Every Second Counts (6 page)

Ryder grabbed some plates and hobbled after Tory. “I’ll wash if you tell me…one to ten. I’ll bet she’s a ten, right? That’s why Leah’s still jealous.”

Tory shook her head. “Do
not
ask that in front of Leah or I’ll break your other leg.”

*

The dishes done and the nursery tour over, the group drifted outside to say good night to Tory and Leah. Every time Leah turned her back, Ryder held up her fingers and silently mouthed the corresponding numbers, “One to ten?” She dropped her hands quickly when Leah turned to her.

“So, how long you here for?”

“A couple months. Three, tops. I can’t stay out of the limelight too long or my sponsor gets antsy about the money they’re still paying me.”

Leah looked her over, as if evaluating her worth. “I’ve done a few free-lance articles for sports magazines. I could put out some feelers to see who might be interested in a piece about you while you’re here to rehab. That is, if you’re interested.”

“Sure. That’d be great.” Ryder hesitated. “Do I get to read it before you publish? I don’t want to be part of a rant about the dangers of rodeo and how it should be banned as a sport.”

“Absolutely not.” Leah crossed her arms. “It will have to contain a paragraph or two of statistics on rodeo injuries, or I wouldn’t be doing a good job. You’ll just have to trust me that the rest will be a profile of you, not a diatribe on the rodeo business.”

Tory’s nod told Ryder that Leah’s word was good.

“I can live with that.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know.” Leah turned to slide her hand down Tory’s chest and tuck her fingers into the waistband of her jeans. “Come on, stud, let’s go home. All this talk about hitting on women has put me in the mood to remind you why you chose me.” She winked at Ryder before releasing Tory and getting into the BMW.

Tory slapped Ryder on the back and hopped into her veterinary truck to follow, but stopped before the truck had rolled more that a few feet. She lowered the window and grinned.

“Nine, maybe nine and a half. Leah’s the only ten I know.”

Bridgette cursed the unmanned reception desk in the lobby of the art building. Another victim of budget cuts, the receptionist had been fired and only volunteers now manned the desk—when they could find them.

The auction committee was scheduled to meet tomorrow, and she needed the brochure that listed the art displayed in the building’s lobby and gallery. Maybe they couldn’t sell those paintings, but they could begin by contacting the donors and asking if they would also contribute something else for the auction.

The third drawer she opened revealed a stack of the glossy trifolds. She took several for the committee and laid the rest on the desk for people to help themselves.

She glanced down the list of paintings.
They have an Eleanor White displayed here?
She chastised herself for never taking a thorough tour of the gallery before now. The paintings in the lobby were familiar enough, but she’d done little more than glance around the cavernous solarium where an impressive collection was displayed on a maze of eight-foot-tall panels, bathed in natural light.

She made her way slowly around the gallery, making notes of artist names and donor plaques. Some obviously could be contacted directly. Others would take some research to track down. There were few people in the gallery, mostly students she ignored as she moved through the exhibit. But something in the husky voice that drifted her way made her look up from taking notes.

“Of course it’s art. It may be computer-generated, but the very concept began as a seed in the mind of the artist. I’m sure the artist started with a concept, then a vision. Bringing this to life may have been much more difficult than layering paint on a canvas.”

Bridgette stepped around a panel to where two figures sat on a low bench, staring at the digital projection of a pink dogwood tree as it budded, bloomed, deflowered, grew leaves, swayed in the wind, drank rain droplets, withered and dropped its summer foliage, then held its spindly branches out to catch the winter snow before beginning the sequence all over again.

“It’s a brilliant combination of display and performance art.”

Ah. The husky voice again. She stared at the well-formed shoulders moving under a tight black T-shirt. The voice and the V-shaped body could easily be mistaken for that of a young man, but the slight flair of the hips in the low-slung jeans and the gesturing of the hands held a hint of femininity. Intrigued, Bridgette edged closer.

The thick, straight hair was cut in ragged lengths that barely brushed the shoulders in a style currently popular with the male art students. The arm that extended backward to brace the figure on the bench sported a black-dragon tattoo that peeked from under the short sleeve straining to contain a well-developed bicep. But the bare forearm was smooth and the hair on it fine, not coarse. The hand was long-fingered and, Bridgette decided, fine-boned enough to be female.

This person was deliciously androgynous and oddly familiar, but she met a lot of new people in her teaching job and was sure she would’ve remembered the large, black brace wrapped around the woman’s left knee.

“Well, it is quite mesmerizing.” The very elderly art patron chuckled and patted the arm of her much-younger companion. “And your enthusiasm for this piece is just as entertaining. However, I must be off. My grandson is probably waiting rather impatiently. I’m sure his class is over by now.”

The younger person stood and helped the woman to her feet, and Bridgette decided the gentle outline of the cheek and full lips was definitely female, as was the lack of beard stubble. Perfect.

“Would you like me to walk with you to find your grandson?”

“Thank you, no. I may be old, but I’m still perfectly able to get around by myself.” The old woman straightened as much as her bowed spine would allow. “At least I’m not using one of those yet,” she said, pointing to the black cane still propped against the bench.

The younger woman’s laugh came from deep in her chest, low and sexy. She retrieved the cane from where it rested and put her finger to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone, but it’s hollow. As soon as you leave, I’m going to cut that painting over there out of the frame, roll it up, and conceal it inside the cane. It should bring a nice price on the black market.”

The elderly lady waved her hand dismissively. “Still a jokester, I see. I might have believed you, but I’m sure you have a dozen like them already.” She turned toward the door. “Lovely to see you again, dear.”

The old lady had barely left when Bridgette stepped forward. “Excuse me.”

The woman turned, her amused dark eyes flicking over Bridgette. “Hello.” A broad smile dimpled her tanned cheeks as they looked each other over for a few seconds. She tapped the cane against the bench. “It isn’t really hollow, and even if it was, I don’t think I could stuff an entire painting inside.”

“It would have been interesting to watch you try, I’m sure.”

Now that she was facing Bridgette, the woman’s female attributes were obvious. Her height topped Bridgette’s by a few inches, but small, well-rounded breasts softened her muscled upper body, and her narrow hips flared slightly from the trim waist.

“I actually wanted to see if you would be interested in a rather unusual opportunity.”

The smile broadened to a grin. “I’m always interested in opportunities with attractive women.”

Heat rose to Bridgette’s cheeks, but she dipped her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “Let’s try this again.” She extended her hand. “Hello. I’m Bridgette LeRoy. I teach art and body sculpture here.”

The woman’s grin grew wider. “Bridgette isn’t a common name in these parts.” The hand that grasped Bridgette’s was rough but warm, and the lips that pressed against her knuckles soft. “Marc Ryder. Most people just call me Ryder.”

Bridgette was amused by the gallant gesture. The woman looked more mature than the usual coed, but the college did have some older students enrolled. “Are you a student here, Ms. Ryder?”

“No, I’m not. I dropped by to talk to one of your professors, but his secretary said he was teaching a class so I wandered downstairs to peruse the gallery.”

“You’re an artist?” Bridgette let her eyes trail down Ryder’s well-defined forearm to her long fingers. She turned over the hand that still held hers and examined the thick calluses. “Sculptor?”

The dark eyes twinkled. “Wrong again. I just appreciate beauty…in art and women.”

Bridgette met her gaze. “Well, you’re not bashful, are you? That’s good, considering what I want to propose.”

“My answer is yes.”

Bridgette laughed. “I haven’t explained anything yet.”

“Will it injure me in any way?”

“Heavens no.”

“Then my answer is yes.” Ryder’s hand tightened around hers. “But perhaps we could discuss the details over dinner.”

“You said you were here to see someone.”

Ryder waved her hand dismissively. “Nothing is more important than having dinner with a beautiful woman.”

She hesitated. Ryder was athletic, confident, and oozing sexuality—certainly the androgynous type she found attractive. Besides, serial killers were almost always men. What could it hurt to have dinner? She eyed Ryder’s strong body. She certainly wasn’t opposed to a little adventure afterward either.

“How to you feel about sushi?”

“Love it.”

She glanced at the brace on Ryder’s left knee. “I’ll drive.”

Ryder grinned. “I love a woman who takes charge.”

*

It was still early and the restaurant was relatively empty, so it only took a few minutes to be seated and place their order.

Acutely aware of Bridgette continually checking out her physique, Ryder couldn’t believe her luck. How many artists named Bridgette lived in Cherokee Falls? This woman had to be Tory’s nine-and-a-half, and Ryder intended to confirm it.

“So, what I wanted to propose to you—”

Ryder held up her hand. “A woman likes to be wined and dined before a proposal.”

Truth was, Ryder wanted to wine and dine Bridgette. She intended to savor this beautiful, soft-voiced woman sitting across the table from her.

Bridgette’s expression was smug. “You’ve already said yes. I was just going to fill in the details.”

“There’s so much I’d like to know before we get to that. I grew up around here and I’m pretty sure you didn’t. Tell me about yourself. Where did you grow up?”

“Everywhere. Mostly the northeast when we were in the country. My father was a professor of political science. He job-hopped a lot, teaching at universities on the East Coast and managing a political campaign every now and then. More than once, he accepted a foreign-ambassador position when his candidate held the seat of power.”

“A well-traveled woman. What brought you to Cherokee Falls?”

“My cousin had a hand in it.” Bridgette dropped her gaze, her fingers worrying with her napkin. “I was sort of at loose ends.” Her smile was a bit forced when she looked up. “So, my cousin Cheryl convinced me to apply for the artist-in-residence position here. The college may be small, but it’s well-known in some key art circles.”

They paused while the waitress set a sushi platter between them and poured the wine Ryder had ordered. Recognizing Bridgette’s discomfort with her past, she steered the conversation toward preferences in art, music, books, and movies as they ate. But each time Bridgette asked about her career or friends in Cherokee Falls, she neatly deflected the questions and sent the conversation in a different direction. She didn’t want to chance Bridgette connecting her to stories Skyler or Tory might have told about her.

“May I inquire about who you wanted to see at the art school today?” Bridgette asked.

“Jonathan Frank is a family friend. I wanted to get some guidance from him on what to do with some things from my grandmother’s estate.”

“Your grandmother?”

“She died a few years ago and I’m her sole heir. I’m just getting around to deciding what to do with her house and the stuff still in it.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Ryder shrugged. “We weren’t that close.” Time to change the subject. “I didn’t see a Bridgette LeRoy in the gallery. Do you paint under an alias?”

“No.” Bridgette chewed for a moment and pushed the food around on her plate. “The department chairman has been pressuring me to contribute something, but, well, I just haven’t yet.”

“I’m disappointed. Isn’t there somewhere I can see your work?”

“I have some paintings and a sculpture or two in galleries in New York and Boston.”

Bridgette took a sip of her wine, and Ryder captured her hand when she put her glass down.

“You sculpt, too?” She turned Bridgette’s hand over and lightly traced the soft palm with her fingertips, pleased at the faint tremble she evoked. “I wouldn’t have guessed. No calluses.”

“I sculpt in clay, not stone.”

“Ah, that explains it.” She caressed Bridgette’s palm once more before releasing her, pleased when Bridgette picked up her wineglass and gulped down a large swallow. She suspected it wasn’t just the alcohol coloring Bridgette’s cheeks.

“If you’re really interested, I can write the names of the galleries down for you. They both post their offerings on their Web sites.”

“I’d like that, but the Internet is so impersonal. Every artist I’ve known has a studio filled with their work. I was hoping for a personal showing.”

“I’m not sure I want to get personal with someone I know nothing about. What do you do for a living?”

“I work in the sports field.”

“I don’t really follow sports.”

“Then I won’t bore you with the details.”

Ryder noticed that Bridgette gravitated toward the spicy tuna, so she had taken only one piece and left the rest of it for Bridgette. She snagged the last piece with her chopsticks and held it up. She watched Bridgette hesitate, then take it gently on her tongue and into her mouth to chew slowly. When Ryder looked up, a blazing gaze captured her.

They both smiled, acknowledging the mutual seduction. If they didn’t get out of that restaurant soon, the heat between them would cook every piece of sushi in the place.