Almost Perfect (11 page)

Instead of getting her back up, though, she'd agreed.

Or maybe she'd been too tired to argue anymore. He'd watched her run the full gamut of emotions last night, which, admittedly had weakened his defenses. When he got to the Craft Shack, she would probably march out to the truck and tell him what he could do with his offer to help.

That would be for the best, he assured himself. Far wiser than spending the day with her, having her near enough to touch, close enough to smell. Listening to her talk about her husband, the Geek. Joe tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he pulled to a stop. The thought of her giving all that joy and life to another man for years when he could have had her for himself made him want to punch something.

He settled for hitting the horn hard enough to produce a satisfying blast of noise. A flock of crows flew up from the trees, their black bodies in sharp contrast to the vivid blue sky. The day promised to be sunny, with only a few white clouds peeking over the tops of the mountains—although weather in the mountains could change in a heartbeat.

As he settled in to wait, he accepted that what drove him crazier than learning she'd given her heart and her body to another man was finding out she'd set her art aside to do it. The emotion that flared inside him at that wasn't jealousy but outrage.

How dare she set her art aside for anyone?

He might not have spent the last fifteen years with Maddy in the forefront of his mind, pining for her like some pathetic sap, but there had been times when the image of her had sprung full blown into his thoughts: when he'd been deployed in the Middle East and he'd been dirty, tired, and frustrated, when a member of his battalion was blown to bits, when locals hurled insults along with bullets. At times like those, he'd wondered why the hell he was doing it. Why was he risking his life? During those moments, most men thought of family, of their wives and children, their sweethearts or their parents—someone they loved more than they feared death.

For Joe it was Maddy—not her the person, but what she represented in his mind. A free spirit with enough heart and passion to claw her way out of a mediocre existence to achieve her fullest potential. Wasn't that the American dream? The very essence of what men and women were giving their lives to protect?

Maddy's decision to choose an art career over him may have ripped him apart, but he'd never doubted that she would make it. So when he'd needed something to cling to, he'd pictured her in his mind, drinking champagne at some gallery show with patrons raving over her work. The frustration and bone-numbing fatigue of an operation would fade, leaving room for conviction to return.
That
became the reason he risked his life. Not just for the lofty concepts of freedom, democracy, and justice—although those were powerful ideals when a man was surrounded by oppression and fear— but that image of Maddy the successful artist became his personal talisman, something to conjure up when he needed to draw on his last ounce of strength.

He'd risked his life, sweated blood on foreign soil, so people like Maddy could live free and go after their dreams.

And last night she tells him she didn't do it?

That was not acceptable.

By God, if she came down those stairs and refused to let him help her, she'd have a fight on her hands. She was going to get her art career if he personally had to take her work around to every gallery in Santa Fe.

Just then, she appeared on the landing—and Maddy the ideal vanished in the face of Maddy the flesh-and-blood woman.

Good God, she dazzled him every time he looked at her.

Get over it, Joe
, he ordered himself.
Don't be a sap. Ancient history, remember
?

As she skipped down the stairs, he forced himself to look away, with a stern reminder that he was on a mission that had nothing to do with getting close to Maddy on a personal level. Where this woman was concerned he needed a T-shirt that said BEEN

THERE, DONE THAT, HAVE THE SCARS TO PROVE IT.

Today was about setting the world back on its proper axis. Period. And if that meant ceasing hostilities, he'd do it. He'd be downright pleasant, if he had to.

He heard the truck door open. "Okay," she said, sounding breathless. "How do I look?"

Even though he braced for it, a bolt of need punched through his defenses when he turned and saw her. She stood back a few paces so he could see all of her.

"Is this all right? I was going for artsy but professional." Holding a leather portfolio out to one side, her purse to the other, she twirled about, showing off an outfit that was pure Maddy: a crocheted sweater that was more air than yarn, belted at the hips over a sage-colored tank dress that fell to her ankles.

His body tightened as his gaze ran the full length of her. "I think the boots might be a bit much for summer."

"Oh, no, they're just ankle boots." Hitching up the skirt, she plopped her foot on the floorboard so he could see the 1890s brown-leather boots, an inch of frilly sock, and a lot of creamy bare leg.

"I see." He cleared his throat.

"They're fine?"

"More than."

"What about the hair?" She cocked her head back and forth. With Maddy, the hair was always the crowning touch, but today it was more glorious than ever, a full mane of wild red hair around her heart-shaped face. "Too much? Too big? Too messy?"

"I don't think anyone will doubt you're from Texas, if that's what you're asking."

"I knew it. Too big. I should pull it back. I have a scarf in here somewhere." She started digging through her massive purse.

"Maddy, no, it's fine."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Okay, then." She released a huff of air. "I'm a little nervous."

"I never would have guessed." As he waited for her to get settled, he wondered which made her more nervous, the thought of showing her portfolio, or of spending the next half hour trapped- alone with him in his truck. Personally, he wasn't too thrilled with the second idea either. They'd both just have to make the best of it. "Seat belt."

"Oh. Yeah. Right." She fastened the belt, then shifted toward him as he put the truck in gear and drove down the mountain. "Okay, last question, so be honest. Did I manage to hide the circles under my eyes? Or can you tell I got zero sleep last night?"

"You didn't sleep well?" He felt a surprising stab of concern, remembering how emotionally wrung out she'd looked after their discussion.

"It's a little hard to sleep when your head doesn't even hit the pillow until four a.m." She gave a breathy laugh. "My mind's been busting with images the past few days, but I haven't had a chance to set up an easel and break out the paints. That's the problem with oils. You can't just pick them up and set them down on a lark. Then yesterday, when I was cleaning out the supply cabinets in the craft room, I ran across a bunch of oil pastels. How perfect is that?"

"I wouldn't know." He gave her a questioning look, which was all she needed to launch into one of the chatty monologues that had always amused him. This one was about the history of oil pastels, and how artists like Monet and Renoir had used them as a means to make color sketches while hanging out in Paris cafes.

The neutral topic also provided a safe zone for them to operate. He welcomed it with the hope that the day wouldn't be too uncomfortable after all.

"Is that what you were doing last night?" he asked when her monologue ran out. "Preliminary studies?"

"About a dozen of them. Heavens, it was so liberating. I haven't played with oil pastels in years. I'd forgotten how fun they can be. They're so fast, you don't have time to think about the rules. You just let the image spill out of you onto the paper with quick strokes and squiggles. I'll rein all that in when I do the real paintings, but it was a blast to just let it rip."

"Rules?" He raised a brow. "Since when did you care about the rules?"

"You get enough technique hammered into you by art profs, some of it's bound to stick." She turned toward him. "Okay, here's the deal."

"The deal?"

"About today. I brought photographs of my work, just in case, but today is mostly for me to get a feel for the various galleries. If I'm not comfortable talking to any of the owners yet, I'll wait until I'm ready."

"We'll see."

"I'm serious, Joe. I worked in one of Austin's best galleries, so I know how to play this game. You don't blow your chance with a sloppy first impression. Plus I really want to turn some of the sketches from last night into paintings before I make my move. The images are good. They have an energy my work hasn't had in a long time."

"I look forward to seeing them," he said as he drove.

"Then we're agreed?"

"Hmm."

"Great." She let out a sigh of relief, then turned to take in the scenery. By the time they arrived in town, they'd established an amiable note for the day, even if it ran only skin deep.

Santa Fe. The artist's Mecca. Fabulous shops, trendy restaurants, historic buildings—and traffic jams! Maddy felt like a kid with her face pressed to the window as Joe maneuvered the black pickup through narrow streets originally designed for men on horseback. Finally, they inched their way onto the famous Canyon Road, where finding a parking place was as much a battle of wills as a game of chicken.

After Joe snagged a spot, Maddy stepped out of the truck and took a deep breath as she looked around. Adobe-houses-turned-art-galleries stood shoulder to shoulder as far as she could see in both directions. Tall spikes of flowers bloomed in tiny rock gardens, adding splashes of color along with turquoise window and door frames, and artwork displayed on porches. Over the tops of the flat roofs, the scalloped edge of mountains gave way to towering white clouds that dwarfed the land beneath them.

Everywhere she looked, her mind gathered images to be stored and painted later. Beyond the visible, though, was a feeling, a mystical call of the land that made her long to capture it with imagery.

Joe joined her on the narrow gravel path beside the line of parked cars. Wearing jeans, a denim shirt, and cowboy boots, he fit right in—and looked sexy as all get-out. "Where would you like to begin?"

"I don't have a clue." She laughed. "Any suggestions?"

"That depends. How would you describe your current work?"

"Impressionistic landscapes, garden scenes, a few still lifes." A steady stream of art lovers moved past them, stepping in and out of open doorways. "I don't suppose you know the galleries well enough to have a favorite."

He chuckled. "I have about ten."

"Really?" That surprised her.

"When Mom moved back to New Mexico, I started collecting Native American crafts, which spilled into art. Around here, it's an easy addiction to slip into."

"I can see that it would be." She nodded. "Sounds like you'll make a perfect guide. So, lead on. I place myself in your hands."

"Very well. Let's start with this place up on the right."

Joining the flow of foot traffic, they made their way up the street and through the first of many doors. By the time they'd gone through the tenth gallery, she was on sensory overload. And more intimidated than ever. The art ranged from pastoral to whimsical to avant-garde, some of it bizarre, but all of it top-notch quality.

"I know the owner here," Joe said as they entered yet another gallery. The place was a maze of rooms with thick white walls, wood floors that creaked, and track lights aimed at several large canvases. Somewhere in the distance she heard drum and flute music playing and a woman talking on a phone. Pinon incense drifted on the air.

Joe studied her. "Would you like me to introduce you?"

"No!" she said too quickly, then released a breath to relax. "No. I just want to look."

"Are you sure?"

"No," she said weakly. "To be honest, I think I've seen all I can absorb for one day. Can we take a break?" She saw an argument spring into his eyes. "Please. My head is spinning, and my feet are killing me."

His jaw worked for a moment before he sighed. "Fine. We'll have lunch, then see how you feel."

"Thank you." She sagged in gratitude.

If there was one thing Joe didn't miss about the Army, it was the food. Living in Santa Fe, with its

Mexican food and haute cuisine, was a welcome break from MREs, Meals Ready to Eat. Since Maddy looked in need of a complete change of scenery, he battled traffic into the heart of Old Town to take her to the Ore House, one of his favorite restaurants.

"This is fabulous," she said as they stepped onto the second-story balcony that overlooked the plaza.

"I thought you'd like it," he replied as the hostess laid two menus on a table against the rail.

The server came as soon as they'd settled. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Joe ordered a locally made pale ale, while Maddy asked for a glass of white wine. Sitting back, he watched Maddy scan the menu he knew by heart. Midday sun slanted in, turning her hair to orange fire, all the more striking with the row of red chile
ristras
hanging behind her. Their truce had been going surprisingly well. He'd even managed to go for several minutes at a stretch without old anger and renewed attraction playing tug-of-war in his gut.