have been more different.
Beau’s bedroom. Whoops, she’d fallen asleep here after all. But where was the man of the house? She looked around the empty room. Her meandering gaze landed on the folded note propped against a coffee mug. She levered herself up on her arms, and—yikes. Her robe was tangled around her waist. When had that happened? Hopefully after Beau had left the room. A couple tugs righted the situation, and then she crawled over to the nightstand. The smell of coffee beckoned. Black, just like she preferred. She picked up the mug, took a taste, and paused to savor the brew. Not bad. Only after she swallowed did she notice the printing on the mug.
Feel safe at night. Sleep with an EMT.
She laughed. Mission accomplished, and she did feel safe. But alone. Something about the quiet apartment told her she had the place to herself. The note sat on the nightstand like a tiny paper tent. She opened it and found a few lines of strong, spare script written across the page.
Thanks for checking on me last night.
Later,
Beau
P.S. Nice pjs.
Whoops, again. The only pjs she wore were the ones God had given her, and apparently she’d modeled them for Beau this morning. Falling asleep in nothing but a bathrobe certainly courted the risk, but she hadn’t counted on spending the night when she’d tossed the thing on to run across the hall and give him a vision test and memory quiz. Lord knew he’d handled more than his fair share of Savannah Smith T&A in the last twenty-four hours, but the thought of him looking his fill at some of the package while she slept left her a teensy bit embarrassed—and a lot turned on. She fanned her face with the note, and then, for some reason she couldn’t explain, brought the paper to her face and sniffed, mildly disappointed to find it didn’t smell like him. It didn’t smell like anything.
The bedside clock read half past seven. She needed to get a move on. Her bedroom wasn’t going to finish painting itself, and she’d spent some of her rapidly dwindling savings on discounted studio time at Glassworks this evening, in hopes of completing new pieces by the end of the month—on the nonexistent chance one of the galleries she’d queried decided to add her to their stable of artists on exhibit in time for Christmas. Now she could add Beau’s birthday present to her project list.
Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) Page 7