Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel (2 page)

I tried to draw in a shaky breath when this ridiculously beautiful, rough man moved a few steps in my direction, even though he was still focused on the painting.

The walls were closing in on me until he said, "Your work is beautiful," and turned from me to the paintings.

What little space he'd given me let me breathe. Even though I swore his gaze heated me, the fact that he was pointing to various paintings soothed me.

"My first show is tomorrow," was all I could think of to say, even though it was probably obvious.

"Your work is ready."

Your
work
. Like he knew
I
wasn't. "I don't think I'll ever be."

He turned back to me then. "That's not a bad thing. Protect whatever the hell makes these."

What made those was a part of the nightmare of my blacked-out past. What if discovering what was behind it stole the art from me, left me limp, with nothing? What if I had to trade nightmares and the thing I loved for peace? That haunted me, so I'd chosen not to have peace.

I remained on the ground, drawn to him, wanting to rise but refusing to do so. Sheer stubbornness and self-preservation mixed together.

He reached a hand down to help me up but I couldn't touch him. Not yet.

I pushed myself up. He was at least six foot four to my five feet four inches. The difference was dramatic.

He was so still, a predator, watching me with keen interest. I'd never been as intensely aware of a man in my life. I could smell his skin, wanted to taste it, put my mouth on his and forget everything else, including basic human decency.

I blamed the art. The heat. My lack of proper nutrition.

I stuck out my hand without saying anything, almost a dare. He took it in his and my pulse beat a tattoo. I felt the slow burn and then the aftershock quake through my whole body.

There was a definite sense of street in him, a primal, easily willing and able to fight for his life street sense.

His eyes were haunted, like maybe he already had.

There was no doubt he'd won.

* * *

"
W
hat the fuck
is going on here?"

I was relieved when Brayden's entrance broke the intensity in the room. I stepped backward, away from Lucas's flame in an attempt to break the connection.

It didn't waver. It was too late for me. No saving me now. The “drowning ship, abandon hope all ye who enter here” must've shown in my eyes, because Brayden attempted to help me. It was too late. The ship was sinking, and Brayden needed to save himself.

"We're closed," Brayden said angrily to Lucas.

"The door was open."

"I'm betting it wasn't."

He and Brayden squared off, so I said, "I might've left it open," hoping to stave off a fight. Because Brayden could fight, and when he was younger he had, well and often.

Lucas acknowledged my words with a nod, but he didn't take his eyes off Brayden.

"And you're Lucas…"

"Lucas Caine," Brayden growled in answer to me before Lucas could chime in. Brayden was hovering, protective, and it was chest to chest alpha males, and both of them nearly equal in height. Dark and light, facing off. It was only then I noticed Brayden's attention moved to the other man by the door.

"He's with me," Lucas said, his voice a rough growl that smoothed my ruffled feathers. Nothing about him was particularly cultured and yet he reeked of money. Everything about him screamed feral, but the wildness didn't take anything from him. He was a complete study in contradictions.

There were tattoos under all that clothing—I was sure of it.

"And neither of you have told me why you're here," Brayden said.

"It's definitely not to see you," Lucas shot back. His voice was the kind that would deepen to a rough growl when he was angry or aroused, as if there was a force of law command behind his dirty, wild voice.

I wondered how his voice would sound during dirty, wild sex.

I wished I painted nudes. I had to start a collection—that would be my next series.

"What are you doing here?" Brayden repeated impatiently.

"I came for the show," Lucas said innocently.

"The show's not until tomorrow night."

Lucas's shrug was meant for Brayden, but his words, his gaze, were all for me. "I wanted to preview Ryn's work."

"We don't offer previews," Brayden said through clenched teeth.

"I don't let that stop me," Lucas countered.

Nothing would and God, I liked that.

Lucas glanced at me. "You haven't been in town long."

"And she's probably not staying," Brayden added, his protective nature ringing through loud and clear.

"Is that right?" Lucas's gaze flicked across my face, seeking out the truth. "In that case, I'll definitely be back tomorrow."

With a nod in Brayden's direction, he was gone.

* * *

I
was trying not
to stare too long at Lucas's retreating back when Brayden asked, "Did he scare you?"

"No," I scoffed, even though Brayden would know better. "What's his deal?"

Brayden snorted. "He's an asshole."

"I got that part loud and clear." I tried to sound casual, but Brayden read me like a book.

"Don't," he warned. "You know better."

Maybe I did, maybe I didn't but… "I'm just asking what he's like."

Brayden shook his head. "He's complicated. And he's known to go through women fast. No strings, no commitments."

That figured. Wanting something bad for me was typical—exciting and dangerous, which was always my first inclination.

"He doesn't stop until he gets what he wants," Brayden continued his warning. "And when he gets it…"

"He doesn't want it anymore," I finished.

"Exactly—he wants nothing to do with them. They chase him and it's humiliating. And you deserve better."

So Lucas was a self-destructive, one-night stand, “stop anything before it has a chance of working” kind of guy.

I knew the type.

I
was
the type, which made Lucas a challenge.

"Maybe I only want one night—no strings," I said. Brayden frowned doubtfully but didn't say anything else. And that's one of the many reasons I loved him. He didn't pretend he knew every single thing about me. Rather, he let me live my life, and explore new things. And he'd be there to pick up the pieces, without saying the dreaded,
I told you so.
"It doesn't matter—he's probably just an asshole," I said softly, with no real bite behind the words, because I didn't believe it.

"Definitely an asshole," Brayden echoed in a far more strident tone.

“Is he your age?”

“Make me sound ancient,” he muttered around his beer.

“You mean thirty isn’t?” I teased.

He frowned. “Yes, your new obsession is my age.”

“Thank you. Was that so hard?”

“Very.”

This was no chance encounter, not on Lucas’s part anyway. But why not wait for the show? What necessitated the private meeting? "He acted like he came here just to see me. How did he know I'd be here?"

"How does Lucas Caine know anything?"

"Does he come here a lot?"

"A couple of times a year," he said. "But he's never brought that bodyguard guy."

"Not that you've seen."

A small frown settled on his lips. "We've got work to do. And I have to get a better lock."

I wanted to tell Brayden that it wouldn't matter, and I didn't know how I knew that. I just did. I was up against someone formidable with an intensity that mirrored my own. Instead, I simply told him, "I'm starving."

* * *

A
s we settled
on the floor, surrounded by my paintings, I dove into my burger and fries. Even as Brayden asked questions about the order of the paintings, trying to get my mind into the game, it was obvious it was somewhere else.

"Maybe I can ask Lucas to come back and help you hang the paintings," Brayden suggested at one point.

"He'd be more helpful than you're being."

Brayden rolled his eyes. "He's just a guy."

"I know that. Stop worrying—I'm not going to go home and call him or anything."

"It's not like he gave you his number," Brayden pointed out.

"You're such a prick." I threw a fry at him and he snorted. "Okay, let's take my mind off Lucas by depressing me with the magazine article."

"Such an optimist." Brayden grabbed the magazine and flipped through until he found the article. "Want me to read it out loud?"

It seemed like months ago when I spoke to Ann Maslow, the features editor of the art magazine. My carefully crafted responses which were subtly designed to hide the truth of my background but still tantalize with the intrigue. "Go for it."

I
'm looking
at pictures that show the artist curled on the floor of the gallery amidst the chaos, and if anything, Cathryn "Ryn" Taylor looks at home, more than one might expect from someone who, by all accounts, is socially phobic, prone to panic attacks and notoriously private. A woman who would not meet me face to face for our interview, choosing to remain on the other end of the phone line and give only partial answers.

"
S
o what
—she's accusing me of faking that?" I interrupted.

Brayden had the nerve to look amused. "And she'll also be at the opening."

"Thanks for the warning, I guess," I muttered. "I don't know if I can do this. I'm not the sweet, quiet artist everyone expects."

"They don't expect that. They're looking for the half-crazed woman who's one step away from her nineteenth nervous breakdown."

"That's great. Very comforting, Bray. Points for the Stones reference."

"Hey, I've seen you defend yourself. You've got a hell of a temper."

"And you're about to find yourself on the receiving end of it," I warned.

It was Brayden's turn to give me the finger.

None of the people who'd interviewed me knew about what I'd gone through in my past. Not that I did—the amnesia took care of my memories with a startling efficiency, leaving me a blank slate from the age of seventeen, after I'd woken up in a hospital after being unconscious for several days. I'd been left outside the emergency room, saved, and later taken in by a woman who would end up introducing me to my best friend in the world.

Brayden knowing all about it was a huge step for me—and the biggest help of all. I pushed the magazine article aside in disgust. "She made me seem completely unstable."

"Flaky," he corrected, "Quirky."

"You mean fucked up."

"If you weren't, they'd be disappointed. People don't expect artists to be normal, and if you were, your art wouldn't be seen. Any springboard you can use, hon. It's about getting noticed. Then, it's up to your talent if you sink or swim."

It was amazing that my anxiety would be what got me noticed in the first place. Every story written about me noted my panic disorder. Of course, I couldn't share where the roots of that disorder lay. Could only hope that my past was far behind me, that no one from that time would recognize me. I looked different.