A Bad Boy is Good to Find(25)

He looked up at her, eyes wide. “You’re a bad girl.”

She raised an eyebrow, swallowed hard.

“But you’re very, very, good.” His eyes wandered back to the car, and he walked around it. He stopped and put his hands on his hips, surveying the pattern of interlocking shapes snaking around the rear. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He stood there silent, still wearing nothing but shorts. Her pulse threatened to break speed records.

At last he looked up at her. “Did you spray the clearcoat yet?”

“No, so I guess I can re-spray it all black.” She spoke between gritted teeth.

“Are you kidding? I just think you should sign it first. Maybe right here, on the rear bumper.”

Was he poking fun at her?

“A Lizzie Hathaway original? No, thanks. I’ll be anonymous.”

“If it was mine, I’d sign it.” He walked around to the other side. Let out a low whistle.

He wasn’t kidding. He was genuinely impressed. The realization gave her a warm thrill of pride.

“I can’t believe you’ve been hiding all this talent under a bushel.”

“Creative spray painting is not a highly valued skill in this society.”

“Maybe not in your kind of society, but there are plenty of people out there who will appreciate this, believe me.” He walked around the far side, peered at the lowest part of the car, checking out the details.

Did he think she’d skimped on the corners, done a sloppy job? She bristled. “I did all the edges, didn’t leave anything out.”

“I can see that. You’ve sprayed a car before, haven’t you?”

“Never, only did it on canvas. The finish is a lot more beautiful on metal.”

“I’ll say. I want to see some of these canvases of yours. Do you still have any?”

“Sure. They’re down in the basement under a tarp.” She’d noticed them lurking in a corner. A little surprised her parents hadn’t disposed of them.

“Can we go see them?”

“I guess so.”



Con insisted on bringing them all upstairs out of the basement gloom. He hung the huge canvases—some of them six feet across—on the nails left vacant by the Degas sketch, the Corot landscape and all the other vanished beauties. The rising sun illuminated the overlapping, interlocking shapes and colors, sparkled off the metal-flecked highlights.

“I haven’t seen these in years. Not since I graduated from college.” They brought back memories. Happy memories of being alone in her college studio cubicle, painting into the night, with music blasting in her headphones. Back when she was going to be an artist.

That was before she came home to her parents’ laughter and the offer of a boring but respectable job in the family firm.

Con wasn’t saying anything. He just kept walking around, hanging the pictures. Annoyingly he was still wearing only his shorts, so it was hard to avoid the bulge and flex of gym-toned muscles as he hefted the big canvases into position.

There were eight of the large ones and about twelve smaller ones. The sun beamed across the wood floors by the time they were all hung. “The place looks like a gallery,” she murmured. Embarrassed to see her hopes and dreams shimmering on the wall.

“Sure does. We should get some people in here. Would you mind selling them?”

“Selling them? Who’d want to buy them?”

“I don’t know. I’m no art critic, but I think they’re beautiful. I’d want one.”

“You can have one. Shame you don’t have a wall to hang it on.” She snuck a sideways glance at him. Did he really like them? Why did that give her a funny feeling? “Besides, I suspect you’re my only fan. My teachers didn’t like them much. I didn’t have enough conceptual bullshit to go along with them or something.”

Con stood, hands on hips, surveying a gray-and-silver abstract with amorphous shapes melding into each other. “You’re an amazing woman, Lizzie.”

“Yeah, right. If I was so amazing I’d have stuck with my so-called passion instead of forgetting all about it as soon as I got out in the real world.”

“You got sidetracked. It can happen to anyone. But you’re an artist.”

A shiver of sensation rippled through her as he said it.

Am I?

She wanted to run and hug him, but she held herself in check. She was just sleep deprived and hopped up on paint fumes. If he did admire her work, it was only because he saw dollar signs popping out of it. Like he said, he was no art critic.

Still, that was the best night she’d had in ages. In fact, it almost rivaled all those nights of steamy passion she’d shared with Con before their One True Love went down the crapper.

“Well, thank you. I’m glad you like my work. Now I have to go get ready, I’ve got a train to catch.”

“On no sleep? No way. Go to bed.”

“Can’t. I’m meeting with the florist at 9:30 and it’s a very long train ride. I’m already running late. I’m glad the hot water’s back on as I’ll need it to get all this paint off my skin.” A fine black mist covered the backs of her hands and arms, not to mention her ratty gray T-shirt and jeans. “I’m off to shower.”

“I can help you scrub.” He winked at her.

She narrowed her eyes and gave him a dirty look. Then she turned and fled before she started wanting to hug him again.

He’d given something back to her. She wasn’t sure what, but it made her take the stairs two at a time.





Chapter 10





The smell of roses made her feel sick. Reminded her too much of the “old days” only a few weeks earlier and that stupid scent she wore.

“No roses.”

“But roses are the bloom of romance,” protested Sven, floral artiste of the minute. “You cannot marry without roses.”

Three pale pink roses, each almost the size of her head, mocked her from a handblown glass vase in the center of the conference table.

“Oh, come on, Lizzie, they’re lovely.” Maisie ripped off a pink petal. Sven winced. “Not a sprig of baby’s breath in sight, thank God. I love what you’ve done, Sven, it’s luxe, yet wonderfully modern. I think it’s perfect.”

“But the bride…”

“The bride will love it. Besides, she’ll be too busy to think about flowers.”

Maisie glowered at Lizzie as Sven gathered his blooms and departed. When the door closed behind him, she leaned across the table. “Are you nuts? No roses?”

“I’m sick of roses. They’re so…Predictable.”

“I’d think you’d like that about them. You used to be the rose queen. You even smelled like one.” Maisie shuffled her papers into a stack.

“Those days are over.” Lizzie stretched. “Since I met Con I’m a new woman.”

“You certainly are different, I’ll give you that. I can’t wait to meet this mysterious Con. He must be quite a character.”