If I Were You (8 page)

I relax a fraction. “I’ll be back.”

She smiles and slips her purse over her shoulder. “Good.
Excellent. And, you know, I’m happy to quiz you if it would help any.”

“You’re versed in wines, opera, and classical music?”

“Nope,” she says, “and I don’t want to be. But that doesn’t
mean I can’t help you study. I happen to think you’ll be great to have around.
It’s just a feeling I have.”

A smile touches my lips. “Thank you, Amanda. I appreciate
your offer and I might just take you up on it.”

“I hope you do,” she assures me. “I’ll see you in the
morning.” She lowers her voice. “Good luck with the beast. That’s what we call
him. It’s so very appropriate.”

With a much needed laugh at the nickname, I reluctantly head
through the door to the right of the desk that leads to the offices. The sense
of balancing uneasily on a tightrope about to tumble off consumes me. I knock
on the corner door and hear Mark’s deep voice tell me to ‘enter’. The one word
is more of a command than most can muster in a full sentence. The man really is
one big ball of bossiness.

Hoisting my briefcase and purse fully onto my shoulder, I
shove open the door, wishing I’d dropped my things by my office. The minute I
bring Mark’s office into view, I forget the dull throb of the load I’m carrying
for the spectacular sight of the oval shaped room with a massive glass desk in
the center. I am overwhelmed with the magnificent art on the walls to my right
and left. On some level, I am certain Mark wanted me to see this place, to see
him looking powerful, more king than man, in the center of it all.

But it is the spectacular mural covering the entire half
moon wall hugging ‘the king’ I find utterly spellbinding. My eyes travel the
exquisitely painted design of the Eiffel Tower, and I instantly know the
technique and the artist. This is Chris’s mastery. These two men were once
friends. They had to have been and yet now they barely tolerate each other.

“How was your coffee, Ms. McMillan?”

I snap my attention from the painting to Mark, wondering how
he manages to make a question sound like a demand. 
Don’t play his game and
he can’t beat you at it.
Chris’s words repeat in my head and they resonate
within me but I feel trapped. I cannot be fired before I find out what happened
to Rebecca.

“My coffee was excellent, and thank you for the second cup.
It certainly helped clear the fog of too many wines and not enough time.”

“Sit and tell me what you studied and what you learned.” He
motions to the brown leather chairs in front of his desk, indicating he wants
me to sit in the one to his right. My urge is to claim the one to his left, all
too aware this action would displease him. I am clearly conflicted over this
man. I want to please him. I do not want to please him. But experience with
overbearing men such as Mark prevails and I choose to do neither. How high I
jump now will determine how high he expects me to jump later. 

When I don’t move, he arches a brow. “Am I so intimidating,
Ms. McMillan, that you do not want to sit?”

My chin lifts and I meet his steely gray eyes. “As much as
you try to be, Mr. Compton, no, you are not. Your tests, however, are. I’d
prefer to wait to be drilled on my knowledge until I can adequately impress
you. I do not, however, want to wait to work the sales floor until such time.”

“We do not always get what we want, Ms. McMillan.” His
expression is inscrutable, but his voice is lower, velvety, and not for the
first time today, I’m not sure we are talking about my job. “Everything I do is
calculated and with purpose. You’ll learn that sooner than later. There’s a
wine tasting here on Friday night. The attendees are not high school students.
They’re wealthy, refined customers, with refined tastes. I need you ready for
them. I need you focused on preparing for that event.”

Refined. There was that word again and it bites with insult;
be it real or imagined, it has the same effect on me. A sense of inadequacy
fills me, a long lost enemy, threatening to bring me to my knees. Anger flares
its ugly, unexpected head, and it’s far easier to embrace. “Then I guess I’d
better get home and study.” Somehow, my voice is steady.

His eyes narrow and darken, and I’m pretty sure he knows
he’s hit a hot spot with me. I’ve got to learn to control my reactions, and put
on a game face.

“Are you aware that Riptide hosts a variety of wine tasting
events in conjunction with some of the top wine producers in the world?”

I blink. ”No. I am not.”

“Are you aware that we hold an annual charity event in
conjunction with the Siberian Orchestra?”

My stomach falls to my feet. Why didn’t I do my research?
“No. No, I am not.”

“Then I’m sure you’ve now realized that I am only trying to
help you, Sara,” he says. “I see something bigger than a few weeks on my local
showroom floor for you. If that’s not what you want, then by all means, I’ll
set you free in the gallery tomorrow to sell to your heart’s content.”

My anger transforms into near panic. “No. I don’t want that.
I want to do more. I
can
do more.”

“Then
trust me
.”

I swallow hard, taken aback by his words. “Yes. I...okay.
I’ll learn what you need me to.”

His eyes light with approval. “Good. I’ll give you a
reprieve tonight. Go home and study. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll test you
to see just how far we are from where we need to be.”

It is a dismissal confirmed by his reaching for his phone.

“Thank you,” I murmur, and head for the hallway in a blur of
confusion. It baffles me how I’ve let a summer job become a plea for a new life
but it has, and there is no looking back. To work for Riptide, even through
this gallery, would be a dream come true. I want this as I have not wanted ever
in my life.

I pass my door and scent the roses from the hallway. Back
stepping, I realize I’ve left the candle burning for all these hours. I’m eager
to escape this place, to get home and try to analyze what has happened to me
today, what has happened to me since the day I began reading Rebecca’s journal.

Quickly, I blow out the flame and note a letter sized
envelope on my chair with my name scribbled on it. I recognize the handwriting.
I’ve studied his signature, his script. Rounding the desk I snatch the envelope
and rush for the door. I do not want to stay here and open it. I want to be
alone before I dare a peek.

Finally, when I am locked inside my car with the engine
running, I stare at my name on the yellow paper, not sure what I am waiting
for. In a frenzied rush of movement, I unseal the flap and pull out a piece of
drafting paper and gape.

Inside is a drawing of me sitting at the coffee shop table
in deep concentration, and signed by the artist. I have become a Chris Merit
original.

Chapter Ten

You can’t keep thinking of everything as being Rebecca’s
or you will make yourself crazy,
I tell myself as I settle into my office
chair, on day two at the gallery. It’s a hard earned conclusion I’d come to
while lying in bed the night before, staring into the darkness. Thus why I am
exhausted today, but at least I’ve resolved to claim this place as mine. I have
to, otherwise how will I rise to the challenge my new boss has put before me?
How will I truly reach for the dream of a successful career in art, after all
of these years of convincing myself I could not?

With a vow to form my own identity at the gallery, I sink
deeper into
my l
eather chair, behind
my
desk. Before me sits my
impulsive purchase of a new, beautifully jeweled, red leather journal that I’d
picked up at Ava’s coffee shop a few minutes earlier. My hope is that writing
down my own thoughts will help me stop thinking obsessively about
her
thoughts, or at a minimum help me to understand why confusion rules my every
waking moment.

I pick up the red  ink pen I’d also purchased and open to
the first blank page, where I write ‘August 21, day two at the Gallery’. Guilt
twists in my chest, and I set the pen down again.
You are not forgetting
about Rebecca.
You’re simply clearing a path to finding her.

Inhaling, I pick up the pen again and stare down at the
journal, seeing only a mental image of the drawing of me that Chris had left me
the night before. Or rather, of a woman who looks like me, but different. I am
not the girl that a famous artist is inspired by, but yet, I am, or I was
yesterday.

A buzz from the phone on my desk jolts me from my thoughts
and I answer automatically. “This is Sara McMillan.”

“Good morning, Ms. McMillan.” There is an unexpected smile
in my new boss’s tone and I relax, if only marginally. 

“Good morning, Mr. Compton.”

“I’ve been called away to New York on Riptide business until
Thursday.”

The tension in my gut uncurls and my spine relaxes.
Breathing room. Yes. Yes. Yes.

“That doesn’t mean you can sneak onto the sales floor,” he
chides, as if he’s plucked the idea from my brain before I ever had it. Which I
hadn’t, but, well, I would have. “Friday, Ms. McMillan. Your goal is to be as
ready to impress me then as you possibly can be. I trust you studied well last
night?”

“I certainly did.” I want this opportunity. I will not allow
a knowledge barrier to defeat me.

“Excellent. Then you can log into your email and click on
the link I’ve sent you to begin testing. I won’t grade the test, at least not
for now. It’s simply a tool for you to use to see how you’re progressing.”

The good news keeps coming and I know my smile can be heard
in my voice. “That sounds perfect.”

“Ms. McMillan,” he says sharply, prompting a reply that I
dutifully offer.

“Yes, Mr. Compton?”

“Have a good day.”

The line clicks and goes dead.

***

Two hours later it’s nearly noon, and I’m making myself
crazy. The names and regions of wines, and wine manufacturers, are running
together and I decide to turn to my old faithful solution to all that is wrong
in life. Coffee. It is my one real vice, so I figure why not indulge with an
Olympic-style commitment? Besides, Ava mentioned having lunch together. She
hadn’t been at the coffee shop when I’d bought the journal and I haven’t heard
from her either. I figure it can’t hurt to try and catch up with her now. My
curiosity over what she might share about this strange new world I inhabit is
killing me. And despite my grand declaration of owning my new office and job,
on some level I know I will never fully feel that I do, not until I uncover the
mysteries of Rebecca’s whereabouts.

After heading to the front desk and making idle chitchat
with Amanda and a few of the other staff members, I barely contain the urge to
help a customer. Amanda warns me off the action with a promise of Mark’s wrath,
and I quickly head to the coffee shop again. I scan the empty tables and there
is no denying my disappointment to find Chris nowhere in sight.

Choosing the same table I’d worked at yesterday is an easy
decision. Habits, things that feel normal—these are things I crave, just as I
do the coffee I am about to order. 

By two o’clock, neither Ava nor Chris have appeared in the
shop. I’ve thirstily downed two White Mochas and switched to black coffee.
There is no denying I am shaky and need food. Waiting to eat in hopes of
sharing lunch with Ava has not paid off. The good news, though, in the hazy
tunnel that is my caffeinated high, is that my knowledge of the featured wines
for the tasting Friday night is rapidly expanding.

The kid from behind the counter approaches my table and
refills my coffee without me asking and grins. “Mr. Compton says to keep your
cup full.”

Right. Mr. Compton says. I manage a tight-lipped smile and a
“thank you”, but I am uneasy with my new boss having my drinks monitored. It is
as if he is trying to…hmm what? The answer comes to me immediately.
Control
me
. A variety of emotions flash inside me and slowly expand. There is
something very sexy about a man like Mark Compton in control, but sexy or not,
it’s also quite uncomfortable for all kinds of reasons I’ve found better left
under the rug.

Comfortable is overrated,
a voice in the back of my
head screams and I know that inner voice is my subconscious mind demanding to
finally be heard. The truth of the matter is, I’ve spent every day since
college graduation wallowing in boring predictability.
Except when you were
with Michael.
I grind my teeth. Predictable is far better than what I was
with him.

I remind myself there are ways out of predictable ruts that
do not include men like Michael…or Mark. Right. Other ways. It had taken me
reading someone else’s words, stepping into their life, to find excitement. How
sad am I? I squeeze my eyes shut and reprimand myself.
This is not her life.
It’s yours.
 

Resolve forms. I am determined to get to work, to make today
count toward a new career. I force my eyes open and reach for my book,
effectively knocking the coffee from the table.
Fabulous
. Just
fabulous
.
Coffee is on my table, the floor, and yes, my only pair of good black heels
that match my staple black skirt. My cheeks are no doubt, as rosy as my silk
blouse.

I snatch up the few napkins I have beside me and wipe the
table to salvage my computer before it becomes a victim of my shaky hands. Task
complete, I squat to attend my dripping wet shoe and the floor.

“Looks like you need these.”

The familiar voice tingles along my nerve endings and blood
rushes to my cheeks. No. Please. Do not let this be happening. He squats in
front of me, and my gaze locks on his powerful thighs where his hands rest.
Strong, artistic hands that are holding napkins for my spill. Slowly, my gaze
lifts to find a set of alluringly green eyes belonging to Chris Merit staring
into mine. Once again, this famous, gorgeous man is squatting on the ground in
an effort to help me recover from a mishap.

“You have the most amazing knack for showing up to witness
my acts of clumsiness,” I accuse.

His lips curve and his green eyes twinkle with specks of
yellow. No. More like light flecks of gold shimmer. “I prefer to think of it as
a knack for coming to your rescue,” he declares huskily and winks, before he
proceeds to wipe up my mess. Oh good God. I’ve made Chris Merit my janitor.
And, he winked at me. I can barely breathe.

He stands up and heads to the trash, moving with a confident
male grace that is momentarily spellbinding. I’m frozen in place.  I can only
stare at him in wonder. Which, I realize, snapping to my senses, is not a good
thing when I am in a skirt and squatting on the ground. 

I pop to my feet and then have to lift my foot and swipe a
remaining wet spot off my shoe. I’ve just dropped the used napkins inside the
empty cup when he returns and stands by my table. Close to me. Really close. A
spicy, wonderful scent teases my nostrils, and stirs longing inside me. I
love
how this man smells and I have a new found liking for faded jeans and biker
boots I doubt I will ever lose. And try as I might, I cannot help but remember
him holding the leather jacket he’s wearing today around me the other night. 

“Ah, thanks,” I manage to say, sounding as frazzled as I
feel. “I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be.” His eyes are warm, and remind me of summer green
grass, his voice rich with sincerity. “I think you’re adorable.”

“Adorable,” I repeat, my tone deadpan. “Not what a girl
wants to be.” It’s what a man calls a kid sister, or the girl he doesn’t want
to date. Not that I thought he wanted to date me. I don’t know what I thought,
what I think now.

“Then what
does
a girl want to be?” There is a
teasing tone to his words that matches his expression.

Beautiful. Sexy. I want to be either or both to this man,
but I wouldn’t dare to say such things so I settle on, “Not clumsy.”

“You’re
interesting
.”

“Interesting?” I query. What is it with him and Mr. Compton
and the whole interesting thing? It has to be an artsy thing I’m out of touch
with. “I…well. I guess that’s better than clumsy.” I’m not sure it’s better
than adorable. I just don’t know. 

“You still don’t like that choice of word.”

“It’s…fine.”

“You inspired me to draw you.”

“The adorably interesting and clumsy inspiration,” I say,
feeling self-conscious, but then quickly feel bad about the remark. I soften my
voice and add, “But thank you. I’m flattered you drew me and I was absolutely
breathless when I opened the envelope.” I can’t contain my silly smile. “Now I
own a Chris Merit original.” My brows dip. “Unless you want it back?”

He laughs. “Of course, I don’t want it back.” He hesitates.
“You like it?”

Is there a hint of uncertainty in his voice, deep in those
gorgeous eyes? Surely not. He’s made millions off of his work. He can’t have an
uncertain bone in his spectacular body. 

I press my hand to my racing heart and pat it. “I
love
it.” Unfortunately, my heart isn’t the only thing in high gear. My stomach
growls and not softly. In fact, it’s loud. Very loud. I squeeze my eyes shut
and feel my cheeks, once again, flush red.

A soft, sexy laugh slides from his lips. “Hungry?”

I dare to look at him and feign ignorance. “What gives you
that idea?”

“Just a guess,” he teases. “But since I’m starving, I was
hoping you might be, too.”

He gives me a hopeful smile that I feel clear to my toes.
He’s smiling
at
me, but not laughing at me. I like this about him, the
way he makes me ultra-aware of him, but somehow comfortable, too.

My stomach growls again and I laugh. “Oh my gosh, I do
believe I am hungry.” I shake my head. “You have a way of finding all my
weaknesses.”

“If food’s a weakness then I have it, too. Do you like
Mexican? Diego Maria’s is a few blocks down the road. It’s a hole-in-the-wall
Mexican place but it’s good eating. I hang out on their patio and sketch some
afternoons.”

“Do they serve wine?” I ask.

“They’re more of a beer and tequila kind of joint.”

“Good, because I don’t even want to see wine on a menu for
the next hour.”

“I take it Mark is still trying to force the wine thing down
your throat?”

“If you mean, Mr. Compton, then yes.”

He rolls his eyes. “Mr. Compton, my ass.” He lifts his chin
at me. “You in for Diego Maria’s?”

I nod and smile and he looks pleased, even relieved? No.
That’s silly. I shake off the ridiculous notion and try not to grin like a
school girl. I’m going to lunch with Chris Merit and I’ll have the chance to
talk to him about his work. He heads to the table he’d been sitting at
yesterday and hikes a backpack he’s yet to unpack to his shoulder. Relief
washes over me. I did not want to find out he’d been watching me again and I
hadn’t been self-aware enough to know.

I quickly pack my red leather bag and am about to slide it
to my shoulder when he reaches for it. “I’ll carry it for you.”

My lips twitch. “I really think you should let me carry it.
I fear the cute girly bag will blow your cool artist in leather image. Besides,
it’s light. I’m good, but thank you.”

With obvious reluctance he drops his hand. “If you change
your mind, I’ll happily risk my cool artist in leather image that I didn’t know
I had.”

A smile slides easily to my lips. “And I’ll have my phone
camera ready if I do.”

He chuckles and the sound of that rough, masculine laughter
does funny things to my chest, and well, pretty much my entire body.

We step outside and the cool wind off the ocean screams a
welcome and has me grateful my blouse is long-sleeved. I suppress a shiver for
fear Chris will offer me his coat again, though the idea isn’t an unpleasant
one. I simply don’t understand the dynamic between us and I’m not sure I can be
clear-headed with anything that has been on this man’s body touching mine.