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  “I suppose I should.”

  “Damn right, you should.”

  “I thought I’d buy one of his paintings and ask him to help me hang it.”

  Tess was a bank manager so she could probably afford a painting that took a year to finish. “And then greet him at the door naked and see if he notices. I’m not sure he would.”

  “I’m not as brash as you.”

  “True.” Which thought brought to mind a man she knew who was as brash and audacious as she; her vagina did a little flutter in remembrance. Damn, he was good. But then she returned to the real world where Tess was waiting to go and see Dave and she smiled at her best friend. “Let’s go and give shy Dave a hard time.”

  SIX

  BY THE TIME THEY REACHED DAVE’S STUDIO, it was almost five and the crowds were thinning. They’d looked at a dozen studios on the way; Tess had been gauging the time, waiting for the tour’s end so she could more easily talk to him.

  Chloe wanted to say, “He doesn’t talk anyway, crowd or no crowd,” but was being supportive and kept silent. She’d not calculated the influence of five hours of wine-drinking on Dave. All the studios were offering wine and hors d’oeuvres, and he’d taken the opportunity to overcome his shyness by imbibing, perhaps a little too much.

  The artist Lepinski, dressed as usual in jeans and a denim shirt, his long pale hair disheveled, was between the lounging and the passed-out stage. Ensconced in a large upholstered chaise at the back of the studio, he was looking up at a tall, dark-haired man with a beautiful, polished blonde hanging on his arm.

  Even from the back, Chloe’s breath caught in her throat.

  She immediately told herself to get a grip. How many tall, dark-haired men were there in the Twin Cities? she firmly asked herself. How many indeed? And she wouldn’t have gone another step closer if Tess hadn’t literally dragged her by the arm, hissing, “Help me think of something to say to him.”

  Which turned out to be her problem as well.

  At close range—much too close range as it turned out—that little vaginal flutter immediately set in. She came face to face, not only with Dave . . . but with her bed partner of the previous night. Along with his beautiful, model-perfect, designer-clothed girlfriend, who was clinging to his arm as though he were the last crew member on the Titanic who could lead her to safety.

  Chloe couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  Tess was equally bereft of conversation.

  Thank God Dave was drunk; he literally lurched into the breach, coming up from his chaise and falling into Tess, muttering, “Wanna shleep wish you, wanna real bad.”

  “They must be friends,” Rocco said smoothly, watching a smiling Tess lead the stumbling artist away.

  “Apparently,” Chloe replied, having gotten the necessary cogs in her brain wheeling into action. “I’ll see if she needs some help.” She began to turn away.

  “We’ve met, haven’t we?” Rocco’s voice was bland and urbane.

  Chloe turned back, stunned. Did she answer yes or no? Could she even meet his gaze with equanimity? Who was that bitch blonde looking like she’d just smelled something bad?

  “I think we met at Diversified Foods,” Rocco said, polite and genial, as though they’d just bumped into each other at a church picnic and were actual churchgoers too. “Aren’t you doing the Graham Crunchies web site?”

  “Yes.” It just went to show what a master’s degree could do for your vocabulary.

  “For Bill Martell, wasn’t it? I saw you there.”

  Okaaay, she wished to say. Now what? Are you going to mention where you spent last night to the woman creasing the hell out of your linen jacket?

  “You must know this artist.” Rocco nodded at a nearby painting. “He does nice work. I like the black-and-white one best.”

  He lifted his arm slightly as though to show her and almost touched her. She backed up a step so she wouldn’t embarrass herself by throwing herself into his arms—okay . . . arm—the other one was held captive. “My friend, Tess, knows him. And yes, that black-and-white interior is well done,” she said, finally managing to get out two sentences in a row.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me, darling?” The beautiful blonde’s expression had changed from one of distaste to petulance.

  “It was Chloe—right?”

  The shit. She wanted to say, “You didn’t have any trouble remembering my name when we were having sex all night,” but said, instead, “Yes, Chloe Chisholm. I don’t recall your name.” Two could play that memory-loss game.

  “Amy Thiebaud, Chloe Chisholm,” Rocco said, with apparent calm, when he was hard-pressed not to send Amy on her way and take Chloe into the back room and fuck her on the floor or against the wall or anywhere at all. That should make her remember his name.

  That Thiebaud? Chloe wondered. The sleek blonde looked rich enough to be the daughter of the man who’d begun and sustained the suburban sprawl south of the Cities. Thiebaud Homes had ads on TV every thirty seconds.

  Amy nodded faintly in Chloe’s direction, as though she were acknowledging the hired help.

  Chloe said, “Nice to meet you,” because her mother had always insisted on courtesy with admonitions like, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, kindness is within our power,” and old habits become involuntary. But beyond the reflexes of politesse she was wondering what would happen if she stepped on the toes of those cream-colored pumps matching the cream-colored silk sheath and smooth blonde tresses that were in stark contrast to her windblown curls and casual outfit.

  “If you really like that painting, darling, let me buy it for you,” Amy murmured, turning her shoulder to Chloe, looking up at Rocco and smiling. “It would look wonderful in your living room. Or maybe even in your bedroom,” she added in a sultry undertone. “Over the fireplace . . .” She swung back to Chloe, a sudden briskness in her voice. “Could you get the artist for us? I want to buy this for my boyfriend.”

  Chloe’s mouth firmed, temper sparked in her eyes. “Sorry, I can’t help you. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Wait.” Rocco had no idea what he was going to say or do, but he didn’t want her to leave. “Help me pick out a painting,” he said quickly. “You know art. I’ll buy something.”

  If looks could kill, Chloe thought, she’d be dead on the spot from those mascara’d and heavily eye-shadowed baby blues. Definitely incentive to respond. “Sure. Let’s take a look around.” She almost felt like quoting something from Karl Marx under Amy’s withering patrician disdain. “Each of these paintings takes a year or so to finish,” she added, moving toward the next painting on the right. “I hope you have piles of money.”

  It was acid sarcasm, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was touching her—correction, fucking her. Reason had left on vacation.

  Stopping before the next painting, Rocco’s presence no more than a foot away doing predictable things to her addicted sensual receptors, Chloe quickly launched into art speak before she gave in to impulse and embarrassed herself. “The reds in this painting are especially vibrant, evoking a heated, energetic mood and tempo. As does the asymmetrical composition and vanishing perspective. The horizon line keeps disappearing and reappearing. See. Here and here and—”

  “I’ll buy it. She’s not my girlfriend.”

  Her gaze snapped up. “Liar.”

  “She isn’t.”

  “Then what are you doing with her?” She was speaking in an undertone, albeit a sharp, acerbic one.

  “It’s an obligation.”

  The softness of his voice brought back lush memories of the night past, and if she wasn’t wondering how many times he’d cheated on his girlfriend, she might have surrendered to the seductive timbre. “Isn’t this where you say, she doesn’t understand me; I need more space? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Trying to see you again.”

  “Here she comes. Ask me out.”

  He didn’t. She knew he wouldn’t. Amy
came up and slid her arm through Rocco’s like she owned him lock, stock and barrel. Like she was the winner.

  “Are you going to buy this painting?” All Chloe wanted to do was leave.

  “You decide. I don’t care.” Rocco’s voice was a low growl, discontent in every syllable.

  “Take the black-and-white one then. It’s Dave’s best. You can put it over your fireplace in your bedroom,” Chloe said with cloying sweetness.

  “It will match your bedspread, darling.” Amy did a little wave in the general direction of the painting. “It’s perfect.”

  Certainly the very best reason to buy a work of art, Chloe thought.

  “Can we go now?” Amy’s perfectly formed lips curved downward into a little-girl pout, much practiced and generally effective. “I’m tired of standing here.” With her was left unsaid, although the intimation hovered in the air like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon—conspicuous and unmistakable. “You said we could go back and buy that painted dress I want. Come on, pleeeease.”

  “In a minute,” Rocco gruffly replied, ignoring her tug on his arm. “I’m buying that painting.”

  “The girl at the desk over there can help you.” Chloe was finished with this charade—irritated with the prevarication and artifice—mostly with the possessive blonde if she wanted to be brutally honest with herself. “And if your girlfriend wants to buy something else, there’s not much time.” Go, go, go.

  “There, see, Rocco. Cleo knows.” Amy looked directly at Chloe and smiled smugly—their relationship properly accredited, everyone’s territorial rights clearly defined. “You’ve been ever so helpful. Hasn’t she been helpful, darling?” Leaning into Rocco’s body, she lifted her gaze. “You know Daddy will love that painting too. He has one just like it in his study.”

  “Great.” As if he needed the reminder that he was screwed. Or at least for the next six months he was screwed.

  “I don’t think we need you anymore.” Amy did a little flick of her wrist toward Chloe.

  “You two have a great life.” Chloe walked away. She didn’t need some little bitch being bitchy to her. She particularly didn’t need a little bitch—actually Amy Thiebaud was probably five foot ten if she was an inch, which meant she was a big bitch, but anyway—she didn’t need any crap from the girlfriend of the man who had spent last night with her. Damn him. It pissed her off that he was so typically male. Screw any female who stands still long enough, regardless of girlfriends or wives or fiancées. Hell, he wasn’t any better than fucking dog-ass Markie Mark.

  Which didn’t exactly put her in the category of sensible women.

  Because Rocco had looked really, really good.

  Her vagina had thought so too.

  It was a crying shame.

  All the hot guys were already taken.

  * * *

  PUSHING ASIDE THE curtain that separated Dave’s work area from his gallery space, Chloe came to a sudden stop and held her breath, hoping no one would notice she was there. Particularly the couple making love on the couch in the corner.

  Jeez, she didn’t know Dave had a tattoo on his—She looked away, began quietly easing out of the room. Standing in the back of the gallery a moment later, she stayed out of sight while Rocco wrote a check and finally left with his girlfriend. She didn’t have the same blasé capacity that allowed him to converse with two women he was screwing without so much as breaking a sweat.

  Thank God they were gone.

  She’d walk home herself, because it didn’t look as though Tess was going to have to buy that painting after all.

  It also looked as though she’d be spending Saturday night alone.

  Rosie was busy with family, Tess was . . . well—busy.

  And she was fantasizing about a man she couldn’t have because Miss Beautiful Blonde Moneybags had him clutched to her couturier-attired body and it didn’t look real likely she was going to let go without a fight.

  Besides, there was nothing to fight for.

  Rocco wasn’t hers.

  He had never been hers; it had been a one-night stand.

  Case closed.

  Her only decision now was pepperoni or sausage, Pepsi or Coke?

  SEVEN

  WHICH CONCLUSION ABOUT ONE-NIGHT stands seemed sensible and reasonable and easily managed until Chloe reached the halfway point in the bottle of wine she was drinking with her pizza in lieu of Pepsi. The first time her errant psyche said, “Why don’t you call him?” she resolutely ignored the suggestion. But after another glass of wine, that niggling little voice increased in volume, even adding the helpful phrase, “I’ll look up his number in the phone book.”

  She managed to tamp down the impulse to respond, but less firmly this time, considerably less firmly, because she actually dragged out the phone book, looked up Rocco’s number and circled it in red marker.

  As she sipped on her wine, that red marked target kept jumping into her line of vision, and even with the most severe self-control, she was unable to keep her gaze from that shimmering red image.

  It was really quite amazing how powerful the sexual impulse was, she mused, wondering if she should get out her vibrator as a substitute. Which word, substitute, continued to bombard her increasingly inebriated brain, as though in stark reminder of the differences between Rocco’s splendid equipment and the inherent wimpiness of her battery-powered appliance.

  Coming to her feet in a burst of frustration, she slammed shut the phone book and threw it in the corner behind the couch where it would be very difficult to retrieve. Unfortunately, she had total recall of numbers, an advantage, of course, on numerous occasions, but not precisely now when she was seriously trying to CURTAIL HER LUST.

  Ohmygod . . . when had benign longing turned to lust? She glanced at the clock and softly groaned.

  How was she going to get through the night?

  CALL! CALL! CALL! that persistent little voice inside her head screamed.

  First lust and now screams . . . this was getting totally out of control.

  She set her wineglass down and turned on the National Geographic channel, as a reminder of the consequences of poor judgment; an animal was always being killed in some brutal, gory way for entering dangerous territory. And surely this was one of those occasions when what she wanted was outside the pale—not necessarily in the relatively lax moral climate of contemporary society, but say in a more philosophical context.

  As in good versus bad.

  As in the Golden Rule.

  As in The Rules book that she’d never actually read; but she suspected the authors would not condone calling up another woman’s boyfriend to invite him over for a night of unbridled sex.

  * * *

  IN ANOTHER PART of town—a posher part, where the local police let strangers know it was best if they kept their cars moving until they reached the freeway, Amy was sitting immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar in the passenger seat of Rocco’s car parked at the curb outside her house. “But I don’t want to go home yet.”

  She had been rocklike in her obstinacy for at least twenty minutes, arguing with him, refusing to leave, giving him one hell of a headache. Almost making him wish he hadn’t been born into a family of middle-class income. Then he could have asked his father and mother for the start-up money and Jim Thiebaud, or more importantly, Amy, would be out of the picture. But his dad was a high school football coach, much revered for his record of wins, but not a millionaire. And his mother’s nurse’s salary wasn’t going to open any factory. He and his siblings had mortgaged everything they had to the hilt for their share of the investment, but—bottom line—they needed Jim Thiebaud.

  So he decided to barter his current headache for a future one.

  “Look. Why don’t I take you out for dinner next week? I really do have to go now.”

  “Go where?”

  That was the tenth time she’d asked, and the tenth time he’d lied. “Anthony and I have to take his kids to some Little League baseball game. He coaches
and I help him out.” He knew how Amy hated little kids—hence the fiction.

  It was almost seven. He’d been with her for five very long hours. He didn’t know time could go so slowly. And seriously, his headache was fierce.

  “When next week?”

  She could have negotiated for the Chinese. Never give an inch without getting something in return. “Thursday. We’ll go to Zinc’s.” He knew she liked the small Parisian bistro.

  “Right after work.”

  “Okay.” She still hadn’t moved, but he was praying hard.

  “Who was that girl at the gallery?”

  He suppressed his shock. “No one,” he said.

  “I didn’t like her hair.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “And did you see that horrid shirt? She looked—well . . . common, I thought.”

  “I didn’t notice,” he said again.

  “You talked to her for quite a while.” Amy’s blue-eyed gaze was sharp.

  “Bill Martell said she did good work. Bill doesn’t say that often.”

  “What kind of work could she possibly do?”

  “Web design, I guess. . . . I really don’t know much about it other than Bill’s comments.”

  She’d seen the way he looked at the woman in the gallery. But if he wasn’t going to talk about it, she knew better than to press the issue. What she needed to press, however, was his obligation to her family, the closeness of their family bond. It was her trump card. Her ace in the hole.

  And he had a sense of honor—so rare nowadays. But eminently useful.

  “Do you remember the time you saved me from drowning?” She turned slightly more in her seat, so she could look into his eyes. “That summer at the cabin when Steve was holding me underwater?”

  “You wouldn’t have drowned. Steve would have let you up.”

  “I don’t know if he would have in time. You were my knight in shining armor,” she whispered, reaching over to touch his cheek. “You were fifteen.”

  “Geez, Amy, Steve was just playing around.”

  “That was so sweet,” she went on as though he’d not spoken. “I think I’ve loved you ever since—no—I’ve loved you from the first grade. Mummy always reminds me that I told her I loved you after you brought me that valentine.”