Pursuit (25 page)

An insanely abusive husband was his first guess. If that was it, Matt itched for a showdown.
Come on
,
tough guy,
he thought, fists clenching.
Let’s see if you’re so brave
when you have me to deal with and not a 115-pound woman
.

He watched Charlotte speaking gently with Mama Pilar, who was oohing and aahing over the watercolor of the cantina, delight on her weather-beaten features. Charlotte was standing next to Pilar. Her delicate frame was emphasized standing next to the fireplug build of the older woman. Everything about Charlotte was delicate, fragile. Her hands were smooth, long-fingered, fine-boned, wrists narrow, the tendons clearly visible. Everything about her was small and fine. She was a delight to look at; that stunning femininity drew males’ eyes wherever she went. Any normal guy would desire her instantly, while wanting to protect her. But fragile and delicate, with the wrong guy, with the sick fucks of the world, meant vulnerable.

At the thought that Charlotte had somehow hooked up with a violent and vindictive man—

his hand flexed once, hard. The left hand. He wanted to keep the right one free. Something of what he was feeling must have somehow manifested itself, because Charlotte looked at him quizzically, then walked over to him, placing a small hand on his arm.

“Matt? Are you okay?”

No, he wasn’t okay. He was breathing in spurts through his nostrils, like a bull just before charging, at the image in his head of a wounded, beaten Charlotte.
Get yourself under control.
He looked down at Charlotte, at the beautiful gray eyes, now full of worry for him, at the delicate artist’s hand on his arm, and felt ashamed of himself. He shook himself and placed his hand over hers. “Feeling hungry,” he lied, hoping she’d take it at face value. “Makes me a little grumpy. Let’s eat.” He drummed up a smile and even showed some teeth.

“Men and their stomachs.” Charlotte said it amiably enough. “Okay, let’s find a table.”

“Over there.” Matt pointed to a corner table where he could see the whole room, and put a hand to Charlotte’s back, nudging her in the right direction. While walking to the table, Matt was mentally kicking himself in the ass every step of the way.

He was a trained bodyguard. His training had cost the US government something like $3

million and a lot of it had gone into teaching him close protection work. He’d been on three bodyguarding details in his life, and he’d never lowered his guard, not once, never done the job in anything less than a professional manner.

He’d just zoned out, wasting time and attention wondering about who Charlotte was running from when it didn’t matter in the slightest who she was running from. The important thing was that Matt had to be ready for him, every second of every day. Getting lost in his own head could get them both killed.

It was at that moment that he realized how much she was messing with his head. Every time she moved, or spoke, or even breathed, he wanted her. Sometimes he couldn’t even hear what she was saying because he was watching her delectable mouth, wanting to kiss it. It was a miracle he wasn’t tripping over his own boots when she was around. This was definitely not the way you protected someone.

Wanting to go to bed with the person you were protecting was way off the charts, a recipe for disaster, but Matt could no more have switched off his desire than he could have turned his back on Charlotte.

How much easier it was to protect visiting dignitaries in war zones. Matt had had no emotions about them other than a strong desire to get the job done without anyone’s head being blown off.

If his own head had been as much up his ass as it was now, half the time thinking about logistics and fields of fire and half the time obsessed with getting Charlotte into bed, he’d have been in deepest shit.

They sat down, and Mama Pilar slid a handwritten piece of paper on the table, with today’s menu, the
comidas corridas.
The special today was tortilla soup and quesadillas. Matt didn’t even look. Whatever the special was, that’s what he was having. It didn’t really make much of a difference to him, as long as it was warm and abundant. He’d never eaten badly at the cantina, so he was good. Whoever the old geezer at the back was, he knew what he was doing.

After they’d ordered, Matt took his eyes off the people in the room—none of whom seemed to pose a danger after he’d given each one a hard, close scrutiny—and noticed that there was something new on the wall next to the entrance. A set of four drawings and a watercolor, neatly framed and hung so they caught the light from the side window. The cantina’s walls were hung with tons of stuff. Mostly junk, from what Matt could see. Faded photographs, a messy collection of postcards from all over the world, clearly from loyal customers, a fishing net, odd sketches Scotch-Taped to the wall, and a creepy collection of Day of the Dead masks.

The four drawings and the watercolor stood out starkly against the jumbled collections of junk that had been thrown up on the walls. They stood alone, separate and perfect, a little four-cornered island of beauty. They were unmistakably the work of a true artist and just as unmistakably Charlotte’s.

The food came immediately, and Charlotte smiled up at the waitress. Matt had seen her around before, one of the endless line of Garcias working at the Cantina. “
Gracias,
Rosario. ¿Y cómo está Carlitos?
”

The woman beamed. “
Mucho mejor, gracias. Buen provecho.
” She stood back for a moment, hands folded over the big white apron, and watched to make sure the first bite was acceptable. Matt took a big bite and smiled. “Yum,” he said, and licked his lips, just to make sure he got the message across.

He might as well have been invisible. Rosario didn’t even look at him, but watched Charlotte carefully as she cut off a tiny bit of her taco salad and delicately sampled about a tenth of what Matt had put into his mouth. She smiled and chewed. “
Es muy sabroso.
”

Matt didn’t know what Charlotte said, but it sure pleased Rosario. She backed away with a huge smile on her face.

Charlotte didn’t comment or show in any way that she was receiving special treatment. Matt filed that away, adding to the small store of data he had on her. Wherever it was she came from, she was used to being treated like a princess.

Charlotte put her fork down and leaned forward to talk to him. The cantina was full of people—tourists and locals—and the noise level was high. Lenny had said that the town tripled in size over the summer months.

“I need to ask you a favor.” She tilted her head, studying him, a faint smile on her face. “I don’t think you’ll like it, but I’m hoping you’ll say yes.”

Matt couldn’t even imagine him saying no to her. Did she want a pint of blood? Gladly. He had tons of the stuff and had spilled half of it in his lifetime, anyway. Giving some to her would be a big improvement over splattering it all over the Afghan desert.

“Yeah, whatever it is, the answer is yes.” He frowned and pointed at her with his fork.

“Eat.”

“What?”

“Eat. Whatever it is you want from me, you’re going to have to eat something first; otherwise, you’re not going to get it. You don’t eat enough. Dig in. It’s great stuff.” He watched pointedly until she put another micron-sized bite of food in her mouth. “More. What are these guys cooking for if you’re not going to eat?”

“Yes, momma.” Charlotte rolled her eyes and put another tiny forkful in her mouth. Matt didn’t let her talk until she’d finished half of what was on her plate, the most he’d ever seen her eat. He didn’t imagine he could coax her to eat any more, so he relented. “Okay, now you can ask whatever it was you were going to ask, and the answer is yes, whatever it is. Just so you know.”

Ash brown eyebrows rose over her beautiful gray eyes. “Well, that’s useful to know. Though perhaps it isn’t too smart to give someone a blank check like that. You should wait to find out what it is, before saying yes. Suppose I asked for a million dollars?” She smiled to show how utterly absurd that would be.

Matt answered, voice and eyes sober. “If I had a million dollars, I’d give it to you. I don’t have a million dollars. I don’t have anything even approaching a million dollars. I’ve got some savings in the bank, not much, and a small government pension. But whatever I have, you’re welcome to it.” He could tell by her eyes that she believed him. She should because he meant every single word. Her face had turned lightly pink, a beautiful blush of embarrassment. She looked down at her hands, then back up at him.

“I—I don’t know what to say. What I was going to ask is much less than that. I want you to pose for me. I’d love to paint your portrait, and I have just the pose and setting in mind.”

Matt froze. “Pose?” She wanted him to
pose
? God. “Not—not
naked
?” he asked, horrified.

“No, heavens no!” She let out a peal of laughter and sat back, amused. Then she narrowed her eyes at him. “Though, I must say, you’d be absolutely—no . . . never mind,”

she said primly, with a shake of her head, as if getting rid of a wayward but tempting thought. “Not naked. Don’t worry. In fact, I want you wearing that red tee shirt you’ve got on right now. The red will anchor the painting. I have it all blocked out in my head.”

He’d rather have given her the million dollars he didn’t have. She must have seen his thoughts on his face because she said softly, “You promised.”

God, that’s right, he did. He gritted his teeth. He opened his mouth, closed it, then asked,

“How long will it take?” Maybe it was like a half hour thing.

“I don’t know . . .” Charlotte tipped her head, studying him. “A couple of weeks, maybe.”

“
A couple of
—” She was smiling. “That was a joke, wasn’t it? Please tell me you were joking.” A couple of weeks sitting still, hour after hour . . . As a soldier, Matt had infinite patience. He could lie in wait for days, and had. As a model . . . gah.

“Ms. Fitzgerald?”

Charlotte whipped her head around to the man who’d come up to the table. Matt had noted him in his first scan of the cantina and its patrons, the instant he’d walked into the door. This guy had flown right under his radar.

Tall, thin, a
gringo.
Dressed casual-expensive. Soft hands. Long gray-blond hair tied in a ponytail. Necklace and rings. Talking intently to an elegant Hispanic couple at the same table. One of about thirty people in the cantina, eating and enjoying themselves. He hadn’t registered on Matt’s highly refined Danger-o-meter at all. Not even when he’d stood up and walked toward them. Matt simply assumed he was heading for the john. But then he swerved and stopped at the table and Matt went instantly to Defcon 4.

“Yes?” Charlotte’s face had gone blank, a polite mask. But her hands were shaking. Fucker’d scared her.

The tall thin guy moved his right hand, and Matt reached out fast and closed his fist around the guy’s hand. A move he didn’t like, and he’d break the guy’s fingers. The guy was simply holding his hand out with a visiting card between the index finger and thumb.

There was utter silence. The corner of the visiting card stuck out like a little beige flag. Matt opened his fist and released the man’s hand and sat back, not apologizing, openly staring at the man with suspicion. The man ignored him and addressed Charlotte directly.

“Ms. Fitzgerald, name’s Perry Ensler, I’m Canadian and an art dealer—I run three galleries—two in Canada, Montreal and Toronto, and one here in Baja Sur, in La Paz, the one in La Paz I keep open from May through October, and I’m always on the lookout for talent—stopped by last week and saw your portraits here in the Cantina Fortuna and just now I saw the four sketches and the watercolor, you have a fantastic style, I’d love a couple of works for the season’s opening collection if you’re selling, I imagine you’re a pro, can I sit down?” He had a staccato way of talking, the sentences running into each other. Without waiting for an answer, he sat down across from Charlotte, next to Matt, who’d let go of his hand but was ready for anything.

He flicked a glance at Matt, then sighed, focusing again on Charlotte. “You can tell your very large friend here he can stand down, there’s no reason to worry. I’m not coming on to you, I’m gay, wouldn’t know what to do with you, except as an artist, and maybe a friend.”

Charlotte stirred at that, looked at Matt, and winced at his expression.

“Matt,” she murmured and laid her hand over his. “It’s okay.” Matt looked down, mesmerized. He had big, strong hands but her hand over his stopped his as effectively as if she’d nailed his palm to the tabletop. He gave an inward sigh as he reined in his urge to tell this guy to fuck off. Charlotte could feel his struggle in his hands, and felt it when he decided to hold off on tossing the guy out on his ear. When she felt him relax, she slid her hand away from his and picked up Ensler’s card. She looked down at the card, then up at Ensler.

It was all the encouragement he needed. “Could I have a list of your showings and look at your portfolio? Please tell me you don’t already have an exclusive with a gallery around here because then I’ll simply shoot myself, which would be bad for the art world because my partner has a good eye, but he’d send our galleries into bankruptcy in a year.”

“I’m actually not a pro, Mr.—” Charlotte looked down at the card again. “Mr. Ensler. I don’t have a portfolio and I’ve never had a show. My art is strictly amateur.”

There was pink color in Charlotte’s face. Matt knew it wasn’t necessarily ego-driven—she didn’t seem to have a vain bone in her body—but was probably the sheer pleasure of meeting someone else as obsessed as she was about art and who appreciated what she did. Sort of like meeting a fellow soldier at a gun show, Matt thought. Ensler sat back, head shaking. “Americans,” he said. “Wouldn’t know quality if it bit them on the ass, eh? Though I can’t believe you haven’t shown, just doesn’t seem possible, there’s an assurance there, such a fine hand, such a feeling for structure and balance, I just assumed you were a pro. Well—” He rapped his knuckles on the wooden surface of the table. “That’s going to change, I hope. Listen, Ms. Fitzgerald, my partner and I specialize in portraiture, neorealism, some hyper, and some thinkism lately, not much—”