The hollowness became a prickly hurt in her throat. The cute little house had represented her dreams, her hopes for a new beginning. A new life.
A happier life.
The final break had come not when Rick had finally raised his hand to her, or when she’d told Rick it was over, or even the awful scene when she’d informed her mother. It had come when her key opened her new, cute, private home’s door.
Nothing but a dangerous shack now.
Of course, it could have been worse. It could have been her tomb.
She got in her Volkswagen and drove the few blocks to Harry’s house, thoughtful. Her hurt receded as she contemplated the mystery of him.
The man was a fascinating combination of contrasts. A strong, tough man who knew how to be tender. Caring, but elusive.
Great for her physical well-being. Dangerous to her emotional well-being.
But just the thought of him made her hurt disappear. All she had to do was close her eyes and she felt his hands on her body, his breath on her skin. Last night she’d even dreamed of him instead of having the usual nightmares.
Ginnie exited her car and walked into Harry’s house. She smiled. Or maybe it was just the pure, spacious beauty of Harry’s house.
Ginnie inhaled, scenting new leather and polished wood. She could get used to this. Exquisite furniture. Lovely rugs over gleaming hardwood. It really was a privilege to be surrounded by such a tasteful, color-balanced, beautiful…
Ginnie frowned, her gaze snagged on something. That painting. The one she’d noticed the evening before.
She walked to where it dominated the room despite its medium size and awkward, off-center placement near the teak armoire. An ugly oil painting. The colors, clear and cheerful primaries juxtaposed with muddy browns that may or may not have been intentional, combined to create a polo scene. The illegible signature was a proud black slash across the lower right corner.
But the odd thing, aside from such a clearly amateurish picture encircled by an elaborate gilded frame, was that she could see numbers through the paint. The number four where the tan of a bamboo mallet thinned. A barely visible seven on the Velcro strap on a rider’s leather knee guard.
It was a paint-by-numbers picture.
Someone had finished it with sloppy disregard for staying within the lines and then framed it. And Harry hung it where it’d be the first thing anyone saw.
“Huh.” Ginnie wondered what she was missing. Was it a child’s effort? The large, aggressive signature seemed to suggest otherwise. The overall effect struck her as modern and even daring, as if it was a sly mocking of art by virtue of sheer ugliness. Ginnie hated it.
It really did dominate the room horribly. What a waste of a gorgeous frame. She wondered if Harry would mind if she moved the picture. Just to a less conspicuous place. Like a closet.
No, that would be rude. She’d just see how the room looked without the atrocious thing, then put it back.
Before she could change her mind, she’d pulled a chair over to stand on. She lifted the picture slowly from the wall.
She was so involved with trying to remove it without scraping the wall, she didn’t hear Harry until he spoke directly behind her.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Ginnie froze. “Um. Helping?”
She felt his anger in the brusque, hard way he seized the picture from her. “Get down,” he said.
She did, quaking a little inside. Why was he upset? “I’m sorry.” She hunched, backed away from him. “I didn’t mean anything.” Her brain and heart fell back into a familiar unpleasant routine.
He took one look at her and immediately set the painting down. “Oh. Hey. It’s okay.” He showed the palms of his hands, as if to demonstrate he held no weapons.
Ginnie smiled wryly. She made a conscious effort to square her shoulders. “Don’t mind me. Sometimes I get…nervous.”
“You looked scared. Scared of me.” Harry half-smiled, as if the idea was ridiculous.
Maybe it was ridiculous, but it was difficult to control her reflexes. She changed the subject. “I was only moving the picture. To see if it’d look better somewhere else.”
“Why?”
Something about the way his blue eyes held hers, so steady and calm, set her further at ease. “Your house is decorated beautifully. I’ve never seen such a lovely living room…except for this painting. I wanted to see how the room would look without it.”
“So would I.” But Harry bent to retrieve the painting and re-hung it.
She looked at him quizzically.
“Oh, I know it’s cheap and ugly. That’s the point.” He smiled at her confused look, but the smile had some sadness in it. “You haven’t been down to the basement yet, have you? C’mon.” He steered her, and at the warm touch of his hand, her body wanted to arch into his—but he was steering her like a car.
She dug in her heels. “Bossy, aren’t you.”
He stopped, considering. “I am a boss.” He looked at her, not removing his hand. “But I don’t believe I’m bossy.”
“I’m a boss too,” she said. “I have two employees at Helping Hands.” For the moment, anyway.
She wasn’t sure what she was objecting to or why she felt the need to defend herself. Something in her rebelled at being controlled, as if to acquiesce would be giving away a critical part of her soul. “Sorry,” she repeated, wishing she could just be easygoing and unsuspicious and go with the flow.
Of course, if she were like that, she’d still be with Rick.
“I’d like a tour of your house now, Harry.” She placed her hand on his, sandwiching it between her palm and her arm. It felt nice. “To the basement,” she commanded.
But Harry didn’t move right away. Instead, he tilted her head up to his, examined her face. “You know, you have serious control issues.”
“Uh-huh.” She nodded agreement, which dislodged his hand.
His sexy lips quirked into a small, ironic smile. “Well, you’re honest at least.”
“Basement?”
“Right.”
He led the way down a stairway, then through another door, and the basement opened before her. Clean, finished and non-musty despite all the recent rain, the first and largest room seemed a natural extension of the house, and easily three times the size of hers. Or, what hers used to be. It even had its own separate entrance into the backyard.
When he waited for her to proceed, she moved forward, past the workout equipment to the wooden workbenches. She thought she’d seen something familiar.
“Little Jeffrey!” She rushed forward. Her beloved puppet sprawled, broken but recognizable, in the middle. Around him were the other marionettes she’d been able to grab yesterday. “How in the world…? I thought we left him behind. How did you find him?”
“Same way you found this.” Harry held up the purse she’d left sitting on the end of the workbench. “I went back into a certain dangerously unstable house last night. There are more still down there that don’t appear to be buried too badly, but I figured you’d want that one right away.”
Gratitude and awe coursed through her, leaving a pleasant warmth behind. He’d gone back after she’d fallen asleep, probably. His stamina astonished her, even as his thoughtfulness made her heart warm. “Harry,” she said, letting her affection, her admiration, color his name. “Thank you.”
His eyes sparkled in the basement’s dimmer light. He handed her the purse. “Don’t mention it.”
“But I want to.” She reached up to cup his face the way he had hers earlier. “You’re so sweet.”
Looking into his eyes, she could feel herself falling for him, a tugging ache in her heart that made her want to cook him something, or maybe have his babies. But something had scarred him in his past, and she was pretty sure it probably had to do with a relationship. So she just gently patted his cheek.
“That picture, upstairs. Does it have anything to do with why a handsome, heroic specimen such as you is
living in this big house all by yourself?”
Harry lifted her hand from his chin, fully extending her arm. He kissed her knuckles, once. A gallant gesture before he turned toward the workbench and took a few steps.
Her hand tingled. She followed in his wake.
And what a nice-smelling wake it was too. She knew from his clothes that he didn’t dig ditches for a living—as if the big fancy house wasn’t enough clue to his white-collar employment—but his clean, musky male scent confirmed it. Maybe it was pheromones. His scent attracted her more than cologne ever had.
Intriguing, gallant, sensitive, good-smelling, fabulous lover… If she weren’t careful, she’d get her heart broken. He’d warned her of the possibility, since he wasn’t looking for a relationship.
He must’ve been in a very bad relationship. Worse than hers, even.
She approached the smooth wood where her marionette lay, her hands almost automatically clearing the tangles from the strings and taking in the extent of the damage. Bad, but not irretrievable.
Harry watched her hands.
She would need tools, glue, rags, paints…most of her supplies, really, but the damage wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. She could scavenge an arm from Odie, a little-used boy puppet, and at least replace that crushed limb.
She worked and talked at the same time. “So. Who was she, and what’s the deal with that ugly painting?”
“As you surmised, the two are related.” His lips thinned. Disapproval. Distaste for the woman, the artwork, or both? “I managed to get involved with the most conniving, lying gold-digger on the entire West Coast. Worse, I offered to marry her.”
Ginnie glanced at his ring finger.
“Oh, we didn’t get to the altar. Almost but not quite. Thankfully not quite. But you wanted to know about the painting.”
She wanted to know about everything. Absolutely everything there was to know about the fascinating man. “Uh-huh.” Her hands continued to work as she listened carefully.
“Jaye Rae lays waste wherever she goes. She’s beautiful, of course. Honey-tongued. Talented at the art of being arm candy. Not so good at oil painting, which was her hook. A passionate artiste”—Harry pronounced it “arteest” with such contempt that Ginnie froze for a moment—“in search of a real man who could understand her unique artistic temperament. So needy. So controlling. Anyway,” Harry continued, “it was a long time ago.”
When Ginnie glanced at him, she could see the muscles in his shoulders all bunched up. He looked at his watch.
“But what happened?” she asked quickly, before he made an excuse to leave. He didn’t want to talk about it, obviously, but he needed to. She knew. Plus she was dying to hear what happened.
He paused, then answered, his voice clipped. “Long story short, she was an actual artist like I’m a bunny rabbit. She painted her contempt for art, and called it art. There was a period of time after she moved in that this whole space down here was supposedly her studio. She’d come down sometimes to keep up the deception. Painted crappy pictures with the help of pre-numbered templates. I kept one of them after she left.”
Ginnie waited, but when no more info was forthcoming, she nudged him with her elbow. Her puppet bobbed with the movement. “And?”
“And what? She moved out.”
“You broke up because you didn’t like her taste in art?” There had to be more to it than that.
Harry turned a cool look on her. “Of course not. We broke up because she’s a publicity hound. Jaye Rae loved the spotlight, but I’m a private man.”
Ginnie stared at him, astonished. “She was famous for those paintings?”
Harry stared back, strangely intent for a moment. Then he glanced away. “You’d be surprised at the public’s gullibility.”
“Maybe.” Ginnie had the feeling she’d missed something.
She also had the urge to hug him. He could use a hug. So could she, for that matter. She wanted to feel their bodies together again, the full length of his pressed against the full length of hers. Clothing optional.
Something he said tickled her brain. “Gold-digger,” she mused aloud. “Sounds like she was doing pretty well already with those paintings. You must be seriously well-off for her to dig for gold.”
“I do okay.” His voice was cool again.
“So do I,” she countered. “It’s a nonprofit, but Helping Hands pays okay.”
That got his interest. “Excellent. And you’re investing wisely, I hope.”
She shrugged, frowning. Investing wasn’t high on her list of priorities at the moment.
But he persisted. “A diversified portfolio is important. And so is a qualified financial advisor. It’s never too early to save for retirement.”
“Let me guess. You’re a qualified financial advisor.” She teased him. “You trying to drum up business here?”
His mouth fell open. “Drum up business?”
“Oh, I don’t mind. It’s cute. ‘It’s never too early to save for retirement.’ You’re a nerd!” She gave in to the temptation that had plagued her since he first positioned himself so close and hugged him.
She felt his body remain stiff for a moment. Then with an exhale that tickled her ear, he wrapped his arms around her too. The feel of him was better than she remembered. His warmth paired with his bulges and muscles in all the right places made a thrill of wanting zip all through her like forks of lightning.
“A nerd. That’s a new one.” His voice, low and amused, rumbled against her. “And you, my dear, are entirely too tempting.” He held her even more tightly for a moment, letting her feel exactly how enticing he found her, then stepped back. The items on the bench seemed to grab his attention. His voice still carried warmth. “And motivated and talented too. You’ve already given Jeffrey a new arm.”
Pleased, she pulled the string that controlled the arm and simultaneously levered the fingers. A wave.
“I’m sure you earn your pay at Helping Hands. As you would wherever else you chose to work.” He sounded approving.
“I wish I earned it doing this all the time.” The puppet trembled, then jumped to one side, cocking a hip, lifting a knee. Waggled his behind. A complex boogie. Ginnie smiled, feeling both proud and sad. “I’m in Events Management. Good money, right, very good, even, but…well, it’s not a creative position. Unless you consider setting financial goals, supervising grant requests and, most of all, controlling the workflow of subordinates creative.”
“Controlling your subordinates?”
Ginnie looked at him, but his gaze was on her hands as she untangled more marionette strings. “Someone has to set the performers and secretaries straight about the urgency of matters. Take the reins, be proactive, motivate people to do more than the minimum.” She didn’t tell him she’d been taken aside by two of the older ladies last week. During that closed-door meeting, she’d been accused of being a micro-manager, too controlling, not a team player. But their reaction was due to being intimidated by her, Ginnie was pretty sure. She’d explained herself to them. “I’d sure like to be behind the stage instead, though,” Ginnie finished, wistful. “It’s a joy to make your work come alive, connecting with the audience and inspiring imaginations in ways TV and Hollywood can’t touch.”
“So, why don’t you? If you enjoy it, do it.”
“It’s not that easy.” She should know. She’d had the years of apprenticeship, building sets and creating marionettes, touring with a medium-sized company. She’d lived and breathed puppetry for the better part of a decade. She’d actually gotten quite good.
Then Rick happened, and the gravitational pull back into her mother’s orbit and the accompanying destruction of the confidence she’d built up.
“It’s never easy,” she said. “Especially when the most important people in your life think it’s a silly habit of just playing with dolls. It’s really not. It’s a challenging form of art to operate a good puppet show, not to mention making handcrafted, quality marionettes.”
r /> He nodded. Hesitated. “I occasionally perform construction on buildings along with the contractors. Woodworking, mostly. It can be rewarding to build something complex with your own hands. I imagine it’s like that for you?”
“Yes.” A warm glow of gratification unfurled inside her. He understood. “Exactly. But then again, bills have to be paid. Besides, they need me where I’m at.”
“Supervising.” Harry picked up a female marionette’s wooden handle. He jiggled it, and the painted girl jiggled too. He manipulated the finger-crank controlling her mouth—open, closed—and tugged on the strings to make her bend her knees.
Delighted, Ginnie boogied Little Jeffrey in a half-circle around the girl, a vigorous courtship. The girl wasn’t that good of a dancer and seemed somewhat mentally challenged, the way she gaped her mouth open and closed like a fish. And Little Jeffrey’s smashed face appeared a bit gruesome, as if he were a victim of some horrible mugging. But Little Jeffrey’s undiminished ardor for the girl had him bending and twisting and occasionally high-kicking, as if he were possessed by a passion beyond his control.
They danced awkwardly, and Ginnie laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. Harry had a broad grin too, she noted with satisfaction. “You’re a natural,” she praised him.
“Liar. You’re the natural.” He laid the puppet aside with obvious reluctance. “That was fun.”
“It is fun, isn’t it?” They looked at each other, still smiling. She dragged her gaze away with an effort. She noticed he immediately stepped farther away. He didn’t want a relationship.
Why not? Not that she necessarily wanted one, either, but…
He liked her and he wanted her, she could tell. And he was the sexiest thing she’d ever known. And he was a hottie with a fabulous house. And they had fun. She was willing to bet Harry didn’t have fun very often. “Harry, what did Jaye Rae do to you?” she blurted.
His head whipped back, and his eyes ignited with an icy blue fire. He didn’t speak, only stared at her. It made her feel as if she were a novice with a puppet on stage for the first time, alone in the glare of spotlights without a clue what her line was supposed to be.
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