Xquisite (2 page)

It had nothing to do with the man himself, the man who was now politely pulling out her chair, half a dozen women nearby falling over themselves to catch a glimpse of him.

Chelsea sighed and took her seat. Fine—she could sit here for five minutes. It wouldn’t hurt to collect herself before she started networking. Over there was an art critic for the LA Times, and there was one of the editors from
ArtScene
. Chelsea was pretty sure the woman in the red suit was a wealthy collector from Dallas, who had expressed interest in an artist Chelsea had arranged a show for next month.

She would drink her champagne and have a bite to eat and then she would say a polite, but firm, farewell to Ricardo de Santos. If he really was an authenticator—someone whose job it was to validate the providence of a work before it changed hands—he probably wasn’t all that interested in her, either. The authenticators she’d known were rarely connoisseurs; they tended to be more interested in the technical aspects of the work: the materials used, the conditions in which it was produced, evidence of age and exposure and possible tampering. Scholars and technical experts, in other words, though the man sitting across from her hardly fit the picture.

A waiter appeared out of nowhere and set down champagne and a platter of appetizers, no doubt sent by Meredith. Chelsea seized a glass and sipped at the
champagne. While Ricardo served her one of the glistening tarts, she took advantage of the distraction to take a closer look at him. There was no denying his attractiveness. He was easily two or three inches taller than her, even though she was close to six feet tall in her boots, an advantage she often pressed in public. He was dressed for the unseasonable weather in a tropical wool jacket, and his pale wheat-colored shirt and oxblood tie were perfectly pressed and knotted. A monogrammed cuff peeked out from his sleeve, and his shoes looked expensive. Yet despite his fine clothes, Ricardo didn’t look fussy or dandified; he was clearly comfortable in luxury.

His hair was as thick as his eyebrows, worn short. Almost a brush cut, she noted, uncomfortably aware of her fingers twitching at the thought of touching the glossy strands. His jaw was pronounced, his cheekbones sculpted, his nose proud and almost Roman. And those eyes…those eyes. How many women had lost themselves in their opaque, sensual depths? Well, Chelsea wasn’t about to be one of them.

As soon as she could politely excuse herself, in fact, Chelsea was going to visit the ladies’ room, where she would text Benedict. No, Caleb. Caleb was the more indulgent of the two, the more finely attuned to her needs. Both men enjoyed pleasing her, but Caleb was constantly asking her what she wanted him to do next, how he should touch her. And he was good about leaving without making a fuss—occasionally Benedict pressed her to stay over or fell asleep in her bed. And that was definitely not on the list of things that would make her feel better tonight.

Not that she felt…
bad
, exactly. Only unsettled. Deeply, deeply unsettled.

“I’m afraid I’ve not heard of your gallery, Chelsea,” Ricardo said. He cut a bit of his tart and lifted it to his lips, holding his cutlery in the European fashion, and as he chewed, his eyes never left hers.

Chelsea shrugged. “I’m not surprised. I’m still building my roster. I specialize in Neo-Expressionist works, and I’ve begun to represent some figurative pieces as well, but I really want to keep my scope narrow.”

“Ryder,” Ricardo said thoughtfully. “I am an admirer of a great Neo-Expressionist painter by that name who was active in the seventies and eighties. Marcus Ryder—undoubtedly you are familiar with his work?”

Chelsea went still, paralyzed by the name Ricardo had uttered. Memories, a torrent of them, threatened to spill over in the complex torrent of grief and love and longing that still accompanied thoughts of her father, even now, twenty-three years after his death.

But hadn’t she dedicated her entire life to ensuring that her father’s work wasn’t forgotten? Shouldn’t she be grateful that this stranger held him in high esteem? She managed to keep her features neutral and though it took great effort, she forced an answer.

“Not only am I familiar with his work—I own four of his paintings. I’m his daughter, actually.”

“His daughter?” Ricardo was clearly surprised. “But he died so early in his career—I didn’t know that he had a family.”

“Yes…” Chelsea looked down at the table, unsure if she would be able to keep her composure if she maintained eye contact. “My father was an intensely private
man, and after his death, my mother went into seclusion.” Well, that was one way of putting it, anyway. “She never spoke to reporters.”

“Ah. I see.” The way he said it, it was clear that Ricardo didn’t see, not really. And Chelsea couldn’t blame him. While her father’s reputation had grown after his death, as his work became scarcer and more valuable, few details had surfaced in the press about his private life before the car accident that took his life.

The six years before he died was the source of Chelsea’s best memories. Their little family—just her and her parents, living in the little bungalow near Hollenbeck Park with its garage converted into her father’s studio—had been happy. Her mother had been a different person then, before the ravages of grief, drugs, and alcohol.

The problem was that if Chelsea spoke openly about her childhood, the obvious next questions would be about her life after Marcus’s death. And that was not a subject she ever talked about in public. She was determined to promote her father’s work on its merit alone, and if that closed certain doors to her, so be it.

“You say you own four of his paintings?” Ricardo said. At least the man had the tact not to press her on a subject she clearly didn’t want to discuss. “May I ask—when were they done?”

“In the mid-eighties,” Chelsea said, relaxing slightly. “The year I was born, actually. 1986. They’re a series of four images of Sunset Boulevard, at different times of day, in different seasons.”

“The Sunset Lights series?”

“You know it?” Chelsea’s heart beat faster—she couldn’t help it. The small paintings were not considered among his most important works; her mother had only kept the first four out of a hazy nostalgia for Chelsea’s infancy. But Chelsea would have loved them no matter what, with their broad swaths of color, the humble buildings and shops rendered in bold brushstrokes.

“I do know it. I tend to think they are unfairly overlooked. Your father did some very innovative work with urban landscapes.” His gaze grew even more opaque as some dark emotion played around his eyes. “It is a shame that more people are not able to see those paintings in person. True talent—the ability to create something transcendent from humble materials—it is a kind of genius.”

Suddenly, it seemed as though Ricardo was talking about more than just art. But they were strangers—and he was neither an artist himself nor a historian or even a collector. As an authenticator, he examined works at the lowest level of detail, looking for clues in the paint, the materials, even the framing. There was precision in the work, but no passion.

So why did his eyes seem to smolder when he talked about her father’s art? Why did her own pulse quicken when he touched her hand lightly, to emphasize his point about talent? Why was she so fascinated by the man himself when she ought to be focusing only on his potential as a professional connection?

She pushed her glass away and sat up straighter in the chair, clearing her throat. “You say you’ve seen my father’s work,” she said. “So little of it is in circulation.”

Ricardo nodded sadly. “I’ve seen early catalogs, of course, but so much of it was lost to poor record keeping and unfortunate deals after his death. I’m afraid the world may never see it assembled.”

“Yes, they will,” Chelsea said with sudden conviction. She didn’t add that she was staking her whole future on that goal. “I hope to buy back as much of his work as I can. The large pieces, of course, are…”

“Out of reach,” Ricardo said gently. Somehow, the kindness in his voice nearly broke her; it was far more dangerous than his physical allure. She bit her lip, hard, as he went on. “I understand that
Sidewalk Hero
was recently valued at nearly three million dollars. We must be glad that such pieces are being well cared for by collectors who understand their importance.”

Chelsea bridled at his use of the word “we”: it wasn’t
his
father’s heart and soul, stored in the private home of a drug financier in Brazil or an auto tycoon in Germany. How dare he pretend to understand how it felt?

“Yes, well,” she snapped. “I’ll just have to save my pennies until I can afford a sketch or two. Maybe I can look into layaway.”

Ricardo regarded her for a long moment, his fingers idly twisting the stem of his champagne glass on the table. “Forgive me,” he finally said. “I was insensitive. Please. Allow me to take you to dinner, to make amends.”

“
No
.” Chelsea didn’t mean to be quite so vehement, but she wasn’t going anywhere with this man who both knew too much about her father and found it far too easy to get under her skin.

“If not tonight, then whenever it is convenient for you. I’ll be in town for some time on my current project. Perhaps you could introduce me to your favorite restaurant…as my guest, of course.”

Was he being deliberately obtuse? She’d given him the sort of “no” that anyone but an idiot would understand to be final. And something told her that, whatever else he was, Ricardo de Santos was not stupid. “I’m afraid I’m not interested.”

“You’re here with someone.” Not a question.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” She considered adding that there were several men in her life but decided that might make the challenge more irresistible to him. “And I’m extremely busy with work.”

“I see.” Ricardo pushed back his chair and got up gracefully, buttoning his jacket, then extending his hand to help her up. “Please forgive me, I’ve taken too much of your time.”

With her hand enclosed in his again, Chelsea felt her conviction wavering. His touch was entirely too easy to melt into, especially when he spoke and she felt the vibrations of that deep, sonorous voice through his skin…and why had he given up so easily, anyway? As she reluctantly let go, she decided that she had misinterpreted his dinner invitation. He wasn’t interested in her romantically, he was only being polite. Looking, perhaps, for a professional connection that might be of use later. Maybe she had impressed him with her ambition and her famous father, and he believed she might make her gallery a success.

He reached inside his coat and withdrew a silver card case. When he handed her his card, she barely glanced at it, her face aflame with embarrassment as she
tucked it into her bag. His interest was not personal. And now she was making this even more awkward.

She reached into the outer compartment of her bag where she kept her own cards in easy reach for occasions like this, where every guest might lead to potential business. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said coolly. “Good luck with your…project.”

“Indeed. Although I believe that a man makes his own luck. But I suppose that’s beside the point tonight.” He gave her a slight bow. “I wish you every success.”

Chelsea turned and hurried back out into the crowd. She ignored the people who called out greetings from across the room. She’d simply write tonight off—she could apologize to Meredith tomorrow, claiming illness.

She ducked into the ladies’ room near the front of the gallery and gratefully locked herself in a stall, finally alone and out of sight. She dug her phone from the bottom of her purse and dashed off a quick text to Caleb.

Up? Care for a visit?

He buzzed back almost instantly.

I can be at my place in fifteen minutes. You know where the key is if you get there first.

So he was cutting his own evening short to see her. Making an excuse to whoever he was with. A lie, in order to be with her instead. Chelsea felt a faint pang of guilt as she slipped her phone back in her purse. Well, she and Caleb were both adults, and she’d been very clear about commitments—or more specifically, her determination to steer clear of them.

As she slipped out into the night, welcoming the cool patter of misty rain against her cheek, she resolved to stop thinking about the feelings that Caleb might or might not have invested in her. It would be even better if she could find a way to stop thinking at all—at least, about anything but the slaking of physical need that generally came from the vigorous sessions in Caleb’s bed.

Tonight, however, she had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to stop the thoughts, even as she slid between Caleb’s sheets.

Even worse: she had a feeling the thoughts wouldn’t be of Caleb tonight. Oh no. It was going to be Ricardo’s dark eyes and strong hands and that deep, suggestive voice that she would think of as she drove harder and harder toward release.

In her twenty-nine years on earth, Chelsea had learned this: there were some things in life that were even more powerful than one’s own will.

CHAPTER TWO

Chelsea was back in her own bed when her alarm went off at six o’clock the next morning. She’d only been at Caleb’s house until eleven o’clock; the sex had been brisk and energetic, and she’d taken a quick shower at his place before she dressed. She could tell that he wanted to ask her when he could see her again.

But he thought better of it. She’d trained him well.

Still, she felt as groggy and out of sorts as if she’d stayed up all night and drunk a gallon of champagne instead of half a glass. After pulling on her running gear, Chelsea went out into the clear, strong light of a southern California summer morning and started her five-mile run.

Chelsea hadn’t begun her strict exercise regimen until a few years ago. Before then, she hadn’t needed to; the series of low-paying jobs she’d held, often two and three at a time, kept her fit to the point of exhaustion. Waitressing, bartending, bike messengering all kept her heart rate up. And before that…the sort of jobs she could get when she was underage and lacking ID, dodging the Department of Family Services, doing whatever it took to keep from being sent back home…those tended to keep her moving, too.