It Takes a Rebel (21 page)

something casual and funky. She settled on a pair of black corduroy overalls, a heavy silk coral long-sleeve blouse, and suede

slip-ons with a heavy sole. She dumped the contents of her leather tote into a hand appliquéd canvas bag, then dropped in a

handful of hairpins so she could twist back her helmet hair once she reached the gallery. At the last minute, she remembered his

leather jacket and grabbed it on the way out the door.

Telling herself she was hurrying because Jack was waiting rather than because she was excited, Alex jogged down the hall,

slowing when she reached the corridor before Lana's apartment. Hopes that she would make it past without notice were dashed

when she rounded the corner to find Lana leaning in her open doorway, filing her nails.

"Got a date?" her friend asked innocently without lifting her gaze.

Alex sighed. "It's not a date. Jack is taking me to the Bernard art show that Dad and I missed yesterday so they could go to a

football game."

"Mmm-hmm. One man, one woman, and a place to go. Sounds like a date to me."

"It's not a date," she insisted. "We both happen to have an interest in this artist, that's all."

Lana glanced up. "Jack the Attack is a contemporary art connoisseur?"

"He has two Bernard originals."

Her friend stopped filing. "For real?"

Alex pursed her mouth and nodded.

"Holy husband-hunting, Alex, I'm starting to think there's more to this man than meets the eye—and what meets the eye isn't

too shabby."

She shook her finger. "Oh, no, don't read anything into this. We're going to an art gallery, and that's all."

Lana shrugged. "Okay. Just remember you're supposed to set a wedding date this weekend—to marry a different man." She

blew on her nails, then stepped inside and closed the door with her hip.

Alex shook her head, then turned toward the exit, although her steps were somewhat more hesitant.

This was not a date.

* * *

Alex nearly choked on her champagne, but extended her hand when Jack introduced her to Bernard Penn, the artist whom

she'd admired since the woman's first Lexington show nearly six years ago. Jack explained that his father had mentored the

unknown local artist before she moved on to make her name in Chicago and Los Angeles. From the looks the quirky young

woman was giving Jack, Alex wondered if he himself had mentored her in other areas.

"Jack gave me my first tattoo," Bernard announced, pointing to her bikini area, confirming Alex's suspicions.

"A trade for one of her paintings," Jack added.

"Made you earn the other one, too," the young woman said slyly before moving on to mingle.

Alex lifted her eyebrows over her champagne glass. "Just how large is your art collection?"

A slow grin spread over Jack's face. "I stopped counting canvases in ninety-three. Come with me. There's a piece in the

atrium I'd like to show you." He clasped her hand and she didn't pull away, casting sideways glances at him as they walked,

marveling at how comfortable he seemed in a cultural environment, and how little she actually knew about him.

"Where is your collection?" she asked.

"My place." They moved into the atrium, and Jack pointed out an abstract of musical instruments, commenting on the

composition, the striking use of color and light.

"Nice," she said, nodding. "Where do you live?"

"Derek and I turned an older home in Lansdowne into a duplex, but since he and his wife will be needing more space, I'm

giving him my side when they return from their honeymoon."

"That's generous of you."

He shook his head. "Derek has carried my weight around the agency more than once. He's a good man, and it's the least I can

do."

"So where will you live?"

He shrugged. "I'll find a place—I mainly use the duplex as storage for my art collection."

Alex angled her head. "So you weren't kidding about having a large collection that you, um, traded for?"

Jack nodded and gave her a crooked smile. "Not in the way you think, though. I've traveled a lot and picked up local pieces

for a few bucks, and I've bartered an odd job here and there."

"I'd like to see it sometime," she murmured.

He shrugged. "Why not now?"

"I wasn't fishing for an invitation," she said, averting her gaze and extracting her hand from his.

Jack laughed. "I didn't think you were. Let's go. But I have to warn you, the place isn't exactly a penthouse loft."

She hesitated. The thought of going to his place seemed much too intimate in light of their recent encounter. "I shouldn't," she

said, shaking her head. She didn't realize she was fingering her engagement ring until his gaze cut to her hand.

"Still wearing that thing?" he asked lightly.

Her defenses rallied. "Yes."

He made a sympathetic noise. "I never understood the allure of marriage myself."

"Call me old-fashioned," she said, lifting her chin. "But I like the idea of spending the rest of my life with one person."

One side of his mouth drew back. "Okay, Ms. Old-Fashioned, humor me. Let me show off my art collection to someone who

actually knows a little bit about the art world."

"I'm sure I don't have your eye, or your expertise," she protested.

"Really? Did you select the Lenux hanging in your bathroom?"

She nodded.

"I have the companion piece."

"You're joking."

"Nope."

"What is it?"

"Come and see for yourself," he urged.

The knowledge that they shared an interest in the same artists left her absurdly pleased. And she had to admit, she was

curious to see the man's living space. "Just a tour?"

He held up his hands. "Just a tour. We'll leave whenever you want to."

She wavered.

His eyes sobered. "Alex, I don't have an ulterior motive here to get you alone."

Alex squirmed, feeling foolish.

Jack pressed his lips together, then shifted his weight to his other foot. "I'm sorry our … mistake … Friday night left you in

such an awkward position with your fiancé. We both got a little carried away." His color heightened, but his expression

remained serious. "And Reddinger won't hear anything from me about what happened."

Alex exhaled, feeling relieved but also a little foolish for thinking that just because they would be alone, they would end up

in bed again. Jack seemed as contrite as she about their lapse. They were adults who had learned from their "mistake."

Besides, she suspected that for a man like Jack, the lure ended with the conquest. She was safe now. "Let's go," she agreed.

His grin buoyed her, sounding a little alarm in the back of her mind, which Alex ignored.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"A little."

"We can grab some fish sandwiches to go on the way. Sound good?"

She nodded, caught up in his excitement

"Great. Let's ride."

During the drive across town, Alex tried to concentrate on the sweet-scented autumn air and the delicate orange and yellow

leaves that swirled around them, but her senses were keen, making her ultra-aware of Jack's flat stomach muscles moving

beneath her hands, of her thighs cradling his, her sex cupped against his buttocks. She told herself that once they arrived at his

place, she'd maintain a room's distance from the man. At last he wheeled into the driveway of a large flagstone ranch home, and

shut off the engine.

"I think you were more relaxed today," he teased as they removed their helmets.

She smiled, remembering her drive back from the cemetery yesterday, top down, hair flying. She hadn't reached any

monumental conclusions during her trip, but she'd felt a little better upon returning. "It's kind of fun once you get the hang of it."

After they stowed their helmets and retrieved the bag of sandwiches, she followed Jack to a side entrance. The grass needed

to be mowed, but its deep emerald color was a pleasing background for jewel-toned leaves that had settled around the base of

trees and the house itself.

Jack moved casually, obviously much more at ease than she. After opening an aged beveled glass door, he swept his arm for

her to precede him. Thrumming with curiosity, Alex stepped inside.

They entered through a tiny retro kitchen with hardwood floors, charming red tile counters, and white porcelain fixtures. And

while the room was stripped bare of furniture and bric-a-brac, she received an immediate introduction to his art collection.

Paintings of all sizes, framed and unframed, lined every inch of the anchor wall from floor to ceiling, stretching into a hallway

beyond her vision. No theme or color scheme was observed, but each of the pieces was intriguing—landscapes, portraits,

abstracts.

"Let's eat outside," he suggested. "Then I'll give you the full tour."

He retrieved a couple of beers from the refrigerator, then elbowed his way through a glass door that led to a brick patio in

the backyard. Alex followed, admiring the simple wood table and chairs, also littered with bright leaves. Jack set their food

and drinks on the table, then cleared a chair for her and raised the faded green umbrella to shield them from the sun.

"Thank you for taking me to the gallery," she said as they unwrapped the sandwiches.

He passed her an open bottle of beer. "It was the least I could do for taking your father away from you Saturday."

Alex bit into her sandwich and attempted a carefree shrug. "My father is free to spend his time as he pleases."

He dragged a French fry through a mound of ketchup. "You don't have to pretend. I enjoyed spending time with my old man,

too. I would have been disappointed if I'd been in your shoes."

She smiled sadly. "It's easier with sons. Dad and I don't seem to be able to connect."

"Except at work?"

Surprised by his interest, she nodded. "Even though we don't always see eye to eye, it's the one passion we share."

He drank from his beer and settled back in his chair. The off-white shirt he wore looked crisp and new, and suited his

coloring. The rolled up sleeves revealed his thick forearms. The man seemed comfortable in any setting. Part of her envied his

nonchalance, his ability to move through life on his own terms.

"Alex, is the company really your passion?" he asked. "Or are you simply doing what you think your father expects of you?"

Although rankled, she tried to laugh. "That's a ridiculous question."

"Is it?"

"Yes," she insisted, then focused on removing the label from the cold bottle in one piece. "I mean, maybe at first I wanted to

be close to Dad, but now…" She glanced up and sighed. "Well, I've come to realize that Dad doesn't care or even seem to

notice how much I do at the store, so now I work strictly for my own fulfillment."

"I'm sure Al loves you very much," Jack said, his voice gentle.

She gave him a wry smile. "So much so that he'd rather spend time with you, a virtual stranger, than his own daughter." Her

heart lurched. "You don't know how many times I've wished I'd been a boy."

Jack leaned forward, his mouth curving wide. "If I may say so, what a terrible waste
that
would have been."

She appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood and tingled under his compliment. "I probably sound like a spoiled little

girl."

"Not at all," he assured her. "You must have been close to your mother."

"Yes," she murmured. "I suppose most children gravitate more toward one parent."

"I agree. I was closer to my father."

"You miss him." Not a question, because she knew he must.

Jack's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Every day that the sun rises."

So honest, she thought, shaken by his decidedly un-macho topic of conversation.

"But," he added, lifting his beer. "I'm fortunate to have some of Dad's canvases to remember him by. Let's finish up here so I

can give you that tour."

His grin restored the cheerful atmosphere. They polished off their food in between discussing details for the commercial

shoot the following day. Considering the strange way her body reacted every time she looked across the table at Jack—whom

she was beginning to see in a new light—she decided to stick to neutral subjects like the ad campaign.

After discarding the leftovers, they carried their half-full bottles of beer back into the house. With her heart thumping in

anticipation, Alex followed Jack slowly from room to room as he commented on the multitude of canvases and pointed out

particular favorites of his, especially his father's. Because the rooms were void of furniture, they were free to walk around and

admire each one. In one room which was obviously meant to be a small dining room, dozens of canvases were stacked and

leaning against one wall.

"My vault," he offered.

"Jack," she breathed, afraid to touch anything, but wanting to see every piece. "You have enough work here to fill a small

museum."

His smile was modest. "Maybe I'll open one when I'm old and gray. Meanwhile, I'll have to put them in storage."

She was struck by the simplicity of his life. A worn couch and chair in the living room, along with a nice stereo system,

represented most of the furniture in his house. If he owned a television, it was hidden. A thin layer of dust covered everything,

and the air was a little stale. The man was not fastidious—quite a contrast to Heath's compulsively clean, white decor. It was