44
Although the Art on the River gallery was packed to the rafters, Claire knew the moment Dillon entered. He stood at the edge of the main room, watching her with an unblinking male intensity that set every nerve ending in her body to jangling.
Don’t look at him!
Although it took every bit of concentration she could muster to laugh at some obscure arty joke—revolving around the idea of Van Gogh being reduced to cranking out TV beer commercials to pay for reconstructive surgery on his ear—while she was being bombarded with testosterone bombs, she was all too aware of him headed her way.
But before he could reach her, a redhead specializing in steampunk wall murals stepped in front of him, deftly stopping his progress.
She was wearing a black-and-red corset adorned with black ostrich feathers, a layered black ruffled skirt that barely covered the essentials, black lace stockings attached to the corset with elastic straps, and stiletto-heeled, over-the-knee leather boots. She’d accessorized the look with a black derby and attached illusion veil, a gun belt worn low on her hips, black lace fingerless gloves, and a
lot
of ink, including a dirigible that floated across her breasts.
Claire recognized that maddeningly sexy smile he exchanged with the artist. Watched as the woman reached into her generous cleavage—made even more impressive by the uplift of the corset and that airship tattoo—and handed him a small white card. That she was offering Dillon something was obvious. Claire would bet it wasn’t a mural.
“Congratulations,” he said when he finally reached her. “Your show appears to be a grand success.”
“It’s going well.”
Better than well.
She’d nearly sold out. Including the green flash piece, which she’d purposefully priced high because, if she were to be perfectly honest, once it was done, she hadn’t really wanted to sell it. Unlike a piece of jewelry, the mercurial temperament of glass made it impossible to create exact duplicates of any piece. However, since she needed the money for the renovations she was planning with Lucas Chaffee’s guidance, she didn’t really have any choice but to put it up for sale.
“You’ve drawn quite an eclectic crowd.”
“Portland’s art community is nothing if not colorful,” she agreed.
“I know I’ve been away from the States a lot, so I haven’t exactly kept up with popular culture, but is that woman over there actually wearing a ray gun in her holster?”
“It’s steampunk. According to Matt, who reads some of the books, apparently it borrows from elements of science fiction like H. G. Wells and Jules Verne and has something to do with steam power in an alternate history or a postapocalyptic period. But I’m certainly no expert, so don’t quote me.”
“I wouldn’t even try.”
“I’m sure that woman who gave you her card could explain it in much more detail.”
“She probably could. But I’d much rather talk with you. . . . Can I buy you a drink?”
“It’s an open bar. Drinks are free.”
“Even better.”
Those dimples deepened as he smiled down at her. He appeared larger than she remembered him. Almost overpowering. He was wearing black jeans, a black cashmere sweater, and a black leather bomber jacket that gave him a dangerous look.
“I’m not here to play. I’m supposed to be working.”
He rocked back on his heels and glanced around the white pillars holding her sea-swept glass collection. “From all the red dots on the tags next to your pieces, I’d say you can risk taking a couple minutes for a break.”
He put his hand on her back and began herding her toward the bar that had been set up next to a Christmas tree that soared to the open loft ceiling.
“I don’t remember saying yes,” she said.
“You didn’t say no,” he countered. “And I did drive all the way up here. Surely you wouldn’t be so cruel as to make me go back to Shelter Bay without at least having one drink with me?”
“Which brings up a question. What
are
you doing here?”
“Well, I could make up some excuse, like I had a meeting with Shelter Bay High’s Nike rep, but that’d be a lie. I came up to see you. And maybe offer some moral support, which you don’t appear to need.”
Not sure how to respond, she didn’t say anything right away.
“Plus, there’s another reason.”
“And that would be?” she asked him.
“I wanted some time alone with you. Away from all the prying eyes of everyone in town.”
She looked around. “This is hardly a private venue.”
“True. Though it
is
anonymous since the only person in the place I know is you. But it’s also why I booked a room at the hotel.”
“
My
hotel?”
“I figured that would be more convenient than staying in one across town. It’ll make it easier to walk you to your door after our date.”
“That’s more than a little chauvinistic.”
“You want to walk me to my door? Although it might dent some less confident guy’s male ego, I’m down with that. . . .
“What would you like to drink?”
What she would have liked was for him to get back in his Jeep and return to Shelter Bay, where he belonged. She didn’t want him here in Portland, let alone staying at her hotel. He was too hot. Too male. Too damn tempting.
“I’ll have a champagne cocktail, please,” she said to the bartender.
“Dark beer for me,” Dillon said.
Speaking of chauvinism . . .
Instead of handing her fluted glass directly to her, the bartender gave it to Dillon, who passed it on. As their fingers touched, she felt a jolt of emotion so strong it shook her, but when she risked a glance upward to see if he’d been similarly affected, his friendly expression gave nothing away.
“Nice tree,” he said, though he wasn’t looking at it, but at her. The tree in question was black, with black-and-white lights, white satin bows, and clear glass ornaments.
“It’s supposed to represent a white-tie affair.”
“Festive.” His tone said otherwise. And although she could appreciate the tree as an artistic statement, she’d have to admit that when it came to Christmas, she was definitely a traditionalist.
As he continued to look at her, long and deep, Claire took a sip of the seasonal red cocktail and, as she tasted the tang of cranberry and citrusy Cointreau, willed both her mind and her body to calm. “I know I’ve been distracted lately, but I believe I would remember you asking me out on a date.”
“Would you have said yes if I had?”
“No.”
“I figured as much. Which is why I decided just to take matters into my own hands. And speaking of which, I’d really like to get my hands on you, Claire. All over.”
She glanced over at the bartender, who was doing his best to hide a grin and failing.
Having watched Dillon pacing the sidelines of that basketball game, and listening to what little Matt had shared about practices, Claire realized that he might be the most determined individual she’d ever met. Which meant that as much as she didn’t want to have this conversation, she wasn’t going to be able to continue to ignore it.
Taking his arm, she practically dragged him a few feet away, putting the black-and-white tuxedo tree between them and the eavesdropping bartender.
“Okay, that hands-on thing?” she said. “I know the feeling.”
“Well, now.” He rocked back on his heels. “That’s a surprise. Oh, not that you’ve been thinking about it, same as I’ve been. But that you’d admit it.”
“I’m not the kind of a woman who plays coy, Dillon. I’ll admit I’m attracted.”
“That’s a start. . . . You’ve changed your scent.”
“What?” The sensible, sane,
reasonable
explanation as to why an affair was impossible momentarily fled her mind.
“You usually smell like a tropical vacation. Tonight you’re walking on the dangerous, just a little wild side.”
“You should probably know that I’m the furthest thing from dangerous. I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”
He laughed at that. “Sweetheart, I’ve dealt with IEDs less dangerous than you.”
“I’m also not impulsive.”
“Yet you packed up and moved to Oregon.”
“That’s different. I was protecting my son. Who,” she said firmly, “has to be my main priority.”
He lifted his beer bottle. “As he should be.”
She’d been sexually impetuous once in her life. That had resulted in her son, which she’d never regret. But she’d always sworn she’d never make that mistake again. Even when she was so, so tempted.
“We’ve been through this, Dillon. It’s unethical for you to be dating the mother of one of your players.”
“So you keep saying.” He tipped the bottle back and took a long swallow of the beer. “Which, I have to tell you, kind of hurts my feelings.”
“Surely I’m not the first woman to turn you down.”
“No. But you’re the first who’s questioned my integrity.”
“Me?” It was her turn to take a long drink. “How on earth did I do that?”
“You’re suggesting that if we went out, and things heated up, I’d actually risk another player’s chances for college by giving Matt more playing time. Simply because I was sleeping with his mother.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Not in those words. But you’re implying it.”
“I honestly don’t believe you’d play favorites. But that doesn’t mean that others, especially parents of some of the seniors, like Mr. and Mrs. Martin, wouldn’t think it.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you worry too much?” He reached out and idly twined a strand of her hair around his fingers. “Have I mentioned that your hair reminds me of summer?”
“No. Possibly because you realized what a bad line it is.”
“It’s not a line. The first time I saw you, sitting in your car in the school parking lot, I thought how it looked as if it was streaked with sunshine. I didn’t say anything at the time, because we didn’t know each other yet, but I hadn’t had the most promising breakfast, being hammered on by boosters about Matt, and was feeling frustrated. You’ve no idea how much you brightened that rainy day. . . .
“So, have you eaten yet?”
“I’ve been busy.” And too nervous even to think about food.
“I figured as much. What would you say to a late supper?”
When she opened her mouth to respond, he put his finger against her lips. Although she knew it was only her overly active imagination, Claire could have sworn she felt the sizzle.
“You have to eat.” He smoothly, logically pressed his case. “And you probably need to unwind before going to bed.”
That was definitely true. Gallery shows required an amazing amount of energy, requiring the artist to be continually “on” to potential buyers. She’d smiled so much tonight she was certain her face muscles would ache in the morning, and was so exhausted she felt on the verge of melting into a puddle right here on the black-and-white marble floor, yet at the same time, both her body and her mind were buzzing with adrenaline.
“I’m used to working alone, with just my own thoughts,” she said. “Events like this not only take me out of my comfort zone; afterward I’m too exhausted to crash.”
“It’s the adrenaline. I always felt the same way after a mission.”
He continued to toy with her hair. The gesture, while not overtly sexual, felt inordinately personal. Claire was not used to people invading her space. But there was something so compelling about Dillon Slater, she couldn’t back away.
“You have to be in a zone to defuse an IED. By the time I’d reach the target, I’d pretty much be all alone in my own head, the way you looked when you were blowing that glass. I had to give it my entire focus, but at the same time, I never forgot that if I screwed up, even the slightest bit, they’d be picking pieces of me out of the sand and dirt for a very long time.
“So by the time I was done, I’d be totally drained. But at same time it felt as if a nest of hornets were buzzing around inside me.”
He’d nailed it. Claire had always gravitated to the arts and men who worked in creative fields, which was why she was surprised to find herself having anything in common with a former bomb disposal expert who spent his days teaching kids physics.
“What I was going to say, before you cut me off,” she said, returning to the original topic, “was that I’d like to have a late supper with you. Just as a friend, if that’s the way you’re willing to keep it. For now.”
Claire knew she was playing with fire even more dangerous than what she worked with in her hotshop every day. But the simple truth was that she was didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight.
“Terrific. You flew up here from Newport, right?”
“I did, and Lorenzo, one of the owners, picked me up at the hotel and drove me over here.”
“Great. So we don’t have to deal with two cars going back to the hotel. When can you escape?”
He’d no sooner asked the question when the gallery owner, wearing a gold silk duster over black slacks and a black silk shirt, came up to them.
“Congratulations, dearheart,” Lorenzo Batista gushed. He framed her face in his hands while air kissing both her cheeks. “The show was an absolute tour de force.”
“I knew you’d sell out,” said Lorenzo’s companion, who’d dressed to dazzle in a black sequin blazer, starched white tux shirt, black bow tie, black velvet slacks, and mirror-bright Christmas red patent leather shoes. “In fact, two people even got into a brief but heated bidding war over that ice sea bowl, which had it going for fifty percent over what we’d asked.”
“The loser asked if you’d be willing to make another,” Lorenzo said.
“But Lorenzo told him that you were no philistine who worked on demand for the masses,” the second man assured her.
“That sounds awfully full of myself,” she worried.
“Oh, don’t worry, darling.” Lorenzo waved a hand, showing off his gleaming woven gold wedding ring. He and his longtime business and life partner had gotten married in Vancouver, British Columbia, last month. “With this new inspired sea-swept series, you’ve catapulted yourself into serious-artist territory.”
“Like Monet and his water lilies,” his husband said. “Or Georgia O’Keeffe and her flowers.”
“That’s definitely an overstatement.” While it was always lovely to have her work admired, Claire had a logical enough head on her shoulders to know that she was nowhere near those two artists.