Beginning Again: Book 1 in the Second Chances series (Crimson Romance) (2 page)

It turned out to be one of her better decisions. Jamie quickly made himself indispensible. Liz enjoyed his company and learned to value his opinion on types of art with which she had less experience than he did. She appreciated his willingness to help her with whatever needed to be done, from lugging pedestals and display cabinets out of storage, to priming the walls and moving heavy ladders around. And, thanks to his computer skills, she didn’t have to struggle learning how to set up a website, a Facebook page, and a blog for the gallery — he did it for her.

When they’d finished refurbishing the gallery they started on the living space above. Liz had decided to move to avoid the traffic-choked commute across the Columbia River from Vancouver, Washington to Portland five days a week. When Jamie asked if she’d miss the big house she and Mason had lived in, she was surprised how quickly she said she wouldn’t. She’d never really been comfortable in the 10,000 square feet of conspicuous consumption and wretched excess they’d shared. Oh, she loved their his-and-hers bedroom suites and the groomed lawn that sloped down to a dock on the Columbia River where they kept a couple boats, but even those things she could do without. The only thing she thought she might miss was her huge walk-in closet. She either had to pare down her wardrobe or build more closets in the apartment.

She put the house in Vancouver on the market and, in two days, sold it for $100,000 more than her asking price, thanks to a bidding war between two couples. The money was nice, but with it came pressure to get her new quarters ready and either sell the bulk of the furniture or put it in storage so the new owners could take possession.

With Jamie’s help she got it done. Six weeks after she sold the house, she was living in Portland, in an apartment that reflected her taste alone. She’d brought some of her favorite pieces of furniture from the house in Vancouver, added a few new ones more to the scale of the apartment, and sprinkled the place with lots of rich colors — cobalt blue and deep gold pillows, red paisley-patterned throws, abstract paintings full of vivid splashes of yellow, green, and red — to replace the bland beige, blond, and cream palette she’d lived with for fifteen years because that’s what Mason preferred. Moving in felt like coming home in all the best ways.

The opening of The Fairchild Gallery was set for October to give her time to put her PR campaign in place and to look for artists she liked. She found a half-dozen painters including one who specialized in oil portraits and a watercolorist who did delicate landscapes. A black-and-white photographer, several high-end jewelry makers, and a potter completed her starting lineup. Making the rounds of wholesalers, she gathered the information she needed for her interior design consulting. By the end of August, the big stuff was settled. All she had to do now was wade through a sea of details and she would be ready to open her business.

But like the rest of her life that year, things didn’t go quite the way she’d planned.

Late one Friday afternoon, she was standing on a ladder checking the lightbulbs in the spots that had just been reinstalled. When she turned to climb down, she saw a man standing in the middle of the floor, his hands jammed into his jeans’ pockets, looking around.

“I’m sorry, the gallery isn’t open,” she said, moving down a couple rungs on the ladder. “As you can see … ”

“Yeah, I know you’re not open.” The man looked to be maybe four or five inches taller than she was. The worn jeans and faded UCLA sweatshirt he wore didn’t disguise his slim hips and seriously luscious shoulders. When she gazed up from those shoulders, she saw a face that put him in his late twenties, thirty at most, in spite of the mop of prematurely white curls that fell sweetly around his ears and neck, except for the one in the middle of his forehead, cut, she was sure, to do exactly that.

Other than the hair around it, there was nothing sweet about his face. Not one feature was weak or recessive. Not the Roman nose or the sharply chiseled cheekbones and certainly not the strong jawline covered in a salt-and-pepper stubble that made his testosterone level unambiguously evident. Pure black eyebrows and long, dark lashes called attention to deep-set gray eyes half hidden under languorous lids.

When he raked those eyes over her, boldly inspecting her from head to foot and back up again, she involuntarily shivered at the charge she felt. He must have felt it, too. As his eyes swept back up to her face, they changed from merely gray to storm-at-sea. He straightened his shoulders and raised his chin as if to make sure he was presenting himself from a good angle.

Dear Lord, he was attractive. Hell, attractive was too weak a word. He was a walking thesaurus of adjectives for “magnetic.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d paid such careful attention to a man. And she’d never before felt the jolt of electricity she experienced when their eyes met. Not only was she not offended by his frank appraisal of her, but she wished she’d worn something more flattering than black leggings and an oversized white shirt. When had she last thought about something like that? That was easy — never.

He stood looking at her, saying nothing.

She shook off her wandering lust. “If you knew the gallery was closed, why … ”

“I always look at galleries when they’re closed. Gives me a better feel for what they’re about.”

“But this one isn’t just closed today.” She waved at the empty walls. “I’m not even open for business yet.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re Liz Fairchild. You’re new to the gallery business and you’re going to open on First Thursday in October.” His eyes swept over her again and the jolt of whatever-it-was reoccurred. “You really shouldn’t wear black and white. You should wear intense colors. Emerald green. Cobalt blue. Something like that.”

“How nice that you not only know who I am and what I should wear but what my business plans are.” Was it her attraction to him or his arrogance that brought out that annoyed tone in her voice? “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Collins.”

“Is that Mr. Something-Collins or Mr. Collins-Something?”

“Just Collins.”

“And let me make a wild guess — you’re an artist.”

He seemed amused at her comment. “Yeah, I am.”

“Well, Just Collins, if you’re here to leave your portfolio I’d be happy to take a look at it, but I’m not sure … ” She stepped off the ladder and regretted it. While on the ladder she was taller than he was, more in control, not so close to whatever charged field the man had around him.

“I don’t leave my portfolio until I’m sure I’m in the right place for my work.”

“And what would your work be?”

“I’m a sculptor. Metal sculptor.” The amused look was still there.

“Sounds like what you do wouldn’t work in this small space.”

“I’m not looking for a place for my larger pieces. They’re usually commissioned anyway, for public places or for some corporate hack who wants a big shiny thing in the lobby of his office. I’m looking for a gallery for my smaller pieces.”

“I’m not hearing garden art here, am I?”

He snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“As I started to say, you’re welcome to leave your portfolio, but I’m not really looking for another three-dimensional artist right now. I’ll give you my card.” She started toward the back of the gallery to get a business card.

Suddenly he was standing next to her, reaching for her, putting his hand on her arm to detain her. She felt warmth through the sleeve of her cotton shirt and looked down, mesmerized by what she saw.

His hand could have been Michelangelo’s model for the Sistine Chapel’s Adam, reaching to God, or David’s marble hand holding a slingshot. It was big and heavily veined, with long, slender fingers tipped by well-cared for nails and cuticles, not what she’d expect on the hands of a working sculptor. She wanted to take his hand, turn it over, feel the calluses she was sure were there, trace the lines in his palm before … before what? Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on something other than the sudden thought of having that hand and its partner someplace — anyplace — on her body where somehow she knew they would know exactly what to do.

She sucked in a breath, not sure what to do next. This never happened to her. Never. She wasn’t a fluffy-headed girl. She was a grown woman who …

“Obviously, you’ve never seen my work.” He took her hand in his. “I’ll take you out to Clackamas on Saturday. The piece I did for the transit center there will be dedicated then.”

She shook her hand loose before he could notice it was trembling. “I’m not sure where we’re going with this conversation, but I think maybe you need to — ”

“Have dinner with you tonight.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a little early, I know. But the gallery isn’t open so you can leave. Let’s go have a drink and something to eat. We can talk about my work and your gallery. And decide what time I can pick you up to take you out to Clackamas.”

Not normally rendered speechless by anyone, Liz was at a loss for how to respond to this maddening yet somehow maddeningly attractive man. “Whether the gallery is open or not isn’t the point. I rarely … no, let me amend that … I never go to dinner with someone I don’t know.”

A slow, very confident, smile made its way across his face. “But you’ll make an exception for me, won’t you?”

“Who do you think you are and why do you think I’ll … ?”

“I told you already. My name’s Collins. I could be your new sculptor and I want to take you out for dinner so we can get to know each other. So, ready to go?” He took her hand again and brought it to his mouth, touching the tip of her index finger with his lips.

All of her senses were focused on the end of her finger as he nipped at it. When his mouth released her finger, he continued holding her hand. Those gray eyes, stormy with something she was afraid to name, looked deep into hers. But she knew he wasn’t searching for an answer. He already knew the answer. He was looking to see if she was ready to admit she knew, too.

She took a breath, held it for a few seconds, and then let it out. “Give me five minutes to lock up,” she said. “We can walk to the café down the block.”

“I have my car. There’s an Italian restaurant I like over on the east side. They have an excellent wine list. Do you like red or white wine?”

“Does it matter? If the decision about what we’re drinking goes anything like the conversation we’ve had so far, you’ll make up my mind for me.”

His grin was smug, sexy, and amused, all at once. “You catch on quick. I like that in a woman.”

• • •

Over drinks, she looked at his portfolio and saw just how gifted an artist he was. In spite of not immediately recognizing his name, she realized she’d seen his work, in several downtown office buildings and at an outdoor sculpture park. Any sane gallery owner would jump at the chance to represent him. So, being quite sane, at least up until now, she agreed he was her new sculptor.

She also learned that he’d been a partner in a Los Angeles law firm where he’d made a lot of money, but burned out from too many hundred-hour workweeks and too little time to do the art he really loved. Also, his hi-rise condo had a spectacular view, but no space for doing sculpture.

He’d moved to the northeastern part of Oregon, in the Wallowa Mountains, eighteen months ago so he’d have the time and space to create his art. His portfolio included images of his small, rustic cabin and the large, hi-tech studio he shared with another sculptor. He told Liz he only came to Portland three or four times a year, a fact that for some reason disappointed her.

In spite of her best efforts, however, she didn’t learn the rest of his name. All he would tell her was that “Collins” was part of his birth name and the rest didn’t matter.

By the time they’d finished dinner, dessert, and the bottle of a Brunello he’d selected, it was twilight. He paid with a platinum credit card, which, along with the late-model Porsche he drove, bolstered the story he’d told about being successful. Before he took her home, he arranged to pick her up at three on Saturday afternoon to accompany him to the dedication of his sculpture.

She couldn’t remember anyone who’d bulldozed, manipulated, attracted, repelled, and confused her as much as Collins-with-no-other-name did. He was everything she hated in a man. Hell, in anyone.

So why she was looking forward to seeing him again?

She wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d been told she was “a tough old broad” who would give him a hard time and tolerate no nonsense. Okay, that last part was right. But old broad she wasn’t. At most she was a couple years older than he was. And “broad” connoted a rode-hard-and-put-away-wet look that didn’t come close to describing Liz Fairchild. She was all lean loveliness, grace, and long legs. Legs he wouldn’t mind having wrapped around him. When they were both naked.

In those black leggings she looked like a dancer, a white Judith Jamison. Sexy, spirited, beautiful. Or maybe a taller Audrey Hepburn. Actually, her attitude was more like the other Hepburn’s. With a slight change in accent she could pass for Katharine.

The surge of desire that had gone through him when he looked at her felt like the kick of a downed power line. It had been a long time since any woman had hit him that hard. That reaction was not helpful. He was supposed to be striking up this acquaintance to get information, not get her into bed.

Not that she was the usual type of woman who attracted him. Of course, his recent girlfriends in L.A. included a blond killer-shark lawyer and a purple-haired wannabe movie star who waited tables. Okay, maybe he didn’t have a type. But if he did, he wouldn’t have guessed it would be a tall, sexy, stubborn art gallery owner.

It was obvious Liz felt the same jolt when they met. The way she reacted when they’d locked eyes that first time was why she’d agreed to have dinner with him. He was quite sure she didn’t go out with someone just because he asked.

Obviously she was damn smart. Which complicated what he was supposed to do. What he had to get out of doing because, after meeting her, after that jolt of attraction, he had other ideas about what he wanted from her.