On the Brink (Vol. 1) (The On the Brink Series) (6 page)

I
laughed out loud. “Tanning disorder. You’ve just described one of my college
roommates. Eve fried herself year-round. Even during the winter, she’d spread
her tanning blanket on the dorm fire escape and go out for ten minutes at a
time. I never understood Eve’s obsession with tanning, because she was a
beautiful woman, talented and smart. We used to warn her that she’d have skin
cancer at thirty, but she didn’t want to hear it.”

“They
never do. When I told Anne one day over lunch that her face matched her
handbag, she called me a bitch.”

“I’m
sure you meant well,” I said.

“It
was nothing less than the truth. And someone needed to tell her. But Anne’s the
sensitive type. Expects everyone to be nice. Whatever that means. If failing to
offer the human equivalent of trotting up to her with my tongue hanging
out—sniffing and lapping for all the world like a golden retriever—means
I’m a bitch, then I suppose I am. God, people are weak.”

Time
flew by as we moved on to talking about my work, and before we parted,
Genevieve asked for my card and promised to make a studio visit. I hoped it
would be soon, because she was one of the most fascinating people I’d ever met.
A scathing wit combined with a heart of gold.

Realizing
the evening was coming to an end, I looked around for Duncan. People were
retrieving their coats, and the bar was closing down. I spotted Duncan near the
entrance.

“There
you are! We should get going before they kick us out. Let’s get a cab. My treat
this time. I’m not getting soaked twice in two days.”

Easier
said than done. The off and on drizzle of the day had reverted to a downpour,
and the cabstand near the Museum was empty. We would have to call for a cab,
and on a rainy Friday night, that meant a chilly, damp, half hour wait.

“Can
I give you a ride somewhere? My car’s waiting just around the corner.”

Recognizing
Craig Manning’s voice, I suppressed a groan. Waiting in the cold suddenly
seemed very attractive, at least in comparison to accepting a ride from the
very man I’d been trying to avoid all evening. I opened my mouth to deliver a
polite refusal, but Duncan beat me to the punch.

“If
it’s not too far out of your way, a ride would be great, Craig—thanks for
offering. We live in Davis Square.”

“Davis
Square is close to where I’m going. Come on. Here’s the car.”

Manning’s
limo pulled up, and we quickly piled in. Leaning back into the spacious leather
seat, I felt more than a little guilty. In all fairness, Craig had been nothing
but kind, and I hadn’t exactly been gracious toward him.

I
resolved to stop letting my fears get the best of me. Duncan was right; not all
men were like Matt. A date was just a date, not a long-term commitment. If
Craig asked me out again, I would say yes. But I felt sure that he wouldn’t.
I’d definitely blown it with him.

As
we drove across the river toward Cambridge, I half listened to Duncan and
Craig, who had clearly hit it off, exchanging camera geekery like a couple of
obsessed teenage boys. It had been an exhausting week, and I was looking
forward to getting home and taking a long, hot bath.

We
reached Davis Square, and Duncan directed Craig’s driver to our apartment. In
the rain, streets and buildings glistened against the night sky, reflecting
streetlights and neon signs.

The
driver opened the door for us, and as I prepared to step out, Craig surprised
me by taking my hand. Once again a spark of attraction traced its way between us,
and I was grateful for the darkness that, at least partially, concealed my
face.

“Since
your schedule seems to be full, let me suggest something different. Coffee and
a croissant in Kendall Square tomorrow morning, before you start work?”

Astonished
that he’d asked again, I agreed.

“Okay.
I have to work at 10, so how about 9:15?”

“9:15
it is, at Au Bon Pain. I’ll look forward to seeing you then. Good night,
Juliana.”

He
released my hand, and I stepped out of the limo. Duncan followed, and we made
our way upstairs to the apartment.

“Craig
seems really into you, Jules. I have a good feeling about him. He seems like a
great guy.”

“He’s
out of my league, Duncan. He lives in a different world than we do. I’m sure
that beautiful women throw themselves at him on a daily basis, and I’m worried
that I’m taking the first step toward a repeat of what happened with Matt.”

Duncan
sighed. “He’s not another Matt. Matt was a cynical, manipulative jerk who
believed that money could buy everything, that everyone has a price. He lied to
you and abused your trust. But you’re not that naïve girl anymore.”

“Maybe
not,” I replied. “And I know where you’re going, so I’ll just cut to the chase.
I don’t mind admitting this to you, because you’re the one person in my life
that I trust completely.” I sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid of being hurt again. It’s
not easy, now that I know what it means to risk my heart. Of course I want to
fall in love again. Someday. With the right man. With someone who gets me. But
I’ve learned my lesson, Dunc. It’s impossible for someone like Matt—or
Craig—to understand my life, or me his. We’re just too different—it
could never work out.”

“You’re
getting ahead of yourself,” Duncan said. “Have coffee with Craig. Go to a
concert together. Take your time.” He paused. “Where’s the risk? It’s just a
date. Two people getting to know each other. Once you get to know him a little
better, then you can decide if you want to take things further—or not.”

Chapter
Ten

Saturday
dawned a beautiful fall day, albeit chilly. Looking out my bedroom window, I
realized that winter was just around the corner. The trees were beginning to
shed their leaves, exposing stark branches against the bright blue sky.

I
dressed simply, not wanting to give Craig Manning the wrong impression. So far,
he’d seen me looking like an entrant in a wet T-shirt contest, and glammed to
the max for the museum fundraiser. Today, I would be plain, everyday Juliana.
Nothing special. Slim khaki trousers, white T-shirt under a dark green V-neck
sweater. I gathered my thick hair into a loose chignon at the nape of my neck,
applied a touch of lip gloss, seized my purse, and headed out the door.

As
I took the familiar Red Line train toward Kendall Square, I went over my plan.
I would be gracious, but keep my distance. I would conduct myself as the
strong, twenty-first century woman I knew myself to be.

I
got off the train and walked toward Au Bon Pain, a few minutes early. As I
approached, I saw that Craig was already there, his lean body sprawled in an ironwork
chair. Dark hair tousled, and dressed casually in jeans and a fitted, zippered
sweater that emphasized his muscled torso, he was hotter than ever. As I opened
the door, he got up and greeted me with a bright smile.

“Good
morning, Juliana. I recommend the chocolate croissant. And what’s your caffeine
of choice?”

While
the atmosphere between us remained electric, it felt surprisingly natural to
let him take the lead. His voice, commanding yet gentle, reflected an ease with
being in charge.

“A
chocolate croissant and a double espresso, thanks. Best to make sure I’m fully
awake before I start typing.”

While
Craig occupied himself ordering croissants and espresso, I sat down and took
full advantage of the opportunity to consume him with my eyes. His broad
shoulders contrasted with his narrow hips in ideal proportion, and his jeans
hugged his ass perfectly, showcasing strong, lean legs and tightly muscled
buttocks. I couldn’t help thinking that it would be sheer pleasure to paint him
in the buff, and wondered how often he worked out.

He
returned with croissants and espresso for two. I thanked him and sipped my
espresso, casting about for something to say. Small talk had never been my
forte.

Craig
broke the silence. “I Googled your paintings last night. Elsa was right, as
usual. They’re beautiful, and very original as well. I’d love to see your work
in person sometime. Do you show around here? Or in New York? I’m there
frequently on business.”

“I
don’t have gallery representation yet,” I replied. “I’ve had work in group
shows at various Boston galleries, and now that I’m teaching at Tremont
University, I’ll be included in faculty shows there, but as I’m sure you’re
aware, it can take awhile for emerging artists to break into the gallery
scene.”

Craig
nodded, looking thoughtful. “How do you like teaching?”

“It’s
okay most of the time. I enjoy teaching when the students enjoy learning, when
they’re full of curiosity and passion for their work.” Deciding that I’d
answered enough questions, I turned the tables with a question of my own. “Your
work is probably much more interesting than mine—what’s it like to run a
large international corporation?”

“Depends
on the day, but in general I enjoy my work,” he replied. “Running a large
business can be stressful, but I’ve always liked a challenge.”

“I’ve
heard about your new anti-cancer drug. It sounds pretty exciting.”

His
eyebrows shot up. “I wasn’t aware that artists followed business news.”

I
knew from experience that artists were generally expected to be eccentric, unworldly
innocents. And I’d met more than a few artists who seemed to embrace the
stereotype. But that wasn’t me. “I can’t speak for other artists, but I minored
in business because it’s interesting. As a painter, I’m an entrepreneur in a
highly competitive field controlled by middlemen and tastemakers, gallerists
and museum curators.”

“So
what’s your business plan? How will you convince the middlemen to open doors
for your work? How will you succeed in a field where the overwhelming majority
fail?” He leaned back in his chair, a hint of challenge in his voice.

“Market
analysis and networking. Targeting the gallerists and curators whose track
records indicate that they’re likely to find my work interesting. Most artists
understand the importance of networking, but go about it the wrong way. And
market analysis? Not a clue. It’s not a perfect plan, but I’m committed to
giving it my best shot over the next couple of years. If it doesn’t work out,
I’ll pursue other interests. Maybe go to business school. Get an MBA. Join a
biotech or information technology startup—there are tons of exciting
opportunities right here in Boston.”

Momentarily
taken aback, he recovered gracefully. “Forgive my surprise. I’m used to hearing
artists talk about creativity. But entrepreneurship and market analysis? You’re
an unusual woman, Juliana West.”

“I’m
going to take that as a compliment,” I said with a smile. “Thank you. But
please tell me more about your new drug. It sounds like a major breakthrough.”

“The
results from our studies are promising, but unfortunately the Syngenomics
lawsuit is holding things up.” His long-lashed eyes narrowed and his expression
became stern, lending a dark, almost dangerous edge to his expressive features.
“Walter Reimann has tried and failed to bring me down in the past. He won’t
succeed this time, either, no matter how much money he spends trying to destroy
me.”

For
a second I thought I’d glimpsed red-hot anger beneath his smooth facade, but
almost instantly, it vanished, replaced by a charming smile.

“But
enough about business. Let’s be honest. We’re here because I find you terribly
attractive, and I’m attempting to get past your initial impulse to run the
other way. You’re thinking about running right now, aren’t you?”

“Craig,
you’ve been nothing but kind, and I’ve truly enjoyed our conversation today,
but I have to be honest. I need to focus on my career right now. Also, I
certainly don’t mean to judge you or anyone else, but the number of women
competing for your attention is a matter of public knowledge.”

He
nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. I don’t blame you for being skeptical. For the
first few years after my business took off, I went a little crazy. Women. Too
many parties and too much alcohol, though fortunately I knew enough to stay
away from drugs. Throwing money around. All well documented on the Internet.
But I stopped all of that years ago. It became boring.”

“Boring
in what sense?” I asked, curious. I’d glimpsed that world during my brief,
painful liaison with Matt, and knew that its glamorous facade concealed far
uglier realities. Beautiful, desperate women—some with the scars on their
wrists to prove it—throwing themselves at wealthy men in exchange for a
few nights of alcohol, drugs, and sex, perhaps an expensive bauble or two. Men
like Matt, shielding their fragile sense of self-worth with an unattractive mix
of braggadocio and Benjamins.

“I
guess the emptiness of the scene just became obvious over time, especially by
comparison to the significance of my work. Anyway, I’ve been single for over a
year, and I’m no longer a man-about-town.”

I
felt torn. Duncan was right. After Matt, I didn’t completely trust my own
judgment. I’d screwed up before, and pulling my life back together hadn’t been
easy.

On
the one hand, I felt a strong pull toward Craig; on the other, I was afraid of
making the same mistakes I’d made before. It wasn’t fair to inflict my
confusion on Craig. After all, he’d been nothing but honest. He’d opened
himself up to me, telling me about his past, and I didn’t want to lead him on.

Leaning
forward, Craig looked directly at me, holding my eyes with his dark blue gaze.

“So
when can I see you again?”

Mesmerized
by his intensity, I hesitated. “I’d really like to get to know you better. But
I still don’t think I’m ready to date anyone right now.”

“Then
don’t call it a date. Just promise to see me again.” He grinned.

I
couldn’t help returning his infectious smile. “You’re incorrigible, you know.”

“I
understand the power of persistence, that’s all. How about a movie? Do you like
Hitchcock? There’s a series playing at the Brattle every Tuesday, afternoon and
evening screenings. This week they’re showing
Notorious
and
North by
Northwest
.”

His
suggestion tempted me. I worshipped Hitchcock’s movie-making genius and adored
Cary Grant. But I was scheduled to work Tuesday evening, and I really needed
the money. I glanced at my wristwatch, realized I was about to be late for
work, and decided on maybe. I could always say no later.

“I’m
not sure if I can get off work that night,” I hedged. “But I’ll try.”

“Here’s
my phone number and email,” Craig said, writing a number on the back of a
business card and handing it to me. “The number on the front is my office
phone, the one on the back is my private cell. Call or text either way. If
Tuesday doesn’t work out, we can find another time.”

“Look,
I really have to run or I’ll be late for work,” I said, grabbing my briefcase
and rising from the chair. “Thanks for coffee. And a great conversation.” I
meant it. We’d talked about business, and about life. We’d been real with each
other, and I felt that I could be myself with him. I smiled. “I promise to call
or text soon about Tuesday night.”

Craig
got up immediately and opened the door for me. “Let’s walk together,” he said.
“I have a stack of quarterly reports to review, so today’s agenda is a quiet
Saturday in the office.”

We
walked briskly, side by side, toward Manning Tower. As we neared the building,
his phone rang.

“Craig
Manning.” As he listened, I watched his expression change, from sunny and
carefree to intense and determined, his lips set in a hard line. “I’ll deal
with it. Immediately. Have the car meet me out front.”

He
ended the call and turned to me. “Change of plans. It’s not going to be a quiet
Saturday after all.” His smile seemed forced. “I’ll look forward to hearing
from you soon.”

“I’ll
be in touch,” I promised. “Got to run now. Thanks again for coffee.” I headed
for the entrance, walking as fast as I could. Pushing my way through the
revolving doors, I broke into a half-run, ignoring the curious stares from the
security desk.