If I Were You (4 page)

Sometime later, I am enjoying a lingering walk through the
gallery, exploring the full Alvarez collection on display, when I spot a
display for Chris Merit, whose work I studied in college. He too had once been
a local, but I seem to remember him moving to Paris. Excitedly, I head toward
his work. His specialties are urban landscapes—-mostly of San Francisco, both
past and present-—and portraits of real subjects with such depth and soul they
steal my breath away. 

I join an elderly couple inside the small room, where they
debate over which of several landscapes to purchase. Unable to stop myself, I
join in. “I think you should take them all.”

The man scoffs. “Don’t go giving her ideas or you’ll both
put me in the poorhouse. She gets one for above the fireplace.”

“Stingy man,” the gray-haired woman says, shoving his arm playfully
and then eying me. “So tell me, honey.” She motions between two pictures.
“Which do you think is a better conversation piece, of these two?”

I study the two choices, both black-and-white, though Merit
often uses color. One is a downtown shot of San Francisco in the midst of
hurricane-like weather. The other is of the Golden Gate Bridge shrouded in
clouds, the skyline of the city peeking out from behind it.

“A tough choice,” I say thoughtfully. “Both have a bit of a
dark edgy feel to them, and both have the ‘wow’ factor.” I indicate the stormy
downtown scene. “I happen to know that one depicts the impact Hurricane Nora
had on the city back in 1997. To me, that makes for a conversation piece, and a
little bit of history to boot, right there in your living room.”

“You are so right, dear,” the woman says, her eyes lighting
up. “This is the one.” She casts her husband an expectant look. “It’s perfect.
I have to have it.”

“Then have it you shall,” her husband declares. 

I smile at the woman’s joy, but not without a bit of art
envy. I would love to be going home with the piece she will be tonight.

 “I understand you had a question for me,” a male voice
says, pulling my attention toward the display entryway where a man with neatly
trimmed blond hair stands. He is tall and confident, an air of ownership about
him. And his eyes-–they are the most unique silvery gray I’ve ever seen.

“I’m Mark Compton,” he says, “the gallery manager. And it
looks like I owe you more than an answer to whatever your question is. It
appears I need to thank you for assisting my customers.” He glances at the
couple. “I take it you’ve made a selection?”

“Indeed we have,” the husband says, clearly pleased to have
his wife make a decision. “We’d like to take it home with us tonight if possible.”

“Excellent,” he says. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll have
it packaged for you.”

He motions for me to walk with him, and I shake my head.
“I’m in no rush. Help them with their purchase, and you can find me later.”

He studies me a bit too intently, those silvery eyes of his
rich with interest, and I am suddenly self-conscious. He is, without a doubt,
classically handsome by anyone’s standards, but there is also something raw and
sexual about this man, something almost predatory about him.

“All right then,” he says softly, “I’ll find you soon.” It
isn’t a statement that alludes to a double meaning, but yet, I feel one there.
His gaze shifts to the couple. “Let’s go ring you up.”

The couple thank me for my help and hurries after Mark. The
minute they are gone, the minute
Mark Compton
is out of sight, I let out
a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and shake myself inwardly. And not just
because of the way his eyes had assessed me so…so what? Intimately? Surely not.
I still have this over-active imagination thing going on over the journals. I
do wonder if he is the "he" from the journals. He certainly has the
animal magnetism Rebecca’s words painted him with. But then, so does Ricco
Alvarez. Good grief, I’m making myself crazy.  

A staff member interrupts me before I can go on another
"crazy" thinking spree, and removes the couple's purchase from the
display. I force myself to stop over-analyzing and relax, basking in the
solitude as I discover Chris Merit’s newest work.

“You like Merit?” comes another male voice, this one
familiar.

I turn to find the man who’d sat next to me during the
presentation standing in the doorway. I give a quick, eager nod. “Very much. I
wish they had some of his portraits, but his urban landscapes are magnificent.
You?”

He leans against the wall. “I hear he doesn’t have an
overinflated ego. That scores points with me.”

I tilt my head and study him, relaxing into the easy
conversation. “Why are you here if you don’t like Ricco?”

Mark Compton appears in the doorway. “I see you didn’t
venture far,” he says to me and then eyes the other man. “Don’t tell me you’re
pimping your own work at Ricco’s event?” He glances at me. “Was he pimping his
own work?”  

I gape. “Wait. His own work?” I shift my gaze to my nameless
new friend, who looks nothing like the Chris Merit I’ve seen photos of. “Who
are you exactly?”

His mouth quirks at the edges. “The man with the one red
shoe.” And with that, he turns and walks away.

I shake my head. “What? What does that mean?” I turn to
Mark. "What does that mean? The man with the one red shoe?”

“Who knows,” Mark says, his lips thinning in disapproval.
“Chris has a twisted sense of humor. Thankfully, it doesn’t show up on the
canvas.”

My jaw goes slack. “Wait. Are you telling me
that was
Chris Merit
?” I rack my brain over the pictures of him I’ve seen and I
remember him differently. Do I have his image confused with another?  

“That’s Chris,” he confirms. “And as you can see he has an
odd way about him. He was standing in his own display room and didn’t even tell
you who he was.” His hands settle on his hips. “Listen, Tesse tells me you…I’m
sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

“Sara,” I supply. “Sara McMillan.”

“Sara,” he repeats, his tone low, as if he was trying it out
on his tongue, trying me out on his tongue. Seconds pass, and the small display
area seems to get smaller before he adds, "Tesse was right. Rebecca is on
a leave of absence.”

His tone shifts back to all business now, and I wonder if I
imagine the raspier tone. I am, after all, excelling at making myself crazy. “I
see,” I say. “Is there a way to reach her?”

“If you figure out a way, let me know,” he says. “She took a
two-week cruise with some rich guy she was dating and that turned into the
entire summer. I agreed because she’s good at her job and the clients love her.
But depending on interns who don’t know what they’re doing is killing me. I’m
going to have to get someone in here to cover for her that actually knows what
they are doing.”

“The entire summer,” I repeat uncomfortably, focused on the
oddity that represents. All summer was a long time for a working girl to leave
her job behind. And Mark’s comment about the "rich guy" hit me just
as wrong for some reason, though it could have been merely his frustration over
Rebecca’s extended leave. Or maybe…could he be jealous over this rich man? My
brows dip. “Leaving you high and dry like this--that doesn’t sound like the
responsible Rebecca my sister described.”

“People aren’t always what they seem,” he says and motions
toward Chris Merit’s displayed art. “The art does not always mimic the artist.
You never know the real person until you slide beneath their surface.”

Or look in their dresser drawer, I think guiltily. But
Rebecca didn’t seem like someone to run out on her job to me. She loved her
job. Then again, I might be wrong. As seduced as Rebecca had been by this world
she’d created, she’d been scared too. And I want to know why more than ever.
What created such obsession, such fear?

A sudden burn for answers, a need to leave here tonight with
something more than I came with overcomes me, and before I can stop myself, I
blurt, “I can cover Rebecca for the summer. I’m a teacher so I’m on break. I
have a Master's of Art from The Art Institute, and a Bachelor's in business. I
interned for three years at the Museum of Modern Art and I know art. All art.
Test me if you like.”

His eyes narrow a fraction, the silence crackling between us
for several long seconds. “You’re hired, Sara McMillan. You can start tomorrow.
I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your evening.” He lowers his voice. “Tomorrow,
you're all mine.” He turns and walks away.

I blink, stunned. He’d just hired me, but he hadn’t even
asked me one single question. I hadn’t asked about hours or pay. I inhale a
sharp breath. I’d come here to find Rebecca, to make sure she is alive and
well. Instead, I am about to be Rebecca, or rather, be the Marketing Director
for the gallery. So I can
find
Rebecca, I tell myself. Something has
happened to Rebecca, and I have to prove it. That’s why I’m here. No other
reason.

Chapter Four

I am still standing in the middle of Chris Merit’s display,
in stunned disbelief, when something snaps inside me. I am hot and confused and
feeling like the world is spinning around me. I’ve spent money I don’t have on
the ticket for the night, but I can’t get out of this gallery fast enough. I
run for the door, not literally, but I might as well be. This heat I feel is
unexplainable, considering the gallery is chilly, and I need air desperately. I
need to think. I need to figure out what is going on inside me, because it is
nothing I know as familiar.

Exiting to the street, I welcome the cool night air washing
over me. I turn quickly to my left and intend to head for my car, when the
strap of my purse catches and snags on the brick of the building and somehow it
snaps open. The contents spill to the ground. With exasperation, I squat,
trying to retrieve my items. This is so my life and there is a tiny part of me
comforted by my familiar clumsiness, by something that feels like
me
. I
mean, who else, can manage to catch their purse on a wall of all things?

“Need some help?”

My gaze shoots upward to find Chris Merit at eye level and
for a rare moment in time, I can’t find the words to ramble with my nerves.
While I’d felt comfortable with him inside the gallery, I am dumbstruck now
that I know who he is. He is brilliant. He is also incredibly good looking, and
squatting down on the ground with me, which somehow feels wrong. This night has
me feeling as if I am in the twilight zone. There is no other explanation for
how bizarre it is.

“I...ah...no,” I manage. “Thank you. I got it. It’s a little
purse. Doesn’t hold much.” I scoop up my lipstick and a tiny wallet, and slide
them back inside the bag, before pushing to my feet.

He grabs my keys and stands, towering over my five feet four
inches by a good foot. I hadn’t realized how tall he was when he’d been sitting
beside me at the Ricco event, or how earthy and deliciously male he smells, but
the wind lifts and the scent tickles my nose. He is different from Mark, not so
sophisticated and debonair, more raw, and yes, like his scent, earthy.

He gives me another one of those devastating smiles he’d
used on me in the gallery and dangles my keys in the air. “You might need these
to go wherever you’re going so fast.”

“Thank you,” I say and accept them. His fingers brush mine
and electricity charges up my arm, across my chest, and steals my breath. My
eyes meet his, and I see awareness in the deep green depths of his stare. Only,
I’m not sure if it’s the same kind of awareness I feel. Maybe, it’s simply that
I hide my feelings horribly and he now knows I’m reacting to him, and it amuses
him.

“You’re leaving early,” he comments, his hands going to his
hips, which pushes back his blazer enough for me to see the stretch of his
black t-shirt across his impressive chest. I approve, as I’m sure the rest of
the female population does as well.

“Yes,” I say and jerk my attention to his face, to a full
mouth that has me a bit breathless, but then everything has me breathless
tonight, it seems. ”I need to get home.”

“Why don’t I walk you to your car?”

He wants to walk me to my car. I’m not sure why he would
want to do that. He doesn’t even know me. Is it possible that he felt that same
electricity I did, or do I amuse him and he wants to continue the
entertainment? Mark did say he has a strange sense of humor. “Why didn’t you
tell me who you are?” I blurt, not liking the idea of being a joke. 

His lips quirk. “Because then you would have told me you
loved my work even if you hated it.”

My brows dip. I’m not sure how I feel about that. “That’s
sneaky.”

“It spared you the awkwardness of pretending to like my
work.”

“There wouldn’t have been any awkwardness. I like your
work.”

“And I like that you like my work,” he approves, a warm glow
in his eyes. “So...shall I walk you to your car?”

My escape has been further waylaid, but I’m not sure that is
a bad thing anymore. “Okay,” I squeak, appalled at my lack of voice. There is a
reason I don’t date much. I’m horrible at it. I get shy and I pick the wrong
men, who use both of those very things against me. Dominant, controlling men,
who seem to turn me on in the bedroom, and off in real life. It’s genetic. I’m
quite certain that had I a sister, she would have been just as foolish about
men as myself and as my mother had been. And while Chris, at first impression,
doesn’t strike me as arrogant or controlling, his failure to tell me who he was
earlier in the evening was in fact a way of controlling my reaction. Not that I
think he is interested in me. I’m over-analyzing and I know it. Chris Merit
could have his choice of women, and in fact, probably has. He doesn’t need to
add little ol’ me to the list.

“You know my name,” he says, pulling me from my reverie. “It’s
only fair I know yours.”

“Sara. Sara McMillan.”

“Nice to meet you, Sara.”

“I should be the one saying that to you,” I say. ”I wasn’t
joking when I said I love your art. I studied your work in college.

“Now you’re making me feel old.”

“Hardly,” I say. “You started painting when you were a
teen.”

He cast me a sideways look. “You weren’t joking when you
said you studied my work.”

“Art major.”

“And what do you do now?”

I feel a little punch to my gut. “School teacher.”

“Art?”

“No,” I say. “High school English.”

“So why study art?”

“Because I love art.”

“Yet you’re an English teacher?”

“What’s wrong with being an English teacher?” I ask, unable
to curb the defensiveness in my tone.

He stops walking and turns to me. “Nothing is wrong with it
at all, except that I don’t think that’s what you want to do.”

“You don’t know me enough to say that. You don’t know me at
all.”

“I know the excitement I saw in your eyes when you were in
the gallery.”

“I don’t deny that.” A gust of wind rushes over us and
goosebumps lift on my skin, I don’t want to be scrutinized. This man sees too
much. “We should walk.”

He shrugs out of his jacket and before I know what’s
happening, it’s wrapped around my shoulders and that earthy raw scent of his is
surrounding me. I’m wearing Chris Merit’s coat and I am dumbstruck all over
again. His hands are on the lapels and he is staring down at me. My gaze
catches on the brilliant colorful tattoo that covers every inch of his right
arm. I’ve never been with a man with tattoos, and never thought I liked them,
but I find myself wondering where else he might have them.

“I saw you talking to Mark,” he says. “Did you buy something
tonight?”

“I wish,” I say with a snort, and my embarrassment at the
unladylike sound that comes too naturally only drives home reality to me. We
are from two different worlds, this man and I. His is one of dreams fulfilled
and mine is one of impossible dreams. “I doubt I could afford one of your
brushes, let alone a completed piece.”

His eyes narrow. “You shouldn’t walk away from something
that intrigues you.” His voice is a soft rasp of sandpaper that still manages
to be velvet on my nerve endings.

Suddenly, I’m not sure we are talking about art and my
throat is dry. I swallow hard and though I hadn’t decided I was really going
through with it, I blurt, “I’m taking a summer job at the gallery.”

His light blond brow arches. “Are you now?”

“Yes.” I know it is the truth as I say the word. I know I’ve
already decided I am going to take the job. “I’m filling in for Rebecca until
her return.” I search his face for a reaction, but I see none. He is
unreadable--or am I just too affected by his nearness to see one?

His hands are still on the lapels and he doesn’t move for a
long moment. I don’t want him to move. I want him to...I don’t know...but then
again, yes I do. I want him to kiss me. It’s a silly, fantastical moment, no
doubt brought on by the journals, that has me blushing. I cut my gaze, feeling
as if the heat in his will scorch me inside out. I motion to my car, shocked to
realize it’s only one parking meter down. “That’s me.”

Slowly, his hands loosen on my--or rather his--jacket. I
immediately walk to my car, willing myself not to dump my purse again. I click
the locks open and I stop by the curb before opening my door. I turn to find
him close, so very wonderfully close. And that scent of his is driving me wild,
pooling heat low in my belly.

“Thanks for the walk and the jacket.” I shrug out of it.

He reaches for the jacket and takes it, and I hope he will
touch me, and fear that he will, at the same moment. I am so out of control and
confused.

His eyes burn hot like green fire before he softly says,
“It’s been my pleasure...
Sara
.” And then he just turns and starts
walking, without another word.

***

Hours later, I sit on my bed in a pair of boxers and a tank,
legs crossed, with that box and a screwdriver in front of me. I have no idea
why the idea of taking the job at the gallery makes opening it seem imperative,
but it does, and it is. Rubies trim the lid and an etched, abstract design is
in the center. The latch holding it closed looks old and easy to break, and
just as beautifully designed as the rest of the box.

“How very artsy,” I murmur, tracing the design with my
fingers. The idea of destroying the box doesn’t sit well with me, nor does
invading Rebecca’s privacy. So
why, why, why
do I know I am going to
open this box? Why do I have to know what is inside? “Curiosity killed the cat,
Sara.”

It doesn’t seem to matter. Of their own will, my hands go to
work. I slide the flat end of the screwdriver between the lips of the lid and
base and apply pressure. The latch pops easily.

My adrenaline surges and my heart thunders in my chest. I
have no idea why I am hanging on a thread, why I feel like this box is so
important, why I feel any of this is important. Slowly, I lift the lid, and
luxurious red velvet is the first thing I see. I suck in a breath at what is
cradled by that velvet and my heart thunders all over again.