Anywhere You Are (7 page)

He'd meant his kiss to be tame, composed, before they completely fell down the rabbit hole, but Grace was having none of it. Before he could even get his bearings, she licked against the seam of his lips, urging him to open, and the moment he did, her tongue touched his. There was nothing tentative about the way she tasted and explored, unmooring him in an instant.

Her passion was palpable, her eyes closed, her breathing deep. She'd wrapped one little hand around his waist and the other was fisted in the front of his shirt, using it as leverage to tug him closer. The hard little points of her nipples rasped his chest. She was aroused, and the thought that he'd been the one to do that—to make this wild woman want him—filled him with a deep satisfaction.

Her mouth was heaven, wet and warm, and dear God, what was she doing with her tongue? Whatever it was sent a jolt straight to his cock.

His hand tightened in her hair, the other hand snaked up the back of her shirt to touch petal-soft skin. She wasn't wearing a bra.

Of course she wasn't, which made him even harder.

Grace Davingham wasn't tidy or neat. She was messy, passionate, and earthy. She didn't fit into his life at all. And yet he felt himself unraveling. Work, family, obligations—all of that flew directly out the window.

He'd need hours with her in bed. Days, to explore every inch of her sweet curves. To lose himself in her over and over again.

If he didn't stop this now…well, he didn't want to think about what might happen. Gently, he pulled back, extricating himself from her luscious body.

She pulled back too, the lingering expression of passion on her face slowly morphing to one of surprise. “I didn't think you'd kiss like that,” she said, her voice husky.

There were a lot of things he'd bet she didn't think about him. And before he threw all his carefully made plans out the window, he needed to get some distance.

“I should go.”

Her gaze dipped. “Right. Uh, well, I'll take care of Big Blue, and you can, um, call me when you get back or you want to pick him up. I—”

“Grace?”

She still wouldn't look at him.

“Grace.” His tone of voice brooked no opposition. She turned and tipped her head up. He cupped her jaw in his palm. “I'll see you next week, okay?”

Her worried look disappeared and her expression softened. “Okay,” she whispered.

Gently, he brushed his lips over hers one last time, wanting so much to linger but knowing it wasn't wise.

Together, they walked to the clearing. Big Blue came to join them, and let out one mighty bark after Marc slammed his car door shut. He started the engine and slowly went down the long gravel driveway.

Grace was in his rearview mirror, her long hair blowing in the summer breeze, a smile on her lovely face, one hand on Big Blue's great head and the other in the air, waving goodbye.

Someone to come home to.

Right then and there, he knew that if he wasn't careful, he was going to fall and fall hard.

And it was probably going to hurt.

Only at that moment, the taste of her still on his lips, the feel of her still on his skin, Marc couldn't find it in himself to care.

Grace kept her head held high as she and Big Blue walked down Main Street in downtown Eastbridge. They were getting stares—plenty of them—but for once, it wasn't because of her.

Big Blue was attracting all the attention, and Grace was more than okay with that.

Since Marc had left her on Saturday afternoon, she and Big Blue had gotten along famously. She'd figured out what he liked—regular brushing, lots of romps in the woods, and curling up right in front of her great-room hearth. Not being able to find a dog bed in the right size, she'd gotten some big horse blankets from her storage shed for him to lie on, and he seemed to be happy with that. For now.

In turn, he'd followed her everywhere without fuss—to her studio, to her appointments. Everywhere she went, so did Big Blue.

She loved it.

Grace stopped outside an upscale gallery—the one right off Elm that she'd heard had the best reputation in town. Rubbing Big Blue behind the ears made him rumble with pleasure.

“I wish you could come in with me, Blue,” she said to the dog, “but there are too many breakable things.” Plus, not everyone loved him as much as she did. Only yesterday, she'd scared an entire playground full of mothers who'd whisked their children off the play structures and bundled them away as soon as they'd seen her romping with Big Blue in the park nearby.

Grace looped his leash around a post. “I'll be right back.”

She entered the gallery and looked around. It was upscale, all right, with immaculately lacquered wood floors and pristine white walls.

There were several watercolor paintings hanging on the wall and a few mixed-media sculptures on stands, but the majority of the works were oil. And there was a whole wall dedicated to wildlife.

She was in the right place.

A middle-aged woman with a bright red scarf tied around her neck emerged from the back room. “Welcome to Anderson Gallery,” she said in a pleasant tone of voice. “I'm Maribelle Anderson, the owner. May I help you find something?”

“I'm actually not here to buy,” Grace told her. “I'm a local artist. I studied at the Pratt Institute under Michelle Westing and—”

“You're very young,” the woman said, cutting her off. “Do you have any museum or gallery credits? Any editorial work?”

“I was commissioned to do some work for
Nature
magazine and the Audubon Society, but those won't be published until the fall.”

“We only accept works on referral,” the woman said. “I'm so sorry.”

“I understand,” Grace said, expecting her to say exactly that. “But I was hoping that you'd consider taking a look at my portfolio anyway.” She held her breath.

The woman nodded her elegant head at her portfolio. “Is that it, there?”

“Yes,” Grace told her, pulling the folder out from under her arm.

The woman sighed deeply. “I don't usually do this…but all right. Why don't you show me what you have?”

She was in! Grace crossed the room to the one table, upon which was a sleek white tablet to ring up purchases. “May I?”

“Yes.”

Grace opened the manila folder and stepped back, watching the woman carefully. First, she blinked, as if startled. Then, she peered closer.

On the top of the pile was a pencil sketch of a snowy egret. She'd captured the bird mid-ruffle, and she was particularly proud of her clever use of perspective. The woman studied it for a long time, then she carefully flipped through the rest of Grace's pieces. When she was done, she shut the folder.

“You have some real talent, my dear.”

“Thank you,” Grace said.

“But I'm afraid I can't accept any of these works from an unknown artist. Local or not, I just can't sell without a name, without a platform.”

“I'm a conservationist,” Grace told her.

“Not that kind of platform,” she said. “Your name. Who you are. What shows you have done. Who your mentor is. Raw talent simply isn't enough, no matter how passionate your cause. Get the experience, then come back to talk to me in a few years and I'll see what I can do.”

Grace was crushed, but she nodded and tucked her folder back under her arm. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Anderson.” She reached out to shake the woman's hand.

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn't, but it's Grace. Grace Davingham.”

Maribelle immediately squeezed her hand tighter. “
The
Grace Davingham?”

Unfortunately.
“Yes.”

“I hardly recognized you without…”

Makeup. My entourage. The swarming cameras.
“It's me, all right.” Grace withdrew her hand and Maribelle blinked at her some more.

“And you're an artist.”

“I like to think so, yes.”

Maribelle's expression immediately switched from contrite to calculating. “Well, this changes everything. Everything.” Her eyes narrowed speculatively. “Have you been to any other galleries yet?”

“No, I—”

“Good,” she said with satisfaction. “Your first show will be here, at Anderson Gallery. An exclusive.” She didn't wait for Grace to give her consent, but immediately went on. “Are the rest of your pieces this good? How many do you have completed?”

“Uh, completed? Maybe a hundred?”

“A hundred! Why, that's incredible. Who knew Grace Davingham was an artist, and a great one at that?”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Grace said.
Once you found out who I really was.
“Truly, I do. But I just want to be clear that I don't paint under my real name. I use a pseudonym—Grace Eden.”

The woman looked as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because the focus should be on the cause, not on me.”

It took only a moment for Maribelle to get her bearings again. “I'm going to be very blunt with you, my dear. The name sells the painting,” she said. “A Grace Davingham painting will go for thousands. Maybe more. A Grace Eden painting?” She shook her head as if the number weren't even worth mentioning.

“So what you're saying is that unless I'm willing to use my real name, you can't help me.”

“That's right. Art's a tough sell, even in Eastbridge. And in this market?” She rolled her eyes. “But if you have something to hook people, draw them in…such as celebrity…that's an entirely different ball of wax.”

“I'm not ready for that,” Grace said.

“You may not be now, but someday?” She gave a casual shrug, as if to say
perhaps.
“Life changes things.” She drew a card from a silver bowl on the table and handed it to Grace. “I hope to be your first call if you ever change your mind.”

After her disappointing visit to the gallery, Grace and Big Blue drove home. She parked the truck in the clearing and sat there for a moment, still processing what Maribelle had said.

Celebrity was in. Talent was out.

At least Maribelle had given her a straight answer. She'd pitched her endangered species project to a well-known publisher of environmental books but had yet to receive the courtesy of a reply. Grace's agent, a lawyer named Reed, had said it would take a while, but as far as she could tell, publishing moved at a glacial speed, because it had already been fourteen months.

Grace sighed and went around the back to let Blue out. She could tell something was wrong the moment Blue hopped out of her flatbed because instead of going into the woods to do his business, as usual, he put his nose to the ground and started sniffing. He zigged and he zagged in a strange pattern, going right up to the side door, then falling away again to the woodpile and back.

Finally, he stopped, then gave a mighty bark.

“What is it, boy?” Grace said, following him. “What'd you find?” She followed him over to where he stood at the edge of the gravel where dirt turned to grass. And then she saw it. A distinctive paw print in the damp dirt.

Bear tracks.

She could tell from the wide, deep pad and the short, curved claws.

The black bear population in Connecticut was on the rise, but they were more likely to be spotted in the northwestern part of the state. Still, there'd been a smattering of sightings in Eastbridge. They'd been lured close to human dwellings, either by compost piles or garbage. And once you fed them, they'd keep coming back for more.

Grace thought she'd been pretty decent about being a good neighbor, but maybe she'd just been deluding herself. She left her crockpot on all the time, even when she wasn't home, and before she'd gone downtown this morning she'd set a big pot of soup to simmer on the stovetop. The savory aroma permeated the air—leeks and carrots and roasted barley. It smelled delicious…and probably not just to human beings.

Maybe it was a bear magnet.

Big Blue barked again, and before she could grab him, he raced into the woods.

“Blue!” she shouted. “Big Blue! Come back!”

The dog ignored her. Grace started to panic. What if the bear was still around? What if he attacked Big Blue? The dog was huge, but black bears were dangerous, powerful, and deadly if provoked.

“Blue!” She finally got her wits about her, stuck her fingers in her mouth, and whistled, loud and long.
Please come home. Please.

After what seemed like an eternity, Grace heard some crashing in the underbrush, and then Big Blue's glossy coat appeared through a patch of ferns.

“Thank God,” she breathed. If anything happened to him, she'd just die. “Come here, Blue.” She grabbed his collar and pulled him into the house. “Don't scare me like that again.”

She'd gotten Blue safely ensconced in his favorite spot in front of the hearth when a knock sounded at the door,

“Coming,” Grace called, hobbling to the door and sliding it open. In all the excitement, she hadn't heard anyone pull up on the usually noisy gravel driveway.

It was someone she hadn't anticipated—a six-foot-tall, effortlessly beautiful woman with long, dark hair and mile-long legs, shown off to perfection in a pair of skinny jeans that hugged her slender figure. Her lips were fashionably plump, but not overdone. Her cheekbones were works of art. In fact, they were
actual
works of art, featured prominently in a series of Andy Warhol–like silkscreen paintings by an up-and-coming modern artist. At fifty-six, Sophie Whalley might not be walking runways or doing editorial work, but she was still one of the most famous supermodels alive.

“Hello, Mom,” Grace sighed.

“Darling,” Sophie returned, hugging her so tightly that Grace had to hold on to the door frame for balance so she wouldn't teeter over on her good leg.

Behind her mom, she saw the entourage that predictably accompanied her everywhere she went these days. Two vans, and a sedan so wide, she had no idea how it had even gotten down her driveway without losing its side paint job. Doors opened, and people began to pour from the vehicles like clown cars emptying their cargo.

Before Grace had a chance to protest, Sophie pulled back with her arms still on her shoulders and gave her a critical look. “So beautiful,” she said. “That picture really didn't do you justice.”

“What picture?”

Sophie whipped her cellphone out of her expensive tote and held it up so Grace could see. “This one.”

Grace squinted at the screen. Good Lord, it was her at the Eastbridge Farmers' Market, in Marc's arms. He looked handsome. She looked scattered, a hot mess with her blowsy hair and her face tipped up to his. She flicked down to the story, which inevitably accompanied pictures of this type. “
Love is in the Air for Gracie Davingham,”
the header screamed.

“Where did you get this?” Grace demanded.

“It's all over the tabloids, honey,” Sophie said, plucking the phone back and eyeing the shot appraisingly. “If you'd told me, we could have arranged for a better shot. Or someone better known.” She cocked her head at the screen. “Not that he isn't handsome, though. I thought that the first time I saw you two together on TMZ. Who is he?” Grace opened her mouth to answer, but Sophie waved her hands. “It doesn't matter. He's the perfect man to get you back into the scene—big, good-looking, and anonymous.”

Grace fought the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes. How her mom made her feel like a wayward teenager during every encounter was a mystery, but she managed it.

“Well?” she asked, looking at Grace expectantly. “Aren't you going to invite me in?”

“Come in, Mom,” Grace said, resignation in her voice.

Sophie swept by her. The veritable crowd of people made as if to follow her in. A man with a video camera, trailed by a young woman who must be his assistant and a guy carrying a huge stage light. A stylist. Several people with clipboards and bags.

Grace barred the way, but one woman tried to push right past her.

“Oh, no,” Grace said, simultaneously doing a shoulder block and closing the door until it was mostly shut. “My mother, yes. You, no.”

“Sophie's contract says we may film her at any time, in any place,” the thirty-something woman in a gray suit informed her.

Grace narrowed her eyes at the woman. “Francine,” she said. The TV rep responsible for
An Evergood Life,
who'd hounded her for the better part of the last two years to get her back on the show. “As you well know, I did not sign that waiver. So I'm off-limits to you. As is my house.”

She started to close the door the rest of the way.

Francine, stubborn woman, stuck her foot in, blocking it from shutting. “But Sophie said—”

“My house. My rules.”

Her expression as sour as a lemon's, Francine withdrew her foot, and Grace slammed the door shut in their faces.
Ha!

She turned, her triumphant smile fading when she saw her mother's disappointed look.