Modern Heart: City Love 3 Page 10

  “Hey.” Cate arrived on my other side and squeezed my arm. “You look nervous.”

  I blinked and turned to her, and all thoughts of John were quickly forgotten. She looked gorgeous. It shouldn’t have surprised me but it did a bit. She usually wore conservative suits to work and the rest of her wardrobe was quite simple and plain. Tonight Cate had done away with plain. She was wearing a flowing deep green dress, which highlighted the green in her eyes. It also showed off curves I didn’t realize she had, and a cleavage I’d previously underestimated.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You. Nice dress.”

  Cate flushed bright pink. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes. I had no idea you were such a hottie.”

  “I told her she was gorgeous,” Christa added. “But she wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Thanks, girls,” Cate said, her face still a light shade of pink.

  “Hang on. Are you both hitting on Cate?” Max asked innocently, but there was a devious smile on his face.

  Cate giggled and Christa rolled her eyes. “No, stupid. Mutual girlfriend admiration, that’s all.”

  Max reached over and tucked Christa neatly against his side. “Well, if that’s the case then, I think I’m allowed to say you all look stunning and tonight I’m a very lucky man.”

  “Oh my God,” Cate breathed. “I don’t think you’re the only lucky man here tonight.”

  Cate was staring past me with a shocked expression on her face.

  “What’s wr—” I turned and the words died on my lips.

  John Hart stood framed by the tall glass doors. He was dressed in a suit, which shouldn’t have been remarkable because he wore them all the time for work. But it was. Every single item of his clothing was black. Black suit, black shoes, black shirt, and black tie. He’d slicked his dark hair back with hair product so it was tucked behind his ears, away from his face for a change. I could tell from a distance he was clean-shaven and the lack of hair made his strong jawline and prominent cheekbones stand out. I swallowed. He was like some sort of dark angel come to life with exceptionally good dress sense. I suddenly felt unsteady on my dangerously high heels.

  As John walked toward us, Cate’s hand gripped my arm. For once I appreciated the contact.

  He stopped a few feet away from us. An uncertain smile twisted the corners of his lips. “Surprise.”

  Cate, Christa, and I continued to stare at him like he was a mirage. Sensibly Max ignored us and stepped forward.

  “John, mate.” They shook hands in that way that men do, their arms pumping up and down rapidly. “Good to see you.”

  “Thanks, you too.” John stepped away and surveyed us. I couldn’t read his expression but at a guess it was somewhere between amused and worried. “Ladies.”

  Cate blinked and then sprang to life. “Oh my God, John! I can’t believe it’s you.” She leapt forward and he caught her in a firm hug.

  “Cate, you look beautiful,” I heard him say into her shoulder.

  My chest constricted and I forced myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. That feeling in my stomach was not jealousy. It was shock, that was all.

  John continued his greetings, giving Christa a hug before he turned to me. I watched him hesitate and then bite his lip. Desire shot through me, straight from my chest, down to my groin, and through my legs. He had full lips for a man, and I’d never been preoccupied with the thought of biting a man’s lips. Until now.

  John released his lip. His eyes took in my made-up face, my heavier than usual dark eyeliner and red lips. I wasn’t sure what sort of look I was giving him – shock? confusion? His gaze dropped quickly from my face. There were no unruly bangs hiding his eyes from view and I realized he hadn’t averted his eyes out of embarrassment. They were traveling down the rise and fall of my chest, and across the shape of my hips beneath the silky fabric. I saw them darken with lust and I obviously wasn’t the only one because Max cleared his throat.

  John caught himself and his face transformed into a broad smile. “Scarlett Wong. I’m sorry, but I had to do it. I’m gatecrashing your opening night.”

  He stepped closer to me and I eyed him warily. “Kind of a long way to come to gatecrash a party. I didn’t know your social life was that dire.”

  He laughed. “Or maybe your artwork is that good. And I’m giving you a damn hug, woman.” He scooped me up and crushed me in his arms, spinning me around. The sound of Cate giggling filled my ears but I couldn’t actually see her because my world was spinning.

  I was never good with being dizzy, but this dizziness wasn’t necessarily from the motion. My feet were a long way from the ground and I’d been forced to throw my arms around John’s neck, my cheek buried in his shoulder. The scent of him was intoxicating. He’d added some sort of fresh, musky scent to his repertoire of salt and spice. Then there was the way my breasts were pushed up against his chest. The flimsy fabric of my dress did little to mask my nipples hardening against him.

  And that was just the physical. There were too many emotions for me to sort through. Shock and lust were a good start, but the odd sense of comfort and relief at having him here was deeply unsettling. “Put me down,” I managed.

  He stopped immediately and set me down gently. He stepped back but his large hands remained resting on my hips. “Congratulations. Your work looks amazing, and so do you. I love the boots, by the way.”

  “You look like you came together,” Cate commented. Unlike me, she seemed completely unperturbed by all the public displays of affection. “What inspired the all black outfit, John?”

  John’s hands lingered a moment longer before he dropped them to his sides. He grinned at us. “I took a lucky guess.”

  The rest of them laughed but laughing was the last thing I felt like doing. That he’d gone to the trouble to dress in a way that would please me, was too much to comprehend. Never mind the fact he was here in New York City at my opening night. The regular Scarlett would have been furious. I should have been downright pissed. I’d turned him down, goddamn it. I’d told him there was no hope for us and no way I’d ever ask him home.

  Yet here he was.

  And I was staring at him like a love-struck teenager.

  I took a deep breath. Whether it was opening night nerves or simply being out of my comfort zone, tonight I had no desire to rock the boat. I wasn’t a romantic like Cate but I did want this evening to go as smoothly as possible.

  “How about I show you around?” I suggested to John.

  The others took their cue – not without Cate shooting me an ecstatic grin first, of course – and headed over to where a waiter was offering champagne.

  “Have you pinched yourself yet?” John asked.

  In truth, it felt surreal and I didn’t want to pinch myself for fear I’d wake up and find it was all a dream. I looked around the room again, attempting to take it all in. The gallery was minimalism at its best. A converted warehouse, they’d opted for polished concrete floors, and towering white walls. The ceiling – with its wooden beams, piping, and steel framework – reminded me of my apartment. As for the gallery itself, they’d turned it into something of a rabbit warren. Rooms jutted out unexpectedly from what appeared to be dead ends and nooks and crannies. It was a clever idea because the layout created a sense of discovering and exploring as you walked around. The works of other artists occupied some of the smaller rooms but I’d been given the main space. This was separated into three key areas to the left, right, and straight ahead.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s start over here.”

  We walked over to our left, my boots clicking on the concrete. The art gallery director had dedicated this section to my more subdued pieces. The portrait of the woman in shades of blues that John had selected dominated the space, with a few other of my paintings on the walls on either side. They’d cleverly adapted the lighting in this area. Instead of harsh overhead spotlights, a cool blue glow lit the space. It added to the ether
eal effect of the woman and the dreamy mood of the paintings.

  “I didn’t think it was possible but these are even more amazing here than they were in your apartment,” John said softly.

  He looked entranced and stepped forward to study the woman as if he’d never seen the painting before.

  “John,” I said, my voice low. “You don’t have to pretend.”

  He turned around, his forehead creased in genuine puzzlement. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve seen them before. You don’t have to spend time looking at every single one.”

  “I could stare at your paintings for hours, Scarlett.” He turned back around before I could say anything else and continued viewing the paintings, leaving me speechless.

  After that I took him to the right wing. He recognized them all, including the one of the older Italian lady in bright hues of orange and red. Finally I led him to the central area. A large concrete pylon, painted white, had been used to obscure the view of the area. Entranceways were on either side. I stopped before we went through.

  “What’s wrong?” John asked.

  “Nothing.” And everything. I wanted to tell him I’d taken his advice, but I couldn’t find the words. Frustrated by my poor communication skills, I reached over and grabbed his hand. I ignored the jolt of heat the contact sent through me. Seeing the painting firsthand without an explanation would just have to do. “Come on.”

  I tugged him through the opening and into the main space. Ten of my paintings were arranged along the back wall, but there was one in particular I knew would have an impact. The painting had been given center stage and I’d known as soon as I’d seen it earlier that it had been the right choice. It had just taken someone with the courage to speak their mind to help convince me.

  When we arrived in front of the painting, I tried to drop his hand. In response, his fingers squeezed my hand tighter, not letting go.

  “You included it.”

  My father’s face stared back at us. His expression was both firm and understanding, strong and gentle. Without an ounce of ego I could say that this painting captured the essence of my father. The only problem was I couldn’t look upon it without experiencing a deep sense of guilt and loss.

  “Are you OK?” John had stopped studying the painting and was watching me.

  “I miss him,” I whispered.

  Shit. That champagne on an empty stomach had been a bad idea. I’d hardly eaten anything all day.

  “You said he was still alive?”

  “He is. I just don’t know him very well anymore.”

  “Would you like to?”

  I walked away from the painting, turning my back to it. John followed, not letting go of my hand.

  I didn’t look at him. “Growing up, I was closer to Bàba than my mother. He’d talk to me, actually talk to me, like I was a person he wanted to get to know. His eyes would shine like they do in the painting when he was happy with me.”

  “You don’t keep in touch with him anymore?”

  I took a deep breath. I couldn’t believe I’d told him this much. I was suddenly determined to say the words out loud, like that might make it easier to put the past behind me. To deaden some of the pain that flared in my heart every time I laid eyes on the painting.

  “After my mother threw me out of home, they moved to Brisbane to be closer to my uncle – my father’s brother. I swear it was all part of my mother’s punishment plan for going behind their backs and doing my art. Like throwing me out of home wasn’t punishment enough.”

  “Do you visit? Surely they come back to see you now and then?”

  I choked on a bitter laugh. The poor guy. Judging by his confused expression, his family actually liked each other. “Not once,” I answered. “I usually manage to talk to Bàba on Skype occasionally but I only visited four times in twelve years. They weren’t pleasant experiences. As much as I wanted to see my father, my mother didn’t make it easy for me. They moved back to Sydney six months ago and I’ve only seen them once.”

  “They’re back? In Sydney? Why?”

  I shrugged. Their move was probably why all of this was coming to the surface now, as much as I wanted to leave it buried deep. “Who knows? My uncle died last year, maybe that was part of it. I’m pretty sure it didn’t have too much to do with me. While I think Bàba was pleased to see me, I’m not fooling myself. He still doesn’t approve of my choices.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s so bad about your choices? I mean, look at where you are, Scarlett.” John nodded at the line of paintings – my paintings – displayed in front of us. “You’re talented and successful.”

  I sighed. “They don’t think so. In their eyes, creativity isn’t valued. Hard work is.”

  “Hang on a minute.” John pointed at the paintings. “Are you seriously telling me that you don’t think creating those paintings took hard work?”

  “It’s very hard work,” I agreed, “but they don’t see it that way. A career as an artist isn’t a reliable career. It’s risky and they don’t understand why I’d willingly choose that.” I sighed again. “You’ve got to understand, they lived a hard life in China before bringing us to Australia. Then Bàba worked really hard to give me a childhood that was different from his own.” I finally allowed my eyes to meet John’s. “My childhood was so different to his that I did the unthinkable. I went against their wishes and made a life of my own they don’t agree with.” My voice cracked on the last part and I looked away.

  “Scarlett.”

  John’s thumb stroked the back of my hand and the sensation somehow numbed my pain. The small, circular motion cut to my core, more powerful than any embrace. I pressed my lips in a firm line, resisting the urge to moan. I had no idea if it was intentional, but sexual distraction would get him everywhere.

  “I’m proud of you.”

  My head jolted up. My heart pounded loudly in my chest. “What did you just say?”

  John’s gaze softened at my abrupt response. “I’m proud of you. It wasn’t easy for you coming here, and selecting that painting made it even more difficult. Your artwork deserves to be shared and I know you’re not comfortable being on display.”

  On display. It seemed painfully apt. I’d spent my childhood trying to be the good daughter who my mother and father were proud to display. Now my father was on display for the whole world to see and I’d put him there.

  And John was proud of me.

  He couldn’t have known it, but no one had ever said those words to me. Sure, people at work told me I did a good job or someone admired my work, but proud of me?

  Saying he loved me would have had less effect.

  Chapter 14

  We ended up in a bar after the gallery had closed, sitting in a booth that was way too small for the five of us. Cate and Christa were arguing over how much longer Maddy had before she physically couldn’t carry the baby anymore. Max sipped his beer quietly, happy to let the women talk.

  “So,” I said to John, careful my voice was low enough that only he could hear, “what the hell are you doing in New York? Did you really come all this way for me?”

  John’s long fingers rested on his half empty glass of beer.

  “I was in Pennsylvania this week for business.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Really?”

  He chuckled. We were pressed together in the booth shoulder to shoulder, and the reverberation of his laughter rippled through me.

  “I took the week off work. I’ve always wanted to visit New York.”

  “And you wanted to visit me,” I said reluctantly.

  “Why is that such a surprise?”

  “The way we left things last week, for one.”

  John tilted his head so he could look sideways at me. “I was planning this well before then.”

  Oh. I hadn’t considered that. Ever since he’d told me he was proud of me, I hadn’t been thinking particularly straight.

  “Did you think this was my attempt to wi
n you over?” he asked.

  I frowned. “Yes. No. I don’t know. Either way, you shouldn’t have come.”

  “Right. Here we go.”

  “What?”

  He lifted the glass to his lips and took a long sip before he answered. “To be honest, I expected a scene when I showed up.”

  “Sorry to disappoint. I’m just getting warmed up now, if that helps?”

  “Some. How long are you in New York for?”

  I glared at him. I was trying to start an argument and he wasn’t cooperating. “This week.”

  “Great. Then you can show me around tomorrow.”

  “I—”

  “Oh, that would be perfect, John!” Cate said from across the table. “Tomorrow Bubbles, Max, and I are doing some very touristy stuff that Scarlett would hate, so you can keep her company.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Sure. I can do that,” John replied easily.

  Need company, I was going to say but apparently it had been decided.

  Cate’s face fell. “Oh no.”

  I glared at her. “I thought you’d be happy.”

  Cate ignored my expression and nodded in the direction of the bar. “No, not you and John. The piano player looks like he’s finished for the night. I was really enjoying the music. It’s how I imagined a New York bar would be.”

  I rolled my eyes, but not unkindly because the music had been nice.

  Cate shrugged, unhurt. “Piano is a weakness of mine, I guess. I always wanted to learn.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Christa asked.

  “The downside of growing up in the sticks,” Cate replied. “There weren’t many piano teachers around and none lived near us. Plus being the youngest of four kids, it just wasn’t going to happen. I used to dream that a piano teacher would move closer and then I’d be able to walk to lessons.”

  I snorted. “I would have paid my piano teacher to move out of town.”

  “You learned piano?” Cate asked, and everyone’s eyes focused on me.

  Shit. I hadn’t meant to let that slip. I waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, and I hated it.”