Bid Me Now (3 page)

Beautiful.

“So what did she
want
, Nick?” pressed Fitz with a chuckle.

Dammit, what
did
she want? Oh, yeah. “She’s an artist. Made an offer on the mill. Wants to open a gallery or something.”
 

He fell back to his thoughts. No way would he have picked her for an artist in that outfit. But what the hell did he know about artists? Zilch. If teasing her had gone down badly, catching her when she fell had sealed it. He’d been mean, he knew that. Toyed with her. But she’d riled him, and besides, she’d more than held her own without too much trouble. Jesus, she’d been mad. He’d half expected her to pick up that broken stiletto and stab him. But her temper aside, he’d enjoyed going a couple of rounds with Miri Jamieson. And she’d felt as good as she looked. Small and slender, with just the right amount of tantalizing curves to fill that outfit to perfection. A pity she’d fled like some skittish Cinderella. He glanced over at the shoes in the corner, picturing them on the end of her slim legs. Yeah, a real pity.
 

“So what did you tell her?”

Nick wrenched his thoughts back to Fitz’s question, suddenly conscious of the increased blood flow to his groin. It might have been a few weeks, but even so. “I told her no. It didn’t go down well. Anyway, what about the equipment?”

“As I said, we’ll bring up our own. You’re not listening. Something on your mind?” Fitz grinned knowingly.
 

Nick leaned forward and tried to ignore the equipment in his pants. “Sorry. Just thinking about sailing.”
 

 
Fitz gave him a “whatever” look. “Okey, dokey. Oh, by the way, I’ve found an Irish pub in town. You interested in going tonight? The lads are keen.”
 

“Not tonight, thanks. I’ll be at Charmford’s only boxing gym, then back to the hotel.” Besides, he needed to work off some pressure.
 

Maybe he’d call her. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d go sailing and forget about Ms. Business Attire.
 

 
“Righto, Boss,” Fitz was saying, pulling Nick’s attention back to the moment. “You ready to spend a couple of hours crawling around the ceiling?”

“I’ll see you up there. I just need a minute.”

Feck it.

• • •

“Will the Egg Beater be finished on time?”
 

As if Miri needed her roommate’s question. Not when she’d wasted her entire day brooding over her humiliation instead of working. She sighed and set down her enameling brush, which had sat idle in her hand for the past hour. Four months’ work on her twelve-foot sculpture was now down to a three-day deadline, and at least fifteen hours of enameling work lay ahead to complete the final section. “The way I’m going, it won’t be finished by Christmas.”
 

Bree tossed her rucksack on the floor and flopped down on the old sofa by the studio workbench. “You’ll finish. You always do. It looks great, by the way.”
 

Miri glanced automatically toward the gleaming metal sections spread across the studio floor, ready for assembly. Her most difficult work to date, and definitely her most satisfying. A series of long, sweeping concentric circles constructed in stainless steel and enameled copper lattice.
Sculpture Quarterly
had asked to feature one of her works in its next issue, so maybe this would be the one. In the last issue, the
Quarterly
’s editor had described her work as outstandingly original, thoughtful, and technically brilliant. He’d probably add off-the-wall when he saw this piece. Bree was right. It to look like a giant egg beater. But Marcus Carter had asked for something unconventional for display in his new medical center, and he’d certainly get it with this piece.

“Well, so long as Marcus likes it, that’s all that matters. Anyway, why are you home early? I thought you were doing a wedding rehearsal until six.”

Bree laid herself along the sofa and bit into a chocolate bar. “Finished early. Not one argument between the in-laws, and not a squeak out of the bridezilla. Can you effing believe it?”
 

“Not with you winding them up. I still can’t believe you do so much wedding photography. You being the woman who’s vowed never to marry and hates the whole ‘bride in a white dress’ thing.”

Bree chuckled and took another bite. “There’s nothing like a bridezilla challenge and grateful in-laws. By the way, I’ve ordered Chinese.”

Miri looked at her best friend sprawled on the sofa in her track pants and tee. “Rubenesque” was how Miri’s artist friends described Bree’s generous shape. Miri described it as straight out Anna Nicole voluptuous, riot of blonde curls included. Even in her usual dressed-down state, Bree turned men’s heads.
 

“Bree, you’re still coming to the unveiling on Tuesday? You know how I hate these things.”
 

Miri had tried explaining to Marcus that she didn’t want a fancy unveiling ceremony, but Marcus, being the culturally conscious type when it came to supporting the arts and keen to show the town that he had a Jamieson work, had insisted. Besides, the work was costing him enough, so she could hardly begrudge him his moment.

“Heck, yeah,” Bree drawled. “All those arty types and the Mayor. Does the Egg Beater have a real name yet?”
 

“Of course. The
Circle of Life
. Marcus wanted the spirals to symbolize that however much we change through our lives, our core values remain constant.”
 

Bree’s large bosom shook as she blew a raspberry. “Jeez, that’s deep. He wants to get into your pants anyway, so he’ll love it no matter what it’s called.”
 

“Pardon me, the doctor is very discerning. And forget the pants thing. He’s just friendly.”

“Friendly! Is that what’s it’s called? Dr. Friendly Pants keeps asking you out. Why don’t you oblige the poor guy?”
 

“He’s not my type. And he’s a client.” That sounded lame even to Miri.
 

“Aw, let’s face it, sweetie, you don’t have a type. When did you last go out or get laid? Why not Dr. Carter? He’ll give you a good physical.”
 

Miri put on her “that’s so disgusting” face as Bree pumped her hips suggestively. “You’re crude, Bree Matson.”
 

But crude or not, Bree was right. Miri didn’t go out much, and as for getting laid? Actually, never. But then, trips to the market, the gym, and Body Beautiful for pedicures and waxes didn’t exactly open a path to romance. Of course, she did go out for coffee, but that was just maintenance.
 

Maybe if she had a good “physical,” as Bree put it, she might have stopped her under-used sex hormones from going into hyper-drive in Nick Brannagh’s office. She’d drooled over every inch of him, and he’d known it.
 

But him aside, it was the loss of the mill that really hurt. Her dream was gone. It had taken every ounce of strength since the death of her parents two years ago to get this far. Now, two months past her twenty-fourth birthday, she was finally ready to invest some of her inheritance. Her two New York exhibitions had been so successful that she could hardly keep up with the lucrative commissions now rolling in, so the time was right to set up a fully equipped working studio.
 

From the day the mill went up for sale, she’d started planning. Where the studio would be situated. The exhibition space. The combined art supplies and book shop and small café. The smart website with an image of the mill displayed on the home page with links to information about upcoming exhibitions, an online shop, and art blog.
 

Looking around the converted sunroom at the back of her parents’ house, she wondered how much more art welding equipment, pots, paints, materials, and books could be crammed in without having to knock the walls down. As it was, the sunroom had been fully strengthened and fireproofed, and the roof raised. The only pretty feature left was the French doors that opened out to the terrace and cottage garden.
 

The front door chimed.

“That’ll be the takeout,” yelled Bree over her shoulder as she disappeared into the passage.

“Okay,” Miri yelled back, shuffling through to the adjoining kitchen to get things ready and turn on the coffee machine. Not doing anything could still work up an appetite.

Her parents had purchased the huge two-story Cape Cod house overlooking Charmford Harbor within weeks of the family’s arrival from the United Kingdom eight years ago. Apart from her studio, Miri’s favorite part of the house was the warm, welcoming kitchen, originally designed to flow through to the sunroom for year-round dining. She hadn’t changed a single feature in the kitchen, even though it needed some redecorating after eight years. The expansive wooden countertops, huge oak kitchen table, country-style cabinets, and large bay window with the faded chintz-covered window seat and cushions were so integral to the house, Miri couldn’t imagine it any other way.
 

Bree set out the packets of Chinese food and poured the wine while Miri found chopsticks and paper napkins.
 

They sat down to eat.

“I know you don’t want to talk about
it
, but I ran into Amber today, a maid-of-honor at one of last year’s horror weddings. Anyway, she now works at the Endeavour Hotel.”
 

Miri scowled down at her plate. “You’re right, I don’t want to talk about
it
.”
 

“Well,” Bree breezed on, “Nick Brannagh and his foreman or whatever they call those construction types are staying there. She said he’s gorgeous. Nick, that is, not the foreman.”

Miri looked up to find Bree’s eyes fixed on hers like a set of crosshairs. “What? What do you want me to say? I already told you he was youngish and quite good-looking.”
 

“‘Quite good-looking’! According to Amber, he’s one big sex-on-a-stick. No wonder you came home with a face like a beet! What’s he really like?”

“Just as I said.”

“Oh,
pleeease
tell me all about him. How old is he?”
 

 
Miri sighed and set her chopsticks down. “Perhaps thirty or thereabouts. Why do you want to know, anyway?”
 

“Because you’re hiding something. How tall?”

Miri’s mind flooded with the memory of his chest at eye level. “Tall? Actually, he’s very tall. Maybe six two or three. Very dark hair in one of those buzz cuts. Dark gray eyes. And he’s got the most gorgeous…” Miri stopped dead as Bree’s blue eyes rounded. “That’s all I can remember,” she mumbled, feeling her cheeks turn pink.
 

“Gorgeous what…?”

She was so screwed. “Nothing. You want more wine?”

“Marisa Jamieson, you wolfette. You were about to say
ass
, weren’t you? He’s got the most gorgeous ass!” Bree waved a chopstick in the air and hooted gleefully. “Oh, my, you know what this means? You’ve had a hottie attack! About effing time.”
 

True enough, the man had a perfect backside, but no way was she about to admit that little detail to her sex-mad roommate. “It means no such thing. Okay, he’s good-looking in a sexy-rough kind of way, but that’s all he’s got going. He’s a total pig. Actually, he caught me staring at it.”
 

“What, not his…?”

“
No!
His butt.”
 

Bree looked disappointed. “Oh, is that all? Hell, girl, that’s what they’re made for. What else?”
 

Miri sighed and leaned back in her chair, wondering if the adage “a problem shared is a problem halved” applied to a humiliation. “It was just so embarrassing. Then…”
 

Her roommate’s face shone with expectation. “Then what?”

Miri giggled despite the horrible memory. “My skirt fell open when I sat down, and he stared at my leg. Like, really stared. But that wasn’t the worst part. You know I broke a heel?”

“Uh-huh.”

Miri lowered her voice, feeling as if she were confiding some terrible but delicious secret. “As it broke, I tripped and fell into his arms. No, not quite true. He caught me.”

Bree mock-gasped and fanned her face with a hand. “You, in a man’s arms! Holy shit! Did he do you on his desk?”

“Of course
not
!” Miri got up and grabbed the bottle of wine, feeling the need for alcohol. She was hot herself and frankly, she didn’t need the memory of those arms set in motion again.
 

It came as a relief when the phone rang. Balancing the handset between cheek and shoulder, Miri poured her wine and mumbled a “hello” at the mouthpiece.
 

“Is this Miri Jamieson?”
 

Miri snapped to attention so fast the phone fell in the sink and Bree snorted a loud laugh. With a fierce shush at Bree, she picked up the handset and said calmly, “Yes, it is.”
 

“Nick Brannagh speaking.”

As if she needed the jerk to remind her.
 
She would know that deep, sexy voice anywhere. “Oh, it’s
you
.”

Apparently he didn’t notice her icy tone. “I’m calling to invite you to lunch tomorrow.”
 

Miri hovered a finger over the end-call button, thinking how good it would be to cut him off. Better still, wait until he was mid-sentence and then cut him off. “I have a full calendar…” she paused to throw an empty noodle carton at the giggling Bree, “tomorrow afternoon. So it’s not…”
 

“What about we meet for coffee instead, say, eleven-thirty?” he cut in smoothly. “You choose the place.”
 

Miri was furious, mostly with herself. She really, really didn’t want to see him again, but his rich resonant voice was heating every nook and cranny in her body, and her mind had lost most of its ability to focus. “Well, I guess the Round Bean Café in the town center would be okay.” She tried to organize her brain into a logical train of thought. “Exactly what is this about?” she blurted in a rush, realizing too late this should have been her first question.