Love Story (7 page)

“Easy there.” Nick leaned against the frame. His brows furrowed. “You’re scowling. What’s wrong?”

She swallowed hard. “I’m spooked, I guess. I got another email from the kook.”

He gripped the doorjamb. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Sure. You can tell me it’s nothing.”

Going behind her, he leaned over, one hand braced on the desk. Her head filled with woodsy cologne, and she almost forgot about the disturbing email. Almost.

“This is not good. From what I understand, none of them have been this outright threatening.”

“How would you know that?”

“I was in the security office yesterday. I saw the emails.”

“Seriously? Why would they let you see them?”

“They were talking about it when I walked in. I just asked.”

“I-”

“Me, first.” He swiveled her chair around. “I’d like to see you tonight.”

“I can’t, Nick. Remember? I’m leaving on a trip for the museum. It was planned before we knew we’d get the exhibit.”

“Who’s going?”

“Only me. It’s five days of workshops, discussions
and socializing with art scholars from all over the country.”

“Where is it?”

“California.”

“When do you get back?”

“Next Tuesday on the red-eye. I’ll probably sleep during the day.”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “I can make myself free on Tuesday night.”

“Perfect.” She touched his arm, and his muscles leapt. “I’ll cook you dinner.”

“I’d like that.”

“Around
seven.”

“Yeah. See you then.”

Elizabeita turned back to her computer. She forwarded the email to security, then tried to think about something else. Nick had seemed so anxious to see her, she’d totally forgotten about the possible threat. He was good for her.

The next morning, Nick was still cursing himself for the slip of his tongue with Elizabeita yesterday. There was no reason in hell a workman should be privy to the emails. He’d had to ask her out to distract her. He knew, he
knew
, he shouldn’t be involved with her. His concentration on his job was shot when he was with her. He should be glad that she was going to
California.

Except that he missed her already and she’d left only last night. Hell! His emotions were a mass of contradictions, and that had never happened to him. Things had been easy with Angie. The relationship had progressed normally to its natural conclusion. He didn’t tie himself in knots over women. But with Elizabeita, time together had been a roller coaster out of control.

The
introspection didn’t stop him from checking his texts, though, to see if she’d contacted him.

She had.

Arrived safely. I slept on the plane. Workshops today on Paul Klee, Piet Mondrian and de Kooning. I’m sending a picture of one of the latter’s paintings.

He opened the attachment. What on earth?

It looks like a robot with breasts.

She sent back,
Do you like breasts, Mr. Caseman?

I like yours
.

See? He couldn’t control himself around her even on the phone. Thankfully she’d had to leave for the breakfast, so he stuck his cell in his pocket and tried to banish her from his mind.

Ellen greeted him at Gallery 12. “Hi, there.” She smiled at him. “Glad you’re here. So are the interns.”

“You picking up the slack for Elizabeita?” he asked innocently.

Her eyes
went from warm to glacial in seconds. “I wouldn’t call it that. I’ve been working here almost three times as long as she has.”

“Yeah, sure.” Ellen’s reaction was something to analyze later. “So, we should make a lot of progress today, right?”

“Let’s see.”

By the end of the day, one wall that he’d painted slate blue was measured, coordinated with the cardboard simulations of the artists’
work, then nails were pounded in. Ellen came over to him after they finished. “Some of us are going for a drink down the street, Nick. Would you like to come?”

“I can’t. I have a daughter I like to spend some time with before dinner.”

“I’ve seen you around at this time with Elizabeita.”

“Not tonight. Thanks for the offer, though.” His tone was dismissive.

Again, she scowled. He’d
have to think about that, too.

Devon Kent was a beautiful man. His dark hair was shorter than Nick’s, tightly clipped at the back of his neck. His eyes were blue, too, but didn’t match the intensity of Nick’s, especially when his gaze rested on her. Tall and thin, not muscular and rugged, Devon was a refined English gentleman. She’d seen him from afar at the day’s workshops,
and he’d emailed he’d be here, so tonight, he sought her out at the cocktail party.

“Elizabeita.” He kissed her on the cheek, and his expression was appreciative. “You’re even more beautiful than when you left us.”

She wondered briefly what he’d think of Lizzie’s streaks in primary colors.

“Oxford is not the same without our shining star.”

She’d been a Rhodes Scholar, which she
didn’t discuss much because she didn’t want to brag. “Thank you, Devon. You’re looking well.”

“I am well. Tell me what you’re doing?”

“You know I’m at the Met.”

“Yes, I know. Which division again?”

“Contemporary Art.”

He frowned. He was a classical instructor, specializing in Michelangelo. “Do you enjoy it there?”

“Yes. Though someday, I’m hoping to run the Museum of Modern
Art in New York.”

He laughed. “Then you will. You always had a way of getting what you wanted.” His expression was flirty. “I’m going to dinner now. I’m hungry and the food here is practically inedible. Would you join me?”

She thought of Nick.
Just remember, Lizzie, this is casual between us.

“Yes, I’ll have dinner with you.”

“Excellent.” He put his drink down and held out his
hand. “Let’s go.”

Her hand didn’t fit in his like it used to. And there was no spark of excitement in her belly at being with this handsome Englishman. Instead, as Elizabeita left with him, she wondered what Nick would think of her having a meal with her ex-lover. Well, he’d said he wanted to keep it casual between them. She frowned, though, wondering if he might see someone else.

How odd it was that nothing had happened Thursday or Friday at the Met. No emails. No lurker sightings. No vandalism. Was it coincidental that Elizabeita was out of town? Thinking of her made him pick up his phone. It was three hours earlier in California, which would make it 8:00 p.m. She was probably at dinner. With who? he wondered. A group of people? She had to know others in her
field. Briefly, he wondered if she’d ever slept with any of them.

“Not my business,” he told himself, turning off the TV.

There was a knock on the door. “It’s me, dear.”

“Come on in, Mom.”

She entered wearing a light satin robe. It accented her gray hair and blue eyes. She sat next to him on the couch. “Were you talking to yourself?”

“Yeah, a little.”

She pointed to his
phone. “Calling someone this late?”

“Nah. I was thinking of texting, though. But it’s a bad idea.”

“Who is she, honey?”

“Someone I met. Spent a few nights with.”

His mother had this look, where he could tell she was reading his mind. “The one you were out with when you didn’t come home?”

“Yeah. But it’s nothing serious, Mom.”

“I see.”

His phone chimed. He grabbed for
it.

“Could that be her?”

“Good night, Mom.”

“Good night, dear.”

When she’d closed the door, he read the text

Back from dinner.

Did you have a good time?

Maybe.

He waited. Shit.
Were you with an old boyfriend?

A long pause. Then,
Um…

Shit. Shit.
Was it just dinner?

Would you care if it was more?

No, of course not.

Nothing. For a while. Maybe she’d
gone to bed. Damn it. He pressed call. She answered on the first ring. “Hello, Nick.”

“Witch. Tell me about him.”

“He was my professor at Oxford.” Hell, he didn’t know she went
there
. Huh! So the man was educated. Probably suave. English, with that sexy accent women loved. “So, you have a track record with older guys.”

“Sure, there have been scores of them.”

“What happened? Never
mind, I don’t want to know.”

“It didn’t start until I was out of Oxford and doing internships in museums in London. It ended when I went to France to study.”

Can’t have been too serious, then. Why the fuck did that make him feel better?

“And for the record, I didn’t sleep with him tonight. Nor am I going to.”

He had to say this, no matter how much he didn’t want to.

“Elizabeita,
there’s no reason not to. We’ve only had one night together.”

“Yeah, but what a night.”

She was something else. “I know.”

“In any case, I’m not putting any claim on you, Nick. I know what this is between us.”

He wished she’d tell
him
what it was.

“Anything new there?”

“Not a peep out of the emailer.”

“I wonder why.”

“We got some more work done on the exhibit.”

“I can’t wait until I get back to see it.”

No response, though he wanted to say
Me, too.

“We’re still on for Tuesday?”

He’d end this on a light note. “You betcha, baby.”

“I’m not a baby, Nick. I’m a grown woman.”

He knew that all right.

“Sleep tight,” she said softly.

“You, too.”
Honey.
He almost said
honey.

When he clicked off, he lay in bed and linked his hands
behind his neck. “What the fuck am I doing?”

Damn, he was still talking to himself.

Nick exited the cab in the financial district, metaphorically kicking himself in the butt. Though he’d made the date to distract her, he wasn’t acting like that was why he was here. And only one thing explained what he held in his hand and the uptick in his heartbeat when he punched the
downstairs buzzer. Yeah, he could say he was keeping an eye on her or trying to get information from her, but in reality, he wanted to see her after five days apart. The best he could do would be to keep his distance emotionally if not physically.

She buzzed the door open. In the reception area, a man sat behind a desk. “Good evening, sir.”

“Hi.” I’m going to 505.”

“Ms. Ludzecky, sure.”
He gestured to the flowers. “She’ll like those.”

How would a doorman—she called him a concierge—know that? Then he remembered that this was New York, and front-desk people in apartment buildings were privy to all kinds of things. Still, he didn’t like that the man got personal with him. He stopped thinking about it when he reached the fifth floor and Elizabeita opened the door, stood on her
tiptoes and kissed him. The kiss was so sweet it almost hurt inside. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He handed her the bouquet.

She sucked in a breath. “For me? Sunflowers, like Van Gogh?”

He
did
know about the painter. His mother had a print of the flowers on her bedroom wall. Was that why he’d chosen these? “Um, yeah, for you.”

After letting him inside, she turned and, still holding the bouquet,
gave him another kiss on the mouth, this time a sloppy, sensual one that had his head spinning.

“Wow.” He yanked her close. “Do we have to eat dinner first?”

Her eyes widened. “First?”

He growled and buried his face in her neck. “You know what I mean.”

“No, we don’t have to eat first.” She sounded disappointed. “I thought maybe we’d have a drink, though.” She peered up at him.
“But never mind. Let me put these in water.”

Chiding himself for acting like a cad, he shook his head. “You’re right, let’s do the drink thing.”

“Really, we don’t have to.”

“No, I want to.”

“Then go into the living room and pick what you’d like while I take care of these.”

The sideboard of the large area held liquor. When he got closer, he saw the tray contained very expensive
brands. “Do you drink this stuff?” he called out.

“Nah, it’s leftover from when Magdalena lived here.”

He picked out an expensive Scotch. When he turned, he saw the dining table was meticulously set. She wanted romance.

Hey, buddy, you were the one who brought the flowers.

That was true. But he was feeling a little like a man who’d gone overboard, trying to find purchase.

She set the flowers on the table, gave him another quick kiss on the lips and poured some red wine for herself.

“Let’s go in the living room.”

When they were ensconced on the couch where they’d sat after he rescued her from the cab, he decided it might help take his mind off how happy he was to be with her by bringing up business. “So, still upset from that last email?”

“No. I talked
to Director Davidson, from California. They took my computer in case the experts could get something off of it, but that was a bust. And I
was
the only one who got something like a direct threat.” She shivered.

“I’m sure the authorities are doing everything they can to track down the culprit.”

“Speaking of police, tell me about Captain Morris. Dean, you called him. You’ve stayed in touch
since you got back from Iraq?”

“Yeah.” He fidgeted at the lie. “You know what they say about war buddies.”

“Band of brothers?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m not close to anybody who served.”

“Count yourself lucky.”

“You enlisted, right?”

More lies. “Yeah. My mother wanted me to go to NYU, but I felt a pull, a responsibility to help out people in general.” In reality,
he was talking about the police force, but it was the same thing.

“Listen to us. Talking about war.” She sighed. “How long do you have tonight?”

“Excuse me?”

“I know you have responsibilities.”

“I went home, sat with my daughter while she ate, then left.”