Do Not Disturb (17 page)

But once there, between a Sam Goody's and a See's Candies, Angel discovered something else to muddle her thinking. A Stephen Whitney Gallery. Clutching
her latte, she stared at the storefront, a banner across its window proclaiming it an official home of the work of the “Artist of the Heart.”

There were galleries like it all over America, they'd caught her eye dozens of times. And dozens of times she'd managed to walk past, gaze averted, never feeling the slightest twinge of…anything. Not in her heart. Not in her head.

But now…

“There it is, Ray.” An older woman bustled up, her attention focused on the same storefront. She wore a plain blue skirt and a gray sweater that matched her softly curling gray hair. Over her elbow was a bulky navy-blue leather purse that matched the color of the bulky orthopedic shoes on her feet.

“I see it, sweets.” Ray was panting a bit, as if Sweets had been rushing him. He adjusted his glasses with one hand and slid the other around the woman. “They promised to put it in the back, no need to run.”

Angel smiled to herself. Ray looked quite a few years and quite a few pounds past running.

“I know, I know.” The woman sighed. “And we're early. They're not open yet.” She looked about, her eye catching Angel's. “Are you waiting for the gallery to open too?”

“Me?”

“Is there a special painting you have in mind?” Sweets's sweet-looking expression turned a bit anxious. “Not
Summer Sidewalk
? When we found out it was up for sale, we asked the gallery to hold it for us.”

“No, no.” Angel shook her head. “It's all yours.”

The only thing she wanted of Stephen Whitney was answers.

That's when it hit her—the reason for her waffling, the source of all this second-guessing about having sex with Cooper.

It was her conscience.

She'd gone to Big Sur for the story—for the truth. How could she be intimate with Cooper, for a single night or a dozen of them, and then blithely return to San Francisco to write a story that might hurt him and his?

A young man was unlocking the gallery doors. As Angel watched, he pushed them open, then smiled and beckoned to the older couple beside her. Ray moved, but then Sweets caught his arm.

“Wait, Ray, this young lady was here first.” She smiled at Angel and shooed her forward with her hand.

Angel blinked. “Oh, but I…I…”
I don't want to!

“Go on, now. Go on.” Sweets smiled at her again. Shooed again. “There's no reason to hesitate.”

No reason at all. Except that at the idea of going inside, Angel's skin went clammy, her breath didn't reach her lungs, and her heart banged on the inside of her chest like it wanted out. Was this sick dread what Cooper felt on the beach last night?

But the couple was still looking at her expectantly and Angel couldn't think up an excuse that would satisfy them. She couldn't tell them she was afraid—she wasn't!

Her gait stiff, she forced herself toward the door. The young man standing there nodded at her, and she nodded back, steeling herself to cross the threshold. It was
cold inside the gallery, or maybe it was just cold inside of her. When she made it to the middle of the small space, she halted.

Bringing her latte to her lips to ease her suddenly dry throat, she quickly ran her gaze over the dozen or so pieces of artwork mounted about the room, finally settling on a prominent display of three large paintings. They were his, all right, the kitsch, candy-bright colors certifying them as Stephen Whitney's.

Sweets and Ray drew up to her and the older woman followed Angel's gaze. “Lovely, aren't they? Ray and I collect the missing children.”

At Angel's blank look, Sweets laughed and shook her head. “I'm sorry, that's what we Whitneyphiles call the paintings like those three. The missing children.”

The missing children?
“Ah.” Angel got it now. Each of the scenes depicted something child-oriented: a metal swing set, a wooden sandbox, a picnic table with a crumpled brown lunch bag on top. In his usual style, the artist had sentimentalized the background with blue skies and puffy clouds, while the foreground was littered with wildflowers and knee-high weeds.

All three paintings gave the impression that a child had just skipped away—the wooden seat of the swing was flying back, there was a half-eaten cookie on top of the lunch bag, a half-built castle was made in the sand, along with the depressions of small feet leading out of the box.

Missing children. Angel shivered. If you asked her, they were kind of spooky.

“Well, uh, nice.” She started to scuttle away, but Sweets caught her wrist in excitement.

“Oh! Here's ours.”

The gallery's young man was coming out of a back room, a framed painting in his arms. With an awkward flourish, he spun it to face Ray, Sweets, and Angel.

A typical saccharine sky, blue, with fat, pinky-white clouds. There was a dilapidated picket fence that wouldn't hold back a butterfly. In the foreground, vermilion dandelion leaves poked through a long crack in a pitted sidewalk. A pair of beat-up sneakers were tumbled nearby, holey white socks discarded beside them. On a patch of unblemished concrete at the center of the painting lay a red rubber ball and some metal jacks. Again, there was the feeling the player had just abandoned the game.

Sweets sighed. “Perfect. I had a jacks set just like that when I was a little girl.”

“So did I.” Angel suddenly saw it in her head, recalling the squishy ball and the tinny jangle when the jacks hit concrete. She saw herself trying to play, remembered her frustration with the game, and then a large hand, the back of it splattered with colors, entered the frame of her memory.

Bounce. Grab. Bounce. Grab more.
It's easy, see?

No. No! Closing her eyes, Angel shook her head to jar the image loose. Shook it again for good measure. Then she cautiously peered at the painting again. Nothing about it seemed familiar, now. Nothing at all. She wasn't sure anymore that she'd truly ever owned or even played jacks. She never remembered her father.

Still, she let out a relieved breath as she watched the gallery worker walk away with the painting, Ray following him to conclude the transaction. Ready to say a
polite goodbye, Angel turned to the older lady. “I'm sure you'll enjoy—”

Sweets was crying. Sobbing.

That old helpless feeling clutched at Angel's still-cold insides. “What is it? What's the matter?” She juggled her latte cup, trying to get into her purse and find something to stanch the lady's tears.

“No, no, no.” Sweets was already waving around a handkerchief. “I'll be fine. Don't worry. It's just that the painting…”

Angel's grip tightened on her coffee, hating that nice Sweets was so upset. The painting was a piece of crap, Angel thought fiercely. A baby step away from Elvis on velvet and weeping clowns. For God's sake, at least the poker-playing dogs showed a sense of humor.

Sweets wiped at her eyes. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It reminds me of being a girl again.”

“Crying?”

The other lady let out a watery chuckle. “The painting. You probably think me a silly old fool, but when I look at it, at any of my Whitneys, I remember sweeter times, innocent times. At my age it's a long way to look back, but if I just glance at one of my paintings, I'm there again.”

“I see.”

Sweets chuckled again. “Perhaps you don't. But what you might not understand, and I know the art critics don't, is that the paintings bring me pleasure. I'll not apologize or be ashamed of that.”

Angel's conscience stung her once again. And then again when Ray rejoined his wife, the brown-wrapped
painting tucked under his arm. He looked so happy that for a second Angel thought
she
might cry.

Now tongue-tied, she parted from Ray and Sweets at the door and turned away from the gallery. But then she found herself looking back at the older couple, who were still smiling over their acquisition.

She'd been toying with the idea of leading off her story on Stephen Whitney with the slams of the critics. While he was beloved by the political and religious “traditional values” crowd, real art pundits savaged the man's work. But now Angel wondered if their opinions were any more valid than Sweets's. What pleasure did
they
offer to anyone with their sarcastic barbs?

Yet if she didn't hook the readers' interest with someone's flamboyant, nasty criticism of Whitney's work, then what? Open with a critique of the artist's character? Tell how the “Artist of the Heart” had turned a cold shoulder when his daughter was in desperate need? She'd been toying with that idea too, of course. First person. A gripping account of how she'd been betrayed.

And thus betray Lainey and Katie,
her conscience whispered. And Cooper. Even if she didn't go to bed with him.

Oh hell. Angel scowled at her reflection in the window of another store.
Fine,
she told her conscience,
you win.
Since all she had to bring down Stephen Whitney was her own sob story, then she wouldn't try to bring him down at all.

Let the emperor keep his clothes. Saint Stephen could be canonized, for all she cared.

Unsure if she was disgusted or relieved, she slammed her paper cup into a waiting trash can. The latte hadn't improved her mood, not at all. Now it was up to her plastic cards and her credit limits.

She was hurrying toward the Victoria's Secret across the courtyard and recalculating her clothing budget when a new thought struck her. Her ethical dilemma was solved.

One back-page, tepid story on Stephen Whitney bought Angel that one-night stand. One conscience-free, emotionally uninvolving opportunity to give Cooper Jones pleasure.

The night was hot and dark and so was Cooper's mood.

It was past ten when he heard the chirpy little knock on his door, and he knew who was on the other side. He considered ignoring her, but then she'd guess she'd gotten to him. So he strolled to the door and pulled it open, then propped one shoulder casually against the jamb.

His body blocking the entry.

Angel's eyes widened. “Uh, hi.”

She might be wearing some silky little wraparound number in pale yellow, but all day long he'd pictured her in black leather and carrying a whip.

“You took off so early this morning, I thought you might have left Tranquility for good,” he drawled. That idea had been the first to lash at him.

“You could have checked. All my things were in my cottage.”

He jerked a shoulder, because he
had
checked and it still hadn't cooled his temper. “Then I wondered”—
all day long, hour by hour, minute by minute
—“when you were coming back.”

Her gaze slid away from his. “I, uh, had a few things to do in San Luis Obispo. It's a long drive.”

“You returned a couple hours ago.” That's when the torture had really started. He'd promised himself to wait her out, and she'd made him wait, all right. “I could sue you for breach of promise, by the way. You said night. It's been night for quite a while.”

“‘Breach of promise.'” She shook her head. “It's that kind of stuff that gives lawyers a bad name, you know.”

“You said night.” He shrugged, then shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “It's night.”

She rolled her eyes. “And I'm here, aren't I? So are you going to invite me in or not?”

Or not
was sounding pretty damned good. She'd had him in knots for the last twenty-four hours. But, of course, she was the only way to unravel them too. “Not if you're reluctant,” he said through his teeth.

“Of course I'm reluctant, you idiot!” Rolling her eyes again, she placed both hands on his chest and pushed him out of the way. “Right now this is starting to feel clumsy and calculated and…” Her voice drifted away as she stomped past him and took in the sight of his living room.

“And pretty,” she finally said.

“I'm not a complete idiot.” He shut the door and
turned to her. “I had dinner reservations for us at the Crosscreek Hotel. We missed them.”

She was still looking about. The retreat had a decent stockpile of candles in case of power outages during winter storms. He'd placed them strategically around the living room, and even more strategically—sparingly—in the bedroom. Their flickering flames made the darkness appear to pulse around them.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know about dinner.” Her earlier exasperation fell away and she sent him a sweet, almost shy glance. Then she walked toward the side table beside the couch, where he had a pail of ice chilling a bottle of wine. “It's all so very pretty.”

She sent him another little glance, and her fingertip idly trailed down the neck of the wine bottle. Watching that slow, sliding finger, his mood changed too. With her here, close enough to touch, his annoyance and impatience evaporated, leaving only desire behind.

Clearing his throat, he took a step toward her. “May I pour you a glass?”

“That would be nice.” Her voice was soft now, and in the shadowy room, she looked like another yellow candle flame. More light against the darkness.

The wineglass was Beth's, and he filled it to the brim. When he handed it to Angel, he thought her fingers trembled.

She stared down at the wine as if it fascinated her. “Thank you. The candles are a very nice touch.”

Taking a deep, calming breath, he picked up his bottle of Perrier and tapped it against her glass. “It's too hot for lights.”

She sipped at the wine, her free hand once again idly
cruising the neck of the sweating bottle. “Yeah, well,” she said, giving a small shrug. “It's been a hot couple of weeks.”

“Yeah.” He watched, mesmerized, as one of her fingers dipped into the ice bucket's slushy water.

She drew it out of the pail to stroke it slowly down the side of her neck. From beneath her lashes, she glanced at him. “Very, very, hot.”

Lust squeezed his throat. “Fire danger.”

“Hmm?” Her finger returned to the icy water.

“This much unrelenting heat”—he paused to down a swallow of his Perrier—“means there's danger of fire.”

She let a long beat go by, then she flicked him another look from her tangle of lashes. “You should take your shirt off, then.”

Despite his recent drink, his mouth went dry. “Huh?”

“We wouldn't want you to burn.” Then she opened her eyes wide, all sexy innocence. “
Oh
. You mean there's danger of fire
outside
.”

“Hear you roar,” he murmured, shaking his head at the playful turn she'd suddenly taken on him. “Full of surprises tonight, aren't you?”

A smile twitched the corners of her mouth and she lifted her glass again. “Now that I see you went to so much trouble, the candles, the wine, maybe I'll let them all out.”

He could hardly breathe. “I gather you're warming up too.”

She set her wineglass aside to toy with the bow that
tied her dress at the side of her waist. “Maybe
I
should take something off.”

His gaze shot to her face, then back to the bow again. One tug, he guessed, and that little slip-of-nothing she was wearing would fall free.

His pulse leaped and he abruptly dropped to the couch so that he wouldn't grab, pull, take. “We're not in any hurry.” He'd promised her something special, not something hasty. “Come sit down.”

She sat beside him, but then immediately leaned closer, her hands going for the buttons on his shirt.

He drew back. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I like your body,” she said. “I want to see it.”

“No, no, no.” He caught her hands, pushed them away. “Drink your wine. Take a few minutes.”

At the speed things were moving, he was afraid it was going to have to count as foreplay, this first time tonight.

She angled her head. “Are you worried again?”

“About this triggering a heart attack? No.” About performing with any finesse, yes. He reached around her to grab her wineglass, then shoved it in her hand. “Here, keep busy.”

Her laugh was soft. “You
are
worried. You shouldn't be. I'll take care of you.”

Something about that last sentence didn't sit well with him.

He stroked the back of his hand down her face. “You won't be left out, I promise you.”

At that, her gaze slid away from his. “Well, uh, listen. Let me tell you my plan.”

“Your plan.” He ran his thumb along the soft line of her cheek.

“My plan for sex.”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “Weren't you the one who was just complaining about how ‘calculated' this felt? Why don't we play it by ear?”

“Here's what I think.” She still wasn't looking at him as she took a gulp of her wine. “I think we should do it quick.”

His hand stilled. “What?”

She edged away, backing off from his touch. “Well, see, I was thinking about this on the drive. The way I see it, this is a hurdle for you. You know, this first time since your surgery. And I'm sure you're a little nervous about it, despite what you say. So we should just, um, do it quick and get it over with.”

“It
was
a long trip,” he murmured.

“You'll feel much better afterward,” she said earnestly.

“If we do it quick and get it over with.”

“Right.” Her head bobbed up and down in an emphatic, nervous nod. “Then I can go back to my cottage and finish my packing.”

He stared at her for a minute. Then he flopped against the sofa cushions and groaned. “Who the hell is spreading rumors about me in San Francisco?”

“What? I—”

“Natasha. It has to be Natasha Campbell. She's been out for revenge for years, ever since I told her I don't date—much less bed—engaged women. Man, I never thought she'd be so vicious as to malign my sexual reputation.”

“I haven't heard any rumors about…about that. I mean, I heard you played hard, but not that you, uh…”

“Don't play fair?”

She shook her head. “I've never heard anything like that.”

“So then why all this let's-get-it-over-with-so-I-can-go-back-to-packing?” Didn't she think he could keep her busy all night long?

She huffed at him. “Because I'm leaving tomorrow morning. I told you it would be one time.”

“
What?
” He sat up. “One
night,
baby. You promised me one
night
.”

Her hand waved. “One time, one night. What's the difference?”

This wasn't going right. He took some deep breaths, trying to get that vision of her dressed in black leather out of his head. But she was torturing him again! It wasn't as if he wanted to make grand promises that he couldn't keep, but hell, he had grand intentions. Intentions that he at least wanted to attempt.

Most of all, he realized, he wanted her to spend the night, the whole night, in his bed.

“One time won't be enough for me,” he finally ground out. He took another deep breath and forced himself to relax. “And what about you? We're gonna be good together, you know that. You know how things heat up between us. Spend the night with me and we'll both greet the dawn wearing smiles.”

“That's a lot of pressure—”

“Try me, baby.” He shifted toward her and caught the back of her neck with his hand. Their mouths met,
fused, and a hot shudder ripped up his spine. “Try me,” he said against her lips.

She broke away from him, gasping.

“See?” He reached out to thumb the moisture off her bottom lip. “I'll make it good for you. Every time.”

“Don't.” She shook her head, her voice a little desperate. “You don't have to do that.”

His eyes narrowed. “I don't have to do what?”

“Make it good for me. Worry about me at all.”

“
What?
”

She rose off the couch, extended her hand toward him. “Let's go to bed, Cooper. Now.”

“You're really starting to piss me off,” he said, ignoring her hand. “If it's not Natasha, then why is it? Why don't you think I can satisfy you?”

She turned her back. “I…I don't want you to.”

His mind spinning, he could only stare at her squared, tense shoulders.

“I don't want you to worry about that, about me.”

He stood, still not knowing what to think, to say, to do. “You're tying me in knots again, Angel.” Her back stiffened even more when he brushed his fingertips across it. “Why would I want to go to bed with you and not think about you? Why wouldn't I want to make it good for you?”

She was silent.

“
Angel
—”

“Because you won't be able to,” she snapped out, her voice brittle. “Okay? Happy now? The truth is…”

“Yeah, let's get to that.”

She took a breath. “The truth is, we might both die of old age if we wait around for me to have an orgasm.”

Cooper would have thought the whole conversation was some weird dream if the embarrassment in her voice wasn't so real, so painful. “But…” He scrubbed his face with his hands and went over the last two weeks in his mind.

She'd admitted to the attraction first.

She'd kissed him, touched him.

He'd kissed her, touched her.

For God's sake, he'd
already
made her come!

There was no denying that, was there? Yeah, women could fake it, but not
that
well. “In the kitchen…”

Her hand waved again. “An aberration. I told you, too much tofu—eggplant, whatever. I don't know. But it's not as if, as if…”

He saw her point right away. “As if I was inside you.”

She waved her hand again, but said nothing.

Cooper sucked in a steadying breath. If he
hadn't
pleased her in the kitchen that night, he might have room for concern. But as it stood now, the only thing that worried him was how to convince her he was quite capable of taking her to bed and doing his part.

“Angel—”

“Please, Cooper. Please, let's not discuss it.”

I-am-woman-hear-me-roar could apparently only take a person so far. He brushed his fingers across her back again. “Tell me that you like my kisses.”

“You know I do.”

He stepped up behind her and put his cheek against her temple. “That you like me to touch you.”

She leaned back against him. “Of course. And I like to touch you too.”

He smiled and his fingers found hers, linked them. There was no need to argue with her any longer. “Then let's go to bed.”

When he was through, he promised himself, she'd be too wrung out to leave it.

 

To make sure things went her way, the instant they made it to the bedroom, Angel shed the dress.

Cooper stumbled back, staring at her body in the meager candlelight. “W-what the hell is that?”

“A little something I picked up today.” It was a skin tight teddy. White lace. Well, some of it was, anyway. From the sharp V between her legs to a line just below her breasts. But the cups covering them were an almost-transparent, nude-colored mesh.

“Do you like it?” She twirled.

He made a strangled noise. She'd made a similar sound herself when she'd tried the outfit on in the dressing room. The thong-style back of the teddy was nude-colored mesh too. On the modest meter, she registered an unwavering “very” and this getup was beyond daring. It was wild.

It was designed to make a man wild. It was designed to make a man think of nothing but his pleasure.