"Theo knew I would tell you because I can trust you to keep the news to yourself."
"Ashe isn't likely to blab it around town. You are using it as an excuse to make him keep his clothes on. I groped that chest, Belle. It's almost criminal to have so much fine male flesh at your disposal when you aren't willing to enjoy it."
"Speaking of criminal." Not the best segue she had ever made, but Belle jumped when she saw the chance to change the subject. "My car was vandalized."
"At work?" Any hint that Belle was in trouble shifted Tracy to all business. "What happened?"
Belle filled Tracy in. She didn't try to gloss over the unsettling part.
"Pru is right. Everybody loves you. I can't imagine who would do this."
"As much as I love to hear my friend's high opinion of me, I have to face the facts. The odds that I inadvertently pissed somebody off are growing higher as we speak."
"Or it's random. That's still an option, Belle."
The bottom line was simple. Belle would hope the vandalism wasn't personal, but she would stay vigilant in case it wasn't. That was all she could do short of locking herself in her parents' house, armed guards patrolling the perimeter. On no account would she let that suggestion slip to her father—even in jest.
"I'll be fine," Belle assured Tracy—and herself. "However, I have a problem. Would you mind delivering a couple of dolls?"
"Is that code for something kinky? If it is, I'm all in."
Chuckling, Belle shook her head. "I'll remember that if the situation arises. Sometimes, my dear, a doll is just a doll. Two of which are waiting in the trunk of my car to make a couple of little girls very happy."
Tracy listened in silence as Belle told her about the favor Ashe had asked her to perform.
"Honey, do you have a fever? I love your parents, but dinner with them does not compare to naked Ashe Mathison."
"He won't be naked, Tracy."
"I can dream, can't I?" When Belle didn't answer, Tracy jumped on the pause. In a sing-song voice, she said, "I know what you're thinking. Is Ashe as beautiful without his clothes as I imagine?"
Rather than deny where her mind had wandered, Belle smiled. "As good as you think he looks, take my word for it. Your fantasies can't come close to the truth."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"Fine," Tracy conceded. "I hate the fact that you could have him in a snap but won't."
"You may be overestimating Ashe's interest."
"We both know I'm not."
"It's a moot point. I'm having dinner with my parents. And before you argue." Belle knew her friend well. "Dad was pretty shaken by what happened today. Under that world-beater, tough-as-nails exterior is somebody's daddy. Mine."
"Since my father is the same way, I can't tear down your reasoning. Tell me what you need."
After arranging for Tracy to pick up the dolls, Belle texted Ashe, alerting him to the change of plans. Though she didn't give him the specifics as to why she couldn't make their meeting. To her surprise, he answered immediately.
"Instead of Tracy bringing them to me," Ashe texted, "would she mind if I picked them up at her place?
A quick call to Tracy, followed by a few more texts, and the plan was finalized. Ashe would be at Tracy's apartment at six o'clock. He thanked Belle again but didn't ask any prying questions.
Belle wasn't surprised that Ashe's lack of interest bothered her. Part of her was grateful she didn't have to explain. Another part wondered why he didn't care enough to find out.
Sitting back in her chair, Belle sighed. All the feelings she had for Ashe seemed to be contradictory. Why should these be any different?
CHAPTER TEN
ASHE STOPPED HIS car in front of an old brownstone conversion. Built before the turn of the last century, it was at one time a single-family dwelling, each floor was now a separate apartment. According to Belle's directions, Tracy's place was at the top.
This was not the way he pictured his day ending. The start had been stellar. Talking to Belle could easily become one of his favorite ways to pass the time. She made him smile. And think. And want.
The middle part of his day hadn't been what he expected. It had been better. Little girls—he soon learned—were a force to be reckoned with. Naomi and Nadia challenged his preconceived notions at every turn. One second girly, the next fearless warriors. Then out of the blue, they were so sweet it made his heart ache with joy.
Ashe was not too proud to admit his nieces had worn him out. However, getting his second wind had been easy when he remembered the treat he had waiting for him. Another evening with Belle. Or at least, that was his plan. When he arranged to pick the dolls up at her apartment, he did so with an ulterior motive. If he could wheedle a few more hours of her time, Ashe would declare the day damn near perfect.
Seducing Belle into bed would have been the perfect ending. Ashe was tempted to find out if he could do it. His instincts said yes. His ego said it wouldn't take more than a kiss—or two—and some well-placed caresses. Tempted or not, he didn't want to put Belle in the position of lying to her fiancé. He believed Los Angeles had been a convergence of circumstances. A bit of nostalgia, a little alcohol, and an old crush had led Belle to give in to temptation. For Ashe, it had been a simple case of lust.
That was then. Now, his feelings for Belle had deepened. Given time, Ashe thought, she could become someone special.
Walking up the brownstone steps, Ashe wondered about timing. In music, it was everything. It could mean the difference between a hit and a dud. When he sat down to write a song, Ashe had the benefit of three other sets of ears to help him set the right tone. With Belle, he didn't have his bandmates to back him up. When he made a move—right or wrong—he was on his own. It was a scary thought knowing he could screw things up so easily. Even worse? Because Belle was engaged to marry another man, there wasn't much to screw up. He had found a tiny little pathway into her life. Now that he was there, what the hell was he going to do?
Tracy buzzed him in with a chipper, "Hey, gorgeous. Come on up."
Shaking his head, Ashe jogged up the three flights. Something told him he was going to like Tracy. Her humor appealed to him. And she was Belle's best friend. That was a pretty good recommendation in his book.
The door to the apartment was open, music blaring. The smell of paint filled the air. Not the kind one put on walls. The kind an artist used on canvas. Ashe's first thought when he walked into the room was color. One word. It fit since there wasn't a space that wasn't covered with it. Everywhere he looked. Reds, blues, greens, yellows. Pink, gray, orange, lavender. There wasn't any reason for the kaleidoscope to work—yet it did.
"What do you think?"
Tracy, dressed in paint-splattered overalls, walked toward him holding out a glass of red wine. Her lips wore a smile; her feet wore nothing. Her dark hair was pushed into a pile on top of her head. And on the tip of her nose sat a tiny smudge of magenta.
"I think I should be blind." He sipped the excellent Bordeaux, looking around. "Yet somehow, I can see. You have a unique style, Tracy. I salute you."
"That may be the best reaction I've ever gotten."
"Better than Belle's?"
"Interesting that you would mention her."
"Why wouldn't I?" Ashe didn't like the speculative light in Tracy's eyes. She saw too much. "Belle is the reason I'm here. Our common denominator."
"Common denominator." Tracy tapped her glass against his. "Well said. Not that I'm surprised. Your songs are like poetry set to some damn hot music. I'm a fan, by the way."
"I can say the same." Ashe moved to get a closer look at a painting on the far wall. "Is this yours?"
"I should have known you would be drawn to that one." Tracy stood at his side, watching him closely.
The subject was in shadow except for the back of her head and just a sliver of her profile, the slight curve of her lips, which were gently touched by the glow of the s
etting sun. She stood in a forest, her hair glossy, her skin gleaming. It made Ashe wish he was there to find out if the rest of her was as bare as her shoulders.
"It's Belle."
"When I painted that, I finally felt like an artist." Tracy looked at Ashe, not the painting. "Belle has always been my fiercest supporter. When I didn't believe in myself, she did. Somehow she always knows what I need to keep me going. A pep talk. A kick in the ass. I love that woman."
"The painting is amazing, Tracy." Ashe made a conscious effort not to reach out. He longed to touch Belle's image. He longed to—Jesus. Ashe simply longed. For Belle. "I would like to buy it. Name your price."
"That's a dangerous sentence, Ashe." Tracy smiled, shaking her head. "A greedy woman might try to gouge you. However, it's not for sale."
Feeling a deep sense of disappointment, Ashe made himself turn away. Not that he was ready to give up.
"Is there any way I can change your mind?"
"Don't hurt her."
Genuinely surprised, Ashe frowned. "Why would you say such a thing? Belle and I don't have that kind of relationship. I don't have the power to hurt her."
"Yes, you do."
Confused, Ashe searched for meaning in Tracy's words. He could think of only one plausible reason.
"Is this about my brother?"
"Bradley, don't call me Brad, Mathison? Hardly." There was contempt in Tracy's tone, but not heat.
"Belle told me what my brother did to you. I wish I had the power to apologize for him."
"That's sweet," Tracy said, briefly squeezing Ashe's hand. She looked him in the eyes, nodding as if coming to a decision. "Belle said you were one of the good guys. I think she's right. So I'll repeat myself—which I rarely do. Do not hurt her."
"She's engaged." It seemed important for him to remind Tracy—and himself—of that fact.
"Theo?" Tracy scoffed. "He's the least of your problems."
"What does that mean?" With a mysterious shrug, Tracy walked away. Ashe was right on her heels. "Tracy—"
"Here are the dolls." She pointed toward two large bags. "Since they are wrapped, Belle took pictures. She wanted you to see what you were getting—in case you didn't like what she picked out."
Ashe wasn't thinking about the dolls. He was still trying to decipher Tracy's don't hurt Belle. And, Theo is the least of your worries. He wanted Belle. Badly. It seemed to him the only thing standing in his way was her fiancé. Tracy's cryptic words suggested otherwise.
"This kind of thing was never my style, but they are beautiful." Tracy handed him her phone. "Are they what you had in mind?"
The dolls sat side by side, reminding him of Naomi and Nadia—when they were girly cute, not mini-hellions. They seemed perfect. However, since he had absolutely no experience on the subject, he would trust that Belle's choice was the right one.
"Great." Ashe handed Tracy her phone.
"I'll text Belle. I know she's anxious to find out your reaction. After the day she's had, she deserves a little pat on the back for a job well done."
Ashe tensed at Tracy's words. "Did something happen to Belle?"
"Relax. She's fine. Just a bit of an upset."
Waiting for Tracy to elaborate, Ashe finished off his wine in one gulp. "Well?" he demanded when she didn't elaborate.
"Belle's car was vandalized. Slashed tires. Scratched paint. It happened in what she thought was a safe place."
"I can see why that would be unsettling." Ashe's shoulders relaxed until he saw the expression in Tracy's eyes. "There's more?"
"You know a little. I'm trying to decide if I should spill it all." To Ashe's growing annoyance, Tracy thoughtfully tapped her chin. "There is something I think Belle should have told you. But because she didn't, I can't. Understand?"
Ashe understood very well. He and his friends kept each other's secrets in a death grip. They felt free to tell each other everything and anything because there was complete trust in their small, but rock-solid circle. As much as he wanted to know what Belle was keeping from him, he couldn't ask Tracy to betray her best friend's confidences.
"If I pushed Belle to tell me, would she?"
"No." Tracy didn't hesitate. "If it were just her secret, I think she would. But she made a promise."
"Does this concern what happened to her car, or her engagement?" Ashe felt like he was playing an elaborate game of twenty questions.
"Ask her all you want about the vandalism. She'll tell you. Theo is what's hanging her up." Tracy set her glass down with a definitive click. "Screw this. I want Belle to be happy so I'm going to push the best friend confidentiality envelope."
Ashe almost shouted a hallelujah. At this point, he would take anything he could get.
"I don't know if I have the power to hurt Belle. I can promise you I would never consciously do so."
"I believe you," Tracy nodded. Then her eyes narrowed. "You understand that if you go back on that promise, your balls are mine." She made a quick chopping motion.
As a man, Ashe was particularly fond of those appendages. He was certain he would keep his word. However, he took Tracy's not-so-subtle threat seriously.
Ashe met her gaze, his nod solemn. "What can you tell me?"
"Theo is not a problem."
That was it? Ashe wondered. After the buildup, Theo is not a problem, was all he was getting?
"Tracy—"
Grabbing him by the arms, Tracy gave Ashe a shake, her eyes boring into his. "Listen to my words. Theo. Is. Not. A. Problem. Understand?"
Slowly, as Tracy's meaning sunk in, Ashe smiled. Damn straight, he understood. The subtleties didn't matter. Belle could fill those in at a later date. Right now, Theo is not a problem, was the sweetest phrase he had heard in a long, long time.
"I love you, Tracy." Ashe gave her an exuberant kiss before rushing toward the door.
"Hey, Hot Lips. Don't forget the dolls."
Rolling his eyes, Ashe made a quick detour, scooping up the bags.
"Thanks."
"One more thing." Tracy blocked his path. "Give me your phone."
At that point, Ashe wasn't in the mood to argue. Before handing it over, he punched in the password, then watched as Tracy's fingers flew over the keys.
"What's this?" he asked, looking at the screen.
"That is where you will find Belle. In an hour or two, she'll need a taxi to take her home. Do I need to tell you what to do?"
Ashe shook his head, grinning. "No, ma'am. You do not."
"YOUR FATHER MAKES a very good point, Belle."
"He always does. He's a god!" Belle mumbled under her breath.
"What did you say, dear?" her mother inquired from the other end of the dining room table.
"She said—oomph." Belle's younger brother Marshall rubbed his side, sending her a narrowed look. "I won't forget that," he whispered.
"Good," Belle spoke through gritted teeth. "Maybe you'll finally learn to keep your mouth shut."
"Must the two of you always devolve into childish patterns? We are adults. Act accordingly."
As the oldest—and a certified clinical psychiatrist—Dinah carried an air of superiority that should have driven Belle crazy. Where Belle and Marshall had their father's looks, Dinah was the spitting image of their mother. Brown hair streaked with gold and a slender build. When Belle was younger, she tried to copy her sister's regal carriage. Eventually, she gave up. On Dinah, it looked natural—right. On Belle, not so much.
The only thing that saved Dinah from coming off as a snotty-nosed bitch was the twinkle in her coffee-colored eyes. They weren't as close as some sisters, but the bond was strong and the love undeniable.
"Belle can take care of herself, Mom." Marsh loaded his plate with another helping of mashed potatoes. "Besides, the police don't have any proof that the vandal had a personal agenda. Right, Dad?"
"I spoke to the police commissioner just before we sat down."
Belle w
iped her mouth, hiding her smile. It wasn't that her father was a name dropper. But she wondered if he realized how unusual it was to have a powerful city official on speed dial. Since he was friends with everybody from the head of the city council to the mayor, she doubted it.
"I must call Miriam. It's been ages." And Penelope Richards knew all the wives. "What did Herbert say, dear?"
"The officers assigned to the case are still going over the security footage. He promised to call as soon as they know anything."
"Until then, I plan on living my life as I always have." Belle's stance on this was firm. For her family's—and her own—peace of mind, she added, "With increased caution and awareness."
"The chances are slim to none that this was personal," Dinah said, delicately taking a tiny piece of chicken Kiev into her mouth.
"Is this your personal or professional opinion?" Marsh asked with mock seriousness.
"Professional, smartass. Personally, I would prefer Belle stay with Mom and Dad. However, it would be impractical on every level. She's a grown woman with her own life. More important, living in fear is not living."
"Amen, sister." Belle applauded Dinah. "What was the point of providing your daughter with an expensive Ivy League education if you refuse to heed her learned opinion?"
"I'm not refusing, Belle." Her father wasn't used to having the minority opinion. "I want you safe. End of discussion."
"I don't think so." With her father, Belle knew when to pick her fights. On this one, she was entrenched to the bitter end.
"Dinah is correct, Elias." Bertram Cornwall, Dinah's husband, calmly interjected his opinion. Also a psychologist, he was a respected profiler for the FBI. Belle had always thought he was handsome in a professorial kind of way. "Slashing tires and keying cars is the behavior of a conflicted person. It is a way for him to vent his frustration on an inanimate object. The fact that it belongs to Belle was probably an unfortunate coincidence."
"And the message he left?" Elias spared his wife by not repeating the words. "It seemed very specific."
"I disagree." Bertram loved a good debate. In his enthusiasm, he missed his wife's look of warning. "Die, Belle, die, would be a specific message. Bitch connotes the man's displeasure with females in general."
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