Beginning Again: Book 1 in the Second Chances series (Crimson Romance) Read online

  “But this one isn’t just closed today.” She waved at the empty walls. “I’m not even open for business yet.”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re Liz Fairchild. You’re new to the gallery business and you’re going to open on First Thursday in October.” His eyes swept over her again and the jolt of whatever-it-was reoccurred. “You really shouldn’t wear black and white. You should wear intense colors. Emerald green. Cobalt blue. Something like that.”

  “How nice that you not only know who I am and what I should wear but what my business plans are.” Was it her attraction to him or his arrogance that brought out that annoyed tone in her voice? “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “Collins.”

  “Is that Mr. Something-Collins or Mr. Collins-Something?”

  “Just Collins.”

  “And let me make a wild guess — you’re an artist.”

  He seemed amused at her comment. “Yeah, I am.”

  “Well, Just Collins, if you’re here to leave your portfolio I’d be happy to take a look at it, but I’m not sure … ” She stepped off the ladder and regretted it. While on the ladder she was taller than he was, more in control, not so close to whatever charged field the man had around him.

  “I don’t leave my portfolio until I’m sure I’m in the right place for my work.”

  “And what would your work be?”

  “I’m a sculptor. Metal sculptor.” The amused look was still there.

  “Sounds like what you do wouldn’t work in this small space.”

  “I’m not looking for a place for my larger pieces. They’re usually commissioned anyway, for public places or for some corporate hack who wants a big shiny thing in the lobby of his office. I’m looking for a gallery for my smaller pieces.”

  “I’m not hearing garden art here, am I?”

  He snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “As I started to say, you’re welcome to leave your portfolio, but I’m not really looking for another three-dimensional artist right now. I’ll give you my card.” She started toward the back of the gallery to get a business card.

  Suddenly he was standing next to her, reaching for her, putting his hand on her arm to detain her. She felt warmth through the sleeve of her cotton shirt and looked down, mesmerized by what she saw.

  His hand could have been Michelangelo’s model for the Sistine Chapel’s Adam, reaching to God, or David’s marble hand holding a slingshot. It was big and heavily veined, with long, slender fingers tipped by well-cared for nails and cuticles, not what she’d expect on the hands of a working sculptor. She wanted to take his hand, turn it over, feel the calluses she was sure were there, trace the lines in his palm before … before what? Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on something other than the sudden thought of having that hand and its partner someplace — anyplace — on her body where somehow she knew they would know exactly what to do.

  She sucked in a breath, not sure what to do next. This never happened to her. Never. She wasn’t a fluffy-headed girl. She was a grown woman who …

  “Obviously, you’ve never seen my work.” He took her hand in his. “I’ll take you out to Clackamas on Saturday. The piece I did for the transit center there will be dedicated then.”

  She shook her hand loose before he could notice it was trembling. “I’m not sure where we’re going with this conversation, but I think maybe you need to — ”

  “Have dinner with you tonight.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a little early, I know. But the gallery isn’t open so you can leave. Let’s go have a drink and something to eat. We can talk about my work and your gallery. And decide what time I can pick you up to take you out to Clackamas.”

  Not normally rendered speechless by anyone, Liz was at a loss for how to respond to this maddening yet somehow maddeningly attractive man. “Whether the gallery is open or not isn’t the point. I rarely … no, let me amend that … I never go to dinner with someone I don’t know.”

  A slow, very confident, smile made its way across his face. “But you’ll make an exception for me, won’t you?”

  “Who do you think you are and why do you think I’ll … ?”

  “I told you already. My name’s Collins. I could be your new sculptor and I want to take you out for dinner so we can get to know each other. So, ready to go?” He took her hand again and brought it to his mouth, touching the tip of her index finger with his lips.

  All of her senses were focused on the end of her finger as he nipped at it. When his mouth released her finger, he continued holding her hand. Those gray eyes, stormy with something she was afraid to name, looked deep into hers. But she knew he wasn’t searching for an answer. He already knew the answer. He was looking to see if she was ready to admit she knew, too.

  She took a breath, held it for a few seconds, and then let it out. “Give me five minutes to lock up,” she said. “We can walk to the café down the block.”

  “I have my car. There’s an Italian restaurant I like over on the east side. They have an excellent wine list. Do you like red or white wine?”

  “Does it matter? If the decision about what we’re drinking goes anything like the conversation we’ve had so far, you’ll make up my mind for me.”

  His grin was smug, sexy, and amused, all at once. “You catch on quick. I like that in a woman.”

  • • •

  Over drinks, she looked at his portfolio and saw just how gifted an artist he was. In spite of not immediately recognizing his name, she realized she’d seen his work, in several downtown office buildings and at an outdoor sculpture park. Any sane gallery owner would jump at the chance to represent him. So, being quite sane, at least up until now, she agreed he was her new sculptor.

  She also learned that he’d been a partner in a Los Angeles law firm where he’d made a lot of money, but burned out from too many hundred-hour workweeks and too little time to do the art he really loved. Also, his hi-rise condo had a spectacular view, but no space for doing sculpture.

  He’d moved to the northeastern part of Oregon, in the Wallowa Mountains, eighteen months ago so he’d have the time and space to create his art. His portfolio included images of his small, rustic cabin and the large, hi-tech studio he shared with another sculptor. He told Liz he only came to Portland three or four times a year, a fact that for some reason disappointed her.

  In spite of her best efforts, however, she didn’t learn the rest of his name. All he would tell her was that “Collins” was part of his birth name and the rest didn’t matter.

  By the time they’d finished dinner, dessert, and the bottle of a Brunello he’d selected, it was twilight. He paid with a platinum credit card, which, along with the late-model Porsche he drove, bolstered the story he’d told about being successful. Before he took her home, he arranged to pick her up at three on Saturday afternoon to accompany him to the dedication of his sculpture.

  She couldn’t remember anyone who’d bulldozed, manipulated, attracted, repelled, and confused her as much as Collins-with-no-other-name did. He was everything she hated in a man. Hell, in anyone.

  So why she was looking forward to seeing him again?

  Chapter 3

  She wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d been told she was “a tough old broad” who would give him a hard time and tolerate no nonsense. Okay, that last part was right. But old broad she wasn’t. At most she was a couple years older than he was. And “broad” connoted a rode-hard-and-put-away-wet look that didn’t come close to describing Liz Fairchild. She was all lean loveliness, grace, and long legs. Legs he wouldn’t mind having wrapped around him. When they were both naked.

  In those black leggings she looked like a dancer, a white Judith Jamison. Sexy, spirited, beautiful. Or maybe a taller Audrey Hepburn. Actually, her attitude was more like the other Hepburn’s. W
ith a slight change in accent she could pass for Katharine.

  The surge of desire that had gone through him when he looked at her felt like the kick of a downed power line. It had been a long time since any woman had hit him that hard. That reaction was not helpful. He was supposed to be striking up this acquaintance to get information, not get her into bed.

  Not that she was the usual type of woman who attracted him. Of course, his recent girlfriends in L.A. included a blond killer-shark lawyer and a purple-haired wannabe movie star who waited tables. Okay, maybe he didn’t have a type. But if he did, he wouldn’t have guessed it would be a tall, sexy, stubborn art gallery owner.

  It was obvious Liz felt the same jolt when they met. The way she reacted when they’d locked eyes that first time was why she’d agreed to have dinner with him. He was quite sure she didn’t go out with someone just because he asked.

  Obviously she was damn smart. Which complicated what he was supposed to do. What he had to get out of doing because, after meeting her, after that jolt of attraction, he had other ideas about what he wanted from her.

  He made a phone call as soon as he got back to his hotel room. “She’s not what you told me to expect. I don’t think I’ll get what you want from her.”

  The man at the other end of the line said, “Look, Michael, our client says Liz Fairchild has the information. Your job is to figure out how to get it. Maybe she’s pissed off enough at him to just give it to you. Maybe you’ll have to search for it. But just do it.”

  “Something’s not tracking for me. She’s not some burned-out divorcée like the client said, she’s … ”

  “What’s that got to do with providing representation for our client? Are you using your big brain here or your little brain?”

  “Stop saying our client. He’s your client. And for fuck’s sake, David, I don’t look at every woman I meet as a potential bed partner.”

  “No, usually only the young and nubile ones. And Liz Fairchild’s neither, I hear. Just get me the damn information and then sweet-talk her into bed if that floats your boat.”

  “I don’t know … ” Collins let the words hang there.

  “Look, you owe me, man.” David waited for a response. When none came, he said, “Besides, if you’ve got a thing for her, you’ll have fun. She’s bound to give in. There’s not a woman alive who isn’t susceptible to your renowned charm.”

  Collins sighed. “Okay, okay. You don’t need to bullshit me. I’ll see what I can find out. But when this is over, I’m done.”

  “Get me what I need and I won’t bother you again.”

  • • •

  On Saturday, Collins was waiting outside the gallery when Liz came downstairs. In place of his jeans and sweatshirt, he wore well-tailored gray trousers and a lightweight black jacket over a form-fitting black T-shirt that must have been silk, the way it clung to his pecs and abs. After what she’d seen of his artwork, she doubted he had to go to a gym to keep himself in shape. Just lugging around the materials would be exercise enough. And yet his sculpture had a delicate, soaring quality to it that belied the strength and weight of the metal with which he created it. That was what made it so marvelous.

  But, in spite of what she kept trying to tell herself, she was more interested this afternoon in the artist than in his art. The look of approval in his eyes made her glad she’d taken care with what she was wearing — a pair of white slacks and a sleeveless shell of green she knew matched her eyes. Her sandals were expensive but modest and her silver chain and hoop earrings sterling.

  “I’m glad you took my advice about wearing emerald green,” he said.

  “Oh, I just put on the first thing I grabbed from my closet,” she lied.

  He’d never know it took her twice as long to clean up the mess she’d made trying on half her clothes as it did to get dressed in what she’d finally selected.

  The dedication was an eye-opener for Liz. The art gurus of Portland were out in force, fawning over Collins. She was almost embarrassed enough to leave when she thought about how she’d behaved when he came into her gallery. If she didn’t recognize the name of one of the up-and-coming sculptors in the region, what the hell was she doing setting herself up in an art and design business?

  When he introduced her as his Portland representative, more than one gallery owner who’d come to talk to Collins glared at her. Until then, she’d only intellectually understood the expression “if looks could kill.” Had she been a lot younger, she knew exactly what they’d think she’d done to snag him for her gallery.

  After the dedication, Collins made the rounds chatting up the politicians who were there. It intrigued Liz until it occurred to her that they were involved in selecting artists for public commissions and he was lobbying in the most subtle of ways. Impressed, she watched him move easily through both the art and political worlds.

  Apparently there was no one this man couldn’t charm, which made her feel slightly better at having been manipulated into attending the event.

  Finally, the crowd thinned to only a few hangers-on, several of them young women who seemed interested in Collins personally, not artistically. After politely taking his leave of them, he said goodbye to the remaining art and political people and found her visiting with another gallery owner.

  “Sorry it took so long. You ready to go, Liz?”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. I can catch a ride with Sophie.” She indicated the woman sitting next to her.

  “Didn’t your mother teach you to leave with the guy who brought you?” he asked with a sly smile.

  “She did. But she’s not here to give me hell if I don’t this one time.”

  Sophie Woods stood up. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take your mother’s advice, Liz. I’m driving down to Eugene to see my daughter, not back into Portland. Besides, if you don’t give Collins cover, those groupies over there might attack. They seem to be circling, looking for a way in.”

  “See, I need you to protect me from bodily harm,” he said.

  “I have a feeling you can take care of yourself quite adequately. On the other hand, I wouldn’t want to run the risk of letting you get injured before the ink even dries on our contract.”

  As they walked toward his car, his hand settled lightly on the small of her back. His touch was enough to make her feel dizzy. His hand, his beautiful hand, was right above the curve of her bottom, heat seeping through the fabric of her clothes, radiating from her back to every cell in her body.

  He opened the car door for her. She had her seatbelt fastened before she realized he was waiting for a response to something she hadn’t heard. “Sorry, say that again?”

  “I asked if you’d like to stop for something to eat. What were you woolgathering about?”

  “Just appreciating being here. Maybe feeling a little embarrassed to find out half my competition would have killed to have you in their galleries and I gave you a hard time when you came into mine.”

  He was smiling — no, smirking — as he went to the other side of the car and got in. “Good. You owe me. I like it when the balance of power tilts in my favor.”

  “If I own … sorry, owe … you, do I get to pick where we eat tonight and pay?”

  “Ignoring the Freudian slip, I guess it does. What’s your pleasure? We can do anything you’d like.”

  Liz looked quickly at him and wasn’t fooled by the innocent expression. The pleasure he was referring to wasn’t gastronomic, she was sure.

  She didn’t know what she was going to do about that, so she pretended his comment was about dinner. “Well, as long as we’re out here, how about Wong’s King? They have great Chinese food and it’s not far off I-205 on Division.”

  “Love good Chinese. You’re on.”

  After another long dinner complete with an animated discussion about art and an ex
change of who-had-traveled-where stories, they arrived at what Liz feared would be the awkward part of the day. They were back at her apartment.

  He parked in front of the gallery and walked her to the back door at the foot of the steps that led up to her residence. She put the key in the lock and turned to him, holding out her hand, making it obvious she was going for a goodnight handshake.

  “Thank you for including me today. I loved seeing your work.”

  “That’s not why I asked you to go with me,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her to him. “I wanted to spend time with you.” He dipped his head; she could see the kiss coming.

  She warded it off by putting her hand on his chest. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “I don’t believe you.” He tugged at her, to get her closer. “You reacted the same way I did the first time we looked at each other. It was electric — for both of us.”

  “I still don’t think … ”

  “There’s your mistake, Liz. Don’t think.” He touched her lips softly with his mouth, a mere brush of a kiss, then his tongue lightly tasted her lower lip.

  She shuddered. He smelled of an intoxicating mixture of something mostly citrus, a little spicy, and a whole lot male. It had been a long time since she’d smelled anything that good.

  “See, when you don’t think, it’s a good idea.” He tried to move closer but she backed away from him.

  “No, it’s not.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “Why isn’t it a good idea to do what we both want to do?”

  “First of all, I’m old enough to be your mother.”

  “You must have been very precocious. I’m thirty-eight and you’re … what? Thirty-nine? Forty?”

  “I’m forty-six and, okay, you’re older than I thought you were. But I’m still a lot older than you are.”

  “Which made a difference when I was ten and you were eighteen. It doesn’t matter now.” He moved nearer. “We’re adults, not kids, and we … ”