Forbidden Nights (Seductive Nights #5)(40)
Author: Lauren Blakely

Casey bowed her head slightly. “I assure you, the honor is all mine. I couldn’t be more thrilled to continue our partnership. It also looks like,” she said, crossing her fingers, “we’ll have a hotel chain on board too. I’ll share names when it’s finalized.”

Sofia gave an approving nod. “Excellent. I’m sure I’ll be wowed, since already it’s an impressive short list,” she said, lowering her voice as if they were discussing state secrets. “I hear Grant Abbot is on it. I only wish I had a reason to be in business with him.” Sofia pretended to fan herself. “My, he’s a handsome devil, isn’t he?”

Casey laughed politely. “Yes. He is.”

“I love Entice lingerie, of course, too. I had drinks with him at a conference once. He’s such a flirt, and I even told him as much,” Sofia said, as they walked away from the display.

Flirt. Yeah, that kind of described Grant. Flirty, and charming, and incredibly savvy, he was also a good business partner. The man had been fantastic so far to work with, delivering contracts on time, lining up the right people, and planning the details for marketing. Soon, she’d be seeing him so they could put the finishing touches on the rollout at his boutiques, and perhaps too exploring the possibilities of other partnerships. Her shoulders tensed at the thought. She wasn’t quite sure how to behave with him. It had been a while, and so much had changed, hadn’t it? She furrowed her brow, momentarily trying to recall her last meeting with Grant. But it had grown fuzzier, and much more muted, and she was going to have to do something about that very soon.

* * *

Casey tapped her foot and peered down the street. The early evening crowds weaved past her—men in suits and ties, women in smart dresses and business slacks. The workday had ended and Londoners were moving onto their nights, walking briskly along the chic New Bond Street in the heart of the West End. She stood under the black awning of the famed auction house with its elegant white facade, searching for Nate in the crowd, seeking out his familiar frame, his broad shoulders, his golden brown hair, his amber eyes. He’d texted her that he was running late, then texted her again to let her know his car had dropped him off several blocks away. The roads were so clogged with traffic that he’d get there faster on foot. The auction started in ten minutes, and if he didn’t make it soon she’d have to go in solo. Which was fine by her because she didn’t want to miss a chance to vie for the painting she’d been coveting.

She flipped open the catalogue to look at the image again.

Unfinished Love—a simple, but sumptuous image, the painting’s story was told in broad brushstrokes and bright colors, depicting a man in a white shirt and a woman in a black dress kissing under a red umbrella. The best part was the woman’s reaction. The leg pop. Ah, that got to Casey every time. The heel in the air, the one-legged kiss—the flamingo, she liked to call it. Such a symbol of the power of a certain kind of kiss, of the way it could undo a woman. To be kissed like that had always been her dream, and so this image was her quest, and she wanted it badly.

Like a gambler ready to lay down bets, she was poised to bid. She’d already registered and picked up her paddle. The clock drew nearer to the start of the auction. Another glance at her phone, another scan down the street, but still no Nate.

She reread the details, and the expected starting price for the painting: £3000. She could manage that. Extravagant, yes. But not wildly insane. Besides, art was her indulgence. Art like this made her happy; it made her heart sing. It was an uncomplicated love, one that fed her soul, and her hope for that kind of love someday. She sighed wistfully, wishing that that someday would come soon.

Until then, there was art, and that kept her going.

She thumbed through a few more pages to pass the time, then she gasped out loud. There was a new painting in the catalogue, and it called to her, with outstretched arms. Casey ran her index finger longingly over the photo. A late addition to the lot, the image was of that same man and woman, but this time without an umbrella, staring up at the sky, caught in the rain—big, buoyant raindrops that shone like stars.

She read the description.

Miller Valentina hadn’t told anyone he was working on this new painting and had simply delivered it, along with his other works, to Sotheby’s as part of this auction of modern art. Titled Big Love, Sans Umbrella, the catalogue entry contained a note from the artist: “This work took me by surprise. I hadn’t planned to paint it, but perhaps Unfinished Love truly was unfinished because I had the insistent feeling that the sky had broken open and that there was more of their story to tell. So I told it.”

She didn’t entirely connect with the kind of metaphors and art-y language that painters told their tales in, but even so, something about this work touched her. Maybe it was the unexpectedness of it—for the couple, the painter and the sky.

She read the price. It was more than Unfinished Love, but not by too much. Did she want both? Would that be too greedy? She craved the pair, but she talked herself down. They were just paintings. She didn’t have to buy both. She’d do just fine with the one she’d come for. Even though they fit together, like a perfect match.

But where the hell was her date?

Then her spine straightened, and goosebumps rose on the back of her neck. She spun around, or maybe he spun her. It all happened so quickly, she couldn’t tell where one moment ended and another began, only that this—her waiting—had blended into her being kissed, one second sliding seamlessly into the start of something ever more wonderful.

The kiss told her so much—that he was sorry for being late, that he’d missed her for the last several hours he’d been without her, and that this was the best part of his day.

Hers too.

This kiss was air, it was breath, and it was her heart on her sleeve. In the soft, slow sweep of his lips, in the hungry sighs they both made, in an instant, the kiss was everything.

Her heel popped up.

There it was. The final proof that no one had ever kissed her like he did, and no one probably ever would.

CHAPTER TWENTY

London, evening . . .

Green.

All he saw was emerald green hugging every luscious curve.

Clinging enticingly to her body, a lure for him, and him alone. Like she’d clothed herself in the secret of their affair—the dress that drew him back to New York, and into the first night he’d made love to her. It was a private message in a language only he could understand.