by Lyz Kelley
“So when he saw the designs I created for the house, he assumed the designs were for a new game.”
“Something like that. Larson and I have been friends for a long time, but he can be rather brash.” He took her hand. “The next time I talk to him, I’ll set him straight.”
The concern didn’t leave her eyes. “Do you still need something delivered by Thursday?”
“I do. Otherwise, I’m afraid I’ll lose funding for my next project.”
“I’ve got more boards to show you.” Her heels click, click, clicked across the floor until she stooped to pick up her leather portfolio she’d dropped next to Dempsey’s carrier. The air fairly crackled with electricity as she lifted sample boards out of the oversized portfolio bag in one fluid motion. “These are pretty rough, but I think they might spur some ideas.” She spread the new set of 8 x 10 boards on the counter.
The design was raw, but the artwork was amazing. The city made of shards of crystals jutted up from the ground. Shades of teal and purple and pink framed the intricate city that sparkled in the mist of clouds.
“Where did you get this?”
“The image has been rolling around my head for years. I just painted what was there. If you like it, I have more from what I’ve nicknamed my ‘mythological collection.’ I don’t have them with me, but I took some pictures.” She grabbed her cell, punched and tapped a few times, then handed him her phone.
A creature—half woman and half bird—appeared first. He swiped his finger across the screen. Lizards and cats and dragons came alive on her phone. The creatures were beautiful, yet in some way sad…lonely.
“All these creatures…they’re you,” he breathed.
She held out her hand for her phone, and he placed the device in her palm, regretting his hasty words. “I’m duly impressed, but the images won’t work for the fan base we’ve built.” He tapped the crystal image again. “This one has potential, though. It’s futuristic enough, and so does this one.” He enlarged the cloud image. “I think I can work with this. I’ll need a couple of characters to fit into these images. Warriors, a couple villains, and of course a hero.”
“You mean like this?” She flipped her phone around. The image of a warrior racing through a battlefield with arrows on his back, swords in his hand, his face cloaked by a hood appeared.
Holy shit. “Yes!!! That’s perfect, only it needs to be re-designed to fit into a more futuristic world.” The hair on his arms raised in salute.
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” She looked at the phone. “I painted this for my brother’s birthday and made him promise never to tell my dad where he got it.”
He checked the signature line. “Ovis?”
Rachelle chuckled. “Rachelle means female sheep in Hebrew, and I discovered Ovis means sheep in Latin. My father wanted to be surrounded by all things beautiful, but named me after a farm animal. Ovis was a poke at my dad.”
“But why did you make your brother promise never to tell him?”
“Let’s just say my father wouldn’t have understood my need to create. Interior design is the closest he’d allow me to get to being an artist.”
“You could make some big bucks. People eat up this type of artwork.”
Excitement flared in her eyes, then died, replaced by wariness. “I’d better stick with the paying jobs for now.”
A beam of excitement flashed up his core. “Speaking of jobs. Are you interested in helping me with my presentation?”
“I thought I was. That’s why I showed you these boards. They aren’t what you need? I should warn you, I can’t do graphics.”
Yes, you can. “Look, I’m up against a deadline. On Thursday I have to present an idea. Our idea. I can’t do this without you.”
“Thursday?” she choked out. “I thought you just wanted some ideas. Something you could have your team work on.”
“They haven’t come up with anything, and your art is just as good as theirs. I was hoping we could work here. I can work on the stories while you draft some backdrops.”
She took a couple of steps back and crossed her arms. “Do you know what you’re asking? I don’t have the proper supplies. I need more canvas boards and paints. Who will turn my artwork into graphics? I certainly don’t know how to use graphics programs.”
“I’ve got a team who can translate your artwork. And I’ll have whatever you need delivered overnight.” He paced back and forth. “You can have my desk. Or take the kitchen table. Your choice. Let’s not worry about the graphics. Just focus on the artwork. Make a list of what you need, and I’ll get Ben to order the supplies. While you design, I can work on the story.” His hands shook with excitement.
For the first time in months, creating a new design didn’t seem impossible. His fingers itched to get to a keyboard. Seeing her images had spawned ideas. Battle scenes with winged and four-legged characters tumbled through his mind.
“Whoa. Slow down.” She held out her arms in front of her like a traffic cop—only she was trying to stop him.
“We don’t have time to slow down. This will work. Trust me.” He grabbed Rachelle’s hand, pulled, then indulged in a kiss.
Her small initial squeal of surprise instantly turned into a sultry groan. When she fully surrendered, he plunged deeper into her softness. She folded into his arms so perfectly.
When he leaned back, her eyes were closed. Her beauty reminded him of her paintings, colorful and bold, like a rainforest just after a storm.
She tightened her grip on his sleeve.
He angled his head again, this time keeping his kiss light, and flicked a tongue against her bottom lip, a promise of what could come next. He wanted her—against the wall, breathless, his hands and mouth and body enticing her to respond, winding up their shared sexual tension until they exploded together.
But he waited. Waited for her to decide.
She accepted, absorbed what he gave, but never took the lead the way he expected and encouraged her to do.
The bold, vibrant woman had disappeared.
He lingered a second longer before backing away.
Her eyes flickered open. Her lips were still parted. The pendant on her chest lifted and fell rapidly with each breath.
“Rachelle?” he called to her gently.
She opened her eyes, soft, violet eyes rimmed with dark blue the color of the twilight sky. “Why did you do that? We had an agreement.”
There was no resentment, or anger, only wonderment.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have kissed you. And I would apologize if I didn’t think you also feel something.” He’d wanted to kiss her since the first day he set eyes on her. “Rachelle, tell me you’re not interested, and I will never touch you again. Promise.”
Her brows drew together, then loosened in an emotional tug of war. “I can’t.”
He couldn’t stop the smile from making his mouth do a little curl. “Then would you mind if I kiss you again?”
She arched back. “Maybe later.” She released her fingers, as if realizing she had a death-grip on his arm. “Right now we have work to do.”
“The work can wait.”
“No it can’t. Thursday is just two days away.” She closed her eyes, yet her facial muscles conveyed she was still thinking. Eventually her eyes popped open. “Okay. You get started on the story while I go home to pack up my supplies and get us some lunch.”
He leaned in and kissed her nose. “Deal.”
“Do you mind if I leave Dempsey here?”
The dog now lay curled up on the living room couch, and didn’t budge.
“Leave him. He looks comfortable.”
She stepped around him, making a wide arc to grab her purse and keys, and headed for the door.
He tried to ignore the deflating sizzle in his groin, because she was right. He had work to do, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to indulge in Rachelle Clairemont’s creativity.
He liked the way she looked at him. Not the millionaire. N
ot the computer geek—just a man who wanted to build something amazing with her.
At least he hoped it would be amazing.
Chapter Nine
Rachelle grabbed the lunch and painting supplies from her back seat. The bags felt like bricks in her hands.
What was she thinking?
Designing the futuristic graphics was just another project she put her heart and soul into, and then someone else would take the credit.
For years she made her father look good. She planned dinner parties, exquisite outings, and charity events and never received credit for a single one of them.
Uuuggghhh. She wanted to scream.
She had to stop thinking about that man.
Her father had woven around every organ in her body like a parasite. He slowed her down, made her question every action. She wanted a cure—now—because her gut told her this project was different.
She would get to explore art out in the open.
Show off her artwork.
Jacob appreciated her craft. He even said as much.
The look on his face when she showed him the sample boards was priceless. Even though he didn’t think the forest creatures would work, he liked those as well. She had painted what was in her soul. A beautiful bird trapped in a cage. A brave feline collared with chains. He saw through the imagery immediately and understood.
He only had two days.
For two days she could indulge, immerse herself in an imaginary world, revel in the luxury of being able to create and explore. Painting for hours and hours without listening for an odd sound, or a door to open, or feeling anxious.
Dempsey met her at the door, sniffed her foot, then trotted toward the kitchen.
“You’re back,” Jacob took the heavier supply bag from her arms.
The kitchen table had been cleared of place mats. His laptop was open on one side. She assumed she’d be sitting on the other. The open kitchen window shades let in the afternoon sun, casting the perfect amount of light.
She raised the bag filled with deli salads, sandwiches, and a couple of cans of dog food for Dempsey. “Lunch?”
“Do you mind if we eat while we work? I'd like to get started.” She swore he almost skipped to the kitchen table.
“Do you have something I can use for Dempsey’s lunch?”
He opened the cabinet and lifted a side plate off the top of the stack.
Her insides squinched. She should use the salad container, or the lunch wrap, or go back to her house to get the dog bowl, not a proper plate. Then, banishing her old ways to the time-out corner, she reached for the offered plate. “Dempsey? Lunch.”
Small claws clicked eagerly along the floor, and the bulldog sat next to her, waiting for his grub. When she lifted the plate, he whirled around in a circle with a can’t-wait-can’t-wait whine.
“Here you go.” She brushed a hand down his soft, furry back. “You’re a good boy.”
He ignored her and lapped up the beef in gravy.
“What can I help with?” She rinsed the spoon in the sink with soap before dropping it in the silverware holder in the dishwasher.
“I got this,” Jacob placed half of each sandwich on a plate. “Get yourself whatever you want to drink. I put some bottles of tea and flavored water in the beverage fridge.”
When she took a seat at the glass table with a modern chrome base, he set a plate, along with a napkin, by her elbow.
“First things first. I talked to Ben. Just give him a list of what you need. He confirmed he’ll have your supplies delivered first thing in the morning.”
“You sure? Overnight shipping will be expensive.”
“If I don’t nail this investor meeting…that will be expensive.”
She retrieved her notebook and ripped out a sheet.
“What’s all that?” He pointed to a page filled with swirls and loops and symbols.
“This?” She pointed at the page. “It’s like shorthand, only different.”
“How different?”
“Each of these symbols means something different, and only I can read what’s on the page. It’s like a secret code.”
“What’s it say?”
She placed her finger on the top left symbol. “It says Jacob Reyes. Mother died when fourteen. Moved from Calgary to California. Lived with dad and stepmom in Silicon Valley. Dad worked for major electronics company in the R&D department. Jacob attended University of Southern California. He wears a lot of grey. Likes mythical creatures and dragons. Vanilla bean coffee creamer. Clean lines. Wears watches—expensive watches—Rolex, Movado, Fossil, Franck Muller.” She pressed a finger to the place she stopped. “Do you want me to go on?”
“That’s sort of spooky.”
“Have you ever Googled yourself? You have a full Wikipedia page, and your Facebook profile isn’t locked down. Plus you love to chat about food on Twitter. If you don’t want people poking into your life, lock down your social media pages.”
“No, I meant it’s awesome. You have this whole language you can read. It’s like Dothraki, or Klingon, or Elvish.”
“Yes, but those languages are both written and verbal. This is only written.”
“Can anyone read what you write?”
She shook her head. “Not without a key.”
“Where’s the key?”
She tapped her fingers on the page. Should she tell him? It wouldn’t hurt. Besides, no one had ever been able to find her journals, not even the FBI. “The key is in my head. A long time ago, I realized, after my brother stole my diary, that the only way to keep anything written secret was to memorize the key.”
“That’s so cool.” He dropped his plate on the other side of the table. “We better get working. First things first. Send your supply list to Ben—in English,” he winked. “I want to make sure he can get what you need.”
She jotted down a few items, then added a few more.
As the day progressed, the table filled with coffee cups and discarded paper towels with test paint splotches and bags of chips. Whatever she needed appeared.
Her heart soared with unlimited bliss. She painted until her hands cramped and her back ached, yet she couldn’t stop. Periodically, she’d pause to listen to Jacob’s story and make suggestions, then would go right back to work.
When the lighting no longer worked, lamps were relocated. And the work continued.
“How’s it going?” Jacob reached toward the ceiling and stretched, letting his head fall to one side then the other.
“I almost have the second set done.” She dabbed her brush in water, then brushed it back and forth on the towel to rid the brush of the acrylic pigment. “These really should be done in oil, but we don’t have time for the paint to dry.”
“They look great, and the investors will get the gist.” He stood to stretch his back. “Hungry?”
“Lord, no. I’ve eaten more junk food today than in the whole rest of my life.” She picked up a rag to clean a paint splash off the glass table. “What time is it?”
“A little past eleven.”
“Eleven?” She stared past the lamps toward the picture windows at the night sky. The moon had already risen past the highest pane. All she saw were the stars. “I should go.”
“Why? There are clean sheets on Ben’s bed. You can stay in his room.”
She did hate to drive at night. Plus, the drive to her cabin wasn’t lit, and there were always skunks and other animals about. But still.
“I’ll be okay.”
“You might, but Dempsey might not. He looks rather comfortable.”
Her pup was upside down, with all four paws in the air, fast asleep. He looked so cute with his pink jowls hanging down and his tongue sticking out.
“I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
“Seriously? You’re the one doing me a favor, here. The least I can do is offer you somewhere to sleep after working all day and half the night. Come on, stay. I’ll find some sweats and a T-shirt. I even have some
of those travel-sized shampoos and conditioners. You can take your pick.”
“If you’re sure it won’t be any trouble.”
He moved closer and ran the backs of his knuckles down her cheek. She must have been tired, because she leaned in and let him hold the weight of her head. She closed her eyes, and took in his warmth, letting her breathing slow.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
Her eyes popped open when he reached for her hand, and she automatically recoiled. “I…um…I’m good.”
“No you’re not. You practically fell asleep sitting up. I’m not letting you drive home.” He took a step back. “Ben’s room is at the top of the stairs on the left.”
My old room. When she stood, he didn’t move. He smelled like corn chips and beer. The combination made her want to lick his lips. She preferred salty over sweet, and she imagined Jacob was a perfect salt lick.
Oh, God. I must be tired.
“What time do you want to start in the morning?”
“No particular time. Whenever you get up.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Goodnight, Rachelle, and thank you. Your work is amazing, and so are you.” His thumb caressed her cheek, and his voice had deepened with yearning.
The praise made her shields of power dim. She should keep them in place, but somehow this gamer had found a way to bypass her circuit controls.
“Jacob, you promised.”
His thumb paused, then pressed lightly into her chin. “Yes, I did make you a promise. And as hard as the promise will be to keep, I will, just to prove I’m different.”
He might keep the promise, but she wasn’t certain she wanted him to.
“Good night, Jacob.”
“Good night, Goldilocks,” he smiled, and her mind tripped over the nickname, but she walked past him and kept on walking. If she had turned around, her heart would have made her walk right back into his arms.