Secrets of You (7 page)

“Great painting, huh?”

Arianna turned toward the voice, not that she needed to identify the owner. Only one person spoke in a way that made her lightheaded. “Hello, Ash.” She pointed to the painting and said, “Quinn’s mother did this.”

“His mother?
I thought she was dead.”

“It’s a long story.” With gaps and enough questions to make her certain there was more to the “abducted mother returns” story Quinn had pushed on them. She never questioned because she understood about leaving the past buried and even creating a new past.

“Ian never mentioned anything about Quinn’s mother painting this. In fact”—he rubbed his jaw and frowned—“he didn’t seem too happy to talk about these paintings at all. They’re really mesmerizing with the silhouettes dropped against the sun. Kind of tragic in a way.”

She was still stuck on the implication that he’d met Ian before. “You know Ian?”

That grin spread. “I met him about an hour ago. Nice guy. Doesn’t much like Annie’s husband, but then guys don’t usually like men who steal the women they love from them.”

“What are you talking about? And why were you here so early?” She checked her watch. “I said ten o’clock, not nine.”

He shrugged. “I haven’t slept past seven in over two years.”

She ignored the comment; somewhere buried just beneath the surface of those words was the reason for the early rising and it had to do with her.
With them. There had been weekends when they’d spent half the day in bed. She was not even going to tiptoe near
that
memory, so she focused on the other, equally disturbing half of his statement. “What do you mean, Ian’s in love with Annie? Where did you conjure up that story?”

He faced her and his expression grew serious, his dark eyes almost black. “No conjuring necessary. Didn’t you notice the way Annie tossed Ian’s name out like a rotten egg? And Michael took every opportunity to voice his opinion on Ian and his ‘artists are freaks and he’s a king freak,’ which is really interesting considering Quinn and Eve are artists and so are you. So, what’s with the guy?”

“I don’t know.” And she didn’t. But Ian in love with Annie? Surely Quinn would have said something…surely Quinn would have noticed. “I think you’re way off base with Ian. He’s extremely focused and intense.”

“Code for obsessed and in love.”

Was he speaking from experience? About her? She smothered the thought and offered a possibility for Annie’s distaste of Ian Debenidos. “Annie might still be resentful because for a time she thought the paintings Ian sold for her were purchased by real admirers.”

“Ah. Let me guess.
Big brother’s checkbook?”

“Pretty much.”

“I can’t fault the guy for trying to help his sister. Let’s go inside before you tell me he’s donating all of his money to charity and volunteering in soup kitchens.” His voice tickled her neck. “Ian gave me a few suggestions, but I want your opinion.”

She nodded. “Ash?” She clutched the door handle and eyed him from the reflection in the door window. “The question you asked me last night about another chance.” She paused, pushed the words out before she couldn’t say them. “Yes. That’s my answer.”

He blew out a breath that spoke of relief and hope. “Thank you.”

“My terms. Slow.”

“I can do slow.” Those lips twitched and sent chills through her. “I’m very good at slow.”

***

Ash bounded out of the elevator and headed for the suites of Lancaster Development. Life was good. No, life was great. Arianna was going to give him another chance. He threw open the wide glass doors and waved at Megan who sat outside of Pete’s office.
“Hey, Megan. Is Pete in?”

“Hi, Ash.”
She motioned to him and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I think he slept here last night. His clothes are all wrinkled and he needs a shave.” She scrunched her nose. “I smelled alcohol and Pete hardly ever drinks. Poor man.”

“Let me check in on him.” Why was it that just when one part of a person’s life straightened out, another went to hell?

“He hasn’t eaten anything either, but he asked for black coffee. Do you want me to order something in?”

Efficient
and
empathetic. Her lips parted and she waited. In that split second before he answered, Ash spotted the truth. Megan was in love with Pete. Or thought she was. That’s why she’d broken up with the linebacker. Poor girl, she wasn’t the first or the fifteenth to lose her heart to her boss. Nice suits. Power. Money. Ash guessed there was a certain quiet charisma to his brother, but if Megan had fallen for that, she also would have noticed his steadfast loyalty to things he loved—like his wife. “Why don’t you order in Chinese?” He pulled out his wallet and plunked a few twenties on the desk. “Whatever Pete likes. I’ll take the General Tso’s and a spring roll. Don’t forget to make sure they include hot mustard. Order something for yourself, too.”

Megan tucked the money in her pocket and said, “He’s glad you’re back. So am I.” She blushed and added, “You’re good for him.”

“Thanks.” She was doomed for a big fall. Did Pete suspect or was he so caught up in his own agony with Caroline he hadn’t noticed? He moved toward his brother’s office and knocked. “Pete?”

“In here.”

When Ash entered the executive office, he noticed two things: Megan had not underestimated Pete’s condition, and from the signs of the seriously depleted bottle of scotch on the desk, his brother was in for a major hangover. He eyed the half-empty glass near Pete’s right hand. Or maybe he was on the tail end of his drunk and the hangover would kick in later. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t think she loves me anymore.”

The words fell out part moan, part misery, but their message bounced off the walls: The man was in pain, deep, visceral, all-encompassing. And the pain had to do with a woman. No surprise there. Wasn’t that kind of pain always about a woman? Ash sank in the chair opposite Pete’s desk and eyed his brother’s stubbled jaw, half-buttoned shirt, bloodshot eyes. “You look like shit.”

Pete drove both hands through his hair, making the ends stick up. Jack Nicholson in
The Shining
had nothing on him. “I asked her to go away for a few days, anywhere she wanted. Palm Springs. Chicago. New York City.” The bloodshot eyes held his, watered. “Do you know what she said?”

The key was to remain calm and let Pete reason through it like it was a business deal. If the man could buy and sell chunks of Philly real estate, he could sure as hell see what his wife wanted, which wasn’t a trip. “What did she say?”

“That trips and jewelry weren’t going to fix things.” He traced the edges of the four-leaf-clover paperweight. “I bought her a bracelet. Tiffany’s. Rubies and diamonds.” He shook his head. “She didn’t want it. All she could talk about was that damn graduate school and how I was stifling her.”

“Pete.” Maybe his brother really didn’t get it. “Caroline doesn’t want ‘things.’ She needs the freedom to have her own success, not one you’ve created for her.”

“Do you think I should dye my hair?”

Where had that come from?
“Absolutely not.”

Pete pointed to Ash’s head. “Maybe a few reddish highlights, like yours. Or should I grow it longer?” He ran a hand along the back of his neck. “Caroline always liked your hair. What do you think?”

“No.” Women could make a guy second-guess breathing. Once they were in your head, you were doomed. He could look at Pete’s situation and see a clear way out of it, but his own issues with Arianna? That was another story. “Don’t go mid-life crisis on me. You don’t need a new haircut, or a new wardrobe.”

“What if I joined the gym?” Pete stood and patted the small paunch above his belt. “The Club has a personal trainer that specializes in Pilates and body sculpting.”

“No.” Ash was going to have to spell it out. “Let her take the grad class. No driver, no bodyguard.”

Pete smacked his hands flat on the desk, eyes wild, jaw tight. “I don’t think I can do that.”

Ash’s next words turned his brother’s color to paste. “You don’t have a choice.”

***

How many times had he dreamed her beside him, close enough to smell the lilac scent she loved. Close enough to let her voice roll over him, creating all kinds of crazy longings. She was damn sure close enough for him to lean forward and touch her. How many times had he dreamed
that?

He hazarded a glance at her as she studied the photography hanging above the fireplace in his condo. It was a black-and-white shot of a country road somewhere between Wichita and Albuquerque. Brush and dust on either side amidst outcroppings of rock with a horizon that started and ended in pink-streaked blue. Arianna was like that road—mysterious, compelling, and layered in a caution that, if ignored, would toss you into an abyss from which you would not recover. He’d take it slow because he couldn’t risk her disappearing from his life before he had a chance to show her how much they belonged together. They hadn’t been wrong about each other before, and they weren’t wrong now. She was scared. Well, so was he, even if he hated to admit it.

What if she refused to open up about her past? Could he really pretend he didn’t know she’d had another life, one that included a miscarriage and an estranged family? No matter how hard they tried to deny their past, it was always there, looking them in the eye, shaping the decisions they chose to make or not make. And driving a fancy car or traveling to the Caribbean was not going to change a childhood. Or lack of one. It had taken losing Arianna and going on the road with nothing but two saddlebags and a camera to learn what people were really about. It had been an opportunity to learn about himself as well, much of which he hadn’t liked. How long could you blame dead parents for your behavior and self-serving attitude? He didn’t look at life as a right anymore, but a privilege, like the people he met while traveling: hardworking, good people who believed in integrity and family. And tonight, after dinner, he planned to show Arianna what he’d been doing these past two years. He would not, however, tell her about the trips he’d taken to her hometown.

She turned away from the photograph of the open road and made her way to the island in the kitchen where Ash was slicing a handful of
portobello and shiitake mushrooms. “When did you start cooking? Last I knew you were stuck on Reheat and High.”

He smiled and shrugged. “It was a fluke. My bike broke down in some little town along the Indiana-Illinois border and I had to wait ten days for parts to arrive. The mechanic’s wife was this little Italian lady who believed olive oil and garlic could fix everything: squeaky doors, faucets,
broken hearts. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do, so I started showing up in the morning for coffee and cannoli. Next thing I know I’m tilling her garden and planting Swiss chard.” He grabbed an onion and peeled the skin. “And then she’s teaching me to make marinara sauce and a balsamic vinaigrette.” He chopped the onion and tossed it into a pan. “I stayed an extra week to learn how to make homemade pasta.”

He didn’t miss the smile she tried to hide. Probably picturing him with dough caked on his fingers and flour on the dark T-shirts he favored. He’d been a mess all right, but there’d been
a certain calmness to the whole process that prompted him to search out the kitchens of the friends he made along the way. Fajitas, pizza, egg rolls, stromboli. Homemade cuisine with a touch of local flavor. “If you peek on the deck, you’ll see the garden I’ve started. Basil, parsley, rosemary, oregano.”

“I’m impressed.”

He sliced away at a red pepper. “I wanted corn, but that requires a little re-thinking my living situation.”

She laughed, an actual, honest-to-god laugh, accompanied by a real smile. “Maybe you can ask your brother if you can borrow a hunk of that prime real estate for a few ears of corn.”

“Hey, great idea. Community garden.” He glanced her way and got lost in those blue eyes. “Can you picture it? I’ll bet most of the tenants here think lettuce grows in the organic section of the supermarket.”

“Doesn’t it?”

He laughed. “Sure. Right next to the asparagus.”

She slid onto one of the bar stools and poured a glass of wine. “I’m still stuck on the Reheat and Takeout button, unless Quinn and Eve invite me over.”

“Is she a good cook?”

“Actually, Quinn’s the cook in the house.”

“No kidding?” The guy could cook, loved his wife, kid, and his job… If Ash let his emotions go, he could really despise the man. Quinn Burnes led a life of calm contentment while the rest of the men in the world struggled with lost love, broken hearts, and misunderstood psyches. Damn the man. On second thought, maybe Ash could take a lesson or two from him…Who was he kidding? He’d rather swear vows of celibacy and silence than listen to the wonderful world of Quinn Burnes. “Is there anything he can’t do?”

Her gaze narrowed on him like it used to when she saw through what he was saying to the real question. He hadn’t much appreciated her ability to read him then and he didn’t like it now. “There’s no need to be jealous of Quinn.”

“Trust me, I’m not.” Jealous? Because the man had tossed aside his old world of wanton excess and found a woman and a life that mattered? Because said woman obviously cherished him? And wanted to be with him, build a family even? Ash hacked at the onion with a bit more force than he intended. “I’m not—” chop, chop, chop “—jealous.”