Miah (Lane Brothers #2) Page 13

  “You’re judging me when you spend just as much time watching Paulie Hayes as I do watching Tracy. At least I don’t jack off to memories of her. What’s your excuse?”

  “Screw you, asshole. I do not jack off thinking about Paulie Hayes. I just like her. She’s cool and sweet and a lot more intelligent than some of the shitty company I’ve been keeping of late,” he says.

  “Whatever, man. I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to do it, bro. We need the senator’s help, and I’m going to get it if I have to marry the woman to do it.”

  “Christ, you’re crazier than Roman on a good day, and that fucker is batshit crazy. Do not do this to yourself or Tracy. Please. I remember how you were for months after your split, and I got to see her, too. Just let it go and come home. There are other ways to do this besides breaking her heart again.”

  As much as I agree, I don’t think I can stop myself from doing this. I can’t stop myself from going after her again. I want her just one more time so that I can prove to myself that the memories are all a figment of my imagination.

  That she’s not as sweet as I keep remembering, and she’s not as sexy or tight as my dick keeps screaming at me.

  Trace is simply that imperfect woman I cut loose years ago, and now that she’s back I can kill two birds with one stone and put this ghost to rest.

  I’ll fuck her for as long and hard as I can before wooing the hell out of her. I wasn’t lying when I said I would stoop so low as to marry her. I would, and then I’d divorce her and humiliate her the way she did me.

  Miah and the guys still believe that bullshit story I fed them about leaving her to pursue my career when that couldn’t be further from the truth. I left her because she betrayed me in the worst way, and I couldn’t be around her anymore without wanting to hurt her like she hurt me.

  She’s playing hard to get now, and it’s pissing me off.

  “Jace? You still there, man?”

  “Yeah, bro, still here,” I mutter, using my night-vision glasses to track her when the lights go out and she starts walking back to her bedroom. Once there, she removes the robe and I growl at the sight of her body encased in silk panties and a tight sports bra that shows off her breasts and the long expanse of her silky legs.

  “I gotta go, bro. See you later.”

  “Wait!”

  ***

  Trace

  He’s still watching me every night and I know it. I feel Jace Lane the way you feel a physical caress, despite the distance of years and the hatred we both feel for each other.

  I let him watch for now, because I’m not ready to see him yet or let him know that I see him, but it will happen soon. I’m sure because I can already feel his impatience. He wants something from me. Why else would he want to come near me again unless he’s looking for revenge?

  That’s not his style, and I know it since his form of punishment seems to be forgetting I ever existed.

  Jace Lane may not be vengeful, but I am. As the daughter of a United States senator, I have everything I need to ensure that Jason Lane feels the pain he inflicted on me.

  I smile when I hear footfalls outside my window and make myself relax beneath the covers. The window slides up and I feel him more than I hear him when he enters my domain.

  He’s over me and has a hand over my mouth in an instant before replacing it with his mouth—one I remember like yesterday.

  The kiss is hot and wild and intense, and I revel in the pleasure he can still give me despite our past.

  “We need to talk, Trace.”

  “Not now,” I growl, pulling his mouth back to mine for a kiss that makes my toes curl.

  He kisses me back and I feel his wicked smile curve the lips that are devouring mine.

  Oh, Jace, baby, if only you knew.

  ~~~

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  RED LOVE

  Chapter One

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art is my favorite place in the world, hands down. I love everything about it, from the steps at the entrance to the crowds of people vying to see the art.

  I visit at least once a month without fail and never cease to be spellbound by everything all over again, nevermind how many times I’ve been. My favorite painting is Monet’s Sunflowers.

  It’s the happiest painting I’ve ever seen, or at least, it makes me happy every time I see it.

  My college professor despaired of my one-dimensional view of art the whole time he’d been cursed with me and my uninspired ass. He said my interpretation of art is skewed, flat, and altogether too happy when faced with a world of possibilities.

  All I know is that I love creating something that is happy and colorful, something that brings joy to those who see it. And I love flowers.

  Sue me.

  It’s as I’m leaving that I make the quick decision to pop into the gift store, even though I know I won’t find the print I’ve been looking for. Every time I come here I’m disappointed. I never get my print of the Sunflowers.

  Last year Mom had bought me a tote of the Water Lilies for Christmas. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not what I wanted, so I’d aaahhhed and held it aloft and then gone home and hung it from a hook to store extra brush rags.

  “It’s a beauty, this one,” I hear from somewhere to my left.

  I look back over my shoulder to see a man and what looks like Heidi Klum’s twin sister cooing about a dark blob that’s masquerading as art but is actually a one-way trip to depression. The guy is…hotter than hell, with black hair and a set of lips that make me wish I’d brought my sketchpad and pencils.

  I no longer do that after the last time I’d lost track of time and been asked to leave at closing time. But, and I hate to say this, with the super love I have for landscapes, I want to do something with this man that will dominate the canvas.

  Something about him is just so…

  “Oh, Vincent, I just love all this angst. To see and feel what the artist must have been feeling is so inspiring.”

  I hear the overwrought tittering and grind my teeth against the need to tell the airhead that no matter what people think, they can never know what the artist was thinking.

  I ignore the gushing and go back to my monthly fix, going over every minute detail, every brushstroke, every shadow and shade until I can go home and try my hand at it again. Here’s the print I’ve been searching for, and yet, it’s so pale in comparison.

  “This one is my favorite, but I like The Artist’s Garden at Giverny too,” says a crisply accented voice.

  British. How delicious.

  I know who is standing behind me, and I freeze, feeling my breath stall as shivers and goose bumps break out all over my skin. He’s standing so close I smell his citrusy cologne and feel the heat of his breath at my nape.

  “I…I prefer these stronger colors, but that one’s excellent too. It’s beautiful.”

  It comes out a choked whisper, and I feel myself blush and tense when he leans to my left and peers down at me.

  “You’ve been staring at it for over an hour before coming into the gift store. See something the rest of us don’t?”

  His breath whispers over my ear and cheek, and it’s all I can do not to lean back into him and experience the tightly muscled chest visible beneath his suit jacket and shirt.

  “I-I keep trying to paint it just so…but I can never commit it to memory enough to… The colors are never right.”

  “That’s the problem with true art. One of a kind originals can never be faked exactly. Nor true beauty.”

  His husky whisper has me turning against my will, and I gasp
when a set of mint green eyes captures mine. I can say I have seen true beauty in every art form, but I have honestly never seen a man this intensely handsome before.

  I won’t be obsessively painting the Sunflowers when I go home. Oh, no, it’s this perfect creature that will consume me until the wee hours of the morning, and I know exactly how I’ll capture him on my canvas.

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Or so they say.”

  His lips curve, and I spy a single dimple gracing his right cheek.

  “Then let me say how truly honored I am to behold you.”

  “Oh God, does that work on every woman you try to pick up, or am I just lucky?” I ask, laughing at the cheesiness of the line.

  His answering chuckle makes me smile harder before the art lover wannabe sidles up and latches onto him like poison ivy.

  “Vincent, you said you’d help me pick out a good souvenir for Mummy.”

  I pull myself back from the brink of flirtation and open staring when I realize they truly are together—and, unbelievably, I’d forgotten that fact—and make an ass of myself when a postcard rack behind me gives way and I’m dumped to the floor in an inglorious heap of flailing arms and flying cards.

  I am possibly the biggest klutz on earth, and now I’ve managed to make a tool of myself in front of the first man to ring my bell. Great.

  “Good gracious! I can see your pants.”

  As I’m not wearing pants and am in fact clothed in a really nice cherry red gypsy skirt, I know exactly what they’re all seeing, and I groan through a blush that fits my attire.

  The only upside to this day?

  I’ll never have to see Vincent, my new obsession, ever again.

  Chapter Two

  “Jesus, you should see the man candy out there, Sissy! Eric is so lucky I love him.”

  I smile up at Bee, my best friend and roommate, as she comes sailing into the truly fabulous kitchen and reloads her tray. We both work for Angie’s Angels, a high end service that caters parties for the hoi polloi of New York society.

  Bee waitresses while I do my thing making the plates and appetizers look like artwork. It’s nowhere near what I want from life, but it pays decently and I get to eat on the job, which means I save as much as I make.

  Tonight’s shindig is a small dinner for a select group of contributors to the arts, hence Angie’s willingness to pay me top dollar if I can create actual art with the food.

  So far I’ve gotten through entrees—onion soup with a truly gruesome drawing of The Scream in red food coloring. I hate expressionist art, but I get paid to be this brilliant. And thank God the soup is a cold course, because I’m good, but twenty of those were murder.

  Mains had been a little more bearable because all it had required was a little rendition of Van Gogh’s Irises beside the salad—easier with the lettuce, but those blooms were a bitch to recreate.

  Now I’m on dessert, and I have to admit I am a superstar. Who knew food could really be considered art? This dessert is a cheesecake—divine—sitting in the middle of any painting of my choice.

  Of course I choose my eternal favorite and go Sunflowers on them. What? I am obsessed with that painting.

  “Just make sure—”

  “Yeah, yeah. We can’t let the cakes move or they’ll ruin the sauce and your precious art. We got this, Sis, just relax your poor arm and chill already. Your work here is done.”

  I start tidying my workspace and chat with the chef, Jim, and his assistant while the staff serves dessert.

  “That was fantastic, Sis. When I open my own restaurant you are so invited to be my food artist,” Jim booms, whipping his bandana off as he bows.

  We laugh because this is the millionth time he’s tried to cajole me into going into business with him. Sure, I like the work, and the money would be great, but…

  “You know my true love will always be the canvas, Jimmy boy.”

  “Fine, then at least agree to a date. You’re leaving me too disappointed here, kid.”

  I snort and narrow my eyes at the Viking, taking in his blonde, blue eyed good looks. He’s a hottie, no doubt about it, but James Harlow is way too free with his affections for my taste, and he knows it.

  “I’ll agree to a date when you stop dating three women at the same time, player. Anyway, you’d so fall in love with me and break the hearts of women all over the globe. I’d feel terrible depriving all those future one night stands of your…talent.”

  We tease and insult each other constantly as we clean up and start loading the van.

  “One date and a night in my bed is all you’ll need to fall in love with me, Sis.” He laughs, nudging me away from the dishwasher. “Come on and give me a shot. I guarantee I’ll do more than go for goal. We could even hit double over time.”

  “In your dreams,” I snort. “And stop using my love of hockey against me,” I chortle, snapping the dishcloth at his butt.

  He retaliates by twirling me into his arms and dipping me, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously when his lips stop a breath away from mine, and he winks.

  “One of these days I’m gonna wear you down, kid.”

  “Hopefully not today, and certainly not in my kitchen.”

  Jim whips me back up and lets go of me with such speed I lose my footing and crash into the counter, slamming my hip into the marble so hard I gasp and go crashing to the floor.

  Oh, ouchie.

  “Christ!”

  When my vision clears I look up, expecting the hands running all over my body to be those of Jim. They aren’t.

  “Not you,” I moan, struggling to sit as lances of pain shoot through my bruised hip.

  My would-be rescuer stops glaring at Jim and stares down at me with a sardonic lift of his brows. Those eyes, the exact color of mint leaves, pull me back in, and I still, just staring as he runs gentle hands over my hips, searching for injury.

  I can’t look away, even though I know my staring is rude and I should be embarrassed. I’ve spent hours since that day last week trying to get him onto canvas. There are four in total at the moment that are destined either for the trash or my bedroom wall if I can’t—

  “Your eyes. They change color,” I breathe reverently. “That’s why I couldn’t get it right.”

  He starts as if a live wire has sparked through him and frowns before rising and offering me his hand.

  “Next time you take it into your head to dip a woman, try not throwing her at the goddamned floor. Miss Bennet, a moment of your time, if you please.”

  He walks out of the kitchen without a backward glance, and I shuffle to the door, looking back at Jim with a grimace.

  “Sorry, kid.”

  “It’s okay…wish me luck,” I mutter, exiting the kitchen into a long hallway.

  “This way.”

  I turn to my left and see him—Vincent, I think his name is—waiting three doors down, his back as stiff as his expression.

  “Well, come along, Miss Bennet, I don’t have all bloody night,” he barks, spurring me into a run.

  He steps back when I pass, avoiding any body contact, and I blush angrily. Suffice it to say I haven’t exactly been the picture of feminine grace around the guy, but he doesn’t need to act as if I’ve got the freaking plague.

  He closes the door and marches to his desk—we’re in a huge, book-lined study that reminds me of those Victorian movies my sister likes to watch—and leans his hip onto the corner.

  I feel gauche and ill at ease as he just sits there, staring, picking me apart with those penetrating eyes.

  “That was your work tonight?”

  Oh God, is it rational to be this turned on by the guy’s upper crust English accent? I wonder, swallowing nervously as I nod my head. A million thoughts flood my mind as I take in the hard tilt to his lips and the slight flaring of his nostrils. Maybe he didn’t like my interpretation or the colors I’d used? It’s wicked hard to get the exact shades I was looking for when working with simple coloring and syrup—<
br />
  “You’re very talented.”

  “Okay?”

  I’m usually very intelligent, honestly I am, but as he continues to bore his green gaze into me I feel every thought and brain cell I possess melting away beneath the image of him, reclining naked against snowy sheets—

  “What did you mean when you said that’s why you couldn’t get it right?” he asks suddenly, wrenching me out of my very vivid daydream.

  “Uh…n-nothing.” I stammer, looking everywhere but at him when he smiles knowingly and pushes to his feet.

  The guy is easily over six feet, and he towers over me when he moves closer and stands, staring down at me.

  “I would very much like to see your work, Miss Bennet.”

  “I-You wouldn’t like what I do,” I say, spotting a magnificent, dark Degas print behind his desk. “I only do…color.”

  It’s my weakness. No matter how hard I try to do the dark, ‘thought provoking’ stuff, I always end up with a rainbow of color splashed on the canvas. There’s nothing thoughtful or mysterious about my work. I paint what Vernon Metz calls ‘simple photographs of the world’.

  That’s why I have yet to get my big break. What I offer is nothing more than ‘hotel landscapes’ and the occasional portrait. Or so Vernon says. Whatever the case, I can see from this man’s taste that my landscapes and portraits won’t be his cup of tea.

  “Color is not a bad thing,” he says, and I see that I’ve somehow managed to amuse him.

  I hate being an amusement. I’ve spent the last four years of my life working to be my own person and as far from a feminine amusement as I can get, and the fact that he finds me humorous pisses me off enough that I am no longer shyly in awe of him, but just plain annoyed.

  “It is when the galleries tell you your work is one-dimensional and looks like a unicorn exploded on the canvas,” I mutter. “Look, Mr—”