Melody Anne's Billionaire Universe: One Sweet Summer (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Love by the Numbers Book 1) (3 page)

She’d left some edges dulled, while others were polished, depending on the needs of the piece. Bits of rust or faded paint caught the light. Kane sat up straighter and peered at the portfolio page.

Suddenly, he realized what drew him to her work—more than just her inspired execution of animals and portraits in three-dimensional form. It was the medium she used, a siren song of steel that tugged at his very soul.

“Are those—” Couldn’t be. Kane blinked. Fenders, screws, even cigarette lighters. All transformed into amazingly lifelike sculptures. “Car parts?”

“Vintage. Salvaged.” She nodded briskly. “My dad owns…er,
owned
a garage.”

Genius. Geen-
yus
. She’d taken apart classic cars to create a fairy tale. Wow. He hadn’t vetted the other applicants yet, but he couldn’t imagine being more impressed than he was right now.

Kane clamped the portfolio shut with a snap, tucking it under his arm. “Interesting.”

He didn’t dare let her know how excited he was, not without knowing whether he could actually offer her a place in the show. His dad would be a tougher sell.

“Just
interesting
?” She crossed her arms, emphasizing that luscious curve of creamy skin peeping at her neckline. “That’s your professional opinion?” Her tone indicated exactly what she thought of his estimation.

“There are hundreds of artists from all over the Northwest region vying for a spot.” What a piece of work she was. All fire and flux. He wouldn’t mind seeing her in all kinds of action. “I’m sure you understand.”

Her front teeth worried that bottom lip again. “I suppose.”

His hefted the portfolio. “Is this is your entire body of work? Or you have other pieces?”

“There’s another in my…ah…studio.” Her cheeks flushed prettily, staining her skin the color of rose petals. “It’s nearly complete.”

“You nearby or are you from out of town?” What were the odds that a dream like Anna Thomas was in his neck of the woods?

“Just a few blocks away, actually.”

“Perfect. I’d like to drop by.” Boy, would he.

“Is that necessary?” Her pert chin jutted forward. “I promise, these are my originals.”

“Necessary? Oh, yes. Very.” This tiny dynamo of a woman was no mere sculptor. She was visionary. Unique. Both she and her work were…in a word…incredible. “We like to know as much as possible about individual artistic processes before offering representation. Helps the marketing team decide who to promote and how.”

“If you say so.” She bit her bottom lip.

“Are all your pieces this big?” Kane flipped to the back of the slides.

She nodded again. “Life-sized or larger.”

He swallowed a knot of disappointment. There was no way in hell his father would approve. Carson had always been against the idea of three-dimensional pieces, because they took up valuable square footage and were harder to sell. The space required for sculptures of this size would be challenging enough. Pieces like this required separation for viewers to truly appreciate the scope of her work.

“Why don’t you give me the address of your studio?” He nodded to Marta who hovered behind the counter.

“If I have to.” She seemed wary.

“You do.” He tossed her a reassuring smile. “It’s part of the application. You can fill it out here.”

She obviously hadn’t applied to many of the upscale galleries or she’d know this was part of the process. Kane liked that, liked the idea that she might be exclusively represented at his family’s gallery.

Her shoulders slumped a little. “Sure, okay.” She dug a pencil out from behind her ear and scribbled a name and address on the clipboard as well as other pertinent questions with regards to her art career. He waited patiently until she was through.

He glanced over her sketchy handwriting, flipping between forms.

“Thomas’ Salvage?” Kane was pretty sure he’d been by there, once, looking for something to craft a custom outdoor patio table for a guy who liked cars. He made a mental note of the street address and tucked the info away for later. “Your studio is a junkyard?”

“Of sorts.” That pert chin rose a notch. “My family owns a pull-and-pay salvage lot. It’s convenient for my work. There’s plenty of space and the right equipment and materials and...” Her mouth snapped shut as if she could chomp her words.

“Sounds perfect.” He handed her application and portfolio to Marta and placed his hand on the small of Annabelle’s back to escort her out. “And it’s not too far from here. I’ll drop in sometime, okay?”

“Fine.” She rubbed the back of her hand across her face, smearing the charcoal smudge into her freckled cheeks. Her boots clomped on the concrete as she exited.

He followed her, not quite sure why. Was it the freckles and overalls? A far cry from the stiletto and stripper crowd he and his friends had been hanging with lately. Yet he couldn’t wait to see her again, some place away from the dark gallery interior.

“Are you planning to walk me all the way to the bus stop?” she asked. Her eyes caught the early-afternoon light and threw sparks at him.

He’d been trailing after her like a love-sick puppy.

“Uh, no. Just getting something out of my car.” Kane ran his hand through his hair. He’d have to go back for the portfolio and application files for the show, dang it.

She smiled but didn’t respond.

“This is me.” He stopped at the side of his father’s Ferrari. “Later, Anna. I hope to s—”

“Jeez, is that a 1968 Dino?” she exclaimed.

“Sixty-nine.” Wow. His brows shot up in his forehead. “You know classic cars?”

“Of course, of course,” she muttered, more to herself than to him, obviously enraptured. She bent lower, scarcely daring to breathe on the pristine original paint as she peeked inside the windows. “Nero leather seats,” she swooned.

“Yeah. Only one of—”

“Eight made in the whole world.” She straightened and her eyes dared him to refute. “I know.”

A thousand words formed in his brain but didn’t get past his lips. “You’re… unusual, Annabelle. As is your work.” A frown began to pucker between her brows.

“Let’s hope my work is
unusual
enough to get a spot in your summer show, Mr. Maverick.” She left with a half-wave, smelling faintly of motor oil and steel. Kane wet his lips, tasting the sizzle of fireworks on his tongue.

What. A. Woman.

His chest felt stuck in a vice grip. Kane watched her clomp down the street to the bus stop and disappeared around the corner. She’d drawn him out of the gallery without thinking, like the Pied Piper. He turned back into The Mav to grab his things. Marta gave him a knowing smile as he left for the second time, with the unusual artist still electrifying his thoughts.

Annabelle Thomas.

Half of him was dying to see her handling a blow torch and a welding stick. The other half of him wanted to strip her out of those clunky boots and overalls and discover what was hiding underneath.

He was still mulling over possibilities as he keyed the engine of the Dino and pulled away from the curb. What could he say to convince his father and the panel that The Mav could handle one or two of her free-standing sculptures? He could probably squeeze in at least one large and one of the smaller pieces and still have plenty of space for foot traffic.

He already knew in his heart that her work could be the star of the show. The star of any show in this part of the country. It would draw appreciation from all social circles. The trendy, recycle-hungry hipsters. The older generations who appreciated fine automobiles. Even parents with young children, who’d be drawn to the light-hearted and oh-so-lifelike depictions of their favorite characters.

She was brilliant…and he’d be a mastermind if he could bring her work into the summer show. How cool would that be? He was still imagining it when a white Buick in the oncoming traffic started wandering closer to the center line.

“What the…hey!” Kane hollered. He pumped the clutch and downshifted, but the Buick kept right on coming.

The blare of a horn and flash of reflected light struck him a second before he heard the scrape of metal on metal. Kane jerked the wheel to the right, as the battered white Buick swiped the front quarter panel of his father’s Ferrari.

His heart smashed into his ribs and he over-corrected, swerving onto the shoulder of the street, narrowly missing the curb as he rolled to a stop. The Buick, built like a tank, just kept going. The driver sped up and zoomed around the corner before his heart stopped pounding. Before he could get a license tag. Before the adrenaline rush faded, and he could feel his hands and feet again.

“Oh shit, oh shit.” He took a deep breath, then yanked the key out of the ignition.

Had he drifted? No...no…he was sure he’d been squarely in his own lane. The Buick had crossed over the line. And, oh God, his father’s car! Kane winced, as he cracked his door open to inspect the damage.

“Buddy, are you okay?” a man called.

“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” asked a woman hovering nearby with a stroller.

“Fine. I’m just…” He didn’t want to look. A Dino didn’t have much in the way of fenders, just a thin span of chrome a few inches wide. His father was going to kill him for taking the Ferrari out of the garage and promptly getting in a wreck. Didn’t matter that it wasn’t his fault. Didn’t matter that the rare sunny day had beckoned to him like a lover. Didn’t matter because he was a Maverick, and they didn’t make mistakes and why the hell hadn’t he taken his own truck?

He held his breath and peered through his fingers.

Bloody hell.

The dented chrome fender boasted a gash seven inches long. Traces of white Buick paint, like a toddler’s scribble, were evident on the crumpled metal.

Ugh, he wanted to puke. The rest of the Ferrari’s paint was…fine, but the damage was done.

The man jogged over to help as Kane went to his knees, fingers gently probing the crumpled metal, the way a parent might test a child’s boo-boo. Afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt.

This baby, his father’s sweet cherry baby, was in remarkably decent shape all things considered. If he could get the car repaired quickly, maybe his father wouldn’t be too pissed.

Oh, who was he kidding? Carson would be livid. It would be the end of their newly forged beginning.

The end of his father’s respect.

“Whew! Lucky for you. Close call.” The guy mopped his brow with the back of his hand. “I saw the whole thing. That beater was drifting for half a block. Probably texting and driving.”

“It doesn’t look that bad, right?” Kane reeled. Maybe he could just get it fixed. Take responsibility for the damage, and come clean afterwards. That wasn’t too horrible, was it?

But where could he go? Not the dealership. Definitely no.

Who wouldn’t think to report this to his father? Kane rocked back on his heels. Just when his father had entrusted him with something important, for what felt like the first time in his life...this happened.

“Hey!” The lady with the stroller shaded her eyes with her hand. “Don’t I know you? Aren’t you on TV?”

Kane gritted his teeth. “Not at the moment.”

The guy’s face turned red. “You want me to give a statement? Should I wait for the cops or the press or something?”

“No, this is just a fender bender.” Kane swiped a palm over his forehead. “How about your contact information as a witness?”

“Sure, buddy. Sure. I got a card right here. You famous or something?” The guy whipped out a business card and handed it to him.

“Or something.” Nobody around except a few pedestrians. The lady with the stroller was already speed-walking up the hill. Good. All he needed was for the police or the press to get wind of this, because then his father would, too.

Granted, a responsible guy would walk right back into The Mav and tell Pops what had just happened. But Kane couldn’t make himself do it. Not after his father had just handed over the reins to the The Mav. Kane was able, right? That was his image; he’d just handle this and deal with the fallout afterwards. Maybe by then he’d have proved himself to his father.

But how?

“Think you can get it fixed? I know a guy…” The rest of the guy’s words were lost as Kane remembered a fine pair of slate-colored eyes and steady hands. Someone who had garage space, equipment, and hopefully time to help him out.

Someone who knew as much about vintage cars as he did. Maybe more.

Someone who might be willing to do him a favor.

“No thanks,” he said. “I think I know where to go.”

Chapter Two

A 1957 five-inch milk glass Champion spark plug worked best to simulate locks of lamb’s wool, even better than wire, which could take days to spiral correctly and had sharp, dangerous edges. But fitting the tight spark plugs against a large structural form and crafting a cleanly-welded joint was a pain in Anna’s ass.

Almost as much pain as relinquishing her portfolio to Kane Maverick.

This morning’s unexpected introduction to the former TV star had been an unforeseen obstacle to her plans for becoming a serious artist. And not just because the guy was ridiculously handsome.

It had taken every ounce of her gumption to march her portfolio to The Mav and face the infamous Carson Maverick. She hadn’t counted on meeting his son instead. Her heartbeat stuttered behind her ribs like a belt sander on the grind, all fits and stops, as she recalled Kane’s dark hair, scruffy chin, and eyes the color of freshly cut grass.

Yeah, she knew all about Kane. The guy was a total player.

Play-ahhh with a capital P.

The guy was built like some kind of sweet romance hero, but she’d seen the way his face had lit up when he checked out her goods. All of her goods, thanks to her broken button.

So much for being taken seriously.

Dang it. She tugged on the loose strap of her overalls, grabbing a safety pin from a dish of junk and loose coins to clip the jean strap securely in place.

She’d caught a couple articles about him when he’d signed on as the host of some ridiculous home decorating show, though she’d given up cable television a few years ago after her dad died and money got tight. She was so out of touch with the young and monied crowd in Seattle it wasn’t even funny. Actually, it was kind of pitiful, but she refused to be pitied.

She was a serious artist.

She didn’t have time for pity. Or playboys.

Fweeeet
. A sharp whistle snagged her attention.

“Yo, Anna,” hollered Fred Burrows, her father’s former chief mechanic, who now kept the garage running.

She cut the flame to her welding torch and peeled her protective mask up over her forehead. A sloppy bun trapped her dark hair out of her eyes while she worked. “Yeah?”

“We got a large shipment coming in from California. Might be yours.”

“Okay, cool.” Anna bent over, feeding the flux between the plug and her torch flame, watching it turn to quicksilver before she straightened and cut the flame back. A perfect seal. Dang, she was good, even at the tricky bits.

Motor oil flowed in the family veins. Her father’s side of the family ran garages and salvage yards in Seattle, while her uncle’s family had settled further south in California. Her older cousin Jeremy worked as a mechanic, while his sister Jack ran a tow truck. The pair kept her in high-supply for all kinds of hard-to-find vintage parts, stuff she couldn’t pay for or pull at her own salvage or at the local junk yards. Both sides of the family were a bunch of ordinary, hard-working folks just trying to make a living. Nothing at all like the guy who’d dominated her thoughts since this morning.

Kane
freaking
Maverick, former T.V. star and now keeper of keys at The Mav summer show. Anna gnashed her teeth. She couldn’t be more unlike Kane Maverick if she tried.

So why was she still thinking about him?

There’d been a two-page spread in
Weekly Magazine
when Kane had left the show. She still remembered the photo of him stalking shirtless off the set. The guy had a set of abs that could make a woman forget her name. Rumor said he’d quit, but Annabelle thought it was more likely the guy had gotten the boot. Kane probably had rocks between his ears; who in their right mind would pass up a well-paying gig in this economic climate?

The wealthy son of Carson Maverick, that’s who.

Not her. No way. No how.

The sharp stench of burning ozone singed Anna’s nostrils, like the tang of iron oxide in the back of her throat. She held the torch steady as she adhered the final piece onto her sculpture. It had taken her months to collect enough vintage car parts to create the image of Little Bo Peep, complete with errant sheep.

“Not bad, if I do say so myself. Eh, Bo?” She patted the nursery rhyme figure and nodded.

She loved working with children and she really liked nursery rhymes—the innocence and the inherent lessons. You know, the good stuff, like work hard and reap the rewards. Be kind to strangers. Take responsibility for your own actions. Put seven cats and their kits in a sack and walk to St. Ives.

Okay, maybe not that last one, but the rest were things that a man like Kane Maverick would know nothing about. But she did. Growing up in a single-parent household on the outskirts of Seattle could do that to a girl.

“Hey, Banana. That special delivery just arrived out back,” Fred hollered, jerking his thumb toward the junk yard before disappearing into his cluttered office. “With your name on it.”

“Yes!” She fist-clenched the air. “Thanks, Fred.” Anna hopped off the platform to check out her latest shipment of vintage goodies.

She peeled off her tig gloves, the heavy leather meant to keep her freckled skin intact, and headed to the shop sink to wash. Her hands stank like sour leather and sweat. On the rare warm days like today, she wished she’d chosen a less heated art form, but the steel and soldering just…spoke to her. When others her age had been out drinking and dancing, going to grad school or starting their desk jobs, she’d been combing junk yards for spark plugs and hubcaps.

She’d hoarded the parts while she taught private art classes to a gaggle of society kids, including Jasmine Anderson, daughter of the new heir-apparent Lucas Anderson and his sweet, pretty wife Amy. Granddaughter of the infamous Joseph Anderson who’d built an empire that stretched halfway around the world. The Andersons ran in the same social circles as the Mavericks, but they’d paid her well for teaching Jasmine and sent her off with a nice reference which had landed her a spot on the community center staff.

Thank goodness, because the salary she pulled as an artist stretched really thin these days—ever since The Incident where she’d been black-listed by all but the fringe art fairs and festivals. She had to land a venue like The Mav because h
er stuff was big...and pricey. When art was bulky, expensive, upscale, or fragile, it never paid to exhibit at a show with donkey rides and Ferris wheels. No one wanted to carry around a giant cat and fiddle made of hubcaps and axles while their kids rode on a carousel.

Her only hope was to grab the eye of a generous patron or two. Someone who recognized her talent and would give her a stipend to nurture it. Someone who appreciated her work. Someone who
hadn’t
seen or heard about her disastrous unveiling on Bainbridge Island a few years ago.

As long as no one found out about anything beyond her current portfolio, she just might have a shot. It was a big risk, but she was willing to take it. Had to take it.

Too many more lean months and she’d have to give up sculpting and go back to pounding out dented fenders and buffing paint jobs full-time at the garage again.

“See ya later, Bo.” She patted the pedestal one last time and maneuvered to the shipping and receiving area, bypassing the worn path to the salvage yard. Nothing there even close to the beautiful machine she’d seen earlier today.

Jack and Jeremy would’ve absolutely
freaked
if they knew she’d come a hair from touching a pristine ’69 Ferrari Dino. Kane Maverick clearly had no common sense if he was taking that beautiful machine out on the open roads. The guy didn’t know how privileged he was. She loved working with vintage salvage, but even she would die a little if she had to pull that beauty apart.

Anna rounded the corner, scuffing up gravel with her heavy work boots. She made her way to the loading dock near the back of the garage.

A large wooden crate squatted in the center, addressed to her in Jack’s scrawling hand. She took a crowbar to the wood and was rewarded with the glint of metal car parts flickering within the bubble wrap and Styrofoam peanuts.

“Hallelujah.” She breathed out a happy sigh.

Fred wind-milled his arms to get her attention and pointed. “Hey, Anna. Leave that be. You got a customer out front.”

“Me?” Hardly anyone knew where to find her outside of the community center where she sometimes taught fourth graders to finger-weave friendship bracelets. Her various occupations didn’t allow much time for socializing, either. “Who’s asking?”

Fred shrugged. “He didn’t say. Looks high dollar, though. Came in with a dented fender on a—”

“Then he’s looking for you, Fred.” She didn’t do body work anymore unless the garage got into a bind. Too time-consuming. She had bigger and better dreams than to schlep all summer changing oil filters and tuning carburetors.

“Asked for you, Anna Banana. By name.” He jerked his chin to the front. “Don’t keep the guy waiting. Scoot.”

Anna frowned. She’d led a pretty quiet life since she’d dumped Rick, the junior exec who’d turned out to be a total loser. The only man she’d come across lately outside of Fred and his grease monkeys was Kane Maverick, and it was far too soon for him to be paying her a visit.

With a final longing glance at the shipping crate, she ditched the crowbar and hustled to the front of the garage. Her boots skidded in the kitty-litter used to soak up oil spills when she saw a familiar wine-brown car parked out front with the distinguishable squared-off back end. “What the—?”

A 1969 Ferrari Dino 600 GT. Parked right there in front of her father’s garage, drawing admiring glances from Tito and Aldo, a pair of Fred’s mechanics.

And right next to it, even more breathtaking was Mr. Gorgeous himself.

Kane leaned lightly against the back end, waiting for her. She tilted her head, inspecting him as she drew nearer. Something about his posture was off. No hint of the cocky stud from earlier.

“Isn’t it a little early to be inspecting my artistic process?” She crossed her arms in response to his winning smile. That’d better be all he was there to check out.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I thought…” His words faltered as Aldo circled the Ferrari and whistled between his teeth. “Is there someplace private we can talk?”

She glanced around. “I guess.”

“Thanks.” Was that relief playing in the crinkles around his eyes?

Bo was essentially finished, just needed a little spit and polish. She supposed a little peek wouldn’t hurt anyone, and it wasn’t as if she wanted the world to see her chatting up Kane any more than he wanted to be seen with her. Especially if she landed a spot in the summer show. “My studio’s back here.”

Kane followed hard on her heels as she stalked to the rear of the garage, past the oil pits and the hydraulic lifts, to her own special slice of heaven.

“Sorry about the smell. Sometimes the fumes can get to you,” she quipped as he wrinkled his nose. Poor pretty boy was probably getting his sinuses cleared.

To her surprise, Kane inhaled deeply. “Actually, I like it. Smells…real.”

She had no idea what fake smelled like, but she supposed a man like Kane had seen, touched, and tasted a lot of that. “Well, here’s Bo. She’s my latest.”

Kane’s grassy gaze took in the sculpture. He circled the raised platform silently. Then he grinned. “Bo? As in…Peep.”

“You got it.”

“All of your work is based on nursery rhymes?”

“Most.” She cleared the tight lump out of her throat. Reading storybooks was one of the few good childhood memories she had of her mother before she’d run off. “I like animals and children. The juxtaposition of man-made materials into lifelike innocence is fascinating to me.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” Kane paused next to her.

He was so close, his shoulder brushed the strands poking out of her messy bun. She shivered. The guy was a big, dumb hunk of gorgeous. A hunk of
rich
gorgeous, she amended. Something warned her she’d need a lot of protection to avoid getting burned by him. Maybe even her tig gloves.

“I’m curious how you learned this particular art form.” Kane leaned in closer and tapped the joint between two fenders she’d used on Bo’s skirt. “Solid.”

“I used to do body work for my dad’s garage.” The flush of pride warmed her fingers and toes. “I had a knack for scraping off rust and smoothing dents, I guess. Dad used to call me a real artist. It got me thinking that I might try to be one for real, so I enrolled in some courses at The Art Institute.”