In Bed with the Bodyguard (19 page)

“Ready to go?” Val asked.

“In a minute; I need to hit the restroom first.” She ducked down a hall decorated with pictures of current and former local newscasters and into the women's lavatory. Ari took care of personal business, then reached into her purse for lotion after washing her hands. Her fingers hit a slightly crumpled picture that she took out to look at.

Tears welled as she stared down into the smiling face of Lance. She'd purloined the photograph from Valerie's house and folded it in half so one side showed Lance and the other showed Jason. Both men wore collared golf shirts and they hoisted a silver trophy between them that now had a crease down the center.

It hurt that she'd been reduced to stealing photographs of him; that they hadn't even been together long enough to have a photo-taking opportunity to have her own memento of them together.

She wiped the tears off her cheeks viciously enough to leave pink streaks and walked out of the bathroom ready to face the world again. “Let's go,” she said to a waiting Valerie. When Val opened her mouth, probably to ask about the obvious signs of tears, Ari held up a hand to stave off any questions.

“Back to the hotel, or do you want to grab a late-night snack?” Val asked.

“I can't. I'm going to visit Nana in Silver Spring.”

“Nana,” Val repeated.

“Nana. Lance's grandmother.”

“Honey, are you sure that's a good idea? You and Lance aren't dating anymore. Won't that be uncomfortable? Also, it's nine o'clock at night.”

“She called to offer me a cooking lesson tonight. I figured if I'm too poor to eat out in restaurants anymore, learning to cook is a good idea.” There had also been a mystery in Nana's tone, something that told Ari there was more to discuss than the difference between broiling and baking.

“Tilt the bowl a bit.” Nana angled the bowl enough so the contents didn't spill over the edge. “There you go.”

Ari spun the metal whisk faster in the golden liquid, amazed at the change to the once bland-looking eggs. At the counter next to her, Nana chopped earthy green scallions with quick, deft strokes.

“The eggs look well beaten. Go ahead and grab a frying pan off the rack.”

Ari eyed the medley of mysterious-looking pans hanging by their gleaming metal handles on a long rack above the stovetop. Frying pan…hmm…That had low sides, right? She unhooked a likely looking candidate and brought it down to the glossy blue ceramic tile countertop.

“Pour a little olive oil in the pan. Just a dollop. I used to use butter, but Lance nags me to cook healthier for him.”

Ari dropped the plastic bottle of oil onto the edge of the pan, upending it with a loud clatter. “Is Lance coming over for dinner?” Thank goodness the lid had been sealed on the bottle or they'd be swimming in oil now.

Nana finished with the scallions and moved on to chopping mushrooms into even pieces. “No. This is a girls' night, but now that you mentioned him, I can ask. What's going on with you two?”

Ari opened the oil and studied the golden stream forming an oval in the bottom of the pan, unsure of how to respond. “Nothing's going on with us.”

“But something was?” Nana was entirely too perceptive for comfort.

She nodded. “Should I pour the eggs in?”

“No. Wait for the oil to heat a bit, but if it starts smoking it's too hot. Lower the heat if that happens.” She opened the fridge door and pulled out a block of pale yellow cheese. She didn't say anything more about her grandson until Ari was bursting with the need to talk about him.

“I left him,” she admitted. “He bought a ring for me, but I threw it back in his face.” Her cheeks were warm. “I mean, not literally, I left the ring on the dresser, but the effect was the same.”

Nana pursed her lips and raised her brows, but only said, “The pan looks hot enough. Drop the scallions in and give them a stir.”

Ari carefully followed the directions, delighted by the savory onion smell that filled the small, cozy kitchen. “Ouch.” She gingerly touched a spatter of hot oil on her forearm.

“Time to add the mushrooms.”

Ari dropped the mushrooms in, stirring in a similar fashion to the scallions. Now the room smelled delicious. Call the Food Network. She was their next star.

“Lance must love you for him to have proposed.” Nana's hand gently guided Ari's, stirring the vegetable mixture.

She turned almost into Nana's arms—that's how close they stood. “I guess.”

“You guess? You don't know? Well, I know. If he bought a ring, he loved you. What happened? You don't love him? Pour the eggs in, but don't stir.”

Ari struggled to follow the rapid-fire combination of Nana's cooking directions and personal questions. She tilted the mixing bowl over the hot pan and poured the eggs in over the cooked vegetables. “I did…do love him, but sometimes love isn't enough, right? I mean, we only dated for a few weeks. It wasn't long enough to know if it was a forever kind of love, right?”

The noise Nana made had her checking her frying omelet in alarm. “Honey, sometimes love is the only thing we've got.”

“But…what about trust?” She hated to say anything negative about Lance to his grandmother. “Lance spied on me for his boss.”

Nana deftly loosened the edges of the omelet from the sides of the pan. “And what did he report back to his boss?”

“Well, nothing. So he claims.”

“Oh? Slide the plate over here, please, and grab the grater.”

“There was nothing to report, but I have no doubt he would've spilled everything if given the opportunity.” She looked around the counter for the boxy silver metal grater and tried to hand it to the older woman, who shook her head while tipping the omelet onto the plate.

“Not my job. Hold the grater in your left hand, cheese in your right, and move it up and down with a little elbow grease, but not too much.”

Ari hastened to obey, thrilled to see perfect little flecks of cheese falling and melting onto the golden omelet. “Look at that. I can cook.”

Nana chuckled. “Yes, you can. Ari, I know I'm not your grandmother, but if I may, I'd offer you some advice.”

“Of course.” The words came automatically, but she was hesitant to hear wisdom from her former lover's grandmother.

Nana walked over to the small, round, wooden table and sat down. Ari followed, holding her prize omelet and two forks.

“I said before love is sometimes all we have, and it's true, but sometimes love takes many forms, and often people in love screw up. Badly.”

Ari broke off a bit of the omelet with the edge of her fork and blew on the gently steaming cheese.

“Take your father, for example…”

Ari looked up, startled, at the older woman.

“Didn't think I knew who you were?” Nana smiled wryly. “I knew, and I'm terribly sorry for you, but don't take his mistakes to mean he doesn't love you.” She reached for the extra fork and broke off her own piece of omelet.

“He has a funny way of showing it.”

“Does he? I heard you on TV say you hadn't spoken to him in eight months, right?”

She nodded.

“He was protecting you out of love. Will you ever trust him again? Probably not, and deservedly so, but does Lance deserve that kind of judgment?” She paused to chew her bite. “Only you can decide.”

L
ance shook himself awake to blearily grab for the ringing cell phone on his nightstand. His clumsy, tired movements knocked things around, causing a soft thud as the black velvet ring box hit the carpet. He'd taken to sleeping with the damn thing next to him on the nightstand. He figured it was the next best thing to having Ari next to him in bed. The ring made a crap substitute.

“Shit,” he muttered. He sat up to flick on the light and glare at the caller ID on his cell phone. He blinked at the unknown number and let it go to voice mail.

A stretch got his blood and muscles waking up in time for the phone to ring again. Didn't his mystery caller know it was Saturday? This was his first Saturday off in two weeks and he'd planned on sleeping in if he was able, though he hadn't been sleeping well lately; something to do with a five-foot, sexy body missing from his bed. “Down, boy,” he said to his ever hopeful morning erection, which missed Ari also.

The phone rang again and he growled, deciding to finally answer it. “Hello?” he said into his phone after the third ring.

An unfamiliar voice said, “Sorry, wrong number.”

Of course. He hung up and tossed the phone aside slightly harder than was wise with a small, delicate piece of electronics. He tried to shake off his sleepiness and glanced at the clock to see it was only eight in the morning.

He sat on the edge of the bed staring at the emptiness of an entire day with nothing to do. He'd looked forward to his day off all week long, but now that it was here, it was a huge gaping hole. How had he spent his weekends pre-Ari? Hanging out with friends and sleeping with the occasional random chick, but given how badly his attempt with the interns in the bar had gone, dating wasn't going to be on his calendar anytime soon.

He shuffled to his front door and opened it a crack to pull in the newspaper. Over a bowl of Cheerios he scanned the sports page and the local headlines. His spoon fell with a clatter and milky splash into the bowl as he saw Ari's smiling face staring back at him from the
Post
's weekend Going-Out Guide. Christ, ever since her television interview made her America's most beloved victim, she was everywhere. He loved that things were going well for her, but his heart raced like it had been hit with a vein full of illegal substances.

That's right; her art show was this weekend. He read the article twice through with painful concentration. His admiration and love for Ari grew as he read that a portion of proceeds from gallery sales were being donated to a new fund for victims of Stanley Rose set up by Ms. Rose. Wow, talk about the apple falling far from the tree—light-years away. Ari was righting the wrongs of her father in a public way, and he had to find a way to support her.

He got dressed, then dialed Ari's cell phone. He needed to talk to her and make her listen; make her realize he could be trusted, that he was an idiot for choosing his career over her. He'd let her go way too easily.

No answer. He tried Valerie's and Jason's next. Again, no answer. Damn, why hadn't he stuck a tracer or something in Ari's phone to keep better tabs on her? Because he was a law-abiding idiot, that was why. He knew from Jason that she was staying at a cheap residence inn outside the Beltway and was going to apartment hunt once her big art show was over.

Everyone was probably out helping Ari set up. He could head out too, and knew from the paper that the show was to be held tonight at an indoor skateboard park, of all places. Interesting choice for a venue, but if that was where Ari Rose was, it's where he would be too. With another glance at his clock, he started making phone calls and arrangements for the evening.

He didn't care if it took one hour or one year to get Ari to listen. He wasn't giving up on them and had a few good ideas of where to begin, with the help of his prickly family. Sure, he didn't always get along with them, but seeing Arianna's relationship implosion with her father had shown him that things could get a lot worse. For all their chiding and criticism of him, Lance knew his parents hounded him out of love. Also, getting shot a few months back had demonstrated that life was too short to hold grudges and keep people at arm's length.

“Put that painting over there,” Ari directed. “About three inches higher. Perfect.” She smiled at the tattooed, long-haired skater dude who shyly grinned, then turned back to hanging her painting. The smile wiped off her face as soon as she turned away, and she allowed her face to sag into a more accurate expression of how she was feeling.

It had been a roller coaster of weeks, starting with her breakup with Lance, the all too public television interview, and frequent invasive phone calls from the FBI, and it would culminate in her long-awaited art show tonight. A glance around the large warehouse-like room, so unlike her Georgetown gallery, put the smile back on her face. How fitting this was. How right.

“Arianna, where do you want the bar set up? I taped out that corner over there, but I wanted to double-check with you.” Kevin jogged over, looking professional and older than his sixteen years. Today he wore a t-shirt with a screen print of a tuxedo on it, in deference to the occasion.

She followed the direction of his pointing finger and weighed the pros and cons of the bar locale. “That looks perfect. Thanks, Kevin. You've been such a help.”

He flushed and ran off to help his buddy unload another painting. She smiled at his retreating back, thinking about the change in the angry teenager. He'd been a lifesaver this week and was the one who came up with this new location for the show. After nothing substantial came out of her appearance at the Literacy Gala, she'd sent out a plea to her friends. Kevin had come through in a big way.

“This is shaping up,” a voice at her side said. She turned to greet Valerie and patted her best friend's minuscule baby bump. Valerie had shown up at her hotel room last night to lend moral support before the show and then spent the night.

“It is,” she said. “I think I like this even better than my original plan.”

Valerie laughed. “I agree. Anyone can have an art show in a boring old art gallery. It takes a creative genius to hold one in a roller rink.”

“Skate park,” Ari said, laughing at her friend's naïveté. “Roller rinks are eighties. You're going to need to know these things when that little bean in your belly is bigger.”

“I had no idea these places existed,” Valerie said, gazing around at the mecca for all things with boards and wheels.

Large mountains and valleys of plywood filled the converted warehouse, and though the only sounds now were hammering, Ari could imagine the
whirr
of polyurethane wheels zooming down the ramps.

“Why would you? Kevin's the one who told me about it. He is friends with the owner's son and we got it at a great rate.”

Valerie leaned over for a warm hug. “I know your mother won't say it, but I will. I'm proud of you. You took lemons and made lemonade.”

“Lemonade? Hah! I made lemon drop martinis. I'm done living up to people's image of what a trust fund baby does. I'm finally free of it, and I owe them nothing.”

“Good for you.” Val reached a hand over to give a comforting squeeze to her shoulder.

“My lack of money means I owe nothing to anyone's opinion.” She stood up straighter, ready to take on the world.

“What can I do to help, Ms. Birthday Girl?” Valerie asked.

“You can sit over there and watch the action. And don't mention to anyone it's my birthday. I don't feel like celebrating this year.” She gave her friend a gentle shove toward the air-conditioned office with comfortable chairs.

“You're worse than Jason. He understands that I'm pregnant, not ill.” Valerie remained standing next to her with a mulish expression. “I promise to sit down before I overdo it. Believe me, I want to be awake for this party tonight. It's going to rock the D.C. art scene.”

“Okay, fine, will you please go call the table linens rental company? They were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.” She shuffled through the papers on her clipboard and handed Val the one with the linens contract.

Val saluted. “I'm on it.” She strolled off to find a chair and pull out her cell phone.

Ari flipped through multiple sheets of yellow, pink, and white pages on her clipboard, mentally running through the checklist. Location? Check. Food on its way? Check. Paintings hung? Almost check. All she had to do was grab a shower and think of her talking points for the news media she'd invited. It was doubtful she'd escape without answering a million more questions about her father's arrest and conjecture as to his mystery location, but one could always dream.

If Lance were here, he could stand menacingly next to her and intimidate the journalists into asking the proper questions. But who was she kidding? Lance was gone and wasn't coming back. She'd made her bed and now she'd lie in it, even if it was a cold, lonely place.

A commotion at the entrance grabbed her attention and she dashed over to open the door for the delivery people carrying the missing table linens. Finally, the tables and nonperishable food items could be set out. She scrawled her name on the necessary delivery sheets they stuck in front of her.

Twenty minutes later, she did a final walkthrough of the room, widening the grin on her face until it nearly touched each ear. Excitement bubbled and danced through her. It was hard to believe that after all her planning and missteps the big show was finally here.

“I can see how Jeri's work is reminiscent of early Rothko,” Arianna said, smiling at the journalist from
ArtWorld
magazine. “It's one of the reasons I chose to highlight her work in this opening.” She smiled at the notoriously prickly man, relieved he was thawing a bit and more comfortable in this obviously foreign setting for him.

Listening with only one ear, she surveyed the room, ensuring that all was as she wanted it. Green Day blared from the speakers on the DJ stage and the skateboarders rolling up and down the ramps seemed to move in time with the beat. Valerie waved at her from a corner, where she chatted with a tall man and his petite blond date. A second glance revealed the man was Lance. She'd mailed him an updated invitation at the last moment, still not sure whether she wanted him there or not, and decided to leave it up to the United States Postal Service. Maybe seeing him again would clear things up in her mind.

A large part of her missed him terribly and wanted him back in her life, but a niggling doubt bothered her. What if he proved irredeemably untrustworthy again? Like now, bringing a date to her party. What a bastard. She glared at his back, trying and failing to slow her heartbeat at the all too delectable sight of him. It was as she'd feared: one glimpse of him and she was panting after him like a groupie after a rock star.

She turned back to her VIP journalist. “Mr. Green, how would you like to meet a new up and coming artist that's poised to take the art world by storm? I promise if you interview her now, you'll be scooping every other art magazine.” Without waiting for his consent, she took him by the elbow and walked him over to Lacey Klein, who was giving tarot card readings in the corner. Ari unceremoniously left him with a curt but polite dismissal in her anxiety to confront Lance.

She pushed through the crowd, scooping up a champagne flute from a roving waiter, fully prepared to splash its contents in Lance's face. All week, she'd agonized over Lance attending the party, and now he was here. With another woman.

“Lance,” she said as soon as she was within earshot, a difficult task considering the music still blared and skateboarders performed stunts nearby.

He turned to face her and she willed her stomach to stop fluttering at his scent and nearness. She reminded herself that pretty packages could hide a multitude of sins. Exhibit A stood in front of her arm in arm with a tight blond who was …
old enough to be his mother?

“Ari.” Lance, the rat, smiled and leaned down to kiss her cheek. She leaned into him, absorbing his presence. “Ari, I'd like you to meet my mother, Susan Brown. Mom, this Arianna Rose.”

The blond woman flashed a smile. “A pleasure to meet you. This is one of the most exciting art openings I've been to in a long while. It's too bad my mother couldn't make it. She has a bit of a cold, but wanted me to wish you the best of luck making a difficult decision. Does that mean something to you?”

She nodded, as her insides tightened at Nana's cryptic message, though she understood it perfectly. Nana hadn't come out and said it, but she wanted Arianna to get back with her grandson. The woman obviously had an agenda. “It does. I'm sorry Nana is under the weather.”

Mrs. Brown brushed the concern aside. “She's a tough broad. It'll take more than a cold to keep her down. I was about to come over to you, because I have my eye on that painting against the far wall. It would make a perfect complement in Lance's new office.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brown,” she said, still in shock that he'd brought his mother to the party. And what did she mean, “Lance's new office”?

“Don't call me Mrs. Brown. I know you and my son are close. Call me Susan.”

The way she said
close
implied she knew everything and was simply waiting for Ari to slip on Lance's ring and walk down the aisle.

“Lance, can I talk to you for a second? Alone?” She grabbed his elbow and tried to move him away from his smiling mother and an equally grinning Valerie.

He remained firmly rooted in place, but held on to her with his strong hand lightly dusted with golden brown hairs. “Anything you want to say to me can be said in front of my mother and Valerie.”

“Oh? You won't mind if your mother hears me talk about how great you were in bed?”

Valerie choked and nearly spat into her glass of sparkling water.