Secrets of You (8 page)

“Okay.” A piece of onion flew off the cutting board and Arianna scooped it up, tossed it in the pan. “You’re not jealous.”

“Right.”
Damn straight.
He pulled out the garlic press and tucked a clove inside. “Enough about that man. I’m going to make you the best aglio olio you ever tasted.” He drizzled olive oil into a pan and said, “And then I’m going to show you what I’ve been doing these past two years.”

***

Did Ash have any idea how talented he was? She’d never seen such evocative imagery, compelling in nature and circumstance, whether an old woman’s lined face or a country road leading to anywhere. Or nowhere. She’d been drawn to his photographs the first time he showed her, but these were past the basics of good composition and scene selection. These touched souls, buried themselves in hearts, demanded forgiveness and redemption. These could make a person weep in their beauty, or their sadness. These photos spoke of love, loss, and loneliness.

Maybe Ash’s leaving had hurt him as much as it had hurt her, even though it had been his choice. Maybe he had changed and was willing to do anything for another chance…but was she
equally willing? What if it meant dredging up a past he didn’t know existed, one she grew queasy over whenever she thought of it? Would she be able to do it? Would she want to?

Ash Lancaster was indeed a complicated man who would expect complete honesty this time around. Where would she even begin? She couldn’t think about it, so she squashed the idea and focused on the slide covering the huge television screen. She’d been immersed in these photos and his explanation of them for more than an hour as they sat on the cream leather couch, close enough to touch one another, but not touching. As the hour stretched from one to two and Arianna grew more entranced by the photos and Ash’s deep voice bringing them to life, she became more aware of his closeness.
Oh, how she had missed that.

The man knew how to cook, engage in casual and entertaining conversation, had a deep passion for his photography, and really seemed to care about the people in his pictures, many of whom he’d only met briefly. The old Ash might have acknowledged them but he wouldn’t have
seen
them. This one did, which made him that much more appealing…that much more dangerous to her heart…

“What are you thinking?”

That I could lose my heart to you again…that maybe I never stopped loving you…

“Arianna?”

She stifled the thought and turned to him. “These photos are brilliant. Ian would love them.”

“For what?”

“To sell. These are what you should hang in your offices and condos.” She envisioned the frames and matting. Ian would know how to tie in the various photographs to give them clarity and distinctiveness. “Did you get the names of the people you photographed?” He’d need release forms.

“I did. I told them I’d send along the photos once I got them developed.” He frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ll need their permission to use their photo.” The old man rocking on the front porch, the young woman digging in a patch of petunias. And the boy, perched on a rock in the creek, eating long strands of licorice.

“I’m not trying to make money off of these people.” He threw her a look that was awfully close to disgust. “Everything isn’t about making the next buck.”

She matched his disgust. “Spoken from one who has never had to worry about making his first one.” He had no idea what it was like to have an empty wallet and no way to fill it.

Ash flung a cushion aside and sprang off the couch as though he needed to get as far away from her idea as possible.
Or maybe as far away from
her
as possible. “Having too much money is as much a hindrance as having none.”

“Really?
Well, I’m sure the man on the street corner with a sign that says ‘Will work for food’ will be pleased to know that.” Two years ago he’d had a casual disregard for money she’d found charming, but that was before she discovered he possessed an unlimited supply.

He paced the room, hands shoved in his hair, brow furrowed—looking everywhere but at her. “I won’t exploit these people. Not even for you.”

“Not even for me? What does that mean?” She stood and blocked his path. Why would he say such a thing?

He stopped a few feet from her. When he met her gaze, she almost wished he hadn’t.
Anger. Annoyance. Disgust. That’s what she saw in those eyes, all directed at her. “Since I’ve been back, I’ve begged, apologized, compromised, in hopes you’d give us another chance. I’m not used to doing any of those things, but I did them. For you. For the hope there could be an
us
.” His lips curled. “But I won’t use these innocent people for personal gains. They let me into their lives, and I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate knowing I’d cashed in on their hospitality.” He paused, shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Small towns are different from big cities.” He shrugged. “But I guess you wouldn’t know.”

Oh, but she would know, she
did
know. All too well. Ash might find them charming and built on a handshake, but he didn’t know the underbelly of gossip and hurt that swirled the streets like a backed-up sewage supply until the stench drove you away, kept you away…but even then, you could still smell it on you…

“You’ve never been to a small town, have you?”

His dark gaze slid over her, landed on her mouth, waiting. There was a stillness about him as though her next words were vital. She cleared her throat and smothered the memories of life before Philly. “No, I’ve never been.” Those eyes shot to hers, burrowed deep. Was that disappointment on his face? Or hurt?

He backed away.
“Of course not. I didn’t think a cosmopolitan girl like you would know anything about baling hay or canning tomatoes.”

Oh, he was wrong there. She’d been able to hook a night crawler on a fishing hook by the age of nine. By ten she could paint a fence, cut grass, and can jelly. By seventeen she was gone. “What exactly is your point?”
And why are you looking at me like you know I’m lying?

“My point is I’m not going to profit from the kindness of others. I’ll sell those paintings to Ian and whoever else wants them.”

“And?”

“I’ll give the money to the people whose photos I took. If they’re shots of the town, I’ll donate the money for improvements.” His voice grew more animated. “Think of the good an influx of cash would do for those towns. They could buy books and computer equipment for the schools. New park benches. Hell, they could replace fire trucks, police cruisers,
maintenance trucks, whatever they need.”

“But how would you even begin to decide who gets what?” He had no idea what he was starting, which was a disaster on so many levels. “They won’t take your money
. ” He stared at her as though he didn’t understand. And he didn’t.

“You can’t walk into a small town and start throwing money at these people. That’s like telling them what they have isn’t good enough.
The schools, for example. Do they need the latest in technology to function? What about the kids who graduated last year and the year before that? Have they suffered for not having these opportunities? Are you implying they’re subpar?”

“Of course not.”
He sighed, clearly frustrated by her questions. “I want to help them. That’s all.”

“Who says they need help? Maybe they’re content exactly where they are.” Hadn’t her father returned every check she’d ever sent him with notes like “We don’t need your charity” and “We don’t accept guilt money” and even, “Not everybody wants a Mercedes”? Later, there hadn’t even been
notes, just a plain white envelope with the folded check inside and that had hurt the most.

“Maybe some are content, but the ones I talked to were looking for opportunity.” He stared at the picture on the wall, a photograph of a young man dressed in coveralls and a T-shirt next to a tractor, his wife beside him, tall and proud,
their young daughter perched on her father’s broad shoulders. “They said they wanted to make a difference, find their place in life, and all they needed was a chance—for themselves, their children, their children’s children.” His voice dipped, softened. “I could give them that.”

“They’re not going to take anything from a rich do-gooder bent on reshaping their world.”

He swung around, eyes narrowed, brows pinched, jaw tight. “Why are you so against this? You don’t know them, what they’ve been through.” He advanced on her, stopped when he was less than a foot away. “What do you know about small towns and doing without? You’re a rich girl living off a trust fund from your dead parents.” He paused a half-second too long. “Aren’t you?”

It was that last part that stole her breath, made her focus on a section of the wall behind his head.
Calm, calm. He couldn’t possibly know the truth, he’s only goading you because he’s angry.
She sipped in air and when she could speak in a normal voice, she said, “I might have money but I’ve had a lot of friends who haven’t. Starving artists are called that for a reason.”

The left side of his jaw twitched.
“Right.” He said nothing else, just turned and headed toward the kitchen. When he returned a few minutes later, he had a beer in his hand and a harsh look on his face. “For the first time in my life, I’m going to do something that’s not about me. That feels good. Wonderful, actually. I’m going to do this, with or without your help.”

The easygoing manner and persuasive tenderness he’d shown her these past days was gone. In its place was determination. “How could I possibly help?”

“Talk to Ian, set up a show or whatever it is you people do to get patrons to view your work. If you have release forms, I’ll send them out and follow up with phone calls. There’s one town in particular I’d like to focus on.” He sipped his beer, studied her over the top of the bottle. “If we have success and make money, I’ll deliver it myself. If not, I’ll subsidize the venture.”

“You mean give them your own money?”

“Exactly.”

“But…”

“Why?” He reached for her hand and pulled her to him. Slowly. Gently. “Why would I do this?” Ash blew out a breath and rested his forehead against hers. “It could change people’s lives. Can you imagine?” He was so close, so achingly familiar. He brushed his lips over her temple, whispered, “I’m going to do this, and I want you to be part of it.”

Lancaster Development had lots of data, but then they would, considering they owned a huge chunk of Philly’s prime real estate and were in a constant state of renovation or building. Ash scrolled through the file, his third since he’d gotten into the office. This one was a condo renovation five miles from the city; lots of glass and chrome, completely furnished. Very pricey. Aside from the exercise room, spa, and media center, there was a doggy daycare that promised individualized care, socialization, two walks a day, and a webcam as an eyewitness. That, Ash would like to see.

He’d gotten into work well before 7:00
a.m
., figured out the coffee maker, and made his way to the office Peter had designated for him. It had been a long time since he’d been confined to an office—his schedule had always consisted of action according to mood and other plans, the former taking precedence over the latter.

But missions elicited action and Ash was on a mission to locate the condos that needed wall art. He wanted to consider the overall theme, individual taste, and representation of the area before he decided on the artwork, though he already had a few plans for
Evie Burnes’s silhouettes. He was also very interested in how the photos he’d taken might mesh with the décor.

Last night had been exhilarating and frustrating. With Arianna’s help and guidance, he could funnel the money back to the small towns that had so generously opened up to him, provided meals and stories, and made him feel welcome. For once in his self-serving life, he could do something that was not about him. And he was going to do it. Of course, that meant a one hundred percent buy-in from Pete, which shouldn’t be a big deal seeing as his big brother was so happy he was back in town, Ash might get him to agree to just about anything.

The other part of the success equation was Arianna. She hadn’t agreed to help him but she hadn’t said
no
either. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked her when they were forehead to forehead, lips inches apart. He sure as hell hadn’t been able to think of anything but kissing her and he’d bet his old Ferrari she was thinking about it, too. Her breath had come out in short little puffs, her voice dipped and fell in a velvet rumble as she started, then stopped, and finally eked out an “I don’t know.”

Ash needed her help, but he wanted her to do it because she wanted to, not because he’d persuaded her with kisses and a touch. She didn’t like hearing about small towns and what they stood for, though she knew what comprised them much better than he did.

When was she going to tell him the truth about her past? He would settle for a broad brushstroke, no in-depth confessions right now, just an honest disclosure about her bare-bones upbringing in a town that didn’t even have a McDonald’s. She could do that much, couldn’t she? Well, couldn’t she?

“Ash?”
Megan peeked in the doorway and lifted her coffee mug. “Thanks for making the coffee. There’s nothing like a man who isn’t afraid of a little domesticity.”