Dancing Barefoot (3 page)

Her hand seized his wrist. The contact stopped his frantic search and ceased his breathing. He dragged his gaze to her face.

“I’m sorry.” She squeezed.
"You were the last person on earth that I ever wanted to hurt. I truly am sorry. It wasn’t a lie. I know you think that the entire summer together was a lie, but it wasn’t. I wish you'd give me a chance to explain. I can't stand the idea of you hating me.” 

He yanked his hand
free from her touch. “I don’t hate you.”

Eyebrows arche
d over eyes filled with doubt. “Now who’s lying?”

A honking horn snapped his attention from her. Kevin waved from a double-parked sedan. 
Jacques, really, we can’t keep Ms. Jenkins waiting." 

"
I heard you were showing at the Bliss Institute. I know Miranda. Do you remember Marc, the friend who visited me in Italy? She's his sister. We're all friends."

"How is that possible?" he asked more to Fate than to her. He must have been a monster of a man in his past life, because Karma really liked fucking with him this time around.

“You're exhibit is next week?” She followed him to the car. 

“
That is the plan," he said through gritted teeth.

“Are there more photographs of me on display? Shouldn't I have had to sign a release or something? Miranda's my friend, people I know will be here. I have a right to know.”

“And we both know how important your reputation is, don't we, Jess? What will people say?” Coming to Boston had been a huge mistake. He opened the door to the rented car. “Sue me.”

“Let me meet you later,” she said again, surprising him.

"I thought I was an overgrown boy and an arrogant jerk that you're better for not knowing." He squinted at her, one foot in the car and one out. Why wouldn’t she go away?  The idea that she wanted something from him needled at him. She still wore his ring. She looked gorgeous, yes, but hollow as if all the life had been sucked out of her somewhere along the way. Not his problem, though. 

“What the hell is going on
? Get inside. We need to go.” Kevin leaned across the seat and looked at him. 

“I want a do o
ver in the worst way.” She didn’t make a move to leave; instead she stared at him as if willing him to read her mind. 

"Do over?"

"Jacques, seriously, get in the car." Kevin laid on the horn again.

"I guess I'll let you go." She stepped back, collided with the parked car, which sent off the alarm. Cursing, she shoved her hands through her hair.

“You let me go in Florence.” He sat inside the car and slammed the passenger door closed.

“No grudge, huh?”  Her grin didn’t reach her eyes.

“Buena sera, bellezza mia."

“Ciao, caro,” s
he answered, Italian slipping off her tongue as if they had been speaking it every day together like they had once done. 

He leaned his elbow on the open window and watched her step
onto the sidewalk. He bit back a smile at how naturally she'd replied in Italian. He leaned back in the seat and motioned for Kevin to drive. The car maneuvered from the curb and into traffic. He adjusted the side mirror to watch her. Head bent, she walked down the block.

His heartbeat lodged in his throat. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to drop to his knees, wrap his arms around her, and beg her for answers. But pride had stopped him from making a bigger fool of himself than he had already. Choosing Boston over Manhattan for his gallery debut had created all sorts of problems with his 'people', but he'd insisted so here they were.

“What do we know about this Jenkins woman? She knows Jessica.  Serendipity, my ass. Tell me the truth, is Ava involved in this?” he asked. "She chose the gallery...how much does she know?"

Kevin whistled and shook his head, never taking his eyes from the road. “I’ve heard of eccent
ric artists but this is extreme. Are you into conspiracy theories now?”

“Answer me.”

“I don’t even know who that woman was. Despite what you may think, the world does not revolve around you.” 

“You expect me to b
elieve that her knowing Miranda Jenkins is a trick of Fate?” He squinted. The name Jenkins had sounded familiar when he'd first heard it, but why?

“Not even
Simone rattles you like this. I mean, yeah, you two fight but I’ve never seen you so...unbalanced. Interesting. Tell me who the gorgeous brunette is,” Kevin asked.

“She’s no one.”
He leaned his elbow against the car door and chewed his knuckles.

“Ah…”

“There is no reason to 'ah' me.”

“Ah…she must be someone rather spectacular to rattle your cool.  Even when you argue with Simone you—”

“Don’t mention Simone.”

“Feeling guilty?”

“Stop talking and drive. Another chance? A do-over? Not in this lifetime. Who does she think she is showing up like that? Coming after hours was deliberate, I know it. What a bitch. Cold. Calculated.” He fumbled in the pocket of a leather jacket draped over the seat for a pack of cigarettes and cursed his hands for shaking.

“I thought you were quitting,” Kevin said.

“Damn Americans want to blot out every pleasure, call it a vice. Soon sex will be outlawed.” Yes! His fingers closed over a stray cigarette stuffed in the inside pocket of his jacket. Finally. Release. 

“Damn Europeans want to kill us all with their second-hand smoke and wine.”

He surveyed his friend through a veil of smoke. “Sorry.  Seeing her again…”

“Who is she?”

Loaded question. How could he explain Jessica Moriarty? They hadn’t really dated. Too stubborn to take his help when she'd first arrived in Florence, she had nearly killed him when her luggage slid down two flights of narrow steps and took his legs out from beneath him. From that moment on, they had been inseparable. One adventure after another, lots of laughter and sex that bordered on illegal. He had fallen fast and hard for the American with the wild black hair and topaz-colored eyes. He studied the ring on his finger—remembered his joy when she'd said yes. The she'd gone. Just like that. No goodbye, no argument, no note, no resolution.  She'd left as if he'd meant nothing to her at all. How dare she wear the identical ring today? It insulted the intention behind it. 

“
Now you’re giving me the silent treatment? Is this how you’re going to play it?” Kevin snorted and muttered something about needing another job. 

“We lived together in Italy a few years ago,” he admitted with a sigh. 

“Back when you were doing fashion photography? Was she a model?”

“She was an a
rtist, not a model. A painter. Very gifted, she could have shown in the finest galleries in Europe. I still have some of her paintings that she left behind, abandoned like they'd meant nothing, which apparently they were. Nothing. I don’t know what she is now. An architect, I think. I don’t care what she does.”  He took a long drag from his cigarette. 

“Why don’t
I believe you?”

“What she does wi
th her life isn’t my concern.” Yet he wondered if she was happy, wondered if she loved someone, wondered if she regretted leaving him, wondered why he cared. 

“But yo
u lived with her? Just you two together? She must have the patience of a saint. Ah, wait.  If you knew her in Italy, then Simone must know her, too.” Kevin tapped his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Italy—what happened there—is no longer relevant.”

“But you lived with her? You keep telling Simone that you like your privacy, your space, that you will never live with anyone yet—”

“Simone is not Jessica, never will be.” When Kevin looked at him with raised eyebrows and a smirk, he knew he had said too much. 

“I can’t help but wonder what she did to you to make you so angry, even now.”

“Never mention her again, not to me, not to anyone.”

“Sometimes you can be so…European.”

“I’m
Belgian.” He smiled and crushed the cigarette into an empty soda can.  “We are known for our calm control.”

“You take after your mother’s French side of the family, I think, very dramatic. Make yourself presentable, you look too…
Belgian at the moment.” Kevin parked the car along a narrow street. “Was that Italian you were speaking to her back there?”

“Why?”

“Strange that two people who hadn’t seen each other in years should fall so easily into a language not their own.”

“Your point?” He tucked his shirt into the waistband of his pants. 

“Making an observation.”

"You're not paid to make observations."

"We're photographers, doesn't that—"

"I
cannot deal with you right now." He stepped from the car and stuffed his arms into the battered leather jacket. His fingers folded over the worn piece of paper he'd carefully folded into the inside pocket before leaving New York. “Kevin, I’ve changed my mind.”

“About the dinner? You can’t. We’re already here, there’s no way we can talk ourselves out of this one, you’re too—”

“I’m staying in Boston tonight. Book me a hotel, I don't care where, just do it.”  He needed to follow-through, bad idea or not. He needed to find out what she'd meant about a do-over, why she wore that ring, and how she'd managed to walk away from what they'd had without a word. Now was the time for answers. She ran away, he didn't.

“That’s just great
.” Kevin slammed the car door. “We have a meeting tomorrow morning about the documentary. I…”

He tuned out the rest of what Kevin
said. His hand closed over the creased paper in his pocket. The impromptu rendezvous may have been a coincidence, but his being in Boston was nothing short of deliberate.

* * *

Chapter Three

Well, that could have gone better.  She could have avoided the
bookstore, but no, the Queen of Self-Sabotage had to not only go inside, she also had to find him.  Like the information from the employee hadn’t been enough to make her look like an idiot, no, she had to basically beg him to have a drink with her and mention a do-over. What the hell had she been thinking? Pitiful. 

A do-
over?
Had those words actually come out of her mouth? 

She he
sitated outside the rowdy bar. McDougal’s had been her hangout back in college. Same group of friends, actually. What would Jacques think of that? He would probably think it reinforced the theory he had about her life.

That trip to Italy after graduate school
and internship had been her reward to herself for being disciplined all of those years. She had gone there to be reckless and embrace life for a while. But her position at the architecture firm had already been secured. A person simply didn't abandon those kinds of opportunities. She had had student loans to pay...still did. Not everyone could indulge wanderlust and whims like Jacques Sinclair.  

A headache hummed behind her eyes.
You're such a liar and a fraud. You never intended to stay here. You came back because of your mother, but you'd intended on returning to Jacques and Italy. But you got stuck. Stop lying to yourself and everyone else. You screwed up, hurt him, and gave up on your art. Now deal with it like a grown woman who just landed the biggest project of your chosen career. Suck it up. Intentions from five years ago no longer matter.

She rolled her shoulders back, exhaled a long breath, walked through the door and waved to her friends who waited at a high table along the edge of the bar.

“I didn’t think you’d make it,” Sela shouted above the drone of the music, nodding to the chair beside her. “What took you so long?”

“I stopped at
that old bookstore, the one across from Boston Commons with the coffee shop attached to it.” She dropped the messenger bag onto the chair and filled a glass with beer. She wished it were stronger—a shot of anything, especially if it had flames, would be good. She wanted to get drunk, stinking drunk.  “Let’s do shots. We need to celebrate. Sincore chose my design!”

Jane whooped and m
otioned for Marc to join them. “Is there a corner office in your future?”

“Corner? Probably not.
I’ll settle for an office with a door, though.” She smiled and looked through the crowd for a waitress. Maybe she would try tequila first and then ask for something on fire. She wanted to see something burn. 

“What’d you buy?
I love that old bookstore, haven't been there in ages, though, hasn't it gone with more of the Indie authors?” Without waiting for an answer, Sela searched the bag, platinum blonde hair shielding her profile as she snooped. She yanked out the book and turned it over in her hands.

“It’s
Jacques Sinclair's book of photographs,” she said. 

"Jacques Sinclair?
The
Jacques? The Belgian photographer you were head over heels for?" Sela flipped through the pages before lingering over the front cover.  “My God, honey. Is this you? You’re naked.” 

“I
don’t want to talk about it.” She downed her beer in one gulp. 

“I didn’t know you were into photography.” Jane leaned over Sela’s shoulder.  “Or should I say pornography?”

“She’s not. She’s into photographers.” Sela paged through the book. “Looks like he’s into you, too. Damn. How many pictures of you are in here? Did you sign a release for all of these?”

Oh, God, there were more? 
She grimaced. Release form? Nope, but she had posed willingly—almost eagerly. It had turned her on. Jacques had had a way of turning everything into foreplay. She squirmed in her seat thinking about it. 

“Did someone say pornography?” Marc slipped into a chair beside her and slipped his hand over
her thigh beneath the table. "You took your time getting here."

She moved her leg away from his touch.
"I made a detour."

"We're celebrating her soon-to-be-promotion," Sela said.

"Sincore made a decision?" Marc leaned close, face a fraction from hers.

Not for the first time, she wished she could feel for him what she'd felt for Jacques. He fit most women's ideal of the perfect man from his looks to his brains and all things in between. But there had always been something missing
, a disconnect.

"They did, yes." She caught her lower lip between her teeth, unwilling to burst his confident bubble he'd been engulfed in all day.

"They picked your design, didn't they?" Although his smile didn't falter, the expression in his eyes hardened. "I guess I'm buying. Congratulations, Mori."

"Thank you."

"You worked hard for it, I know. I'm sincere in my congratulations."

"I know you are." She grinned, they had been friends far too long to hold grudges.

"She watched him walk away and suddenly felt exhausted from her emotional day. Too much had happened in too short of a time period. All she wanted to do was escape behind closed doors for the rest of the weekend.

“
Tell us about the book.” Jane scooted over into the chair Marc had vacated.

“Tell us about the photographer.” Sela studied
Jacques’s picture. “Damn, he's sexy as sin.” She held it up for Jane to see. “Can you believe she left him and Italy to come back here?”

Jane grabbed th
e book from Sela and whistled. “I don’t think I can be friends with you anymore, Jessie, if you have such poor judgment.”

“Me either,” Sela said.  “What were you thinking?”

“Let's not rehash all of that, it's over and done.”  She poured another glass of beer. 

“What’s wrong?” Sela asked, wide almond eyes forever observant.

“I just saw him, he hates me, that's that.” She spun the now empty glass between her fingertips. 

“Who?”

“Jacques.”

“
Jacques Sinclair is in Boston?
Your
Jacques? What do you mean you saw him? Did you talk to him?” 

"I shouldn't have said anything."
She shifted in the chair, unable to be comfortable.  “He’s not my Jacques, for the record.  He made that clear.” 

“And?”

“And he saw me. That’s it. We talked…a little. I didn’t know what to say.”

“I suppose you didn’t.”

"I asked for a do-over. Those exact words. He stared at me like I'd gone crazy, maybe I am, I don't know. A
do-over
. Who says that? I'm about to be made an associate partner in one of the premier architecture firms in New England and I blurted out the words 'do over' like a kid playing a game in elementary school. What the hell was I thinking?" Again, she shoved her hands through her hair and looked at her friends for support.

They stared back. Silent. Mouths open.
Eyes wide. 

"Yeah, I know.
It's embarrassing, right?" She looked between each of them, hoping they'd somehow make it better

"I'm shocked," Sela said.
"Do you?"

"Do I what?" she asked, scanning the crowd for a sign of Marc who was taking far too long with the
alcohol.

"Want a
second chance?" Jane leaned close. "Do you want him back? Do you miss him? Do you wish you'd stayed in Italy?"

She looked at the cover of his book, and rubbed her thumb over the title.
She had been so in love with Jacques, Italy, art, life, and love itself. Every day had felt like an overdose of euphoria, but that day had been different. That day had been the day she had decided to stay. He may think she lied then but...at the time she had meant it.

“I wasn’t
the person he wanted me to be. I’m still not. That sums it up, I guess.” She spun the now empty glass around on the table. 

“You aren’t making any sense.”
Jane grabbed the glass before it spun off the edge.

“Don’t you see?”
Frustration clawed inside her skull. “It wouldn’t have worked out. We wanted different things from life. He lives like some kind of nomad.  Can you see me living like that?  No roots.  No plan.  You know how I am. I need...this. There’s nothing wrong with stability, is there?”

“Then why are we talking about him?” Sela, the human lie detector, looked at her with eyes that declared I-See-Right-Through-You. 

“Sela, you need to lighten up.  She’s had a shock.” Jane touched her arm.  “What would you do if Bill showed up in your courtroom one day?”

“Bill.” Sela snorted and rolled her eyes.  “He wouldn’t dare.”

“Jacques is having a showing at Miranda’s gallery, can you believe that? Next week. He’s having dinner with her right now.” Her gaze landed on Marc who balanced a tray full of shots as he walked toward their table. 

“I don’t know why you’re sitting here instead of
texting Miranda to find out where she’s having dinner.”  Sela pulled her cell phone from her purse.  

“You want me to stalk him?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be stalking him. A stalker is some scary loner.  I’ll go with you,” Sela’s smile widened, “and I’m a respected assistant district attorney.  No one would accuse us of stalking.”

“Forget that you know any of this.” She watched Marc stop and talk to a cute blonde. 

“You can’t ignore that he’s here,” Jane said. “I agree with Sela. You said you wanted a do-over and you don't say those kinds of things.  It must mean something. Let’s find out where he’s at...you can buy him a drink.”

“I saw him, he made it clear he hates me, and that’s that.” Her fingers toyed with the ring that should have been her wedding ring...could have been. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

“You’re not convincing me. You should see yourself right now, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Sela said. 

“
It feels like I have.” The silent scream returned to claw at the inside of her throat.  Restlessness curled beneath her skin. "This is stupid. Let's not talk about it anymore. It's not a big deal. My soon-to-be-promotion is a big deal, let's focus on that. How was your day?"

“
Not as exciting as yours. I sat second chair on an identity theft ring trial," Sela said while texting Miranda. "We need to find out where they're having dinner."

“
Let it go, I said.” An ache throbbed in her chest. 

“
Why do you look so guilty? What exactly happened between the two of you that you're not telling us?” Sela snapped her gaze to hers. 

"This isn't up for debate." She looked away from Sela and smiled at Jane, a high school counselor, and asked, "How was your week? Any teen dramas you care to share with us?"

Marc sat the tray on the table with an elaborate flourish. “Tequila shots for my ladies.”

“Aren’t you having one?” she asked, but he had already abandoned them for
a cute blonde. 

She watched Marc work his magic with the other woman and couldn't help but think of their long relationship and the secrets they
kept for one another. When had life become so complicated?

The tequila burned her thro
at more than she had expected. She coughed and shook her head. No. Wrong move. She needed to get drunk at home. Alone. That way when she made an idiot of herself no one would witness it.

“I need to go
. Long day.” Without waiting for a response, she pushed away from the table, grabbed her things, and bolted out the door. 

This time she opted for a taxi over a walk. A little buzzed, she stepped over Sam’s mountain bike
leaning haphazardly across the stairs.

The building had been divided into four apartments, with the two upstairs boasting a second floor.  She had turned her top floor into an art studio and workspace
. She'd inherited the entire place from her grandmother and used the rent from the tenants to cover the upkeep. Many people encouraged her to sell it and move someplace more modern with less hassle, but her grandmother had been the one good thing about her childhood and she couldn't imagine letting the building go. 

Opening the door, she kicked off her shoes, dropped her bag where she stood and left a trail of clothing on the hardwood
floor leading to the bedroom. Never known for tidiness behind closed doors, she dug through her closet floor until she found a pair of sweatpants splattered with paint and a neon pink tank top with a frayed hem.

Barefoot and comfortable, she walked to the kitchen and poured herself a tall glass of ice water. Everything familiar now felt foreign. The blue walls she had painted years ago, framed artwork of her own creation, photographs of friends lining the tables, the oversized red chair she had had since college…all of it seemed out-of-place. Even standing in the kitchen felt wrong. Her skin trembled with discomfort, as if her bones no longer fit her skeleton.