Emergency Engagement (Love Emergency) (7 page)

“Before He Cheats.” Yeah, this is where he’d come in.

When she got to the “pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive” part she broke off. A moment later her bedsprings squeaked and a light knock came from the wall behind his head, followed by a muffled, “Night, Beau.”

“Night, Savannah,” he replied, and tried to concentrate on the TV rather than every little squeak and groan of her mattress as she shifted around for a comfy position. His imagination offered up a graphic slide show of possible positions for her to assume.

He focused on the scores scrolling across the crawl at the bottom of the screen. North Carolina beat Duke. Good. Penn State beat Wisconsin. The Bruins beat the Trojans
and
covered the spread. Miracle. The network cut to a commercial and he rested his eyes for a second…

Savannah’s scent surrounded him. Her breath fanned his cheek as she whispered his name. One busy hand drifted over his shoulder and down his chest. His subconscious mind hadn’t treated him to a dream this vivid in a long time, but his body rushed to enjoy it. “Lower,” he murmured. She shifted and said his name again, a little louder this time.

She liked loud. He wanted her loud. The creak of his mattress reminded him she also wanted a comfortable position. No problem. He could scratch that itch. He rolled, pulling her onto the bed, not stopping until he had her sprawled all over him, anticipating the slide of skin on skin.

Inexplicable layers of clothes and sheets thwarted the skin-on-skin goal, but the warm weight of her breasts rested against his chest. Her slender thighs straddled his waist, and incredibly soft, incredibly hot flesh kissed his abdomen. She wiggled backward—he couldn’t fathom why—but the move brought the yielding curves of her ass into contact with the straining head of his cock. He groaned his approval, and centered them up a bit.

“Beau.” Even louder now, and slightly breathless.

He tightened his abs, flattened his hand against the small of her back, and pressed her closer.

“Oh, jeez. Beau.”

Toes curled into calves. He slid his free hand up the back of her thigh, raising fabric as he went.

“Beau!”

Chapter Seven

Thanks to the glow of the hall light and the flicker of the TV, Savannah knew the minute Beau woke up. She saw his eyes open, focus on her, and then watched awareness creep into his sleep-dazed face as he took stock of their situation. He had her draped over him with her fleece robe tangled around her legs, one hand splayed across her hips, and the other clamped to her lower back, his rugged abs providing a perfect saddle for a long, hard, and very dirty ride.

A not-so-subtle nudge around back announced at least one part of him was wide awake. Fully. Awake.

He stared at her mouth for what seemed like forever, not moving a muscle, and she stared right back, remembering the power of his kiss—the explosive heat unleashed by the simple contact of lips to lips. Their “no complications” rule was already bent all to hell. If he kissed her right now, it would be completely and irreparably broken. Even knowing this, she couldn’t say whether she hoped he’d pull her closer or ease her away.

The white gauze taped to his forehead caught her attention and made up her mind for her. His injury. The whole reason she was here in the first place. She propped her forearm on his chest and made the peace sign. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

He lowered his chin a degree and looked down at her hand. “I’m usually the one asking that question.”

“Let’s hope you can also answer.”

“Let’s hope.”

Two fingertips traced a meandering pattern down her back all the way to the base of her spine. She shivered, but stayed strong. “I’m afraid I have to insist on a verbal response.”

“Two,” he said, and shifted his hips, managing to dislodge his personal parts from hers in the process. “Do I owe you an apology?”

He couldn’t have looked or sounded less apologetic, with his shadowed jaw, growly voice, and general air of tense, dissatisfied male. She held back a grin.

“No need. After all, we’re engaged.” She crawled off him and settled onto her back on the bed, then double-checked her robe to make sure all the essentials remained covered. They both stared at the ceiling and took a moment to settle.

“Ready to play doctor?”

She felt rather than saw him turn his head to look at her. “Only if I get to be the doctor.”

The grin threatened again, but she shook her head. “Maybe next time. What’s your name?”

“This seems like something my fiancée would know.”

“I’m not asking for me, I’m asking for you.”

“I already know my name.”

She thumped him on the leg with the back of her hand. “Don’t make me beat it out of you. Dr. West told me to have you recite your name and date of birth.”

“Ow. I liked your earlier bedside manner better. My name is Beauregard Miller Montgomery.”

“Beauregard?” Now she turned to look at him. He had his arm propped behind his head and stared at the ceiling again. Nice profile. “How did I not know Beau was short for Beauregard?”

“It’s my paternal grandmother’s maiden name. There’s a way-back connection to General P.T.G. Beauregard.”

“Impressive. And Miller?”

“My mom’s maiden name. Now you know as much as I do.”

Strangely, she did feel a bit more intimately acquainted, though the conversation might not be the sole cause. “I’m prepared for the fiancée quiz.”

“If there’s going to be a quiz, we better exchange this information, don’t you think?”

“Wait. I’m not done with my questions yet. I need your date of birth.”

“August sixth.”

“Hmm. That’s a problem.”

“You got something against Leos?”

“Not at all. But assuming we started dating shortly after I moved into Camden Gardens, and now we’re engaged, I surely gave you a birthday gift reflective of my deep and abiding love. A keepsake.”

“You did?”

“Of course I did. I’m a romantic soul. I gave you something thoughtful, and fun. Something you’d treasure forever.”

“You gave me a Ducati?”

“You really are suffering a brain injury if you think I can afford a Duc. I’m a starving artist. No. I gave you”—she tried to imagine a personal gift she could actually afford—“an original glass sculpture of my own design. You keep it on your coffee table, so you can show it off when people visit.”

He looked worried. “A small, unobtrusive sculpture?”

Okay, she wouldn’t take the comment personally. The man kept no mementos of any kind in his apartment, and her “gift” threatened to disrupt the sterile, uncluttered surfaces of his home. “Very small,” she assured him. “I know my man. But we need to make a few changes, because right now, this place doesn’t bear the stamp of guy in a serious relationship. No pictures of us at a Braves game, no seashells picked from the surf during a long weekend in Pismo Beach. Nada.”

The rasp of a hard palm across whiskers filled the silence, and every delicate expanse of skin on her body clamored to be on the receiving end of the subtle abrasion. Not wise. He was, though, and she read him well enough to know he saw her point.

“Don’t go to a lot of trouble. My parents don’t come to my place.”

“They’re coming next week, and we want to make this look real. It’s no trouble. It’s not like I’m under the gun creating new works for a big exhibit anywhere.”

As soon as the words left her lips, she wanted to bite them back.
He already knows the pathetic state of your personal life, and now you want to parade your professional failure in front of him?
Maybe he hadn’t noticed the self-directed sarcasm in her voice.

“Did the glass art market take a downturn?”

Nope. He heard. She pressed the heel of her hand to the place above her eye where a headache tried to take root. “It did for me.”

“I have no idea how the art world works. Did you get a bad review or a lousy write-up or something?”

“No, nothing like that.” Though taste was subjective, and negative opinions came with the territory. Those she could handle. “I climbed into bed with the wrong people. And despite how that sounds, it’s a boring story. Forget I said anything.”

The mattress gave as he rolled onto his side to face her. “It’s on your mind. Seems like the kind of thing your fiancé would know about. Maybe I can help?” He found the ache over her eyebrow, and ironed the sore spot with his thumb.

Paramedic by trade, rescuer by nature. She’d best remember that. “You’re sweet, but there’s nothing you can do. Oh, hey, look at the time. I should go. I’m supposed to wake you up, not keep you up.”

A warm hand curled around her forearm when she started to move.

“How am I supposed to pass the fiancé quiz if I don’t know about your career? C’mon, Smith. Spill.”

Shoot. Trapped by her own argument. And yeah, a real fiancé probably would know her first effort to make a name for herself in a regional market had failed miserably. lf not for the fellowship, she’d been at serious risk of celebrating her twenty-eighth birthday by moving back in with her parents.

“Okay. Fine.” She flopped onto her side, facing him. “Here’s the deal. Earlier this year a hot new gallery in Atlanta offered to represent me.”

He folded an arm behind his head and turned to look at her. “Congratulations. Is that what brought you here?”

“Yep. The gallery owners suggested I move closer so I could support their marketing investment by attending showings, doing client meet-and-greets, and generally circulating in the local art scene.”

“Sounds logical, I guess.”

“I thought so. I’d done well in Athens, but the scene there is only so big, and mostly supported by my school. After undergrad and my MFA, I felt like I’d wrung all I could out of Lamar Dodd.”

“Time to stop being the big fish in a pond?”

“Exactly. Moving represented the next logical step in my growth, and I arrived with a smile on my face and stars in my eyes, but not enough hard information about my new business representatives.” She fiddled with the sheet, folding a corner into the world’s smallest accordion. “I ignored rumors about financial problems, and some not-so-legit deals. A couple months ago the owners got busted for selling forged Warhols on eBay, and the gallery shut its doors soon after.”

“That sucks. Can you get your work back and jump to another gallery?”

“Unfortunately it’s not that easy. They sold five of my pieces—presumably collected payment in full—but only paid me partial commissions for two. In theory, I can sue them for what they owe me, but Mit…um…my legal adviser said he didn’t see the Feds unfreezing their assets to pay my judgment while the mail and wire fraud charges drag on. Meanwhile, despite marketing myself like crazy to other reputable galleries, no one’s calling.”

“Screw ’em.” He stared at the ceiling again, a slight furrow in his brow. “Represent yourself. Get a good photographer and a web designer and open your own virtual showroom online. Who needs a gallery?”

She appreciated the show of support, but she knew better. “I do. In part because nobody knows who I am, so I need a gallery to publicize me and present me to potential collectors, and in part because my works are three-dimensional and respond to nuances of light and shadow. People need to view them in person to get the full impact.”

“I can’t drive a block around this city without running into an art festival or street fair—”

“And there’s nothing wrong with art festivals and street fairs, but many of my pieces are large, and all of them are breakable.” He was picturing embedded flower paperweights and Murano vases. She did six-foot waves of indigo glass curling into millefiori foams of silver, cobalt, and sapphire. Her vases came complete with cascading glass blossoms dripping with prisms of dew, attracting enough breathtakingly fragile glass bees and butterflies to make a Dutch master weep. “I can’t cart them around to every art festival in Atlanta. Even if the breakage risk didn’t deter me, my price point makes those venues a waste of time.”

His eyes cut back to her. “What’s your price point?”

“If you have to ask…”

“And yet you’re broke.”

“Because I haven’t gotten paid. Those slick-bellied sons of guns owe me over forty thousand in commissions, but I can’t devalue my name because of my current circumstances. If I started churning out twenty-dollar paperweights and fifty-dollar vases to sell at coffee shops and farmers’ markets, I might as well kiss my fine-art prospects good-bye.”

“What about your pen pals at the Solomon Foundation? Do they have a gallery?”

“The Solomon Foundation has everything.” She closed her eyes and imagined the palazzo on the Grand Canal. “Museums throughout the world, a network of galleries and collectors, plus patronage. They offer fellowships to selected artists. The foundation provides fellows with studio space and living quarters to enable them to pursue their projects.”

“You should apply for one of those fellowships.”

“I did, actually. The week I learned I’d been hosed by my gallery I kind of panicked and sent out applications and proposals to a bunch of different programs. Hence the letter you received by mistake.”

“And…?”

The prompt made her smile. She opened her eyes and winked at him. “They offered me a nine-month fellowship starting in January.”

“Congratulations.” The sincerity in his voice quickly shifted to curiosity. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? You could have celebrated the news with your family.”

“What? And steal the spotlight away from our big announcement?”

“We could have celebrated both.”

She let go of the sheet and snugged into his “guest” pillow. Her eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. She had to leave soon, or she’d fall asleep in his bed. “The two pieces of news don’t really mesh all that well.”

“How so? I’m all for your career.”

“Hmm. The fellowship is in Venice.”

The mattress shifted as he raised his head. “Venice, Italy?”

“Uh-huh. I’m afraid my career opportunity comes at the expense of my relationship.”

He settled back against his pillow. “Huh. I can’t believe you’re choosing Venice over us.”

“It’s the chance of a lifetime. If you really loved me, you’d support my decision.”
Yeah, like Mitch
. He’d encouraged her to apply, mentioned the firm had offices in Rome and how he could visit often and steal her away for weekends in Paris. And keep her at arm’s length the rest of the time, while he planned his wedding to another woman.

“This works, you know.”

“Yeah. I figure we make the announcement in between Christmas and New Year’s, and explain to our families we’re postponing the wedding until I return. Then during the time apart we realize we’re not meant to be. We break up. An Italian prince sweeps me off my feet, we have half a dozen bambinos, and live happily ever after.”

“I think they dismantled the Italian monarchy after World War II, but I have no doubt the men of Italy will line up to sweep you off your feet and make you happy.”

“Easy for you to say.” But then again, maybe it wasn’t. She detected a hint of something cautious beneath the humor. He didn’t believe in happily ever after. She wished she could see his face, but it was too much trouble to open her eyes.

“Are you falling asleep on me?”

“I’m awake.”

“Okay. So answer me this. What did I get you for your birthday?”

She frowned into the darkness. “Nothing. We didn’t know each other yet…or again…whatever.”

“We didn’t?” His rumbly voice sounded a little soft around the edges.

“No. I moved here in April. My birthday is February fourteenth.”

“Valentine’s Day?” His finger traced her upper lip. “How’s that working out for you?”

Hearts and flowers mixed with cake and presents? Could be worse. But she had a hard time finding her vocal cords to reply. Instead she rested her head against his shoulder, enjoying the combination of fresh-washed T-shirt and his scent. A random thought skipped through her mind. “You lied to me.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t sleep in the nude.”

“I dressed up for you.” He flexed his shoulder to scoot her head into a more comfortable position. “You do.”

She ran her hand along the collar of her robe. “I dressed up for you.”

“Savannah?”

Her name sounded sexy in his low, lazy voice. “What?”