I took in a cleansing breath. “Items get damaged during shipping all the time.”
“No.” Her eyes were black like cooled 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, her gaze clashing with mine. “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.”
“He’s going to change my vision. He’ll twist and bastardize this sculpture until it’s something completely different.” 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 began. 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. He 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 Luke 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’d envisioned him as the Hollywood villain, and expected him to embody his role.
The man playing Luke Rafferty was horribly miscast. This one was tall and lean. His muscle-clad form, wavy dark hair, and strong jaw said he should be the hero. A faint, curious smile twisted on his lips.
“Ms. Petrov?” 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. I noted 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.
It might have been a first.
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.
Rafferty’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, and was aided by years of ballet my mother had forced me into while growing up in Volograd. Today, I would be unflappable in the face of this attractive man who might want to destroy the only thing I had left.
He appeared unexpectedly relaxed and peaceful. His eyes were warm and friendly. Was it possible he simply wanted to own my artwork? Was it mutual artistic respect?
“Garcia Gallery has concerns the piece was damaged in shipping,” I said, keeping my tone flat and even. “I came to make sure my art remains as I intend it.”
A muscle along his jawline twitched. “Remains?”
“Yes. Any repairs made to my sculpture shouldn’t change it.”
His eyes filled with displeasure, 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 now hoped the sculpture was fractured into a million pieces. My breath halted painfully in my chest. What reason would he need it in his workroom, unless . . . “You’re going to display my piece in your studio?”