A Bad Boy is Good to Find (13 page)

“Selling them? Who’d want to buy them?”

“I don’t know. I’m no art critic, but I think they’re beautiful. I’d want one.”

“You can have one. Shame you don’t have a wall to hang it on.” She snuck a sideways glance at him. Did he really like them? Why did that give her a funny feeling? “Besides, I suspect you’re my only fan. My teachers didn’t like them much. I didn’t have enough conceptual bullshit to go along with them or something.”

Con stood, hands on hips, surveying a gray-and-silver abstract with amorphous shapes melding into each other. “You’re an amazing woman, Lizzie.”

“Yeah, right. If I was so amazing I’d have stuck with my so-called passion instead of forgetting all about it as soon as I got out in the real world.”

“You got sidetracked. It can happen to anyone. But you’re an artist.”

A shiver of sensation rippled through her as he said it.

Am I
?

She wanted to run and hug him, but she held herself in check. She was just sleep deprived and hopped up on paint fumes. If he did admire her work, it was only because he saw dollar signs popping out of it. Like he said, he was no art critic.

Still, that was the best night she’d had in ages. In fact, it almost rivaled all those nights of steamy passion she’d shared with Con before their One True Love went down the crapper.

“Well, thank you. I’m glad you like my work. Now I have to go get ready, I’ve got a train to catch.”

“On no sleep? No way. Go to bed.”

“Can’t. I’m meeting with the florist at 9:30 and it’s a very long train ride. I’m already running late. I’m glad the hot water’s back on as I’ll need it to get all this paint off my skin.” A fine black mist covered the backs of her hands and arms, not to mention her ratty gray T-shirt and jeans. “I’m off to shower.”

“I can help you scrub.” He winked at her.

She narrowed her eyes and gave him a dirty look. Then she turned and fled before she started wanting to hug him again.

He’d given something back to her. She wasn’t sure what, but it made her take the stairs two at a time.

Chapter 10

T
he smell of roses made her feel sick. Reminded her too much of the “old days” only a few weeks earlier and that stupid scent she wore.

“No roses.”

“But roses are the bloom of romance,” protested Sven, floral artiste of the minute. “You cannot marry without roses.”

Three pale pink roses, each almost the size of her head, mocked her from a handblown glass vase in the center of the conference table.

“Oh, come on, Lizzie, they’re lovely.” Maisie ripped off a pink petal. Sven winced. “Not a sprig of baby’s breath in sight, thank God. I love what you’ve done, Sven, it’s luxe, yet wonderfully modern. I think it’s perfect.”

“But the bride…”

“The bride will love it. Besides, she’ll be too busy to think about flowers.”

Maisie glowered at Lizzie as Sven gathered his blooms and departed. When the door closed behind him, she leaned across the table. “Are you nuts? No roses?”

“I’m sick of roses. They’re so…Predictable.”

“I’d think you’d like that about them. You used to be the rose queen. You even smelled like one.” Maisie shuffled her papers into a stack.

“Those days are over.” Lizzie stretched. “Since I met Con I’m a new woman.”

“You certainly are different, I’ll give you that. I can’t wait to meet this mysterious Con. He must be quite a character.”

“Oh,” Lizzie looked her right in the eye. “He is.”

“So really, no guest list? What about his friends and family in the area? His parents? Siblings?”

Does he have any?
Her questions about his family had been met with swift evasion. For all Lizzie knew he’d emerged from the swamp on webbed feet, alone. While she was curious to find out where, and who, he did spring from, she was a little nervous about it too. She couldn’t bring up the subject of a guest list without tipping him off to their destination, and she certainly didn’t want to do that.

“Con and I want our wedding to be an intimate celebration of our love. Just the two of us. As if we were getting married on a deserted island.”

“What about your parents?” Maisie’s steely gaze made her stiffen.

“Maisie, you know my father is under house arrest.” She wasn’t going to be cowed.

“Your mother, then? What does she think about the wedding?”

No idea.
She’d tried calling the ashram and been told her mother had left for an expedition into the mountains. With no contact information.

“Just the two of us.”

“And Donald Trump. Ha ha. Luckily, it’s far too short notice to get any real celebrities so I can pretend I tried and look all sad when I tell Don no one could come. He loves the tight timetable on this show so he won’t complain too much. You came along at just the right time. All the new season shows are bombing so he was ready to grasp at straws. It was this or buy a new Brazilian soap opera, and frankly, you’re cheaper.”

“I’m honored to be the final straw for Celebrity Cable.”

Even in the late-afternoon sun, Lizzie could see lights on inside the house as she walked up the driveway. It was one thing for Con to get the electricity turned on, but did he have to run up the bill like this in broad daylight? She’d begged off a styling meeting and taken the long train ride back early. Who cared how the stinking napkins were folded? Their flight was booked for the following day, and she wanted to get her stuff together. Get her head together.

She pushed the door open. “I’m back.” Dropped her bag inside the door. Heard voices.

The voices were coming from outside. Con and a woman.

The Realtor. She wasn’t going to make an ass of herself screaming like a shrew over Con again. Jeez, anyone might have thought she actually cared if he’d been between the sheets with some middle-aged harpy.

Still, she didn’t stroll around the back and say hi, either. She crept across the wood floor of the living room, past all her brightly lit paintings, to the French doors. They were standing near the pool, backs to her.

And it wasn’t the same Realtor.

Must be another one.
You’re the de-facto homeowner, go out and introduce yourself.
She lifted her chin and headed for the French doors out to the pool area.

“Hellooo” she called, aiming for breezy confidence. Stepped onto the bluestone terrace. But her confidence withered and died as the woman turned and she saw that this time it actually was Frankie Allen. Aka Mrs. Stavros Gianopolous.

He’d brought her here. To her house.

“Lizzie, hi!” Con waved.

She froze. She didn’t even feel anger, just deep hurt. Humiliation.

A woman he’d been in bed with—who’d paid him with expensive gifts for it—and he was standing there talking to her by her pool.

She struggled for breath as they walked toward her.

“Lizzie, you know Frankie… Gianopolous, right?”

“Yes,” she managed.

“Hi, Lizzie.”

“We were just talking about your paintings. Frankie’s a collector. I thought she’d be a good person to ask for advice about how to sell them.”

Lizzie stared at him, then at her. She was beautiful, in a fragile, birdlike way. Translucent skin stretched over fine bones. Thin as a rail.

“Lizzie, they’re stunning. I’ve never seen anything like them. I’d like to buy one myself.”

“No.” The word flew out on instinct. “They’re not for sale.”

Con had the wisdom to hold his tongue, and there was a pleasantly uncomfortable pause.

“Congratulations on your wedding, Lizzie. You’re marrying a very special man.”

Lizzie glanced at Con, who ran his hand through his hair awkwardly. She noticed with a jolt that he wasn’t dressed up. In fact he looked downright scruffy in navy sweatpants and one of her old T-shirts. Somehow that made the little scene disturbingly intimate.

“Why didn’t you marry him, then?” she shot, unable to control herself.

Frankie didn’t even flinch. “He’s far too young and handsome for me. He deserves a lovely girl his own age, like you.”

Had he told her the wedding was a sham?

“I was so sorry to hear about what happened to your father, Lizzie. He was so well liked. He told the most wonderful stories. I was at a dinner party with him once…”

Heart pounding, Lizzie cut in. “Thanks for the memories, but I’d like to get changed. These high heels are killing me. Con, darling, could you unzip me?”

Con’s eyes widened. She turned her back to him and Frankie. The dress she wore had a long zipper from neck to waist.

Con unzipped it.

“Do excuse my lack of formality, but after all this is my home. At least until someone buys it.”

“Frankie’s looking for a place in the Hamptons.”

Lizzie blinked rapidly. Did Con really mean to try selling her parents’ house to his ex-lover?

Words rushed from her mouth. “I’d recommend a house on the beach. The town’s frightfully built up. The traffic is terrible on weekends.” Her voice shook as she realized this woman was probably rich enough to buy the house and not even notice the dip in her bank account. It was barely four million, after all. Chump change to the wife of a Greek shipping squillionaire.

She straightened her back. Put on a poker face. “Has Con given you a tour of the bedrooms?”

Frankie just looked at her. “He loves you very much.”

Con flinched and stared at Frankie.

“I know,” she said, wondering why Con had lost his cool just then. “We’re both head over heels.”

Con cleared his throat. “Frankie said you should wait until after the TV show to promote the paintings. She thinks you can use it as an opportunity to pitch yourself and your artwork and raise the price.”

“But you’d like to buy one now—get in on the ground floor, so to speak?” Lizzie stared at Frankie. Held herself stiffly. “And if you buy the house too, you won’t even have to move it.”

Frankie smiled apologetically. “I think your paintings are beautiful, and you’re a very talented artist. I also think I should not have come here today. Don’t hold it against Conroy. He has a good heart, and I’m the one who should have known better.”

“Thanks for your ringing endorsement of my fiancé, and of course cash donations are always welcome. But then you knew that already, as far as Con is concerned, didn’t you?” Her voice was getting shrill.

“Lizzie—” Con took a step forward.

“It’s alright, Con.” Frankie held up her hand. “I’m leaving and I really do wish you—both of you—all the best.”

Lizzie wondered for a tense moment if she’d kiss Con goodbye, but mercifully she just turned and left.

When she was out of earshot, Con grimaced. “Shit, I’m sorry Lizzie. I guess I didn’t think it through.”

“I suppose someone with your dubious background couldn’t be expected to know that it’s bad manners to bring your ex-lover to your fiancée’s house. Trying to sell it to her was a nice touch. What’s next?” Her hands were shaking.

“I’m sorry. I just know she likes art and buys a lot of it. And I figured if she bought the house, that’s one less thing to worry about.” He shrugged. Looked genuinely contrite.

“You always were one to focus on the practical details,” she said icily.

“My survival instinct might be a bit too well honed. But on that note, I sold the car.”

“Already? You mean it’s gone?” Another stab of loss.

“Yup. Easiest sale I ever made.”

“But I never even took a photo of it—” She cut off her whiny lament. Didn’t want him to know how much she’d looked forward to seeing it again.

His brow crinkled. “I didn’t know you wanted a photo.”

“We artists do that before we sell work. For our portfolio. For posterity. Not that I’ve ever sold any before, of course, so this is a first.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I called a friend and he hooked me up with a guy who came over and paid cash for it.”

“How much?” She couldn’t hide her curiosity.

“Fifteen thousand dollars, and I paid four for it.”

Lizzie’s mouth dropped open.

“It was your paint job. That Corvette was kind of a rare model, so with an authentic paint job it would have been worth quite a bit more too. The kid I bought it from didn’t know what he had. But even though you ruined it for the collectors’ market,” he raised an eyebrow, “the Lizzie touch lifted it into a league of its own. You rock, babe.”

He lifted his hand to high-five her. She just stared at it. And frowned. “Eleven thousand dollars profit for two days work? How come you don’t do this all the time? Even my father wouldn’t sneeze at profits like that.”

“Like I said, it was your paint job that made the money. I just got it running well. Anyone could do that. You want the cash?” He looked infuriatingly pleased with himself.

“No, you can hold it for me—isn’t that the expression? Oddly enough, I trust you with money. It’s my heart I wouldn’t let you near.” She gave him a withering look. “I’m sure Frankie was touched to get your phone call. Probably thought you wanted to blackmail her.”

Con chuckled. “Seriously, she’s a nice person. You can trust her.”

“How can you say that about someone who dumped you for a rich old Greek?”

“It was understandable. I don’t have money.” He shrugged.

“People don’t always marry each other for money, you know, shocking as that may seem. That’s probably why Frankie thinks you love me, because you’re marrying me even though I don’t have money now. Unless you lied and told her you love me.” The idea gave her a quick thrill.

“I didn’t say anything. I guess she just took the situation at face value.”

“Using your usual strategy, I see. But speaking of taking things at face value, why aren’t you dressed up? Didn’t you want to make a good impression on your ex?”

“Nah. She knows me too well.”

“Better than I do?”

He crossed his arms over her T-shirt, which fit him rather more snugly than it did her. “I decline to answer on the grounds that I may end up sleeping in the backyard.”

“Well, I guess that’s an honest answer, anyway. And you’ll need a good night’s sleep because the flight is booked and we’re leaving tomorrow.”