Tell Me No Lies: The Black Orchid, Book 1 (11 page)

Chapter Sixteen

“What do you think? It’s beautiful, no?”

I turned around to see a deeply tanned man with spiky caramel-streaked hair gazing at the work of art before me. Smiling, I returned to the Monet-like depiction of water lilies. “It is beautiful. I could stand here all day gazing at these works of art.”

The space was small with shiny hardwood floors, crisp white walls and red leather chairs placed strategically around the room.

“He’s from Italy, I believe,” the man said. “The artist.”

I glanced over my shoulder, noticing the man’s mirrored glasses perched on top of his head and his tailored blazer. “I detect an accent. Your home as well?”

“
Sí
, I’m afraid at times my accent is very thick.” He laughed. “But you understand me, yes?”

“Quite.” I turned around then. He had warm brown eyes and an earnest expression on his face. A fellow art lover then. One can always identify their kind. Smiling, I gestured toward the next wall. “Shall we?”

He inclined his head. “But of course.”

We walked together to the next display, several small works done in acrylic paint, flowers again. A particular work of bright red splotches and bold green lines caught my eye. “That flower is…”

“Unusual? Lovely,” he murmured. “Very lovely.” He cocked his head to the side and squinted. “This piece is very different from what they usually show here.”

There was a moment of silence and I realized, except for the girl at the receptionist desk, we were alone in the space. Oddly enough, I was not uncomfortable, quite the contrary actually. He seemed completely focused on the art and not me, which was refreshing. “You’ve been here before?”

“Many times. In fact, the receptionist leaves me in here alone when she gets lunch sometime.” He chuckled. “She eats at my restaurant.” He shrugged and shoved his hands into his designer jeans. “I give her a discount, that is probably why.”

I turned around and gazed through the plate glass window that ran alongside the front wall of the gallery. From here, I could see several of the restaurants that lined Raleigh’s historic downtown. “Which one is yours?”

He waved his hand slightly. “Two blocks east. It’s a little Italian place.” He grinned at me. “We specialize in rustic Milanese fare. You should come by sometime. Have the hostess find me and I’ll give you a dessert, on the house naturally.”

“I was just looking at available retail space down here. I’m going to open a dessert boutique.”

His eyes lit up. “Really? Desserts? How charming.”

“And coffee. We’ll only serve Jamaica’s Blue Mountain.”

“Of course.” A knowing grin lifted his lips. “Only the best for you,
principessa
.”
Princess.
“Even with caffè.”

I glanced at my watch, shot him a look of apology. “Speaking of joe, I’m late for coffee with my roommate.”

He shrugged, his eyes already turned back to another painting. “Of course. Another time then,
bella
.”

“Another time,” I called over my shoulder as I pushed through the front door. Then I realized… I didn’t even catch his name. But I knew where his restaurant was.

* * * * *

“You invite me for coffee and then you’re late.” Charlotte made a face and then offered a small smile.

“First I was scoping out places for my business, and then that art gallery I love had a new exhibit. You know how much I love art.”

She rolled her eyes, “Yes, only second to your love of beignets.”

“Sorry. I lost track of time.” I scanned the room around us and then relaxed against the chair. Asa was not here to harass me for once.

Charlotte pushed a cup toward me. “Skinny latte.”

I grabbed the cup and took a sip. “Thanks, it’s perfect. I found a place if you’re interested.”

“I don’t want to talk about your business.” She rolled her eyes again and I stopped myself from commenting. She always seemed to be annoyed lately. “So, after having time to sleep on it, have you given any more thought about our conversation?”

I set my cup down gently. “Did you know there’s a new Italian restaurant downtown? We should go sometime.”

She blew her bangs out of her eyes with a hard puff, a sure sign that she was frustrated. “You’re changing the subject.” Nose scrunched and lips twisted into a grimace, she shook her head. “You’re still going to see him aren’t you?”

And I was just going to ignore her. “So, how was the wine tasting with the girls? You came in pretty late last night, we didn’t have time to chat.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Rain?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m going to give him another chance.”

She exhaled loudly. “Why are you being so pig-headed?”

“Why are you so dead set against me being with him? You act like he kicked your puppy or something.”

She opened her mouth to speak and then shut it, shaking her head violently. Face red, she stood. “I am being a good friend to you, Rain.” She grabbed her purse. “I’m really trying.”

“You’re leaving? You’re actually going to walk out of here with this issue unresolved?”

“The issue being the guy you’re dating?”

“No. Our friendship. You’re acting crazy, over a man. When have you ever done that?” She just looked at me, shaking her head as if I was the crazy one. “Not since I almost opened that letter Kael sent me, have you acted so…irrationally.”

She smiled at me. “I’m leaving before I say something I regret.”

And she did. She actually left.

My world was falling apart. I’d quit my job. Whether or not that decision was sound remained to be seen. My best friend hated me, my sister’s choice in men was questionable and the man I’d thought I’d finally gotten over was back, making it crystal clear I’d gotten over nothing.

Once again, coffee didn’t seem nearly strong enough. I needed a drink, a night out. Just some mindless stupid fun. But not with Charlotte or my sister.

I mentally scrolled through the men I’d recently come in contact with. There was Asa. The handsome Italian at the art gallery. Kael. Who to call?

The art gallery guy with the combination of his sexy accent, our common interest in food and obvious love for art was interesting. A night out with him might be fun. Not that he’d appeared remotely interested in me. He could’ve been married for all I know, I hadn’t looked for a ring.

And then there was Asa. He was awfully annoying, always popping out of nowhere, but he had a charm about him and an undeniably naughty sexiness. Perhaps I should.

I sat up. Asa had just walked through the front door and paused in the lobby, his eyes sweeping across the coffee shop. An odd feeing zoomed through my belly. Was he searching for me?

His eyes rested on my chair then on me, and his face lit up. He raised his hand in greeting and I offered a perfunctory smile, trying to decide whether or not I was happy to see him.

His materializing just as I was envisioning him was kind of weird and sent an odd feeling skittering through my chest. I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad though.

A leather headband pushed his dreads off his face. Weird. On him, the headband looked right, masculine. My eyes dropped down and my mouth fell open. I closed it quickly but not before I saw a grin cross his face. He was wearing a wife beater, a simple white tank and a kilt, a primarily dark green with red plaid, manly skirt.

I dared to look lower and saw white tube socks and a pair of banged-up dark brown Doc Marten boots. It was the sexiest outfit I’d ever seen on a man.

I took a deep breath and tried not to stare, but by now I was not the only woman to notice the tattooed, skirt-wearing guy with dreads. Hands covered mouths, giggles escaped and cheeks blushed.

Head up and shoulders squared, he swaggered to the bar and ordered his drink. He was hot in an
Outlander
kind of way.

“May I join you?” He balanced a cup of black coffee with a slice of pie and a stack of napkins on a saucer, standing before me so that my face was level with his crotch. It was not the worst place to be, but it was certainly awkward. Not that he seemed to mind. Rather, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

I gestured toward the chair beside me. “Have a seat.”

He sat down, legs wide. Every woman in the café, me included, was wondering if he was wearing underwear.

He drank half his cup in one gulp and set the cup down. “The answer is no.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said, as my face burned with embarrassment. I knew he knew I knew what he was talking about.

An arrogant smirk. “Totally commando.”

“Actually, my question was, why are you wearing a kilt? Are you Scottish? ’Cause I thought you said you were half-Dutch.”

“Not Scottish. Just did a friend a favor.”

Sighing, I took the bait and leaned back in my seat. “What kind of favor includes you wearing a man-skirt?”

“My friend owns a tattoo shop and she wanted me to pose for a few shots that she could use for marketing purposes.”

“So, you’re also a model?”

He made an “are you kidding me” face. “She asked me to wear a kilt.” He raised one eyebrow. “Apparently women find it…a turn on.” He grinned. “Are you turned on?”

I was but I wasn’t going to make this guy’s head any bigger. “You’re a funny guy.”

He unfolded a napkin and placed it on his lap. “Want to share this pie?”

“No.” I watched as he brought a heaping forkful of apple filling and graham cracker crust to his mouth. Something irked me about this guy. He was cocky, that had to be it.

I felt compelled to show no interest in him whatsoever. I mean, who was he to assume I’d like him with his wild-child-meets-surfer good looks. I was tired of men in general, especially overbearing obnoxious types. They were never up to any good. Asa included.

I smiled politely, wanting to knock the cocky look off his face. “You don’t seem to get that we’re not friends. I’m not going to share dessert with some guy I just happen to keep running into.”

He took another bite, grabbed another napkin and swiped at his mouth. Still smiling. “Let’s be friends then.”

“Just like that? Because I see you here, we should be friends?”

He held up his fork filled with pie, hovered it near my mouth, his eyes watching my lips expectantly.

I shook my head and pushed his hand away.

“Why not?”

“Because, it feels contrived.”

That much was true. He was pushy. Subtlely so, but still gently persistent as if I’d eventually get tired and just stop resisting him.

He shrugged and finished off the pie, pushed the plate away, crumpled up his napkin and stashed it in his cup.

His eyes were the sparkling blue-green of a Caribbean sea. They were content and cheery as if he’d had a wonderful childhood, and been the apple of his mother’s eye. I couldn’t help but smile back. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“Your incorrigible is my persistence.” He settled back into his chair. “Without persistence, I wouldn’t be where I am in life today.”

“And where are you? Besides grad school, I mean.”

He just looked at me. “We were talking about why you didn’t want to be friends with me, right?”

“Right,” I said with an edge. “We have nothing in common. Besides coffee.”

He grinned then. “What do you like to do? What are your hobbies?”

“I like art. I like to cook.” I countered. “I’m a creative type.” Not a freaking accountant, a steward of other people’s money. Yeah, it felt right to say that, to be that. An iridescent feeling of lightness bubbled through me. I’d made the right career decision.

He leaned toward me. “Matisse, Pissarro or Cezanne, who’s your favorite Impressionist?”

“I like…” Eyes narrowed, I moved away from him. First he knew what coffee I ordered and now this? It was almost as if he was watching me, studying me. An odd cold feeling slithered down my spine.

“How did you know the Impressionist era is my favorite?”

“A lucky guess.” He gave me a once-over. “You look like you’d be into the non-traditional.”

“Let me guess,” I rolled my eyes, “because my hair is so wild and crazy?”

His cerulean eyes roamed over my hair. “No. I thought that even when you wore it straight and pulled back into an uncompromising bun.”

“Really?
Uncompromising bun
?”

He chuckled. “Even when you wore your hair like that, and you came in here wearing your creased slacks and stilettos, with a pinched face and tight shoulders, I thought there was something creative and unrestrained lurking just beneath the surface.”

“When was this?” I tried to think about when I could’ve appeared so stressed. Obviously it was right after work, but nothing specifically came to me.

“I noticed you about two months before you accused me of stealing your diary.”

“Two whole months,” I said with exaggerated surprise. “I find it hard to believe I didn’t notice your blond dreadlocks and tattoos in
all that time.”

He looked directly into my eyes and smiled. “I find it hard to believe too. But now you have.”

It took a moment for me to break eye contact with him. Something warm and golden flew through me when he looked at me like that. “So, you think I’m creative and unrestrained?”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m not sure. Certainly no one else has ever seen it inside of me.”

“If anyone took the time to really look at you they’d see it was obvious.” He leaned closer and touched my hand. “And it’s your eyes that gives you away, not your hair.”

My cell phone vibrated and I snatched my hand away. That had to be Kael telling me he was ready to meet. “This doesn’t make us friends.”

He stood with me, the smell of his spicy cologne rising with us. “Of course not.”

I felt the heat of his gaze on me as I walked away.

* * * * *

“You’re right, this is a nice place.” Kael swiveled on his barstool and gazed around the bar area. “Perfect for happy hour. What’ll you have?”

“A glass of Syrah will do.” When he turned to place our order with the bartender, I took the opportunity to look at him. He was wearing a black leather blazer, a white scoop-neck shirt and jeans. He looked delicious.

“I was surprised to hear from you so soon after the museum. You were pretty upset.”