Provocative Read online

  My eyes burn and the guilt I have over the tears I haven’t shed for my mother has me rushing to the closet off the bathroom to change. I need to paint. I need to get lost with a brush in my hand. I turn away from the bed and enter the bathroom, done in the same shades as the bedroom, including the checked tiles, with an egg-shaped sunken tub, and continue to my walk-in closet. Once there I change into jeans and a t-shirt, as well as sneakers.

  A few minutes later, I’m on the second level of the house, which I had converted to my studio, with a smock over my clothes, a blank canvas in front of me. A brush in my hand for the first time in months, and my phone on the table beside me. And impossibly, somehow, Nick Rogers is still on my mind. I don’t like arrogance. I don’t like men with long hair. I don’t like men like Nick Rogers. And yet, that man is haunting me. I go to work, determined to paint him off my mind, long strokes, heavy strokes. Soon my creation begins to come to life, a work that is like no other I have ever created, and I am driven, obsessed even, to finish it.

  Time passes, an hour I think, maybe more, when my phone rings. I set down the brush, wipe my hands on the smock before picking it up. “Hi Josh,” I say, after noting my agent’s number on caller ID.

  “I’m finally here,” he breathes out, sounding decidedly grumpy.

  “Finally? What time is it?”

  “Five,” he says. “And why the hell do you not know that, Faith? This is a big night for you. Chris Merit won’t be there, but he donated a never-before-seen painting for the charity auction. The event’s been sold out for months. And this is your event, too.”

  “It’s his event. I’m showing my work.”

  “It’s your event, too, and I will spank your pretty little ass if you say otherwise, again.”

  “You do not need to say things like that to me.”

  “Because I scandalize you? We both know that’s no more true than Cinderella. Besides A) You’d bust my balls if I ever tried anything with you, which I would not because B) I like submissive types. You are so far from that it’s laughable. If you were, I’d already have you past this nonsense that you can’t paint and run your family business.”

  I grimace. “Where are you going with this exactly?”

  “You should be at a spa getting a facial or whatever you women do before fancy black tie affairs that would never cross our male minds.”

  “Actually,” I say, blowing out a breath. “I was—” I stop myself, not wanting to give him the wrong idea about where this is going, “—about to take a shower.”

  “Please tell me that sentence was supposed to finish with the word ‘painting’ because that’s the only answer acceptable in my mind.”

  I inspect the project I’ve been working on for hours, my inspiration coming from an unexpected place.

  “Faith?” he presses.

  “Yes. I’ve been painting.”

  “Thank you Lord,” he says, his voice exaggerated relief. “I have to see whatever it is before I leave Sunday.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “This is nothing like the black and white landscapes I’m known for. This is just for me.”

  “Now I’m really intrigued. And after tonight, you’ll be a hot mama in the art circuit. Maybe this new project is the one where we make big money together.”

  “You know that doesn’t matter to me,” I say. “I just needed to pay my outrageous L.A. rent and selling my work helped.”

  “You mean you downplayed your dream of quitting the art museum and painting full-time every chance you got. I’ve told you before many times. There is nothing wrong with dreaming big and getting paid big for your work. I need new work to keep that dream alive. You’ve given me nothing in a year.”

  “I don’t have anything to give you,” I say despite the dozen covered easels around the room that say otherwise.

  “Liar,” he accuses. “We both know you can’t live without that brush in your hand. I want to see what you did before I leave.”

  “No,” I say. “No, this one is for me.”

  He’s silent a beat. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear you say you were painting for you again?”

  I inhale and release a shaky breath. “Josh—”

  “Don’t tell me the reasons why you can’t paint, because I know it’s in your blood. It’s like breathing to you and I also know that you’ve been secretly painting. But tonight isn’t about me pressuring you to paint. It’s about celebrating the success of the work that you’ve already given me, and the art lovers of the world. This night is my birthday gift to you. So. Happy birthday, Faith.”

  “Thank you,” I say, always amazed at how he remembers this day when others who should have often forgot. “How are you so bad with women and so good with your clients?”

  “Being single is not about failure. It’s about choice. I want what I want, and I won’t settle, something we both know you understand.”

  The man knows far more about me than most of the people who I called friends back in LA, but then, he lives the art world, as I once did. “I walked right into that one,” I say,

  “Yes, you did. Meet me at my hotel at six-thirty. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.” He hangs up and my lashes lower, a hotspot in my chest and belly where emotions I don’t want to feel have formed. Emotions I swore I wanted to feel when I moved into my mother’s bedroom. I was wrong. Emotions weaken me. They make me feel instead of think. They change my judgment calls. Yes. I was definitely wrong about welcoming them back into my world. Just like I was wrong two years ago when I bought this place, thinking I could paint and help at the winery, and give up nothing. I can’t do both, and when I dip a toe back into the art world, that’s what I want to do full-time. I wish tonight wasn’t happening. I wish I had said no. And yet, I need to go change and dress.

  Still holding my phone to my ear, I shake myself out of my reverie, and stick my cell inside my jeans pocket. I have to shower and get dressed. Tearing away the smock, I toss it on the wooden stool beside the table. Exiting the studio, I rush down the stairs and back to my bedroom, and finally reach my closet. Flipping on the light, I walk into the giant box-shaped space and stop at the far wall where my party dresses hang. I remove two choices, both still with tags, both splurges meant for shows I was to attend just before my father’s death. One is a deep royal blue, made of lace with a V-neck and gorgeous sheer long sleeves. I love those sleeves but my favorite part of the dress is that it’s ankle length with a classic front slit. I like classic. I like the way it makes me feel like the woman I forgot I was until I met Nick Rogers. I’m not sure why he woke me up. I’m pretty sure I will wish he didn’t later, but tonight, I need to feel like me, like Faith Winter, not an employee of the winery.

  I refocus on the second dress, which is… well, it’s a black dress. That’s the problem. No matter what it asserts otherwise, its color is my deterrent, that says death to me, a reminder of all loss. Of the people I love. Of hope. Of dreams. Of so many things. I don’t know if I can survive this night, while being reminded of all those reasons I can’t allow my past to be my present. But tonight is about that past, and about my art, though I really don’t know what that means to me anymore. It’s a hobby and nothing more. It can’t be. It’s…wait. My spine straightens. Josh said tonight could set me up for a good payday, and I already know a second mortgage on a new mortgage won’t do for me. But do I dare believe, my art, my past, could help me get out of this hole that I’m in with the winery? Or at least buy me some time to find the money my mother has to have somewhere? I hope.

  I set the blue dress on the bench in the middle of the room and turn around, then sprint from the closet, through the bathroom and bedroom. Running back to the stairs to my studio, I start pulling sheets off easels, staring at each of the dozen pieces I’ve completed, one by one. Looking for the ones that Josh might think are worthy of his representation. And the truth is, I never think any of my work is worthy of representation, so why am I even trying to figure this out? But I’ve sold work for up
to seven thousand dollars. Okay, only a couple of pieces and they took time to sell, but if I could sell just some of these, I could buy that time I need. And if I wasn’t so damn confused about how my two worlds fit together, I might have already thought about this. I’ll just show them all to Josh. I rush to the office in the corner, ignoring the glass desk in the center and walk to a closet, where I remove a camera.

  Returning to the studio, I snap photos of my work. I’m about to head back downstairs, but somehow I end up standing in front of the freshly painted easel. A portrait. I never paint portraits, and not because I don’t enjoy them, or have no skills in that area, but rather because of the way the brush exposes secrets a person might not want exposed, and I value privacy. I value my secrets staying my secrets and I assume others feel the same. But I want to know Nick Rogers’ secrets, and I know he has secrets. Which is why I haven’t gone to the internet for answers, where I will discover only sterile data. Instead, I found myself painting him, and the hard, handsome lines of his face are defined, but it’s his navy blue eyes that I’ve fretted over. Eyes, that along with what I’ve sensed and spoken of with him, tell a story I don’t quite understand, but I will. I have the weekend off from the winery as my gift to myself, and I plan to finish the painting. I plan to know that man more and figure him out before I see him again. Doing so feels important, for reasons I can’t quite say right now. Maybe he’s my enemy or maybe he just enjoys the dynamics of playing that game. Perhaps I’m just trying to feed myself a façade of control by trying to figure out the unknown that I simply won’t and don’t have with that man. I wonder if he knows he doesn’t have it either.

  Whatever the case, it won’t matter tonight. As Josh said. The event has been sold out for months. No one, not even Tiger and his arrogance, can snag a ticket. And since I’m not going back to the winery until Sunday night, I suspect he’ll be gone back to wherever he practices by then. In fact, maybe I’m wrong about seeing him again. If he gets back to work, and gets busy, he might even forget whatever challenge I represent. My painting might actually be the last I see of the man. This should be a relief. It’s not.

  By the time I email the photos to Josh, I have an hour to shower and dress. By the time I fret over underwear and thigh highs as if Tiger might show up and rip them off of me, then move on to change from the blue dress to the black dress twice, I’m running late. Finally, though, I return to the blue dress, and rush through fussing with my makeup and curling my hair that I usually leave straight. Even choosing shoes becomes an ordeal, but I settle on strappy black heels, and a small black purse, with a little sparkle, which is also Chanel, and purchased by someone I’d rather not think about.

  I’m in the car, starting the engine, ten minutes before I’m supposed to meet Josh and it’s a thirty-minute drive. He calls me at fifteen, “Where are you?”

  “The traffic was bad.”

  “There is no traffic. Faith—”

  “I sent you photos of the work I have done.” All except one particular portrait.

  “Did you now?” he asks. “I’ll take a look now and you’re forgiven.”

  “You don’t have time now. I know that.”

  “I’ll make time. Meet me at the gallery instead of the hotel. Go to the back door. Expect security.” He hangs up.

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. He’s looking at them now. I suck another breath in. What if he hates them? What if dabbling at my craft has made me forget what my craft is all about? “What was I thinking?” I pull up to a stoplight and I know exactly how to make myself feel good about this decision again. I grab my phone and tab to my voice mail, and hit the button to play all messages. One after another, harsh messages play from the bank, or a vendor that is past due. Each a brutal reminder of why I chose to send those photos to my agent. I have to get everyone caught up, and one by one, I’ve been working to do just that.

  It’s right at seven when I turn into the Chateau Cellar Winery that is home to the gallery. It’s literally a stone castle, covered in ivy with a dungeon-style front door. Just the sight of it has my nerves jolting into action, fluttering in my chest and belly, and not just because I’m late. I’ve never been featured in a show this high profile. And while I tell myself this night is one last hurrah, as I turn into the parking lot, I see every space is filled, and all I can think is that this is my dream. This is still my dream. I pull on around to the back of the building and find the lot equally full, those nerves expanding but I dare to allow myself some excitement as well. How amazing would it be if my dream saved my father’s?

  I park and I’ve just killed the engine when there is a knock on my window. I roll it down to find Josh in view, his dark hair trimmed neatly as always, his handsome face clean shaven. “They’re waiting on you to make announcements.”

  “Oh no. Oh God. I shouldn’t have taken the photos tonight.” I click the locks and he immediately opens the door, offering me his hand. I snag my purse and flatten my palm in his, struck by how good looking he is in his tuxedo, and how unaffected I am by his touch, even before I’m standing and under the full impact of his dark brown eyes giving me a once over. “You are stunning, Faith Winter.” He releases me and waves a hand in the air. “I see it now. You in a bathtub on the cover of a magazine with a headline: sexy, successful and talented.” He doesn’t give me time to reply. He shuts my car door and snags my arm. “Let’s go.”

  I double step to keep up. “I’m never going to be naked on a magazine.”

  “Not if you keep smashing grapes instead of painting.”

  My heart sinks. “You hated the photos. You think I lost my touch.”

  He stops walking and settles his hands on my arms. “They’re magnificent like you are. Go in there and be a painter because I don’t represent wine makers.”

  The door opens and a woman steps outside. “Josh. Now.”

  “Let’s do this,” Josh says, taking my hand and leading me into chaos. There are greetings and handshakes and before I know it, I’m sitting in a chair on a spotlighted stage with two other artists I don’t know but admire on either side of me, the gallery around us in darkness, the crowd standing around us.

  “Welcome all,” the announcer says, from the podium in front of us. “As you know, we have three new artists to introduce you to tonight, but because I know you are all anxious to see the Chris Merit release, I want to explain how this works. We’ll unveil the painting in exactly one hour. Highest bidder wins and all proceeds, one hundred percent, are donated to the Children’s Hospital. In the meantime, we have our three featured artists here tonight. They will be donating twenty percent of all sales tonight as well to the Children’s Hospital. Please visit them in the crowd tonight. Please visit their displays and our many others.” He has each of us stand and after a few more words the lights come up. I stand and look left to find Josh waiting for me at the steps, but something intense, something familiar compels me to look right, and I suck in air. Nick Rogers is standing there, looking like dirty, sexy, delicious lust in a tuxedo.

  I DON’T LIE. I MEANT that when I said it to Faith earlier today.

  She does intrigue me and the reasons are many. For starters, I like a challenge and she is that, both in character and physical perfection. She doesn’t look like a killer, but rather a beautiful woman, who is somehow delicate and strong at the same time. She doesn’t smell like a killer, but rather like the garden where I’d first touched her. She doesn’t even read like a killer on paper, but then I knew that when I sought her out. And right now, standing on the stage, staring at me, stunningly beautiful in a blue dress, I vow to know her body as well as her mind, vowing to feel every curve that dress hugs, of which she has many next to me before this night is over. Right after I find out if she tastes like the killer, and enemy, I still, regretfully, suspect her to be.

  I watch now as she recovers from the surprise of my appearance, the shell-shocked look on her heart-shaped face fading, her composure sliding back into place, remarkab
ly fast. She walks toward me, grace in her steps, those long legs of hers peeking out from the slit in her dress, teasing the fuck out of my cock in the process. Legs I want wrapped around my hips, but not before I’ve licked every last inch of them and her. She stops at the edge of the stage, at the top of the stairs while I’m at the bottom, those full, lush lips of hers painted a pale pink, subtle and yet beautiful, the way she uses a brush on a canvas. She’s talented, gifted as few are, and capable of making a living on her own, without involvement in blackmailing my father or killing him.

  “You look beautiful,” I say, and I allow my desire for this woman to radiate in the deep rasp of my voice. “You are beautiful.”

  To my surprise, her cheeks flush red, shyness in the lowering of her lashes, as she says, “Thank you,” and once again proves she’s a contradiction, a beautiful, complicated fucking contradiction that I have to understand. But I’m adding another level of complication of my own that I want to understand.

  I take the bottom step, leaving only two between us and offer her my hand. She looks at it and then me, and when those green eyes lock on mine, the connection delivering a punch in my chest. I’d revel in how alive this woman makes me feel, in how much I want to fuck her, if I didn’t think there was a ninety percent chance that she’s a blackmailer and a killer, but the facts are clear. Her chin lifts defiantly, but she offers me submission, settling her palm on mine, her eyes flickering with the contact. My cock twitching with the contact. Her hand slides against mine, delicate and small, and I close mine around hers.

  “Free will,” I say. “Exactly what I wanted from you.”

  “I didn’t want to make a scene,” she counters, allowing me to walk her down the stairs, to stand at the side of the stage.