Being Me

Twenty-three

I walk into the gallery on Monday morning in a pale peach dress and black heels and with a smile on my face. How can I not be smiling? I woke up to a sexy, brilliant artist in my bed and now I’m going to work at my dream job. So what if said sexy, brilliant artist was worried enough about my safety to drive me to work? I choose not to dwell on that part or I’ll make myself sick with nerves.

“Morning, Amanda,” I say, and Amanda studies me with a keen eye.

“Morning. You look amazing today.”

“Well, thank you.”

I enter the back office and stop dead in my tracks when I come face-to-face with Mark. The man is so damn disarming. Like fire scorching ice, he melts a girl right in her high heels. “Morning,” I manage, and I wonder if he ever has a hair out of place, or a suit that isn’t as perfectly fitted as his choice today of a pale gray that makes his eyes all the more compelling.

His gaze sweeps my body and lifts. “Amanda was right. You look quite amazing today, Ms. McMillan.”

“Thank you.”

He steps aside and lets me pass. I have this moment of frozen, deer-in-the-headlights helplessness when I realize he’s going to watch me walk to my office. Damn this man and his power trips. I don’t like this or how he has suddenly made my mind go to Michael and my father, and my fears that they still might cause Chris trouble. What does it say, that Mark reminds me of Michael?

I draw a small breath and take a step, trying not to wobble on my heels and blow the whole looking-good thing I’ve just been praised for. Not that I need Mark’s praise. I don’t.

But as I settle at my desk and put my things away, I bitterly acknowledge that I do need his praise. Why is this still who I am? I don’t want Mark; he’s too dominant. “No in between, all right,” I murmur.

“Something wrong, Ms. McMillan?”

Mark leans against my door frame, and my gaze flickers to the delicate roses of the O’Nay painting on the wall—the one he put here for Rebecca. What is wrong is that Rebecca is missing. He is the Master in the journal, and he has to know more about where she has gone.

I open my mouth to say that, then close it, remembering the warning to be cautious. I don’t want evidence being tucked away, any more than I want to be in danger myself.

“I’m nervous,” I tell him. “I’m going to resign from the school today.”

One blond brow lifts. “Are you, now?”

“Yes.”

Approval gleams in his eyes and it pleases me to think he values my presence here enough to be pleased. “Well, then. Let me leave you to it.”

He disappears and I slump in my chair. I swear that man winds me up and leaves me exhausted from every encounter. My gaze goes back to the picture on the wall, my thoughts to Rebecca. I’m not taking your job. Come back. Be okay. And that goes for you, too, Ella. Just thinking of Ella sets me into motion. I sit up and dial the school. I have to leave a message. Great. More fretting.

Ryan calls and e-mails me staging pictures of the property I’m to help decorate, and I get to work looking for possible art purchases for the project. By midmorning I have a lag in my work, and I pull out Rebecca’s work journal and begin scouring it for helpful sales tips. My brows dip at a page of random notes. Riptide auction piece. Legit? Find expert. I inhale sharply. Rebecca was looking into a counterfeit piece that was listed at Riptide? Could that have gotten her into trouble? Surely, Mark knows, though. He had the journal. He had to have read it. Unless . . . Mark was involved. No. He’d never have given me the journal. Is this why he gave it to me? He wants me to know? I’m dumbfounded about what this could mean.

I glance up just in time to catch a glimpse of Ricco walking by my door. Panic assails me. Is he here to complain about Chris showing up at his house? I push to my feet and rush to the hall and watch Ricco disappear inside Mark’s office. I seek out Ralph, as my resident knowledge keeper, for a possible explanation that does not involve me, but he isn’t at his desk.

The kitchen is my next stop, and it’s a mistake. I walk right into the lion’s mouth. Mary turns as I enter, cup in hand.

“How’d it go with Ricco?” she asks.

Doing my best to appear unfrazzled, I walk to the coffeepot and fill my cup. “Not good. He pretty much sent me packing.”

“Really? And yet he’s here?”

I add cream to my coffee. “I have no idea why.”

She stares at me. “You must have done something to piss him off.”

The evil gleam in her eyes tells me she intended to upset me, and it works. Could she be any colder and meaner?

“Right. Thanks for the words of encouragement.” I start to turn.

“Honey, you don’t get any more encouragement than the boss wanting up your skirt.”

How has my happy morning turned to total crap? I’m about to quit my teaching job yet I’m clearly not the only person who has worries that I have this job because Mark wants “up my skirt.” What am I thinking? I walk back to my office and shut the door and I call Chris.

The instant he answers, I say, “You once told me I don’t belong in this world. You didn’t mean in the art business, right?”

“No, baby. You know what I was talking about.”

“I can’t resign my job if Mark only gave me this one because he wants to turn me into Rebecca. Would he do that? Would he hire me for strictly personal reasons?” He’s silent too long and I can’t take it. “Chris.”

“I’d like to say anything to get you out of that place, but no. He wouldn’t. He sees your talent, Sara. And so will anyone who gets any quality time with you.”

Amanda buzzes in with my call from the school. “Have him hold,” I tell her.

“You’re not a schoolteacher, Sara,” Chris says. “No in between, baby.”

“Right. No in between. I have to go.”

“You’re going to be glad you did this. Call me after.”

“I will.”

Ten minutes later, I am no longer employed by the school. But Ella is still scheduled for teaching and I’m not sure what to think. If she’d resigned, I’d feel hurt she’d cut me out of her life, but I’d know she’d gone silent by choice. I text Chris to tell him and he congratulates me and promises to check more into Ella’s location.

I have just put my phone back in my purse when a knock sounds on my door and it opens. Ricco appears, looking oh so Antonio Banderas–esque, with his dark good looks, dressed in black slacks and a black button-down shirt with several of those buttons loose at his neck. “Let’s go next door for coffee, Bella.”

An order. “Of course.” I stand and slip on my jacket. “I hope your visit means you’ve reconsidered working with us?”

“We’ll talk next door,” he replies, his expression impassive.

Inwardly, I sigh and grab my purse. Every man who walks into this place seems to get injected with an intense need for control and doing things on their terms.

When we get to the coffee shop, Ricco opens the door for me and I step inside. I feel Chris’s presence immediately, as if another part of me is coming to life. Oh, no—knowing how he feels about Ricco, this is an explosion waiting to happen. Ricco offers to take my jacket and I decline. I’ll hang on to my armor, real or imagined.

I take a few steps into the shop and catch a glimpse of Chris at the back table. Ava calls my name and smiles brightly, announcing my presence to Chris if he hasn’t already seen me. I manage a smile at her. I think.

“You sit with your things,” Ricco commands. “I’ll order. What would you like?”

“White mocha, please.”

As Ricco turns to the counter, I walk toward the tables and right into the beam of Chris’s sharp gaze. I quickly lower my lashes, unable to look at him. Not and still manage this meeting.

Still, I scoot into a wooden booth that puts me facing Chris, because even though I’m afraid of what I might find in his face, I can’t stand not being able to see him, either. Oh, yes. I am one big mess.

Setting my purse beside me, I slip out of my jacket just to have something to do. The intense pull willing me to look at him overwhelms me, and before I can stop myself my lashes lift and our eyes lock. The familiar jolt of awareness he creates in me spreads through my body and becomes the crackle of our mutual bad moods.

Ricco sits down across from me and slides my coffee in my direction. He then glances over his shoulder at Chris before turning back to me. His lips quirk and it’s clear he is aware Chris was at his house. He opens his mouth to speak and I hold my breath, preparing for a confrontation.

“Have you reconsidered my offer?”

Relieved to be on the hot seat with a topic I have a clear answer for, I say, “I’m committed to the gallery.”

“Honorable,” he comments dryly. “I told Mark he doesn’t deserve you, any more than he did Rebecca.”

My eyes go wide. “Oh. I . . . Ricco, I—”

A low rumble of laughter escapes his lips. “Don’t worry, Bella. It’s no reflection on you. Besides, I plan to give you job security today. I have an auction piece I have given to Crystal, which I’m sure you know is Riptide’s biggest competing auction house. I’m considering pulling it and giving it to Riptide”—he pauses for obvious effect—“in your care, of course.”

My scalp prickles with warning. “Why, and on what condition?”

“I want you to find a way for me to reach Rebecca.”

I blanch, shocked at this turn of events. “But I don’t know her. I have no idea how to reach her, Ricco.”

“I’m aware of that, but you can tell me if she has contact with the gallery. You might even be able to access Mark’s personal files.”

Is Ricco the other man in the journal? Is he the man Rebecca used to make Mark jealous? “No.” My voice is firm, certain. “I won’t touch Mark’s personal files.”

He scrubs his jaw and casts a glare at the ceiling I suspect is meant for me. “Acceptable,” he states tightly, returning his now unreadable gaze to mine. “All I ask is you do what you can within your comfort zone.”

His insistence is both compelling and frightening. If he loved Rebecca, I cannot imagine the pain he must feel at her absence, but there is another, more insidious possibility. He hurt her and he’s trying to stay in tune with what is being discovered about her absence.

“I want your business, Ricco. I’d hoped you’d give it to me because you have confidence in my skill.”

He leans in closer, his hand sliding over mine on the table, his torment over Rebecca clear. “Just tell me you will try, Bella,” he presses. “That is all I ask.”

Imagining Chris seeking me out if I suddenly disappeared drives me to promise, “I’ll try.”

The tension in his body eases considerably. “Excellent. We have a deal, then.” He pushes to his feet and I follow him. He takes my hand and kisses it and I feel the weight of Chris’s crushing stare. “I have fifteen days to pull my painting from Crystal before I’m contractually incapable of doing so. I expect I’ll hear from you by then.” He turns away, sauntering toward the door.

I gape after him. Have I just been blackmailed?