Dance Away with Me(30)

“Write down any questions you have. It’s important for boys to be as well informed as girls. And I didn’t invite them. They showed up. And before you go into your whole Prince of Darkness routine, you should know that two of those girls are teenage pregnancies waiting to happen.”

“That’s not your problem.”

She touched Wren’s cheek. “Don’t worry about that bad man, sweetheart. I’ll slip some garlic in your blankie.”

A snort and then he pulled the black-and-red flannel shirt he’d worn the morning of their first meeting from a hook. He delivered it to her. But instead of moving away, he stayed where he was, his eyes lingering.

Only then did she realize her shawl had once again slipped off her shoulder. Far off. Revealing most of the top of one breast. She jerked it back up as if she were some kind of outraged virgin.

“Think about what you’re doing, Tess,” he said. “Think about how you’d feel if you were a parent and a stranger started talking to your kid about sex.”

“I’m right.” She sounded self-righteous even to herself.

He tilted his head ever-so-slightly and then headed upstairs.

She heard the studio door close above her and gazed at his flannel shirt for several seconds before she remembered she’d asked him for it. She discarded the shawl and buttoned herself and all of Wren, except her face, inside. The shirt felt wrong. It didn’t smell like Trav’s sweatshirt. Instead, it smelled of the outdoors. Most disturbing, it had no hood she could hide inside.

Wren uttered one of her baby coos. North’s shirt was fine with her. She had no memories of Trav spilling coffee down the front of it, and she’d never snatched it up from wherever he’d abandoned it and asked him to please, just once, throw the damn thing in the closet instead of leaving it around.

Was it a betrayal that Bianca’s death was more on Tess’s mind these days than Trav’s? What if there was something more she could have done for her? Between Bianca, taking care of Wren, and Eli’s emergency, the anger that had been fueling her for so many months had shifted to a new target. Ian North.

She gazed toward the staircase. She needed some answers, and she wouldn’t let him stonewall her any longer.





Chapter Seven




A generous pair of skylights brightened the spacious studio. The floors were new, a cool blond hardwood instead of the darker finish everywhere else. No brightly colored paintings hung on the wall—no incendiary posters of missiles sprouting from party hats, no twelve-foot stencils waiting to be taped against brick or canvas and brought to life with spray paint. He sat at a computer with his back to the door.

“I didn’t hear you knock.”

“Weird.” She came farther into the room, Wren the barest weight in her arms. “You’re quite the man of mystery. I’m curious. Do you have any personality—other than the dark and mysterious part?”

He turned to her. “I have lots of personality.”

“Aloof? Foreboding?”

He rose from the desk, not appearing to be put off by her insult. His height, stevedore’s jaw, and long-muscled arms seemed wasted on someone who didn’t need to lift anything heavier than a paint roller. “Refusing to telegraph every emotion that flits through my brain doesn’t make me aloof.”

She caught the implied insult. “I don’t flit. And if Wren’s not your baby, whose is she?”

“I don’t like being interrupted when I’m working.”

“You were probably playing solitaire online. And if you were a female artist, you’d get interrupted all the time. Kids, husbands, girlfriends, UPS. That’s the way it is with us. And Wren comes first. Even before your work. Whose is she?”

He shoved a hand in the pocket of his scruffy jeans. “What if I told you she’s mine? Would that make you go away?”

She gave him the same “you’re a moron” look the teens had given her. “Do I look like I’m stupid?”

“What you look like is a pain in the ass!”

“Is it possible for us to have a straightforward conversation?”

“I don’t like conversation—straightforward or not. I can’t work with you popping up all over the place.”

“Tough. You’ve hauled me into your mess, and I need to know what I’m in for.”

“Do your job,” he said brusquely. “I’ll handle the rest.”

She wasn’t backing off. “I promise not to make eye contact while you talk. I know that makes you nervous.”

“I am not afraid to make eye contact with you.” He proved it. His eyes, dark as sin, locked with hers until she felt as if he could see into everything she wanted to keep hidden—her anger, her guilt over Bianca’s death, and her shame at not being able to move on from the loss of the only man she’d ever loved. She looked away first, shifting her focus to Wren. “One of us has to care about her.”

“Do you think I don’t care?” He jabbed a hand toward the window. “Sit over there. In that chair.”

She glanced toward the straight-back chair he’d indicated. “Why?”

“Because you don’t have anything better to do right now.”

She was curious enough to sit where he indicated. He rolled the sleeves of his denim shirt to his elbows, revealing long-muscled forearms all ready to chop wood. But instead of grabbing an ax, he picked up a sketchbook. She stared at him. “You’re going to draw me?”