For a moment, reality slowed. Dust motes ceased moving, and Maritza Torres, owner of the only gallery in LA who was willing to showcase my work, stopped breathing. I stared at the pine-colored wood decorated with darken knots and feed marks from the wood planer.
“What have you done?” Her voice snapped us back to real time. Her arms hung at her sides, her shoulders sagging under the enormity of the situation.
I took a cleansing breath. “Items get damaged during shipping all the time.”
“No.” Her dark eyes burned like lava. “Not from my gallery, they don’t. You’ve got some fucking nerve.” She straightened her posture, abruptly looking much taller than she had a moment ago, meeting my gaze. “I’m the only one who took a chance on you, and you’re going to burn me like this?”
I wanted to shrink inside myself, but didn’t regret what I’d done. I was full of so much regret already, there wasn’t room for more.
She blinked and thoughts churned in her eyes. “You’ll go with the freight company and make sure the piece is still intact when it’s unpackaged. If not, you’ll fix it.”
I despised how small my voice sounded. “He’s going to destroy it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe he will.” She spat the words out like bullets. “But if you don’t do this, I will destroy you. Understood?”
-2-
I rode in the back of the truck with two men who didn’t speak English or didn’t care to. I clutched the side of the box, and my stomach twisted with each bump we took. Every soft thump from inside the crate was the sound of a wounded animal desperate for release.
It was stifling in the truck interior. When we finally stopped and the door rolled open, cool, salty ocean air poured in. The relief died as soon as it begun. We faced a garage, its mouth wide open to swallow me and my creation. The men in the back of the truck moved around like I was in their way, unhooking straps and retrieving the dolly.
A man stood on the driveway, his back to the open two-car garage, and was mid-sentence with the driver when he noticed me. His parted lips froze, and the expression told me in an instant who he was.
I’d assumed Alec Rafferty would be a short stump of a man with back problems, like his enormous ego was crushing and crippling him. He’d have fat fingers, small eyes, and perhaps a nose that was too big and beak-like. I painted him as the Hollywood villain, and expected him to embody that role.
The man playing Alec Rafferty was horribly miscast. This one was tall and lean. His muscle-clad form, wavy, dark hair, and sculpted cheekbones said he should be the hero. A faint, curious smile twisted on his lips.
“Ms. Carnes?” His deep voice masked most of his disbelief.
I stepped to the ledge of the truck and out of the shadows. “Yes, Mr. Rafferty.”
He extended his hand up, offering to help me down. “The artist herself delivers the piece? That’s a pleasant surprise.”
His hand was large with long, artistic fingers. I couldn’t stop my gaze from following the line of his arm, or noticing the way his muscle curved on his bicep and disappeared beneath his t-shirt. My reaction to him was a zap of ten thousand volts. It had been a long time since I’d looked at a man in that way.
I ignored his offered hand, not caring if I was rude, and climbed out of the truck, being careful not to get anything on my clothes. I’d worn a skirt and gauzy top that were comfortable, but
still elegant enough in case I met clients while I was at Maritza’s gallery.
Alec’s eyes were blue azure and framed with thick, black lashes. I felt his gaze on me as I planted my feet on his driveway and righted myself. I tried to move as gracefully as possible, like it took no effort. I would be unflappable in the face of this attractive man who might want to destroy the only thing I had left.
Although, he appeared relaxed and peaceful. His eyes were warm and seemed friendly. Was it possible he simply wanted to own my artwork? Was it mutual artistic respect?
“M Gallery has concerns the piece was damaged in shipping,” I said, keeping my tone flat and even. “I’ve come to make sure my sculpture is as I intend it.”
A muscle along his jawline twitched, indicating he’d understood my subtext. “My sculpture,” he corrected. “Please.” He motioned to the open door at the back of the garage. “They’re setting it up in my studio.”
The weight to his words made my knees threaten to buckle. I hoped now the sculpture was fractured into a million pieces. My breath halted painfully in my chest. “You’re going to display my piece in your studio?”
In the scariest movies, the villain doesn’t usually look like a villain. When the plot twists and you discover the seemingly benign character you trusted is the one actually pulling the strings, the floor drops out beneath you.
As an evil smile quirked on Alec Rafferty’s lips, I went weightless, hitting the drop. There was the villain I anticipated. Somehow I forced my feet to move, although it was chaos in my mind. What was my next course of action? If the sculpture was broken and I refused to fix it, I’d drive the final nail into my career’s coffin. Yet, if my piece had survived the fall, what then? How could I leave it in this parasite’s hands?
His studio was breathtaking, and made my dislike for him intensify. My feet moved silently on the floor, where different types of hardwood were laid, although the warm tones matched. The floor was a work of art. How fitting. Rafferty literally stood on someone else’s beautiful creation as he built his own “art.”
The contemporary room was the back corner of the house. Custom glass double doors let out onto a stone patio, only the center of the doors was positioned at the edge, so they could swing outward and open the space on a ninety-degree angle. The entire corner was open now and the setting sun was visible through the break in the trees of the backyard. Overhead, there were frosted skylights, no doubt to keep direct sunlight from fading artwork or the stunning floor.
Rafferty didn’t have to, but he put a hand on my shoulder to shift me out of the way as the men brought in the crate. I closed my gawking, unbecoming mouth, and pretended his unnecessary touch hadn’t burned across my skin in a pleasurable way.