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“Morgan.” His smile upgraded from charming to dazzling.
She ignored the slow burn that lit in her belly, the forgotten dreams it rekindled.
“I’m sorry. I’m not prepared to sell them.”
“I didn’t take you for a selfish woman, Ms. Walker.”
He emphasized the last two words in unspoken invitation, but she couldn’t invite him to call her Rosalie. Not when his words sent a wave of doubt and shame washing over her.
Was it selfish to keep Joey’s existence a secret from his grandmother? Would Márya really want her to go that far? She needed to think about that. She’d already spent the last few nights thinking about nothing else, but now Mr. Danby, Morgan, had given up his search, she needed to be certain, once and for all, that she’d done the right thing.
But this wasn’t a good time to rethink things, not while Morgan’s thousand-watt smile dazzled her, his navy blue eyes fascinated her, and the musky scent of his expensive cologne filled the air around her. Right now she needed to get the man out of her office.
She shuffled more papers around her desk. “Selfish?”
“If I were you, I’d want to celebrate my mother’s talent. Would she have turned down an opportunity like this?”
Rosalie blinked. She hadn’t thought of it that way.
He pressed his advantage.
“I’d be glad to take a few of her paintings to my friend’s gallery. I’m sure he’d be happy to show them.”
“Why would he want to show the work of an amateur painter?”
“Your mother may not have sold any of her work, but she was no amateur. She must have studied art somewhere.”
She pushed the flow of pink-tinted memories away. “In college. Then after … when she first began to paint again, she took more classes.”
“Not at the local community center.” It wasn’t a question.
“No. UCLA. She was in a couple of student shows up there, but her paintings didn’t sell.”
“Too conventional for that crowd. But not for the patrons of my friend’s gallery. These paintings are exactly what they want to decorate their winter homes in Palm Springs.”
The memories swirled into a rainbow-colored dance in Rosalie’s head. Her mother would have been so thrilled by an offer like this. And the money could go into Joey’s college fund.
“I’m not sure …”
“What if I came by your house this evening to look at the other paintings you have? I could pick two or three and show them to my friend tomorrow to see what he has to say.”
“No!”
Panic pushed the word out before Rosalie could think, could even breathe. Had he guessed her secret? Was all this talk about the paintings a ploy to get inside her house? What would he do if he found out she’d lied to him?
Then she realized her sharp response and flushed face might make Morgan suspicious.
She forced her voice back to normal. “Tonight isn’t convenient.”
“What about tomorrow?”
There had to be a way to protect Joey without passing up this chance to honor her mother’s memory. Maybe …
“I could bring a few paintings to your hotel.”
Morgan shook his head. “I’d need to see more than a few. If you aren’t familiar with the art market, you might not know which ones would sell well, and this art dealer won’t want to waste his time with anything but your mother’s most saleable work.”
Her mind went into overdrive. She hated to let this incredible opportunity slip by.
She could set up a playdate for Joey. It wouldn’t be hard to hide all the toys and other signs he lived there if she kept Morgan out of the back part of the house. She’d just have to display the paintings somewhere other than the studio, which was right next to Joey’s bedroom.
She took so long weighing the pros and cons that Morgan shifted impatiently in his chair.
“Would tomorrow around lunchtime work?” she suggested.
“Eleven-thirty?”
“That would be fine.”
They stood and said goodbye with another hand shake. If this one sizzled through Rosalie’s system a little too long, stirred needs and feelings best left unfelt, she ignored it.
As soon as Morgan Danby was out the door, she let out a long breath, sat down and spun her desk chair around in a slow circle of celebration.
He’d given up trying to find Joey. She grinned at the tiny picture stuck on the computer monitor. Her little boy was safe!
When Morgan parked in front of Ms. Walker’s Spanish-style bungalow at precisely eleven-thirty the next day, his mouth lifted in an inexplicable smile, although he couldn’t have said why. The paintings weren’t worth that much money. The finder’s fee Morgan had turned down wouldn’t have paid for one day’s rental on the Porsche.
The unfamiliar need to smile certainly couldn’t have anything to do with seeing Ms. Walker again. Any woman who lived in a cozy house like this could only lead him into the kind of emotional morass he’d spent his entire adult life running away from.
The stone path to the house ran between artfully random beds of brightly colored blooms. A patch of tall, pink flowers on bare stems stood by the front door like dainty sentinels, but gave off a sweet perfume that screamed “female territory”.
He’d take that as a warning. He knocked on the door, then noticed the doorbell. Before he could decide whether to ring, the door opened.
It took him a full minute to recognize the woman on the other side as Rosalie Walker, lady lawyer. Gone were the dark-colored suits, high-necked knit tops, and sensible black heels.
In their place was a floaty dress covered with flowers that mimicked the display outside, a pair of sandals that displayed bare, oddly appealing toes, and a length of shapely leg.
The only recognizable thing was her wary expression. She’d let her dark-brown hair curl around her face, but pushed it back when she saw him as if uncertain what to do with the hand that wasn’t holding the door.
“Hello. Please come in.”
In sharp contrast to her sleekly efficient office, Ms. Walker’s living room was like something out of a country living magazine. A closer look revealed that the floral curtains and sofa covers had probably been home-made, and not recently. Worn patches marred the soft-brown carpet and the armchair she steered him away from had at least one bad spring.
“Genteel poverty” was the best description of the decor, although owning a house like this free and clear in L.A. ruled literal poverty out of the question. He would have to rethink the sugar-daddy hypothesis, though. For some reason, his mood brightened.
“I’m afraid I don’t have all the paintings ready,” she told him once he was settled on the sofa. “Can I get you something to drink while you wait? I’ll only be a few minutes.”
He could imagine what kind of ultra-feminine beverage she might consider appropriate to the occasion. “No, thank you.”
She disappeared down the hall that led toward the back of the house, but he wasn’t left alone. The two cats he’d seen in the window before, one white with black splotches, the other black on top and white underneath, crept from behind the broken armchair.
The mostly black one jumped on the sofa and sat down next to him, eyes alert, tail twitching. The inner guard, he decided, now he was past the pink sentinels outside.
The mostly white cat jumped up beside him in a more leisurely fashion. It sat very close and put one front paw, then the other, on Morgan’s thigh. Daintily it lowered its coal-black nose and sniffed his crotch.
Strangely uncomfortable at the cat’s inspection, Morgan managed not to push it away, intrigued with what it might do next. He’d never been allowed to have pets as a kid.
The initial part of the procedure complete, the animal walked its front paws up his polo shirt, claws out enough to gain some purchase, but not enough to scratch. Reaching Morgan’s face, it sniffed again, then butted its head against his cheek.
He refused to flinch, or to follow the instinct that made him want to run his hand down the animal’s sleek body.
Was the creature purring?
“Smudge!”
The cat turned to give its owner the look of someone doing his duty, then dropped its paws to the sofa cushion and assumed the same position as its comrade.
The pink on Ms. Walker’s cheeks when she rushed over made his mind wander to other ways he might make the prim lady lawyer blush.
“I hope you’re not allergic. He’s never done that before. All I can think of to explain it is that Aaron has a beard, so he’s not used to clean-shaven men.”
Aaron? And the cat was only familiar with one man? Morgan’s mood went sour again.
“Guys.” Both cats looked at her. “Off the sofa.”
They both jumped down and sauntered away, tails high.
“Smudge and Sylvester. Rescue cats. Brothers. Neutered.”
“Where did you set up the paintings?” he interrupted gruffly. “In your mother’s studio?”
A shadow flickered in her eyes. “You can only display one or two at a time in there. I picked out a dozen and put them in the dining room.”
She led him across the tiled entry to where she’d leaned the larger paintings on the chairs that went with the undistinguished dining table and split the smaller ones between the buffet and sideboard. He could see at once that the prospect of selling dozens of these paintings would make the art dealer’s heart pound with avaricious delight.
Rosalie stood in the archway between the entry and dining room while Morgan Danby wandered from painting to painting, occasionally picking one up to hold it to the sunlight.
With an effort, she managed not to fidget with the stress of having this man within yards of Joey’s bedroom, despite the fact that Joey himself was safely down the street on his playdate.
At least she wasn’t afraid of Mr. Danby, even if he did claim Charlie for a brother. Maybe it was because the change from suit and tie to a blue shirt that accented those killer eyes and jeans that hugged his admirable physique made him look like the proverbial guy next door.
If the guy next door was a movie star. Too bad such an attractive package was wasted on such an arrogant, and for her, dangerous man. When he’d tried to be friendly, to act like the careless charmer he appeared to be, the effect had been pretty devastating.
At the same time, the melancholy she sensed under all the charm made her want to know more about him. He’d tolerated her cats, who tried even Aaron’s patience. Mr. Danby seemed to care about his stepmother. And he’d understood how Rosalie felt about her mother’s paintings.
Reality jolted her back a step. Being physically attracted to Morgan Danby was bad enough. She didn’t dare allow herself to like the man.
Finally he picked out one of the smaller paintings, an iris in vivid purple. “This will be a good sample, and that.” He pointed to one of the larger ones, a hillside of poppies and lupins with a single scrub oak to one side. “Do you have any more with children in them?”
She shook her head. “Just the one in my office. My mother gave it to me as a Christmas gift one year. She wasn’t interested in people as subjects. She thought it was intrusive to try to show what someone ‘really’ looked like. She preferred flowers.”
“Luckily flowers sell well.”
“I’m not doing this for the money.”
He nodded absently and handed her the smaller painting. “Would you mind carrying this out to the car for me while I get the larger one?”
For a moment her body quivered with relief that he was leaving. She took the painting and followed him out to the shiny black sports car.
Mrs. Peterson across the street was making a show of raking her already perfectly manicured lawn, eyes fixed on the stranger’s expensive car.
“Nice day,” she called with a wave.
Rosalie waved back. Once Morgan clicked the car’s locks, she opened the door and bent to set the smaller painting on the passenger seat.
“How’s Joey?” Mrs. Peterson asked.
Rosalie straightened so quickly out of the car’s narrow doorway that she hit her head hard enough to make her ears ring. “He’s fine.”
Morgan’s face twisted for a moment, then went bland and cold.
She didn’t dare do anything that might lead to a conversation between him and her neighbor, so she stood there, holding her breath.
Mrs. Peterson gave her a long look. “Well, give Joey a hug for me,” before she gave up the pretense of raking and disappeared around the side of her house.
“Joey? I thought his name was Aaron.”
Ordinarily the disdain in Morgan’s voice would have annoyed Rosalie, but under the circumstances she could have kissed him for his mistake.
Relief slumped one hip against the car. Or maybe it was the idea of kissing Morgan had made her knees so wobbly.
“Mrs. Peterson gets confused,” she said.
“Humph.” He put the larger painting behind the seat, slammed the passenger door shut, and went around to the driver’s side.
She stepped away from the car. “Thank you for showing the paintings to your friend.”
“I’m an art lover, what can I say?”
His smile made her heart want to burst into sappy, sentimental songs.
This man was the enemy, she reminded herself. Even if he was a spectacularly gorgeous enemy.
“I’ll let you know what the dealer says.”
She sighed when he drove off, unsure whether it was from relief or longing.
Morgan realized too late it was a mistake to call Lillian from the condo that afternoon before he called Rosalie to report back on his visit to the art dealer.
