No Fooling Around: Lennox Brothers Romantic Comedy Page 6

  “Not yet. Apparently there was some kind of scuffle in the yard so he’s gone into confinement and they aren’t letting him have visitors. It’s so unfair. Hopefully I’ll get to see him soon, but in the meantime, I can only hope he’s okay.”

  They hadn’t even let me talk to him since the phone call that had brought me to California. But I’d been able to have myself added to his visitation list so I could see him as soon as they’d let me.

  Then I’d find out for myself how everything had gone so wrong.

  Chapter Seven

  Iola

  “See?” said Gloria. “You had nothing to worry about.”

  “You have no idea how relieved I am.” I spoke from the heart, gazing at all the people crammed in around us, filling the community center’s gallery space.

  “The whole town’s here.” Gloria sounded gleeful.

  “Thanks to you.” I wanted to hug her, but settled for putting my hand on her forearm to give it a quick squeeze.

  Meeting Gloria had been one of the best things to happen to me since arriving in San Dante. She ran the community center and taught art classes, and I couldn’t believe how nice she’d been. Ever since I’d knocked on her door and introduced myself, she’d been enthusiastic about organizing an exhibition of my work. I already counted her as a friend, and hopefully she felt the same way.

  She tucked one of her orange curls behind her ear and grabbed a glass of sparkling wine off a passing waiter’s tray. “Everyone loves your paintings. You’ve sold a few already.”

  “Honestly, I was afraid people would hate them. This is a new style for me, and it was a risk.”

  “A risk that’s paid off.”

  Thank goodness it had. In London I’d painted polite landscapes Benedict had approved of, because when I did things he didn’t like, he made my life unpleasant. But since arriving in California I’d finally been free to paint whatever I wanted. I’d found myself creating a series of portraits. My pent-up fear and relief were so strong, the images had seemed to burst out of me onto the canvases. Each portrait was of a person sitting in front of a mirror, their body and surroundings realistic. But they didn’t have faces. Instead, each figure had an explosion of color where their face should be.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned.

  “Excuse me. You’re the artist, aren’t you?” It was an elderly woman with short silver hair and crinkled cheeks that looked like they’d been folded too many times. Her pink shirt had the word ViaGranny embroidered on one pocket, the letters stretched across her very ample bosom. In fact, there were a few older women here who were wearing the same shirt. Maybe they were all members of a bowling team and ViaGranny was their team name?

  “That’s right. I’m Iola Martin. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs…?”

  “Beatrice Abernathy,” she supplied. “I want to buy that painting.”

  She pointed. But I barely saw which one she was indicating, because my gaze caught on the man standing in front of the painting. I’d been watching him all evening, my attention constantly drawn to him, my mind distracted by him while I was supposed to be talking to the people buying my paintings.

  Dressed in a smart charcoal shirt and pants, so handsome it hurt to look at him, he was a steady rock standing firm in the colorful sea of people. While everyone else seemed more intent on chattering to each other and drinking glasses of the cheap sparkling wine I’d scrimped to buy, I’d noticed Asher found a space in front of each of my paintings to stand and look for a long time, as though to consider each one carefully.

  “Good choice,” said Gloria to Beatrice. “That painting’s one of my favorites.”

  Beatrice nodded. “I like it too, but I’m not sure I understand it. I want to know what all the colors over the woman’s face mean.”

  “Let’s get closer.” I was already moving toward Asher, motioning the other two to follow. As I approached him, Asher turned. His gunmetal eyes landed on mine, and I felt my feet stop as though I had no control over them. If only I had a sketchpad to capture the straight line of Asher’s lips, his dark, serious eyes, and the sharp angles of his cheeks, nose, and chin.

  “So?” asked Beatrice from beside me. “Why doesn’t the woman in the painting have a face?”

  Though I heard her question, I was so busy staring at Asher while I slashed black lines onto an imaginary canvas, I couldn’t concentrate on what she was asking. The light in his eyes would be the brightest highlight. The rest would be angles and shadows, a severely handsome face emerging from a black background, his expression inscrutable, trapping the viewer with the force of his sharply intelligent gaze.

  I was mentally tracing the only curves in the painting, his charcoal irises, imagining how I’d capture the intensity in them, when Asher looked at Beatrice.

  “Because the painting depicts how the woman feels,” he said.

  With a jolt I realized I must have been staring silently at him for an uncomfortably long time.

  Beatrice touched my arm, giving me a puzzled frown. “Are you all right, dear?”

  I drew in a breath, trying to push away the vivid portrait of Asher I’d created in my mind. “Um.” I blinked at the painting that was actually in front of me and tried to focus on that instead. “Sorry, what?”

  “Her appearance is colored by her emotions.” Asher tilted his head toward the woman in the painting. “What she’s seeing in the mirror isn’t real life, but a distortion. See her stiff spine and clenched fists? I think she’s trying hard to control it, but her anger’s exploding out anyway. The red part represents her fury. She’s raging at something outside of herself, but see there, where it’s tinged with sadness? She’s also mad at herself.” His gray eyes moved back to mine as I felt my lips part with surprise. “Have I interpreted your painting correctly, Iola?”

  “Yes.” The word came out a little hoarse. “That’s it exactly.” How had he been able to articulate what was in my head as though it were obvious? The clues in the painting were subtle enough that nobody else seemed to have picked up on them.

  “It’s a self-portrait, isn’t it?” Asher asked the question as though he already knew the answer.

  I nodded, unable to unglue my eyes from his. “Yes,” I said again. As an artist in desperate need of money, I should be talking more about the painting, pointing out things that might encourage Beatrice to buy it. But I was lost for words.

  Was I completely transparent to Asher? His gray eyes weren’t just sharp, they seemed to have power to open me up and peek inside.

  “I had no idea it was a self-portrait,” exclaimed Gloria. “Why didn’t you tell me? But it’s obvious now I’ve seen it.” She waved her half-full champagne flute at Asher. “How do you know so much about art, Asher? You’ve never come to any exhibitions I’ve organized before.”

  “You two know each other?” I asked, looking between Asher and Gloria and feeling a pang of…

  Wait. Was that jealousy?

  Uh-oh.

  It was one thing to be attracted to Asher for his gorgeous looks and mysterious reserve, but having just escaped a bad marriage, the last thing I needed was to crush on him so hard I got jealous just because Gloria was so pretty.

  “Everyone knows each other around here.” Gloria waved a hand to indicate it was no big deal.

  “San Dante might attract a lot of tourists, but for the people who live here all year round, it feels like a small town,” Asher said.

  “I want that portrait.” Beatrice Abernathy was still staring at it. “Now I can see the rage in it, I love it even more. You’re really angry, aren’t you dear?”

  My face warmed. I could express my feelings in paint a lot easier than hearing them analyzed. Giving a little laugh, I waved a hand to make light of it. “I have an ex-husband. That explains the anger.”

  “Just one ex-husband? I have three. When it comes to rage you’re still an amateur, dear. One or two more will really develop your temper.” Beatrice patted my shoulder. “Now put my name
on that painting before Dolores snaps it up. She’s got her eye on it too, but seeing as she cheats at poker, I’m going to beat her to it.”

  I gave Beatrice a grateful smile. “Of course. Thank you. I’ll show you where to put down your details, and I’ll call you tomorrow to arrange payment and collection.”

  “Let me,” said Gloria. “I’ll take you to the purchasing sheet, Beatrice.” She took the old woman’s arm. “Come this way.”

  “Congratulations,” Asher said when they’d disappeared into the crowd. “Another painting sold. Although that’s the one I wanted.”

  “Oh no.” I shook my head. “You’ve already done so much for me, I’m not going to ask for anything else. You don’t need to buy anything.”

  “Are you kidding? If I had more walls I’d buy all of them, but that one’s my favorite.” He glanced after Beatrice. “Maybe I could make her an offer.”

  “Beatrice is smaller than you are. Just ambush her when she’s carrying it out of here and wrestle it away from her.” I smiled, though I’m sure he could tell I was joking.

  “The ViaGranny Gang are all tougher than they look. She’d probably clobber me with her handbag and steal my wallet.”

  “What’s the ViaGranny Gang?” I looked toward the group of women in pink shirts who were now gathered around the purchasing sheet, gesticulating wildly as they argued over the list of paintings. “Are they a bowling team?”

  He nodded. “They also play cards, drink heavily, flirt with men of all ages, and generally cause trouble around town. ‘ViaGranny’ is a combination of Viagra and Granny. Because, according to them, it’s a good mix.”

  I snorted a laugh. “They all look around eighty.”

  “At least.”

  “I hope they let me join their club when I get to their age.”

  “You have to have lost at least one husband in highly suspicious circumstances to get in.”

  I gave a rueful grin. “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Beatrice can’t even see very well.” He glanced after her again, and this time a faint, thin line appeared between his eyebrows. “She won’t appreciate the painting like I will.”

  “Get Nemesis to steal it for you,” I suggested.

  “The painting’s a lot bigger than your panties. It won’t be as easy to take.”

  I laughed again, mostly at how serious he sounded, as though he’d done the math on the panties versus painting equation. “How do you stay so deadpan, even when you talk about stealing my panties?”

  “Oh.” A middle-aged woman had approached, probably intending to talk to me. But now she backed away with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. I’ll come back when you’re not talking about…um…” The woman turned and fled.

  I bit my lip. “Oops. Note to self, don’t talk about panty stealing in public.”

  He leaned in, dropping his voice. “Especially not where the ViaGranny Gang could overhear. Any one of them would happily offer their granny panties to be stolen. If they’re actually wearing any.”

  His low, intimate tone made me feel suddenly aware of how close together we were, and a shiver ran over my body. His shirt was open at the throat, and the sliver of tanned, muscled chest I could see was ridiculously sexy. I wanted to touch that smooth skin. To undo the rest of his buttons and run my hands over him.

  “Cocktail sausage?” A passing waiter thrust his tray between us.

  I jerked back, dragging in a breath.

  What was I thinking? I had to get a grip on myself.

  Asher took a sausage, so I grabbed one too, mainly to have something to distract me from thoughts about his body. As the waiter moved on, I held up the party snack. “Want to hear a joke about tiny wrinkled sausages and missing granny panties?”

  Asher choked on his sausage.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Mm-hm.” He thumped his fist against his chest. “Just a small sausage malfunction. It went down the wrong way.”

  “Your sausage slipped into the wrong hole?”

  Asher looked surprised for a moment, then his lips twitched up as he clearly tried to hold back a smile.

  The Fairy of Good Looks and Sex Appeal may as well have taken out her magic wand and clobbered me with it. A deadpan Asher rated full marks on the attractiveness scale, but when his grey eyes crinkled, the scale shattered.

  Okay, now the man was officially driving me crazy. Did the community center have a private office out the back? Could I convince Asher to go in there with me, and—

  “Is something wrong?” he asked. His brow didn’t exactly furrow, but his eyes darkened and pulled down a little, in what had to be an Asher equivalent of a frown.

  Noticing it probably meant I was starting to be able to read his expressions. Like learning a secret language. Oh lord, that was even sexier.

  “Iola?”

  “Yes.” I swallowed hard. “Um. You said you’re in construction, right? Are you building anything now?”

  “We’ve just started work on the town’s new library and post office.”

  “I’ve seen the diggers on Church Street, but you don’t have enough callouses to be a builder. Your hands don’t look rough.” I couldn’t help myself. I touched my fingers to the back of his hand, just because I had to feel his skin. And sure enough, a shiver passed through me.

  He didn’t move his hand away. Instead he leaned a little closer to me. His gaze played over my face, moving from my eyes, down to my lips, and back again. His voice was low and intimate. “I don’t swing a hammer these days. Mostly I sit at a computer.”

  I licked my lips. “It’s your company?”

  He nodded, watching my mouth.

  “You’re doing well for yourself.” My voice was barely louder than a whisper. Surely I wasn’t imagining the heat in his eyes, or the way my lips seemed to be holding his attention?

  “I’m not the one creating masterpieces.”

  Heat travelled up from my neck and I attempted a chuckle. “They’re hardly masterpieces.”

  “You’re doing something special. You deserve to be proud.” He spoke so deliberately, and his gaze was so intense, so focused, it felt like the best compliment I’d ever received.

  My face warmed even more, and I was sure I was turning bright red. “Thank you. I’ll be happy if some of them sell. I could use the money.”

  His eyes darkened. “You’re short of money?”

  I could have kicked myself. “No, not like that. Don’t worry. Well, I need to pay my bills, but it’s not…” I shook my head, flustered. “My ex-husband used money to control me, so if I could invent an ideal world, there’d be no money at all.”

  “Congratulations, Iola!” Gloria’s voice was startlingly loud from behind me, and I jumped a little, then turned. To my surprise, the crowd was starting to thin. How long had Asher and I been talking?

  “We’re starting to wrap things up now. This is for you.” Gloria pressed a bottle of champagne into my hands.

  “What?” I blinked at her. Asher had been taking up so much of my awareness, letting in everything else felt like emerging from a dream. “But I should be the one giving you a gift to thank you for hosting my show.”

  “Sweetie, you need to celebrate selling all your paintings.”

  My jaw loosened. “Every single one is sold?”

  Gloria grinned. “I had a feeling they’d go quickly. As soon as I saw them, I knew your portraits were special.”

  “That’s incredible. Thank you.” I hugged the bottle to my chest, wanting to jump up and down. “Will you celebrate with me?”

  Gloria screwed up her nose. “I wish I could, but the woman I care for hasn’t been well. I should get back to check on her.”

  I turned to Asher. Perhaps I should be wary of how overwhelming my attraction to him was, but I couldn’t help myself. “Asher? Will you?”

  Chapter Eight

  Asher

  It was a bad idea to accompany Iola all the way into Santino’s hous
e.

  But still, I went.

  Though Kade occasionally complained I was too clever for my own good, if he could see me now he’d think I was an idiot. My brain had decided to take a break, and it wasn’t the organ controlling my feet as I followed Iola into the living room.

  “Ruff!” she called, kicking off her shoes.

  There was an answering bark, and her enormous dog lumbered up to greet her. His tail wagged so enthusiastically, it could have powered a small town. He thumped his body against her legs then dropped to the floor, rolling over to present his belly. With a laugh, she bent to scratch it.

  When she straightened, my lungs seemed to forget their purpose.

  Iola’s hair was glossy and sleek around her face and her eyes caught the light so they looked even greener than normal, the color of iridescent moss. Her smudged freckles were like a treasure map pointing the way to her plump, perfect lips.

  “I’m cracking open the champagne,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”

  I winced at her choice of words–she had no way to know I was actually going to make her home mine. It had been a mistake coming inside. Seeing how comfortable she looked here would only make me feel worse about what I needed to do.

  As she headed toward the kitchen, Ruff lumbering behind her, I considered whether I should make an excuse to leave.

  “Will you put some music on?” she called back to me. “Use the record player.”

  “The record player?” Though I could see into this room from my spare bedroom, the view was limited. I’d never noticed a record player, and it was an unusual thing to have.

  “It’s in the far corner,” she called. “Beside the bookcase.”

  I crossed over to it, looking around curiously. As many times as I’d seen into this room from next door, I’d never actually been inside it before.

  Iola had set up an easel against one wall, with a wheeled table next to it that was covered with tubes of paint. The entire room smelled strongly of paint and linseed oil. The rest of the furniture was unchanged from when Santino lived here, but an enormous dog bed was beside the couch, and dog toys were scattered across the floor.