This Heart of Mine (Chicago Stars #5)(74)
Except he was flattered. She was a terrific writer, and the stories were great—kid-hip and funny. Although there was one thing he didn't like about the Daphne books—the bunny generally ended up getting the upper hand over the badger. What kind of message was that to send to little boys? Or big ones, for that matter?
He leaned back on the saggy excuse for a couch and glared toward the bedroom door she'd shut behind her. His good mood from dinner had faded. He'd have to be blind not to know that she was attracted to him. So what was the point?
She wanted to jerk his chain, that was the point. She wanted to make him beg so she could feel like she had her pride back. This whole thing was some kind of power trip for her. She was getting off on being cute and funny around him, making him enjoy her company, fluffing her hair, wearing funky clothes designed just so he'd itch to pull them off her. Then, when it was time to do exactly that, she jumped back and said she didn't believe in sex without commitment. Bull.
He needed a shower—a cold one—but there was only that pint-size bathtub. God, he hated it here. Why was she making such a big frickin' deal out of this? She might have said no at dinner, but when he'd kissed her, that sweet little body sure had been saying yes. They were married! He was the one who had to compromise himself, not her!
His policy of never mixing business with pleasure had blown up in his face. The trouble he was having keeping his eyes off the bedroom door filled him with self-disgust. He was Kevin Tucker, damn it, and he didn't have to beg for any woman's affections, not when there were so many others standing in line trying to catch his attention.
Well, he'd had enough. From now on he was going to be all business. He'd take care of the campground and step up his workouts so he was in top shape when training camp started. As for that irritating little brat who happened to be his wife… Until they got back to Chicago, it was strictly hands off.
Chapter 16
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"My boyfriend's parents were gone for the night, and he invited me over. As soon as I walked in the door, I knew what was going to happen…"
"My Boyfriend's Bedroom"
for Chik
Lilly hated herself for saying yes, but what art lover could turn down an invitation to visit Liam Jenner's house and see his private collection? Not that the invitation had been issued graciously. Lilly had just come in from a Sunday-morning walk when Amy handed her the telephone.
"If you want to see my paintings, come to my house this afternoon at two," he'd barked. "No earlier. I'm working, and I won't answer the bell."
She'd definitely been in L.A. too long, because she almost found his rudeness refreshing. As she turned off the highway and onto the side road he'd indicated, she realized how accustomed she'd grown to meaningless compliments and empty flattery. She'd nearly forgotten that people still existed who said exactly what was on their minds.
She spotted the weather-beaten turquoise mailbox he'd told her to look for. It perched crookedly on a battered metal pole set in a tractor tire filled with cement. The ditch behind the tire held rusted bedsprings and a twisted sheet of corrugated tin, which made the no trespassing sign at the top of the rutted, overgrown lane seem superfluous.
She turned in and slowed to a crawl. Even so, her car lurched alarmingly in the ruts. She'd just decided to abandon it and walk the rest of the way when the overgrowth disappeared and fresh gravel smoothed the bumpy road surface. Moments later she caught her breath as the house came into view.
It was a sleekly modern structure with white concrete parapets, stone ledges, and glass. Everything about the design bore Liam Jenner's signature. As she got out of the car and made her way toward the niche that held the front door, she wondered where he'd found an architect saintly enough to work with him.
She glanced down at her watch and saw that she was exactly half an hour late for this command performance. Just as she'd intended.
The door swung open. She waited for him to bark at her for not being on time and was disappointed when he merely nodded, then stepped back to let her in.
She caught her breath. The glass wall opposite the entrance had been constructed in irregular sections bisected by a narrow iron catwalk some ten feet from the ground floor. Through the glass she could see the sweeping vista of lake, cliffs, and trees.
"What an amazing house."
"Thanks. Would you like something to drink?"
His request sounded cordial, but she was even more impressed that he'd traded in his paint-stained denim shirt and shorts for a black silk shirt and light gray slacks. Ironically, his civilized clothes only emphasized the Sturm und Drang of that rugged face.
She declined his offer for a drink. "I'd love a tour, though."
"All right."
The house hugged the terrain in two uneven sections, the larger of which held an open living area, kitchen, library, and cantilevered dining room, with several smaller bedrooms tucked into lower levels. The catwalk she'd seen when she'd entered led to a glass-enclosed tower that Liam told her held his studio. She hoped he'd let her see it, but he showed her only the master bedroom below, a space designed with an almost monastic simplicity.
Magnificent works of art were on display everywhere, and Liam talked about them with passion and discernment. An enormous Jasper Johns canvas hung not far from a contemplative composition in blues and beige by Agnes Martin. One of Bruce Nauman's neon sculptures flickered near the library archway. Across from it hung a work by David Hockney, then a portrait of Liam done by Chuck Close. An imposing Helen Frankenthaler canvas occupied one long wall of the living area, and a totemlike stone-and-wood sculpture dominated a hallway. The very best of the world's contemporary artists were represented in this house. All except Liam Jenner.