by Caro LaFever
“It’s merely another New York street,” he dismissed.
“No, it’s not. It’s SoHo.” She said the words as if she were speaking to a slightly demented moron.
He’d heard of the place. Artsy, new age, that kind of thing. He’d never had the time or inclination to visit this part of the city. Glancing through the window once more, he noted the sizable crowds bustling in and out of the line of bistros and art galleries. Storefronts blazed the names of high-end fashion.
He finally got it.
“You want to shop.” This he could understand. This was predictable.
“Not at all.” She gave him another one of her endless pitying looks. “It’s the art I’m interested in.”
Art. He’d forgotten. It was supposedly what she did for a living. Moreover, according to his reports, she didn’t do it very well. She hardly had a pence to her name at any given time. However, he supposed he could see the draw of this place for a wannabe.
She sighed and peered through the window with a wistful gaze.
The thing inside him tugged once more. He didn’t know what it was, but it twisted inside. Staring at his mobile phone, he noted the meetings on his calendar. Examined the agendas he’d outlined for each of them.
The sprite beside him sighed once more.
Placing a call, he barked instructions in Italian to his PA. He instructed the driver to stop. He opened the door and got out. Extended his hand. “Vene.”
Her eyes, wide with surprise, stared at him. “What?”
“Do you want to see this or not?”
“Yes!” She gave him a smile that lit a spark deep inside him.
That thing, the thing he couldn’t define inside him, untwisted.
* * *
London was dreary and cold.
The city fit her mood.
Darcy folded her arms around her as she peered at the skyline. They’d left New York three days ago as abruptly as they’d arrived. Marcus had announced they were leaving and within an hour they were on his private plane zipping through the air.
He’d ignored her on the entire flight.
Unwanted baggage once more.
Yet unlike the flight to New York, this time her reaction was very different. She hadn’t felt irritation. This time, to her horror, she’d been hurt.
With a snort of disgust, she turned away from the amazing view and scanned the grand mausoleum she’d quickly grown to despise. The place reeked of wealth and class and modern design. Black and white leather furniture on icy white carpets. Monochrome photos of the city were placed with military precision on the walls. The only hint of color was provided by two large green plants that looked like they’d been shipped in from some African grassland. The long fronds continually hit her face when she walked by.
Not a hint of personality in the entire place.
No family pictures on the walls.
No special treasures gracing the pristine tabletops.
Not one hint of what kind of person lived here.
The kitchen was stocked full of every cooking device known to man. However, if anyone had cooked a meal there in the past ten years, she’d eat her last painting. The workout room with its mirrored walls resembled a colony of tall black skeletons with various juts of chrome and knobs of white. Marcus spent an hour every morning in the torture chamber. She never went near the room. It gave her the creeps.
The four bedrooms, with en suite baths, were decorated in the same black-and-white scheme. All of them possessed as much character as a lump of coal. Come to think of it, a lump of coal would fit right into this entire décor. Black and dark and cold.
What she could do with this place, given half a chance.
The lighting was terrific. Which made sense since they were on the top of a tall high-rise. The penthouse must have cost a fortune since it took over the entire floor. The sunshine on the first day they had arrived had dazzled her and hidden the basic coldness of the place. With some colored paint on the plain walls, big bold couches and chairs scattered on oriental rugs, her biggest, brightest paintings hung here and there—
“Good luck with that,” she grumbled under her breath.
Face it, Darcy.
The place matched the man. The glimpse of humanity she thought she’d seen in New York City was a figment of her imagination.
SoHo.
Her heart ached at the memory. It had been a golden day.
“Seriously?” She’d stepped onto the busy sidewalk of Canal Street. “You’re going to come with me?”
“Si.” Sliding the offensive phone into his suit pocket, he arched a dark brow as he waved the limo away. “Is there a problem with that?”
“No. Not at all.” Glancing around at the crowds, she pushed back the flustered feeling fluttering inside. After all, she’d spent quite a bit of time with this man during the last few days. Yet this was different, she knew it in her gut. They weren’t going to be on show in Soho. They weren’t going to be acting any kind of role. “Where do you want to start?”
“Lead the way.” His rich, accented voice lifted at the end as if he were amused at letting her make the decisions for once.
No one could say that Darcy Moran didn’t know how to trailblaze when given the opportunity. She strode through the crowds, passing the cries of the street vendors hawking their fake purses and junk jewelry until she arrived at the first art gallery she spotted. “Here.”
“Here it is.” His big presence loomed behind her, not only his body, but his personality and verve. Usually, she didn’t enjoy large men who used their size to make her feel small and insignificant. But in Marcus La Rocca’s case, she didn’t feel that way.
Safe.
That’s what she felt.
The gallery was filled with a hodgepodge of modern art, everything from oil paintings to statues made of steel. Compared to the bustling street outside, the hall was quiet, almost hushed. Walking to the first row of paintings, she studied the way the artist had layered oil onto a series of silk plackets.
“No touching here.” Tease edged his words.
Glancing at him, she chuckled when she met his dancing eyes even though her spirits sank. Marcus La Rocca was hard enough to ignore when he strutted through his day like a general ready to do battle. This La Rocca version was far worse for her sensibilities. This one, with the teasing voice and the dancing eyes, threatened to make her heart melt instead of just her body. “I wouldn’t touch. I know better.”
“I don’t know.” His focus switched to the painting in front of her. “You have a tendency to touch before thinking.”
True. Especially true with him.
Trying to avoid the memories, she swished to the next painting. This one was stark—black slashes of paint sliding down into a blood red pool at the bottom. A shiver of remembered fear went through her. He’d threatened her, the last time he’d found her. He’d left a nasty note on the door of her flat telling her what he meant to do to her.
She’d left within the hour, leaving many of her belongings behind.
“What?” La Rocca stepped to her side, his gaze keen on her face. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” Flashing him a jaunty grin, she moved away. “I just don’t like that painting.”
The buzz of his phone echoed in the cool, silent gallery.
Turning around, she gave him a look. “I knew it wouldn’t last for long.”
“You presume to know me so well?” His hand twitched at his side as if he ached to reach into his pocket, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave her more trouble. Trouble like his dimples and his smile. Trouble like revealing a strong, olive-skinned neck when he tugged off his red power tie right then and stuffed it into his suit pocket. The same pocket that held the buzzing phone.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
“Don’t tell me you’re not answering that.” Pushing away his trouble, she layered thick sarcasm onto her words. “Color me completely surprised.”
“I’m not answering. Maybe because I l
ike to keep you surprised.” His smile flashed to a grin, going from merely distracting to downright devastating.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
She shouldn’t do this. She shouldn’t fall into the interplay going on between them. This male-female, sexual-friendly, exciting-disturbing play. She had learned the tricks, but something about this exchange made her gut clench. His temptation was too great, however, and she loved having fun. She always had. “I’m thinking maybe I should make a painting of this event. You without a phone.”
“Ah.” His eyes went bright. “I think a painting of me is an excellent idea.”
A snort escaped her. “You are so arrogant.”
“But worth painting, don’t you think?” He took a step nearer. Just one simple step. Yet he filled the air around her with his vitality. “Don’t you, Darcy?”
Instead of doing what she should do—stop this, she pulled her courage around her, looked right into his eyes, and kept playing. “I don’t think you’d like the painting.”
“No?” he husked, his rich, male scent enveloping her.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
“I’m afraid I’d have to paint what I usually see.” She gave him a pout. “The phone nailed to your head, a frown on your face.”
“Mmm.” Leaning in closer, his breath brushed on her cheek. “Nails and frowns. Is that what you see right now?”
His eyelashes were incredibly dark and now that she was so close to him, she noticed the silver turned to a misty grey on the edges of his irises. He was right. She would love to paint him. And there wouldn’t be any nails or frowns. There’d only be the beauty of this male, the beauty of his eyes and his skin and his mouth.
Not his heart, though.
His heart was not beautiful.
She took a step back. And then another.
One satanic brow rose and his dimples disappeared.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
They stared at each other as the phone clicked off, the message going to voicemail. Darcy was sure he was going to pull the plug on this adventure and dig that phone out of his pocket. But he surprised her again.
“Shall we continue?” he murmured before striding to the next painting.
He’d followed her for the rest of the day. Stopping when she tried on a silly feathered hat. Nodding when she waved them into another gallery. His smile had even come out a time or two again, though never the grin that made her heart tremble.
Yet, throughout the day, her heart trembled quite a lot.
Maybe she’d grown weak because he’d taken her to Sardi’s for dinner that night. Maybe her brain had skipped into la-la-land as she gazed across the white tablecloth at his masculine elegance. Or maybe her brain had taken a dip into pretend love later in the night, overcome by lust. As they’d entered the hotel room, the chemistry had zipped and zagged between them. She’d felt the heat, the burn and mixed with it, the fear.
He’d known, she was sure. He’d given her a gentle smile, touched her cheek, and told her to go to bed. She’d shivered under the covers. Waiting, wanting, worrying. Somehow, she’d fallen asleep, only to wake in the middle of the night with strong, warm arms around her.
Safe.
And so close to love.
That itsy-bitsy love sat dead like a lead weight in the bottom of her stomach now. Which was what she deserved. Because the very next day, the Great Man had reverted to type—cold and contained. Not a dimple in sight. He’d announced their departure with icy disdain. Ignored her on the plane. Ignored her when they arrived at the penthouse.
Ignored her existence for the past three days.
Darcy plodded down the hall to her bedroom. The one she slept in alone. His announcement of separate bedrooms had surprised her and hurt her. Darn it. Plus, double darn it, she missed him at night. Just as she missed him during the day.
She missed his hard warmth beside her. The sense of safety.
She missed his laugh and his dimples.
She missed the stimulation of his company. Not only the sexual hum between them, but the intelligence, the drive, the electricity of his presence.
Plopping down on her bed, she eyed the picture of the London Eye with distaste. The black-and-white photo sucked every ounce of joy from the edifice. Smoothing her hand across the grey silk coverlet, she gave it a moue of disgust. She would not moon over bedding thinking of his eyes. No way.
Thankful. That was the word.
She should be thankful he wasn’t parading her in front of the London press as he had in New York. The odds were in her favor that those particular pictures would never land on a wall to be obsessed about.
More importantly, she should be very, very thankful that Marcus La Rocca had showed his true colors these last few days. His behavior shocked her out of the fantasy she’d been weaving around him. He was nothing like that fantasy man. Not the smiling man who enjoyed her company. Not the simple man who ate Sardi’s spaghetti with gusto. Certainly not the man who held her so tenderly at night.
In actuality, he was a tyrant of the first order.
“Stay put,” he commanded every morning as he left for his office.
What had she done? She’d done what he told her to do. She’d spent her time mooning and yearning and moping over a man who didn’t deserve any of it.
Time to stop this stupid behavior, pronto.
Time to face reality.
In three weeks’ time, she’d be released from this gilded cage. Back into the real world where a girl had to make a living. Unless a miracle occurred, she wouldn’t have Matt to lean on while she got her feet on the ground.
Wait.
Matt. And the wedding-that-wasn’t-going-to-happen.
She glared at the London Eye and berated herself. Somewhere in the midst of New York City glamour and La Rocca appeal, she’d lost the thread of her reasoning. Lost the whole point of being around the Great Man. She’d forgotten about her friend and his predicament.
“What a tosser you are,” she muttered.
Time to change things. Rather than spending her time following the Great Man’s orders while secretly pining away for his attention, she needed to get a grip and make things happen.
First things first. Tomorrow was Sunday.
Darcy smiled as a brilliant idea sprung into her brain.
Chapter 7
It was a superb London day.
Sunny and surprisingly warm. The crowds were rather large for this time of year. A fact Darcy was grateful for.
Bayswater Road was her usual haunt on any given Sunday. She’d prop her oils along the hedges, set up her easel and chair and usually do a brisk business drawing caricatures. Her oils moved a little slower. Still, all in all, she often walked away at the end of the day with a good stash of pounds.
Today was shaping up to be a banner day.
She’d already sold one oil in less than an hour. And she’d done three drawings in rapid succession. If the day proceeded like this, she’d have a nice beginning to a deposit on a new flat.
It had been surprisingly easy to slip away from the grand mausoleum. The Great Man had held to his recent pattern and disappeared before she even awoke. His security team had spotted her leaving, but hadn’t made any attempt to send her back to her fancy prison. One lone man had followed her onto the Tube. He’d trailed her as she got to Bayswater Road and greeted an artist buddy who’d willingly stored her artwork when she’d been kicked out of her own flat. The security guy had faded into the woodwork as her buddy helped her display the art he’d carted over from his nearby home. She didn’t mind the following and watching. It was part of the deal, she supposed.
In an odd way, it made her feel wanted, even safe.
There was that dang word again.
She snorted at herself.
“Darcy, my lass.” Alvin, one the regulars sauntered by, several of his watercolor canvases under his arm. “Where’ve you been?”
“I only missed last week, Al.” She gave him a jaunty smile. What was she going to
say? I was whisked away to New York by a billionaire. That would get a good laugh.
“You never miss any week.” Rubbing his hand across his bald head, he eyed her. “I was worried.”
“You never have to worry about me.” She twirled her brush pen in the air. “Survivor is my middle name.”
Her older friend humphed as he placed his paintings along the hedge beside hers. “You’re a dainty little thing. Not a big lug like me. So, I’ll worry if I want to.”
Waving his comments away, she smiled at a passing couple. They immediately stopped, chatted with her as they perused her paintings, and eventually agreed to her charming offer to do their portraits.
They were lovers, that was clear.
She outlined their faces on the big sheet of blank paper. Drew their eyes, concentrated on their mouths. Tried to ignore the tenderness in the gaze of the man when he looked at the woman.
An ache of longing bloomed inside her.
She threw a laughing smile at the couple. “Ah, to be in love.”
They laughed with her.
The crowd swirled around them. Chinese words mixed with Irish lilts, Indian accents blended with Cockney. More artists and craftsmen arrived, adding their acrylics, sculptures, pastels, and collages to the display. The last of the autumn leaves rustled across the sidewalk. Sunshine warmed her back.
Darcy fought to push away the ache, replacing it with determination.
Pining for something that was never going to happen was a waste of time. She’d learned the lesson well as a child. Better to accept reality and play the cards dealt her. In this case, she’d hunker down until the La Rocca storm passed and then get on with her life. If she could find a way to help Matt, she would, but emotional survival right now was her main goal.
She’d be fine. Wouldn’t she?
Yes, she would.
Drawing complete, she showed it to the couple, accepted their praise and their money. The man gave a kiss to his lover as they walked away holding hands, happy and complete. Fulfilled in each other.