“I know and that’s the point. Or not really the point.” Here comes the rambling. “The real point is that you’d take me to pink paddle and butterfly land, but you aren’t pink paddles and butterflies. You’re leather and pain and darkness.”
“That’s how you see me, Sara?”
“That’s who you are, Chris, and I like who you are and that means I need to be those things, too.”
“Sara—”
“Please let me finish before I can’t.” My knees wobble and I lean against the wall. “I’ve let fear of failure hold me back for all kinds of reasons that are too complicated to explain at this moment, and I’m not sure I really understand fully myself, but I’m trying. I don’t want to let it hold me back now, so I’m just going to say what’s on my mind without even taking a breath here. I know I said I’m not about white picket fences, and I’m not, and never will be, but I can’t imagine being without you, either. What that means to me is that I need to go where you need me to go. And don’t tell me you don’t need anything but me. I wish that were true and it means a lot when you say it, but you have a way you deal with life, a place you go to escape. Everything from the painting, the club, the way you are in general, tells me that. I don’t want someone else to be there when you need those things. I want it to be me. I want you to trust me not to run.” I stop talking and the dead space afterward is unbearable and I can barely contain an urge to fill it with more words. “Chris, damn it, say something. I’m dying here.”
“And what if you can’t handle it?” No denial of what I’ve said.
There is a sudden, crushing pressure in my chest. This is what he is scared of, what he fears. That I can’t handle all that he is. “We both need to know if I can. I don’t want us to unravel and have to wonder if it’s because I didn’t try.”
“You can’t.”
“Okay,” I say hoarsely, and the pressure intensifies painfully. “Then I guess that’s that.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you already know I’m not what you need. I know I’m not what you need. Let’s not drag this out any longer than we have to. I’m going to pack, and—”
“No. You are not going to pack. You are not going to leave. Not after the storage unit incident.”
My insecurity sends my hand to my throat. Had he meant to break it off with me but the storage incident stopped him? “You don’t owe me a safe place to stay. I don’t need charity protection, Chris.”
“That’s not what I meant. Damn it, Sara, I don’t want you to leave.”
I hurt. He is all about pain and now I am, too. “Want, need. Right, wrong. They all just make me one big mess and I am tired of being one big mess, Chris. We, this, us—it’s all going to destroy me if we go on like this.”
“You are going to destroy me if you leave me, Sara.”
More pain. His pain this time. It radiates through his words and insinuates itself deep in my soul, like he has. And in that moment, I believe he needs me as I do him. “I don’t want to leave,” I whisper.
“Then don’t.” His voice is a soft plea, exposing the rare vulnerable side of him I find so impossible to resist. “I’ll come home tonight and we’ll figure this out together.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Don’t do that. That you want to is enough. I’ll be here when you get home. I promise. I’ll be here.”
“I can fly back there tomorrow morning.”
“No, please. Don’t. What you’re doing there is too important and I work late tonight anyway.”
“I’m coming home.” A distant voice calls his name and he adds, “I have to go. I may not be able to call you again but I’ll see you when I get there.”
“I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?”
“Not a chance.”
We say a short good-bye forced on us by someone calling him again, and when I hear the phone go dead, I let my head fall backward to the wooden surface of the door behind me. I am far too happy that Chris is putting himself through hell to see me tonight, and he is far too willing to let it happen. What are we doing to each other? And why can’t either of us stop?
• • •
After pulling myself together, I step out of the bathroom and a prickling of awareness brings me to a halt. My gaze lifts, seeking the source. My throat tightens at the sight of Mark standing in profile to me at the counter to the right of the register, talking with Ava. I can’t see his face, but Ava does not look happy, even less so when Mark leans in closer, intimately close to her ear, to finish whatever he is saying. There is more to their relationship than I had thought and I wonder if I know any of these people at all.
Ava’s eyes lift and find mine, and I realize I’m not only staring, but have been caught. I tear my attention away and rush to my table, feeling Mark’s gaze on me, intense and heavy. I wonder if everyone else here understands that the power charging the air is him claiming the room simply by existing, or if they just feel the unidentified crackle I did upon exiting the bathroom.
I gather my things at my table, preparing to explain why I’m here instead of at the gallery. It should surprise me that Mark doesn’t approach me at my table but it doesn’t. Of course, he’s building the tension, ensuring I squirm for his enjoyment. It’s a familiar method of control to me, or rather, used on me, that fits Mark like a glove. It used to fit me as well, but not anymore. I’ve come a long way toward understanding and even seeing the positive in Mark today. Understanding doesn’t mean liking all that I see, though, and I don’t right now.
It’s not until I am almost at the door of the coffee shop that he appears at my side. Towering over me, he opens the door; his eyes dark, filled with the never-ending challenge he offers me. “I was afraid you’d gone MIA like Rebecca, Ms. McMillan.”
I blink up at him and the past few weeks have done something to my self-censorship. I seem to have none left in me. “I told Amanda where I was going. And besides, I’m not that easy to get rid of.” I push open the door and steel myself for the wind that smacks me in the face as I step outside. Mark steps to my side about the same time the double, or even triple meanings that could be taken from my words, hit me. If he’d killed Rebecca, he might think I was saying he couldn’t kill me off, too, but I don’t think that Mark killed Rebecca. He just fucked her. In all kinds of ways. I’ve potentially just undone all I established with him by issuing him an invitation to give me a try and promising I won’t run.
I stop walking and turn to face him. “I didn’t mean that the way you might have taken it.”
His dark stare lightens with amusement. “I know, Ms. McMillan. But do remember it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
“Somehow, I find it hard to believe you’d let any woman think for herself enough to do that.”
“You might be surprised what I would let the right woman do.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I don’t intend—”
He laughs, low and deep, and I’m taken off guard. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him laugh. “I’m aware you don’t intend to do many things I’d like you to.”
I open my mouth to protest even having this conversation, but he cuts me off by adding, “And no, I’m not going to pressure you.” He turns me toward the gallery. “Let’s get back to the gallery. I left you a little gift on your desk.”
Thankfully, my back is to him, so he can’t see me react to his words. Mark has succeeded in doing what only Chris has done before this. He’s sent me into an adrenaline rush of anticipation and I can barely keep my pace slow and even. I don’t know what to expect. A rare piece of art? An official job offer? The possibilities are many.
I expect Mark to follow me to my office, but again, he is unpredictable. I’m relieved, certain that the less Mark sees me react and the less he knows what makes me tick, the better. The instant I walk into my office, I freeze. Lying on top of my desk is a journal that matches the ones I’ve locked away in Chris’s safe.
Eleven
The journal Mark left for me is sitting in my lap as I drive to Alvarez’s Victorian mansion in San Francisco’s ritzy Nob Hill area, sometimes referred to as Snob Hill. Just ten minutes from the Allure Gallery, it’s here that the rich and famous are plentiful, and aside from mansions galore, the nearby shopping and theater districts cater to the elite. I’ve gone from avoiding the things that remind me of the money I left behind to drowning in it.
I maneuver into the driveway, which is remarkably unremarkable, but with a city less than forty-seven square miles, even here it’s expected. What space doesn’t allow on the outside is made up for with glamour on the inside. Since my Google search for directions brought up references to a renowned architect, I’m quite certain this one is not the exception.
Once I kill the engine of the 911, I stare at the red door of the house, my teeth worrying my bottom lip. I am not drowning, I remind myself. I’m taking control of my life. I’m no longer hiding. I’m no longer in denial. I have a meeting with the famous, talented Ricco Alvarez. So why the heck am I not hopping out of the car, when it’s five minutes until my meeting and being early makes a good impression?
My fingers wrap around the journal I’ve found to be both a treasure and a disappointment. It is far from the dark and revealing view into Rebecca’s soul that are the other journals. It’s a detailed accounting of every piece of work she ever sold or evaluated for Riptide. The most revealing things are her short insights into the staff, buyers, sellers, and artists that she has encountered and their personality quirks, interests, and history.
Her notes about Chris are scribbled out and no matter how I try, I cannot make them out, though I’m not surprised about the various art he’s sold through Riptide to benefit the children’s hospital. I can’t think about that now, though. I have to conquer this meeting with success, despite the unease inside me I have no real reason to feel. Rebecca’s notes were positive on Alvarez. Generally misunderstood, and while motivated by money and success, he has proven generous in tremendous ways.
I’m close to the gallery. I’m supposed to call Mark after my meeting. People know where I am. But . . . I don’t want to be stupid. What if Mark and Alvarez are the two men in the journal?
I grab my phone out of my purse and hit the auto-dial I’ve programmed for Jacob. He answers on the first ring. “Everything okay, Ms. McMillan?”
“Yes. Completely fine. I just . . . want to make sure it stays that way. I’m probably being paranoid, but . . .”
“Paranoid is better than careless.”
I have no idea how much he knows about Rebecca or what I have going on, but I don’t think it matters anyway. “I’m headed into a business meeting and my boss knows where I am, but in light of recent incidents, I’d like someone else to know as well.”
“What’s the address?”
“It’s the private gallery for the artist Ricco Alvarez,” I explain after reciting the address. “I’m not sure how long the meeting will be. It could be fifteen minutes or two hours. If it’s short I’ll head back to an event going on at the gallery.”
“Can you check in in an hour to let me know you’re okay?”
“I’ll try, but I don’t want to be rude in the meeting.”
“Just text me if you can. That’s discreet.”
“Right. Okay. Thanks, Jacob.” I hesitate and cringe, imagining the moment Jacob tells Chris where I’m at. “Jacob. Don’t tell Chris where I’m at while he’s traveling. He’ll worry. He’s had a horrible trip and I don’t want him to stress out any more than he already has.”
“If he asks, I have to tell him, but . . . I won’t go out of my way to announce it.”
“Thank you very much, Jacob.”
“My pleasure, Ms. McMillan, and I mean that. Chris seems different with you around.”
It is the same thing his godmother had said to me when we’d visited her winery. “Is that good?”
“It is. Be safe.”
“I will.” I hope. I say good-bye and hang up. Not giving myself time to fret, I grab my briefcase, get out of the car, and head for the door. My phone goes in my jacket pocket, where I keep it out of habit.
Several flights of stairs later, I’m standing at the top of the porch, relieved to find two entries, one of which is marked STUDIO. This setup is comforting and feels safer and more professional. I lift my hand to knock on the studio entry and the door flies open to reveal Ricco Alvarez. He is striking, not handsome by any means, but there is this arrogant confidence about him that comes across as more suave than belligerent. His skin is a rich brown, his features sharp and defined, like the touch of his brush, and from what I’ve heard, his personality.
“Welcome, Ms. McMillan.”
“Sara,” I say. His teal business shirt, which he’s paired with his black slacks, accents eyes the same bright color. “And thank you.”
“Sara,” he replies with a gracious nod of his head, and the tension in my spine eases just a bit with the use of my name.
He backs up to allow me to pass and my gaze lifts to the massive all-glass ceilings. “Spectacular, isn’t it?” Ricco asks.
“It is,” I agree, letting him take my briefcase and jacket. “And so is the floor.” The pale, shiny wood is almost too brilliant to walk on. “You artists have a way of delivering drama.”
He hangs my things on a fancy steel rack mounted on the wall. “Some would say me more so than others.”
Considering all the talk about him, I’m surprised at his smile and I like that he can joke about himself. “I’ve heard that,” I dare to reply, my lips curving.
“At least I have people talking.” He motions me forward. “Welcome to my studio, Bella.”
Bella. Beautiful in Spanish. An endearment should make my unease more powerful. Instead, I instantly believe he tries to romanticize everything from his dramatic home to his conversation.
We walk side by side through an archway at least seven feet high, and he dominates the space, being well over six feet himself. The space comes into view and it’s like I’m back at Allure. The narrow, rectangular room has several elegant display walls, and at least six paintings on every wall.
Alvarez steps to my side and motions to the room. “These are the pieces that I have at present and will allow for private sales.”
I glance up at him and state what I guess to be the truth. “The ones you’re willing to show me at this point in time, you mean.”
“You are direct, aren’t you?”
“Just eager to see every amazing piece of your work you will let me see.” I wave my hand toward the art. “Can I?”
“Of course.”
My path forward is instant and it’s a beeline for a painting on the far right of the room. I stop in front of the Picasso-like Mediterranean landscape, with sharp lines and dynamic colors, and I’m in sensory overload.
“You like the Meredith?” he asks.
“I love it,” I say and cut him a sideways look. “Why do you call it Meredith?
“A woman I once knew, of course.”
“I’m sure she’s honored.”
“She hates me, but alas, there is a fine line between love and hate.”
“Then you and Mark must be darn near in love,” I comment, baiting him to tell me about his reasons for pulling his work from the gallery.
His eyes light with amusement. “You are quite the character, Bella. I like you. I see why Mark likes you.”
“How do you know he does?”
“Because he trusted you enough to send you here and he wants my business back.”
“Why’d he lose it?”
“Why did he tell you he lost it?”
“He said that you wanted Rebecca’s contact information and he couldn’t give it to you.”
Disdain fills his eyes. “There is much more to it than that, and Mark knows it.”
“I’d like to hear.”
“I’m sure you would,” he says, and for the first time I catch a sharpness to his voice that makes me bel
ieve he’s capable of cutting flesh and blood with words. “But out of respect for Rebecca, I won’t be sharing more.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be inappropriate.”
I watch the tension slide away from his features, and the steel of seconds before is gone. “Forgive me, Bella. Rebecca is a touchy subject for me. Now, why don’t we walk through the paintings and let me tell you about each?”
My moment for digging for information is lost, but I hope to find another one. We begin moving around the room, and I ask questions and gush over his work. In between my questions, I answer questions from him as well. “Who’s your favorite Renaissance artist?” “How do you ensure you aren’t buying a fake?” “What have been the top five bestselling paintings in the last five years?” After a bit, he looks pleased at my answers and our talk turns more casual.
After I have seen that three of his paintings are named after women, I cannot help but comment on the trend. “You must be quite the lady’s man.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he assures me, “and perhaps I am guilty as charged. I guess it depends on who is defining what constitutes a lady’s man.”
The statement strikes me as true beyond its intention. How many of us allow others to define us and thus we become what they want us to be, not what we should be or could be?
We continue to chat about the art and I’ve lost track of time when finally we have finished our tour of his work. “You’re impressively knowledgeable, Bella.”
This time I don’t try to control the curve of my lips. “Glad to hear you think so. I don’t know who drilled me harder about my knowledge of art, you or Mark.”
His eyes narrow. “Does he let you call him Mark?”
I cringe inside at my slip. “Ah, no. Mr. Compton.”
“Of course he doesn’t.” The snideness to his tone is hard to miss. “My friends call me Ricco, Sara, and so shall you.”
“Does this mean you will let me show your work to my client?” I ask hopefully.
“You may show my work. Mark may not. I’ll give you a private commission of twenty-five percent. Mark I will give nothing.”