The Bachelor's Promise (Bachelor Auction) (7 page)

His voice dropped to a silken, low timbre that sent shivers skating down her spine. He lowered his arms, sliding his hands into his front pants pockets.

“I called Frank, Noelle. Told him I was calling the police and having him arrested for breaking and entering and theft. He laughed, said it couldn’t be a B&E when he had a key. Your key. The one you’d given him.”

Horror ate at her, and she lifted a hand to her chest, covering her heart as if the gesture could calm the rapid
thump
-
thump
. Her father wouldn’t have thrown her under the bus. Lied to save his own skin.
Really?
a tiny, ashamed voice sneered.
He wouldn’t?

“He then had no problem reminding me of my mom’s promise to look out for you. Putting your father in jail wouldn’t be taking care of you; it would harm you. And since you had given him the key in the first place, you would probably be arrested as well. He didn’t hesitate to use you as his means of staying out of jail. And in return, he told me what pawnshop I could find my mom’s things at, so I could buy them back. I managed to recover everything except the necklace.”

“I’m sorry.” Those two words—so inadequate for the pain her father had caused this man. But they were all she had to offer him. “But he lied, Aiden. I didn’t even know my key was missing until I arrived at the house and couldn’t open the door. We were friends. I thought you knew me better than that.”

Silence fell between them, burdened with the past, the grief, the anger, the hurt. Though he didn’t reply and his ice-hard expression revealed none of his thoughts, she could still feel the weight of the emotions roiling between them like a mass of dark thunderclouds.

This—her coming here, to his home—was such a bad idea. She was a reminder of the pain and loss in his life…and of the men who’d caused them. First, Dad with Aiden’s mother. And then Tony with Peyton. She’d come to Boston to approach him about keeping his promise to Caroline, but not to interfere in his life. Not to inflict more damage on a wound that was obviously still open and sore.

“You don’t want me here,” she pointed out, all too aware that for the moment, she had no other options.

Again, he didn’t reply. At least, not immediately. Instead, he stared at her with that scalpel-sharp gaze. She struggled not to flinch under its razor-like edge.

“What I want,” he murmured, eliminating the space between them with long, measured strides, “doesn’t matter.”

Aiden simply left, the soft click of the bedroom door closing behind him her only answer.

Chapter Seven

The discreet chime above the door of King Gallery announced someone’s arrival. But the melodic, cultured voice that carried just a hint of the South relayed to Noelle exactly who had entered the art gallery’s hallowed and freestanding walls.

“I’m back, Noelle, sweetie,” purred Loretta King—who was channeling Diana Ross’s
Mahogany
today in her white fedora and black-and-white pantsuit—as she swept past Noelle in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. The proprietor and owner of the prestigious and renowned King Gallery headed to her office, back from her lunch appointment. Noelle glanced at the digital clock on top of her cherry, roll-top desk. Four forty-five p.m. A long, late lunch. Not unusual, she’d learned in the week since she’d started at the gallery. Smiling, Noelle returned to the invoices she’d been going through.

The first time Noelle experienced the flamboyant whirlwind that was Lo—you never called her Loretta if you wanted her to answer—she’d been a little shell-shocked and a hell of a lot intimidated. Because Noelle had researched the woman she would be working for, she knew Lo was every bit of sixty years old. But the tall, reed-thin woman, with skin like the smoothest, perfect ebony, and a mishmash of facial features that resulted in a stunning beauty, didn’t appear a day over forty-five.

Besides her looks, six-foot height, and cultured voice that no longer carried more than a hint of her native South Carolina, Lo was as sharp as a razor and brilliant as Einstein. The founder of King Gallery in the South End’s SoWa—South of Washington—the creative and artistic epicenter of Boston, she was a reigning queen in the art community. Emerging artists would pimp their own mamas for a chance to show at King Gallery. And Noelle, thanks to her mentor back in Chicago, was blessed to work there under Lo.

“Noelle, have the rest of the prints from Lorelei arrived yet?” Lo emerged from her office with her long-legged, brisk stride.

“Yes,” Noelle said, rising from her chair. “They’re waiting for you in the back on the—” She coughed, cleared her throat. Damn. This morning, she’d woken up with a scratchy throat that a cup of hot lemon tea hadn’t eased. Quickly doubling back, she rifled through her top desk drawer until she located the roll of cough drops she’d bought on her way to work. She’d only been working at the gallery a week. No way could she get sick. “They’re on the table,” she finished.

“Good, I’ll go see them in just a second. But first,” Lo declared, whirling around with a clap of her hands. “I want to do something different for our next show.” She spread her arms wide in a graceful arch. “Body painting.”

“Excuse me?” Maybe it was the faint headache taking up at the base of her skull, but she could’ve sworn the woman said
body painting
. The medium that involved applying paint to models—usually nude or limited to sheer underwear—had gained commercial popularity, spawning festivals and conferences, even reality television shows. It was exciting, creative, and just damn fun. But at an upscale gallery show?

“That’s right. The next First Friday,” she said, referring to the first Friday of the month that started the thirty-day period of new shows featuring the work of artists in SoWa. “I already have a list of people I want you to contact.”

Excitement sizzled under Noelle’s skin as she smiled slow and wide. She loved the idea. Loved it.

In the gallery she hoped—planned—to own one day, she wanted to exhibit everything from paintings to sculptures to photos to body art, including paint and tattoos. Art for everyone, as naïve as that seemed. Her dream was to mold, support, and assist up-and-coming, struggling artists to achieve commercial and critical success. Also, she wanted to expose art, in all its vast areas and beauty, to people who ordinarily wouldn’t have access to it. Including children from the inner city and low-income families—the children she’d grown up with. The child she’d grown up as.

Drawing, sketching, and, later, painting had saved her from becoming a statistic. It’d given her an escape from the oftentimes frightening, unpredictable world she’d known. Later, art had given her hope of being more than a teen mom working two or three jobs that slowly stole her youth, her will, and her spirit. It had given her the gift of hope.

“And that’s not all,” Lo continued. “I want you to be one of the artists.”

“What?” Shock gripped Noelle, and she shook her head. “I—” She sneezed. Hard.

Lo titled her head to the side, the wide brim of the fedora shielding one eye. But the other eye narrowed on Noelle’s face. “You look like shit. Is that cold getting worse?”

Noelle choked on her cough drop. The woman had no filter. At. All. “No. I’m fine.”

How one eyebrow managed to convey a world of skepticism was amazing. “No, this morning you were fine. This afternoon, you look like something my Moosie would drag in…before changing his mind.” Moosie was her beloved, spoiled Persian cat.

“Thank you for that,” Noelle drawled.

“You’re welcome.” Lo jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “You. Go home.”

Noelle blinked. “Again…what?”

Lo flapped her hands in a shooing motion. “Home. And come back when you don’t sound as if you’re about to hack up a lung.”

“I-I can’t just take days off,” Noelle stammered, flustered. “I’ve only been here a week. I have to—”

“I’m sorry, sweetie.” Lo held up a finger, then pointed it over Noelle’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but whose name is on the door behind you?” She nodded, point made. “Right. And if I say you’re going to take a couple of days off, then that’s what you’re going to do. A week, a month, a year. It doesn’t matter. You’re sick. And I won’t have you scaring the customers. Besides…” A sly smile curled her mouth. “Let that sexy man you’re shacked up with take care of you.”

“It’s not like that,” Noelle grumbled, crossing her arms. “I’ve already explained our situation.”

Ever since Aiden had stopped by the gallery on her first day to drop off a key to his penthouse, Lo hadn’t let one opportunity to mention him pass her by. Even though Noelle had painstakingly explained the reason behind her temporary residence.

But he bought you a key to his home
. The nagging, irritating voice that seemed to have rented space in her head whispered the annoying reminder.

When she thought about looking up and seeing his tall, lean figure stalk through the gallery entrance, shock still winged through her. But when the image shifted to Aiden handing her an envelope with her name scrawled on the front in a bold, heavy script—a script she instinctively knew belonged to him—something bolder, hotter,
unwanted
pounded beneath her skin.

“I had this made for you.”
Six simple words spoken in that low, deep timbre had sent her heart pounding and a pain resonating low in her belly. A sharp pain. A sweet pain.

It shook her now, just as it had a week ago. She wasn’t blind, so she couldn’t deny the handsome—
beautiful
—attractive—
sexy
—figure he made. She never could. He’d always fascinated her, and when she’d fallen for him years ago, it had been a very short trip. Scowling, she damned that voice to a hell where no chocolate or wine existed, only endless reruns of
Here Comes Honey Boo Boo
and
Say Yes to the Dress
.

Yes, Aiden was handsome and attractive, but she didn’t want him. Didn’t want to see him stripped and naked. Didn’t want to find out for herself if the pleasure he’d given her with his fingers and lips was just the tip of the sexual iceberg.

Didn’t want to spy the same greedy anticipation on her own face that she’d glimpsed on the women he was often photographed with.

No. She didn’t want Aiden. Not anymore.

Desire, need… They bound a woman. Tricked her into willingly letting herself become imprisoned by so-called love. Convinced her that losing her independence and sense of self was a fair exchange, a worthy sacrifice to belong, to feel accepted…loved. It was bullshit. She’d had many examples during her life that shaped the belief, but Aiden… Aiden had solidified it.

During high school, some of the other girls’ favorite epitaphs for Noelle had been “slut” and “whore.” She silently scoffed. Nothing could’ve been further from the truth. She’d been afraid of sex back then, afraid of the consequences. Afraid that sex would trigger the same compulsive, addictive behavior that coursed through her father’s and brother’s veins.

And she’d never allowed herself to fall into that trap. No man had ever stirred enough emotion, enough
want
to go down the road so many girls in her neighborhood had. That Caroline had.

No man except Aiden
.

“—need you well for the opening in two weeks.”

Noelle shook her head, and when the pounding in her temple spread to her forehead, she bit back a curse. “Right. About that…”

Lo slammed up a hand, the gesture cutting Noelle short. “Nope. No objection. I know what your long-term goals are, but you’re an artist first and foremost. Like you reminded me, you’ve been here a week. Of all the past assistants I’ve had who were artists, it didn’t take them forty-eight hours before they were hinting around for a show of their own. You? Not one mention. I don’t know whether to yell at you or hug you for that. Opening a gallery of your own? That’s your dream, maybe even your purpose. But creating? That’s your gift, your calling. And what kind of employer, mentor, or hell, business woman would I be if I neglected that part of you? So”—she jabbed a finger in Noelle’s direction—“go home, get well, and start brainstorming ideas. I want brilliance. I expect nothing less.”

“You don’t ask for much, do you?” Noelle grumbled, but inside… Inside, she glowed. And was absolutely terrified. No one except her former employer in Chicago had ever encouraged or supported her. Her father had indulged her at first but had then become annoyed by her “scribbling,” as he’d called it. Tony had scoffed, accused her of having her head in the clouds, of thinking she was better than the rest of them. The problem was she didn’t believe she was better. Just more desperate.

“You’re still standing here,” Lo sing-songed, sashaying toward her office, the hem of her white pants swishing. “Why are you still standing here?”

“I’m going. And Lo?” The other woman halted, that elegant eyebrow raised, the fedora the equivalent of a queen’s tiara. “Thank you.”

With a flick of her hand, Lo glided away. But not before Noelle caught the small smile curving her mouth. “Enough of that. Git.”

Noelle snorted as Lo’s Southern roots made a guest appearance. Then, with a shrug, she headed toward her desk.

To git.

…

“Noelle.”

Aiden drew up short outside his apartment building’s entrance. It was a little after five—early for him and for her, as well—but it was definitely her petite, slim figure standing in front of the lobby doors. The midnight tumble of hair down her back was a dead giveaway. The thick, sensual mass of curls and waves that ended inches above the small of her back and the curve of her ass was as distinctive as the explosion of color swirling up her calf and thigh. The explosion of color he hadn’t yet managed to put out of his mind after only one glimpse a week earlier. And if that wasn’t enough evidence, the blast of lust now incinerating his gut was sufficient confirmation.

Even from the short distance that separated them, he caught the stiffening of her shoulders before she slowly turned. He frowned as he drew near, searching her upturned face. Since she’d moved into his home, they’d barely seen each other. He worked late, as did she, and when they were home together, she stuck to her bedroom, the door closed. So it’d been a couple of days since they’d spoken. A couple of days since she’d denied giving Frank the key to Caroline’s house. She’d claimed to be innocent, but she couldn’t conceal the surprise and hurt when Aiden had revealed how Frank had said differently…

He shook his head. Still…two days ago, her creamy skin hadn’t been so pale, and faint smudges hadn’t bruised the skin beneath her sky-blue eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, instinctively reaching out to cup her ashen cheek. She looked frail. As if the stiff November wind could knock her over. But at the last minute, he caught himself. Remembered who he was about to touch. And why he shouldn’t.

He lowered his arm.

“God,” Noelle said, rolling her eyes. “I must really look like shit.”

“What?” He pulled open the door and gestured for her to precede him into the building and out of the cold evening air.

“Nothing,” she muttered, wrapping her arms around her slim body even though she still wore a heavy, wool coat. He didn’t miss her slight shiver either.

His frown deepened. “Are you al—”

“Aiden.”

The sultry voice belonged to the beautiful redhead who rose from one of the antique-looking armchairs dotting the lobby. Jocelyn. From the auction. Who he still hadn’t called to discuss the details of their date.
Damn
.

As the woman sauntered closer, her gaze flicked over to Noelle. The redhead didn’t try to conceal the surprise or confusion that darkened her eyes or parted her lips. She glanced from him to Noelle, a perplexed little frown creasing her brow. But then, maybe remembering frowning supposedly caused wrinkles, she smoothed her expression out and let her mouth curve into a polite smile.

“Hello.” She nodded at Noelle before returning her attention to him.

“Jocelyn,” he greeted her, maintaining a neutral tone. But the struggle to smother his annoyance grated against his throat. Yes, he should’ve called her by now, but it’d been one hell of a week. His past had strolled back into his present, flipping the life he’d built for himself on its ass. He had a new roommate. His week had been a motherfucker. But his neglecting to call her didn’t explain or excuse Jocelyn showing up at his home uninvited. “What are you doing here?”

A sensual smile curved the redhead’s lips as she sauntered closer. “I was hoping to catch you in,” she said, her throaty voice telegraphing exactly what she was hoping to catch.

At another time, he would’ve already been escorting her back to her apartment or a hotel. Then he wouldn’t have given a damn if she would bore the hell out of him with talk of shopping and the latest gossip, just as long as she knew how to use her mouth for something other than talking. But that was then. Now, his dick seemed to be on strike. No, that wasn’t true. It seemed to work just fine around Noelle.