What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 7)

by Lexi Buchanan

  With barely a look back at him, she walked to the easel and sat on the waiting stool situated before it. As he’d promised, she’d discovered new textures and wanted to immortalize them before the memory faded. Her attention squarely on the canvas, she called to him, “You can see yourself out. We’ll start at eight on Thursday.”

  Silence met her ears, but she didn’t linger on that fact. The painting called to her.

  So much to do.

  Chapter Two

  For fuck’s sake, how did he end up here? Never in a million years would Joe have imagined that a modeling gig placed him—nude, of all things—square in the sights of an exotic goddess. Tanya’d have him by the balls if she ever heard him call her that, but the woman’s beauty stunned him.

  Rich brown skin. Beautiful dark brown eyes. A smile that could stop men in their tracks. And those curves. Damn if he didn’t want to spend every waking minute of the next year running his hands over the power of her thighs, the dip in her waist, the fullness of her breasts.

  Now look at him. He spent the last twenty-four hours replaying what she’d done to him. What they’d done together.

  Every second of her skin against his, her hand cradled in his, her fingers stroking him reverberated in his mind until today’s resultant erection was hard enough to break in two. Not like this was the first time she’d left him in such a condition.

  That she didn’t know the effect she had on him was almost icing on the cake. For the past two months when he posed for her, every mundane thought, every tedious list, every repulsive thing he could think of kept his body from betraying him in her presence. He forced himself into counting ceiling tiles, memorizing patterns in the carpeting, looking for forgotten cobwebs in the corners…hell, anything to keep his attention away from her.

  Inevitably though, his gaze drifted toward her. Sculpted eyebrows always knitted together when she concentrated on the painting before her. Whenever she focused on what to do next, or studied him, she’d pull the end of her paintbrush into her mouth and gnaw on the end. He wanted to admonish her for that bad habit, noting the streaks of paint and splinters of wood she ingested, but held himself in check. Tanya had no clue he existed in those moments. She looked through him, never once seeing him as a man, but forever an object to be recreated by her hands.

  As the weeks passed, so did her frustration with her work. Lines beneath her eyes etched deeper. Her hands spent less time creating on canvas, and more time tapping against her thigh. He’d heard artists could be temperamental, but he’d yet to see her lose her cool. Until yesterday…

  Never had he once thought she’d end up running her hands over him. Not once did it occur to him she’d jack him off by the time they were through. Rushing headlong toward orgasm, his mind a blur of fantasy and eroticism, the hope of a future together, starting with something as simple as meeting for coffee gripped something deep inside of him. He held on to it as his essence pulsed out of his body, turning his insides to mush. Reality slammed home the second it was done. And her casual dismissal afterward reinforced the unlikelihood of unrealized hope and then cut through him like a knife.

  Fuck.

  What a mess. The woman had given him one insane orgasm and it inspired him to now scour rows of a neighborhood outdoor market for some trinket, an honorarium of sorts, for that service. No, not just that service. Thinking that way trivialized what occurred. What he wanted instead was some way to get her to notice him as something other than muscles and bone structure.

  He ignored the sellers’ calls for him to look at their selection of fruits and vegetables or to try free samples of exotic condiments. Used books stacked in rows on tables that didn’t look strong enough to hold a single sheet of paper, much less the burden of yellowed tomes, were equally ignored. Tanya was an artist. She lived in a simple one-bedroom apartment, using what others meant to be a living room as her bedroom. The single space meant for her privacy had been turned into an artist’s studio.

  Something about the lone twin-sized bed placed in immediate sight of the entranceway went with her personality. Sparse furniture, no doubt thrift store specials, spoke not of her income-level, but more so, her preference for simplicity. Paintings and sketches of her design decorated the walls.

  His favorite, the one that caught his eye every single time he entered her apartment, hung in a small alcove. In the self-portrait, her eyes glistened with a realism that mesmerized him. If the eyes were a window to the soul, in this painting, he saw every act of kindness, every ounce of caring, every burden of hurt coloring her spirit within. Her smile rivaled the Mona Lisa’s, her mysteriousness a riddle never meant to be solved. She looked off-painting, her attention on something in the distance the viewer did not have the privilege to see. Whatever it was both amused and aroused her. At least the healthy flush in her cheeks betrayed her heightened state. Hell, it might have just been his own wishful fantasy projected onto the painting. Nonetheless, it was there whenever he looked.

  He scanned the different booths as he walked, trying to sort in his mind what single item she might prefer. Plants, beat-up electronics, sunshades and cellular phones passed in front of him. Jewelry…

  Jewelry.

  He slowed to a stop. The diamond solitaire stage hadn’t been broached; he wasn’t even in the same zip code as that thought, but perhaps something else here might suit his artist. Standing before the glass-enclosed stands, he sought a suitable match for her capricious nature. Her sense of spirit. The whimsy in her eyes, the infectious nature of her laugh.

  Wait…whimsy? Yeah, maybe he ought to spend a little less time in bourgeois coffee shops and a little more time riding Harleys and spitting.

  Stifling a chuckle, Joe leaned closer to the glass, noting with some dismay that the grime covering its surface forced him to peer harder at the contents. He flattened his hand across its dinginess, pushing down a wince. The eager gaze of the make-shift stand’s proprietor was like a weight on his shoulders. The man’s ample size shuffled forward surprisingly fast, but considering how empty most of the aisles were, maybe not. Business must not be as brisk as he would have liked.

  “May I help you?”

  Joe kept his gaze down, still scanning the neat rows. “Just looking,” he mumbled.

  “Anything in particular?”

  He pressed his lips together before releasing them. A quick glance into the owner’s face proved just how desperate the poor man was for a sale. He shouldn’t begrudge the guy for trying to provide customer service in an age when most businesses lacked that nicety. “I, uh…” Joe blew out a breath, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Something nice, but not too nice. Something that’ll make someone notice me, you know?”

  “What kind of jewelry does she like?” His eyes twinkled.

  “I don’t know, even. I guess something unique. Something that no one else would be wearing.” He swiped a streak through the dust and leaned closer. “Do you have anything like that in here?”

  “Come with me, down to this part.”

  He paralleled the vendor toward the other end of the counter where Joe hadn’t yet ventured. While seemingly impossible, the dirt of ages covered the glass, making it seem in even worse repair than where they’d just left. Dear God, had the man never heard of Windex?

  Thanking his lucky stars for small mercies, his eyebrows did a slow rise when the man reached into the counter and pulled out a small velvet-lined tray. Nestled against the wine-colored material, a dozen or so necklaces and matching bracelets rested. These weren’t gold-plated, guaranteed to turn her neck green, atrocities. What lay before him were well-crafted, genuine works of art. The result of someone’s labor, someone’s fevered creativity brought to life. And they were perfect.

  Without thinking, he reached for one in particular. He ignored the soft brown twist of material holding a dangling pendant. The artistry caught his eye. Copper wire braided in intricate knots, subtly infused with some other type of wire, some silver, some red, reflected the sunlight.
When he let the design dangle, the pendant rotated and each subtle movement caught the light just right, changing the pendant’s initial appearance. In one motion, it looked orange. In another, silver. And in another, almost rainbow-like. Magical.

  “I’ll take this,” he said, his eyes still fixated on the little bauble. Its minimalism drew him in. He knew without a second thought it was something Tanya would wear. He could already see its beauty around her neck.

  “Good taste,” the man said. He gently withdrew the necklace from Joe’s grasp and headed back to where they’d first started. The sound of an old-fashioned cash register rang out immediately, as if he wanted to ring up the sale before Joe had a chance to change his mind. In any other circumstance, it might have been laughable.

  It couldn’t have taken him more than three minutes to wrap the little thing in crepe paper that had seen better days and call out the total purchase price, but those few minutes were enough to make Joe doubt himself. Not so much himself, but how Tanya would view the gift. She paid him more in an hour than the item cost, so the amount had little to do with the growing pit in his stomach when he thought about handing it over to her.

  What was he after really? The thought haunted him while withdrawing cash out of his wallet to pay for it and during the walk to her apartment. He kept his hand in his pocket, thumbing the bundle, almost as if stroking it for luck.

  Before the massive wood door of her place, he straightened, blew out a breath and rang the bell. Time to up the ante. By hook or by crook, she’d know one way or the other how he felt about her before the day was done.

  Still, his fingers grazed the crepe paper. He realized he’d failed to come up with a proper presentation. He couldn’t just hold it out, say “here” and hope that would suffice. If he’d wanted to do things appropriately, he would have asked her out to dinner and maybe…

  His thoughts abruptly halted when the door opened. As always, a cool breeze brought the odd aromatic mixture of paint, mineral spirits and strangely, cotton, wafting from the apartment. While he couldn’t exactly call it a comforting smell, it never failed to remind him of her the moment it hit his senses. This time though, some scent he didn’t recognize drifted with it.

  When she appeared in the widening crack, he swallowed hard, his throat tightening in a rush of want so brazen, he had to force himself to remain still. Dressed in a wife-beater and overalls, she epitomized simple living with a trace of bohemia. Hair pulled back in a bushy ponytail stretched her features into something even that much more exotic. Tanya’s eyes widened in a flash of surprise, but almost as quickly took on a distracted quality. “Wasn’t ’specting you today,” she said, turning away and leaving him stupefied in her wake. All he could do was follow her lead as she ventured further inside.

  “I should have called,” he replied, starting to make his excuses. Three steps into the small apartment he noticed she had a visitor. The elegant black man dressed in a suit that must have cost more than Joe made in a month sat cross-legged in one corner. His posh clothing and air of superiority sent Joe’s hackles bristling almost immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had company.”

  “Uh, Joe, this is Mr. Killian.”

  It bothered him like all hell that she referred to her visitor as “mister” while Joe’s name sounded like something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe. Mr. Killian didn’t offer his hand and neither did Joe. What Mr. Killian did do, however, was study Joe’s face with enough intensity to almost compel him into taking a step or two back. “Joe, is it?”

  “Joe Boyd.”

  “The model.”

  That he posed it as a statement rather than a question caught Joe’s attention. He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah.”

  Mr. Killian looked toward Tanya. “Your talent never fails to amaze me, young lady. I would have known him for your model anywhere. The life you bring into your paintings is astounding. All the more reason to be ready in a few days.”

  For the first time, he noticed she stood stock-still, as if she said one word or made the tiniest movement, she would explode into a frenzy of untamable energy. He’d seen it happen before. A day of mania that wound through her and refused to let go, forcing him to model for an unprecedented five hours straight before he’d threatened to leave a yellow puddle beneath his feet if she didn’t allow him a bathroom break. She’d allotted him three minutes before pleading he return to his previous position. It went on like that for almost eighteen hours before she permitted herself to stop altogether.

  “I can’t—”

  “This is an opportunity you’ll not want to miss,” Mr. Killian interrupted. “I need something to show for all of the money I’ve poured into you. This show will help me recoup some of the costs.”

  “But four days?” she whispered.

  Mr. Killian glanced around the room, pointedly staring at a stack of paintings leaning against the wall. “I’m sure you have something suitable in here that’s show-worthy. Six pieces or so. I think I can ask for a substantive amount for each one.” Without another glance at Joe, he started moving toward the door. “Just bring by shots of which ones for my approval first, okay?”

  Tanya nodded mutely, while Mr. Killian lowered his mouth to graze her cheek in a parting kiss. She looked shell-shocked. Mr. Killian looked triumphant. “It’ll be fine, Tanya. You won’t disappoint me.”

  The slow way she dragged her attention toward the auspicious paintings made clear she didn’t think it would be fine at all. Joe studied the blanket of helplessness shadowing her face. Mr. Killian didn’t offer any further words of encouragement, but showed himself out, the lazy glide of his cologne—the scent Joe hadn’t recognized before—lingering behind.

  “Your patron, I assume?” Joe asked softly.

  “Patron. Agent. Family friend…It’s a complex relationship. The paintings I create while under his philanthropy he pretty much owns. I keep twenty percent of any sales. If it’s enough to live off of or go off on my own, I can. He can decide to extend our contract another year if he wants or not. He doesn’t ask much of me except for a few pieces worth selling every once in a while.”

  Despite every instinct screaming at him to pull her into his embrace for the comfort she so obviously needed, Joe moved to the sofa and settled himself into it, making a concerted effort to avoid the chair Mr. Killian previously assumed. “So he’s ready for you to show?”

  Tanya scrunched her fingers into the crown of her hair. She blew out a breath before joining him. “He’s ready. Yeah.”

  “But you’re not.”

  She turned to regard him. “Have you ever looked at what I’ve done? The paintings of you, I mean?”

  The realization that in fact, he had not, surprised him. “I guess not.”

  She pointed toward the stack. “Go look now. With the exception of the one on the easel now, those are of you.”

  Joe knew she had talent to spare. He’d seen her work around the apartment, had almost memorized one small piece of hers hanging in a small café down the block. She’d never before displayed reticence about her craft, so the way she watched him get up, the heat of her gaze covering him as he walked to the stack, unnerved him.

  He pulled back the closest painting, certain to keep his fingers along the frame’s edge. The last thing he needed to do was mar one of them with his fingerprints or some smudge of dirt he didn’t realize he harbored.

  If any doubt existed before, it wiped clean away now. Damn, she was good. He remembered this pose. She’d captured rays of light across his back with such precision, it made him look almost angelic. All that was missing were a pair of lush, down feathered wings cascading on either side of his spine. A smile pushed up the corners of his mouth as he studied it. “What do you call…”

  Wait a minute.

  He angled the painting further, separating it from the remainder of the stack. When the view didn’t improve, his fingers moved over the next painting in line, pulling it away for his review. But again, almost the sa
me sight greeted him. He flipped through another and then another, going through the layers of paintings with more speed, less careful about damaging the surfaces.

  Joe looked up to meet her resigned expression. “Tanya?”

  “I know. I know. I…” She blew out a breath, dropping her face toward the carpeted floor. “It’s…I have good intentions.”

  “But none of these are finished!”

  She raised her eyes to his. “And therein lies the problem with being ready for a show in four days that could make or break my career.”

  Chapter Three

  One minute she stood there, the world around her spinning out of control and in the next, dear God, in the next, she’d been enfolded into Joe’s embrace. She had no idea when he’d crossed the room, when her arms wrapped around his waist, when her head settled against his chest. His heart beat a steady rhythm beneath her ear and she had the vague thought staying right here for the next week would be so very, very nice.

  “There’s time,” he murmured.

  Sure. For anyone else, four days might as well have been a year, but that just wasn’t how she rolled. And lately with her talent eluding her strokes, the vitality she sought not appearing on canvas, she’d been stymied. By starting a painting anew, each one had been a vague hope she’d find that je ne c’est quoi just beyond her fingertips.

  “How did this happen?” he questioned gently. “Was it really a surprise?”

  She dislodged the lump in her throat. “It’s my fault. I kept putting him off, telling him my work was going well. When he asked to look at something, I always convinced him it was the piece in progress and that the one I’d just finished was off being framed. He never questioned it.” She lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “I don’t know why he always believed me, but he did.”

  Jesus and now was it ever coming back to bite her in the ass. She tightened her arms around Joe, needing for a few minutes more a solid foundation to hold onto. Something stable to focus on. If she tried to think about how much shit she was in, she’d fall apart.