Distracted (19 page)

Abruptly, and with a hail of car horns from irate cab
drivers, a long black limousine muscled its way up to the curb. The
driver, elegant in his tuxedo, stepped out and opened a back door
for her.

“Am I the first on your route?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. And I apologize for being tardy.”

Erin smiled shyly and, ducking her head, stepped into
the luxury sedan.

“Please excuse me,” she said turning toward the other
passengers. She gaped. There was only one other person in the
vehicle and it was Stephen Spence. Devastatingly handsome, still
tanned in the middle of winter, his teeth flashed white as he
charmingly grinned. He was more gorgeous than she remembered.

“Hello Erin.”

She forgot how to breathe. Bright, unshed tears
sparkled in her eyes. “Hello,” she murmured.

She stared ahead, her eyes focusing on the
ultra-suede seat across from her. She closed her mouth and breathed
deeply through her nose. The fight for composure left her
trembling.

She stole a quick glance. She'd never seen him
wearing anything fancier than a button-down Tommy Bahama shirt but
tonight he was wearing a black tuxedo made especially for the
event.

They rode in silence through the streets of
Washington for several minutes before the limo stopped and another
couple clambered into the car. Erin slid next to Spence, making
room for the couple -- an older, dashing man with a serene woman on
his arm. Seeing the empty seat across from the young couple, the
husband-and-wife team shifted sides.

“That’s better, the man said stretching his shoulders
with a sigh. He nodded at Spence and smiled at Erin. “Good evening.
I’m George Rockdale and this is my lovely wife, Jane.”

He extended his hand in greeting. Spence clasped it
warmly and introduced himself. Rockdale turned expectedly to Erin.
She stammered, and put her hand into his. “It’s nice to meet you.
I’m Erin Andersen. I’m with the publisher hosting this event.”

Mrs. Rockdale smiled graciously at Erin and nodded
towards Spence. “Do you know each other?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“No.”

They looked at each other. Erin blushed and
stammered. “What I mean is yes, but we haven’t seen each other in a
long time.”

Mrs. Rockdale nodded, noting Erin’s embarrassment.
She adroitly changed the subject. “Mr. Spence, what do you do?”

“Ma’am, I’m a lazy, good-for-nothin’ sailor. I spend
as much time on my boat as I can.” His soft, Southern accent
hypnotized Erin. She stared at his lips.

He glanced at her, smiling at her fascination with
his chin. He rubbed his hand across it, just in case he had missed
a stray fleck of shaving cream. That, also, seemed to fascinate
her.

He turned back to Mrs. Rockdale. “I also paint.”

“Houses?”

“What?”

“Do you paint houses, Mr. Spence?”

He laughed, his teeth sharp and white. Erin swallowed
hard and turned towards the car window. The downtown traffic was
light for a Friday. The federal workers had left early in the
afternoon, abandoning the city. Its marble monuments and stately
buildings were bright in the moon-lit night.

“Well, some folks say I’m an artist, ma’am. I paint
on canvas.”

“Would you have painted anything I know, Mr. Spence?”
Mrs. Rockdale leaned forward in interest.

“Maybe. After tonight, you probably will. You see,
this gallery opening is for me.”

“How fascinating. You hardly look like an artist. I
would have guessed you were a movie star, or a professional
wrestler. George, don’t you agree?”

Mr. Rockdale nodded admiringly.

Erin reeled. Had Patricia told her the art gala was
for Spence? No, she was sure of it. Patricia never mentioned Spence
or the book anymore.

“Now, all this flattery is beginning to embarrass me.
I’m sure Mrs. Andersen here has a much more exciting life, living
here in the city and working for a hot shot publisher.”

“Miss,” she corrected him. “I’m sorry to disappoint
you, but my life is very simple and would bore you.” She smiled
sweetly at the elderly couple before turning toward her window.

“Now, Miss Andersen, I doubt you’re a simple woman.
That dress tells me you’re not as boring as you claim.” Spence
smiled disarmingly.

“You are mistaken. I lead a quiet life.”

“A little librarian, eh?” Mr. Rockdale
interjected.

“Exactly,” Erin agreed.

"Mr. Spence, if you don't mind me asking sir, where
are your socks?" Mrs. Rockdale tilted her head and nodded towards
his feet.

Erin leaned over and looked. Trust Spence to break
the rules. He wore black leather deck shoes -- but no socks.

"Burned them this afternoon, ma'am," he drawled.

"Whatever for?" Erin couldn't prevent asking.

"Sailor's tradition on the equinox. We salute first
day of spring by burning our socks in a bonfire and knocking back a
few beers. We don't wear socks again for the rest of the year. That
is, until the winter solstice."

Mr. Rockdale chuckled. "It's true, my dear," he said
to his wife. "A couple of years ago a friend asked me to join his
crew for a yacht race. He called us 'rail meat' because our job was
to sit on the windward side of the boat to counteract the heeling.
First thing we did before getting onboard was toss our socks in the
bonfire. They would only get wet and uncomfortable anyway. I recall
there was a lot of beer after the race too. It's best not to
question a sailor's traditions."

The car slid to a stop outside the museum. Tuxedoed
ushers stepped up to the car and opened the door. Erin and Mrs.
Rockdale placed their fingers into gloved hands and slid out of the
car.

Spence appeared at her side and tucked her arm
through his. “We’ll see you inside. It sure was nice meeting you,
Mr. and Mrs. Rockdale.”

Instead of following the couple up the marble steps,
Spence guided Erin towards an adjoining sculpture garden. She
shivered against the frigid air.

“Cold?”

“Yes.”

She felt as if she were floating, rather than walking
down the steps. Her gown glittered in the dark. They paused in
front of a black sculpture, unable to tell what it was in the
dark.

“What do you think that is?”

“I already know. It’s a thumb,” she said.

“Is that right?” He cocked his head. “Well, I’ll be.
Do you think it was the artist’s?”

Erin turned to Spence. The breeze riffled his wavy,
hair, not quite as long as it had been last summer. He seemed
oblivious to the cold.

“Spence.”

“Erin.”

She groped for the right words.

“You never came back,” he finally said.

“You left me!” she flared.

“You left me. I just drove away.”

Erin lifted her chin, defiant.

“How’s Aidan?”

“How’s your book?” she countered.

“You first.”

She sighed. “Aidan’s gone. He’s at Columbia
University. He has a grant and a long-distance girlfriend. How’s
your book?”

“I broke the contract and paid back the advance, with
interest.”

She whirled, her hands outstretched. “Oh no! That’s
not what was supposed to happen. Patricia told me she had hired
someone who would help you!”

“She did. A former drill sergeant. Best drinking and
fishing buddy I’ve had in a long time. Didn’t mean he could drag a
book out of me. He finally gave up and he’s running a dive boat at
the marina. In fact, I think he’s seeing my mom.”

He turned to her and grinned. “It wasn’t the same,
Erin. He’s not as good a kisser as you are. Turns out he’s not as
good an editor, either.”

Erin hung her head. “Spence. This is my fault. I was
supposed to help you, but instead I was selfish. I should have
never taken you to the farm. If we had stayed at your house, we
would have worked this out. You trusted me and I let you down.”

“What are you talking about, Erin?”

“I’m saying I’m sorry I let my infatuation interfere.
I let my personal feelings come between me and my job, that I
distracted you from your book and now you’ve lost it.”

Her head drooped sadly.

Spence lifted her chin, sliding an arm around her
waist. “Erin, how can I convince you that I never wanted to write
the book? McDowell dangled a nice boat in front of my nose and I
jumped for it. That doesn’t mean I want everyone reading my private
thoughts. Painting is personal. It’s almost my religion, and I
don’t want to share it with the world until it’s finished.”

Erin bowed her head, her unshed tears glistening at
his confession.

“You’re the only one I wanted to share it with. The
only one I could.” He touched her blonde curls. “You’ve let your
hair grow.”

“Yes. I couldn’t get an appointment with Billy
Peachy,” she quipped, blinking quickly.

“Still got your sense of humor? You know what else
you have?”

“What?” she whispered.

He kissed her, softly at first. Then, feeling her
breasts heave against him, he deepened the pressure.

“Erin, you’re so beautiful tonight.” He kissed her
eyes, her cheeks, moving down to her throat. “Why did you leave
me?”

“I’m here now.”

He gazed into her eyes. Long, searching moments
later, he stepped back.

“Yes, you are. For how long?”

Wounded, she turned away. “It doesn’t matter.
Everything’s changed.”

“I haven’t.”

“But you don’t have your book.”

“I never wanted it. I had all I wanted.”

Erin’s breath caught in her throat and she tried to
speak. She heard someone on the sidewalk calling for Spence. “You
have to go. It’s your show.”

He took her hand and they walked up the steps to the
front of the museum. A worried-looking man, a curator at the
gallery, rushed Spence and grabbed his elbow. “Where have you been?
We’re starting without the guest of honor.”

Erin watched as Spence moved away. Bereft, she
glanced around. She saw Patricia watching her from across the room.
She glided across the floor towards her mentor.

“I see you found him.”

“Patricia, why didn’t you tell me this gallery
opening was his? Can you imagine how I feel?”

“Would you have come if I had?”

“Maybe. Probably.”

Patricia gave her a sidelong look.

“Okay, probably not. I’m falling apart. He still
takes my breath away.”

“Save it for the romance houses, honey. I’m not in
the market for fiction.”

“How can you say that? You know I love him.”

“Are you through babbling? Yes? Good. Honey, if you
love him then why did you leave him?”

“What? Are you insane? You fired me!”

“Jobs are a dime a dozen. Why did you listen to
me?”

Erin felt betrayed, doubling over from the gut wound.
“Patricia. How can you say that? You’re a sick old woman.”

“Maybe. Maybe you’re a sick young woman. What about
the Aidan baggage? Who divorces a perfectly rotten cheat and then
lets him live in her apartment? And then, instead of punishing him
forever, sleeps with him whenever she’s lonely?”

“Lots of women,” Erin said in defense.

“Sick women.”

Patricia pitied the grief she saw in Erin’s eyes.
“What’s stopping you now?”

Erin panicked. “What can I do?”

“What do you want to do?”

She grabbed a glass of champagne off of a passing
tray and downed it in two gulps. “Find him. Wish me luck.”

“You’re going to need more than luck tonight,
sweetie,” Patricia said, noting the beautiful and young women
crowded around the speaker’s podium.

Erin stepped away, needing space between herself and
the caustic, manipulative woman. She wandered through the crowd,
looking for Spence. She recognized many of the paintings from his
personal collection and his unfinished canvasses. He had kept busy
these past few months, she thought. She turned a corner and
stumbled, aghast. On both sides of the gallery were portraits of
her. Spence had finished his “pin up” series. Although each model
had different hair style and color, they all had the same face --
hers. Mortified, she looked wildly around to see if anyone
recognized her.

“Do you like them?”

Spence came up behind her and put his arms around her
waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder as he surveyed his
paintings.

“Spence! How could you do this to me? What is someone
realizes it’s me? Oh my God, my boobs aren’t that big!”

“You can’t imagine how popular they are. I’ve been
offered $60,000 for that one,” he said, pointing to the pin up of
her in her red dress, lying on the couch. “Remember how much fun we
had working on that one?”

There were a few she didn’t recognize. One featured
her from the back, bending over, an icy beer in her hand. In
another she wore cut-offs and a red-checked blouse, tied beneath
her breasts. She sat on a rock, a fishing pole in her hands. A
third featured her with a losing poker hand, naked except for a
pair of pink lacy panties. Playing cards shielded torpedo
breasts.

“I didn’t pose for those,” she said, pointing. “And I
never lost a poker game against you.”

“I painted those from memory.”

“Did you say $60,000? That’s crazy!”

“I’d like to think it’s because of the artist, but
the truth is, I’ve never had a better model. In fact, some critics
say this series could bring back the Pin Up movement.”

“Spence. You can’t show these to people. I’m
practically naked. What if someone sees them?”

“Someone has seen them. I’ve made the cover of ‘Time’
this week. Do you live under a rock?”

“I could sue you.”

“No need. You can have it all if you want.” He
squeezed her tight and kissed the back of her neck. “I’ve missed
you, Erin.”

Chapter Fifteen

“It took you long enough,” she grumbled when at last
he was at her side.

“I had to find the butter. Can’t eat biscuits without
butter. Or honey.” He slid the tray laden with carbohydrates and
coffee across the sheets and then crawled on all fours onto the
bed.