Xquisite (3 page)

Compared to those days, she was living the easy life now. Chelsea was in the gallery every one of the six days a week it was open, whether or not her part-time staff was there. She was on the phone, online, and scouting new artists as far away as Mendocino and Reno and occasionally even farther. Several times a year she traveled to New York and Chicago, and she’d worked with some famously difficult artists who needed to be managed in person.

She loved it all. Loved seeing reviews of her clients work start appearing in minor publications, then slightly more widely read ones. Loved seeing her bank balance tick slowly upward. Loved, most of all, seeing her father’s work hung in pride of place over her desk in the gallery she desperately hoped to be able to continue to afford, now that the Boyle Heights neighborhood was beginning to pick up and get more expensive.

Chelsea ran down the sidewalk in front of her old, shabby apartment building at the edge of the fashion district, through downtown, dodging the early commuters, and crossed the 6
^th
street bridge, pushing herself harder as she ran high above the concrete river and the rail tracks. By the time she reached the other side, she was usually sweating and out of breath; today, she kicked it up even harder and made her lungs pay.

And still the thoughts of Ricardo de Santos wouldn’t leave her. Last night, as she’d tried to lose herself in Caleb’s bed, she hadn’t been able to focus on anything but Ricardo. His hand on her arm when he caught her as she fell…the scent of him when pressed against him. She’d ridden Caleb all the way to his own gasping, thrashing climax and then faked her own, just to have it over with. Afterward, as she stood under the stinging spray of the shower, she’d remembered the way Ricardo’s
eyes had burned into hers as he’d gazed at her over that damn champagne glass, and she’d had to lean up against the tiled shower wall, breathless with the memory.

“Oh, God,” Chelsea groaned as she reached the far edge of Hollenbeck Park, startling an elderly shopkeeper brushing debris from the sidewalk with a straw broom. She gave him a weak smile of apology but didn’t slow: to drop back now would be admitting weakness. Instead, she forced herself to go a little faster, a little harder, her feet painful now on each footfall, the sole of her shoes against the pavement, the impact jarring her bones, her flesh, her very heart.

By the time she completed the five mile loop, her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest. Sweat streamed down her face and body, and her muscles were taxed beyond pain, throbbing with effort. Most mornings, she allowed herself to walk it off once she reached the final block, but today she couldn’t risk it; she kept up the pace until she reached her front door.

When she had finally stripped off her sweat-drenched clothes and stood under the blessedly hot water in her cramped shower, she finally admitted to herself that he wasn’t going anywhere: Ricardo de Santos seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her thoughts.

#

The days passed. Chelsea signed a new artist who lived and worked in a tiny beach town fifty miles up the coast. She sold several paintings, enough to pay her rent on both the gallery and her studio apartment, but at the end of the month, she had added only a few hundred more dollars to the savings that was meant to fund acquisitions of her father’s paintings, should they ever come up for sale.

The last of his works to be sold at auction had fetched nearly a million dollars, however, and at this rate she would never be able to afford even a single piece.

Long ago, Chelsea had learned that when things seemed hopeless, the best thing to do was to force them from her mind and work harder. When she was fourteen, a runaway who’d run only as far as the edge of Chinatown, she found work sweeping up in a salon in exchange for a cot in the storage room in back and food left over from the restaurant next door. The salon was run by two gay men, and the hairdressers who worked there took to calling her “Mei Mei,” or Little Sister, and they became her family.

But as lucky as Chelsea was to have found them, the loneliness and the scars from what she had endured pressed in on her at night. Then, she would get up and study the art books she’d checked out of the library and dream and plan for the future. She was never idle. She never allowed her brain to focus on the pain because by always moving forward, she didn’t have to feel it quite as much.

Even so, two weeks after the encounter with Ricardo de Santos, Chelsea had not been successful in banishing him from her mind. She’d made a few discreet inquiries. A small lie to Meredith—she said Ricardo had mentioned a dealer in New York whose client was searching for a West Coast representative—had netted surprisingly few facts. Yes, he had an apartment in Los Angeles, but Meredith wasn’t sure where. Yes, his reputation among the few dealers who’d worked with him was excellent, but most of his work seemed to be for overseas clients. Meredith did
volunteer that he’d been seen with a number of beautiful women, including an actress currently working on a hot network series and a city councilwoman.

“You liked our Spanish friend?” Meredith teased. “Thinking of adding him to your rotation?” She had never criticized Chelsea’s lifestyle, but occasionally the older woman voiced a wish that Chelsea would find someone special, someone to settle down with.

Well, not everyone could be like Meredith and Allan, Chelsea thought privately. Some people would never have that kind of love. That sort of relationship took trust and compromise and the relinquishing of control…and those were three luxuries that Chelsea would never have.

#

On a Tuesday in July, when the evening sky was streaked with the pink and orange of the setting sun and the temperature hovered near ninety, Chelsea was locking the door to the gallery when she sensed a presence behind her. It wasn’t the hairs standing up on the back of her neck feeling that signaled danger, but more of a…melting. A tremor of electric need shivered through her, starting at her toes and rocketing through her body.

“Chelsea Lana Ryder,” that voice said—the voice that had once before driven her senses to distraction.

Chelsea whirled around, her keys clattering to the pavement, and found herself staring into the dark depths of Ricardo de Santos’s eyes. His nearness had been an illusion; he was standing a respectful three feet away, his hands in the pockets of his linen trousers. He was dressed more casually than the last time they met, but style still oozed from every inch of him: fine leather fisherman sandals, a soft cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled past his wrists, a heavy gold watch. His hair had grown out slightly, and the ends now curved resolutely. He hadn’t shaved, and a day’s growth shadowed his sculpted jaw, emphasizing the sensual curves of his mouth.

He bent and picked up her keys, hooking them on his index finger. They dangled between them, as rush hour traffic raced by on Soto Street and the pink sky deepened to orange.

Chelsea caught her breath. All she had to do was reach for the keys, but somehow her hands didn’t seem to be following the directions issued by her brain. Sensing that, Ricardo slowly smiled, a knowing, sly smile. He grasped one of her hands and turned it over, letting his thumb graze the sensitive skin of her palm before he dropped the keys into it. Still he didn’t let go, and his touch sent rivers of need up through her arm and straight to the core of her.

He folded her fingers one by one over the keys. She could feel their hard metallic edges biting into her skin, the sharp curve of the pewter key chain one of her clients had given her as a gift. Ricardo’s hand was large enough to fully enclose hers. God, what was this obsession with his
hands
? She admonished herself. But of course—it was the only part of his body that she’d touched. If she’d only brushed against his elbow, she’d probably have an elbow fetish—

This was ridiculous. Chelsea jerked her hand back, tossing the keys into her bag. Never mind that she’d been obsessing over this man for weeks; it was just a
crush, and she was a grown woman who didn’t need to respond to every twist and turn of her libido.

“What are you doing here?” she said, but it didn’t come out cool and indifferent as she’d planned. Her voice sounded thin and strained to her own ears.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Let me guess—you were in the neighborhood and you wanted to see how the other class lives. Those of us whose sales are still in the three digits, rather than six and seven.”

Ugh, now she just sounded petulant. Chelsea squeezed her eyes shut and mentally chastised herself. Lashing out when she felt cornered was an old, old habit; one that she’d mastered a long time ago. She wasn’t going to give in to it now.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, staring at the buttons on his shirt, unwilling to meet his eyes. “It’s just been a long day.”

“Then let me buy you a coffee.” He offered her his arm—how was it that most men couldn’t pull that gesture off without looking like a boy scout escorting a grandmother to church? Ricardo, of course, looked utterly suave.

To refuse now would only make things worse, so Chelsea slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. The cotton of his shirt was fine and smooth to her touch, but she could feel the heat of his skin underneath.

“I—I really don’t have time for coffee,” she stammered, even though they were already walking down the street in the opposite direction of her apartment.

Ricardo made a dismissive sound in his throat. “I won’t allow you to waste such an elegant outfit by going home. We shall show you off at a little place I know. I trust you can walk several blocks in those delicate shoes?”

Elegant outfit—delicate shoes
. It took Chelsea’s brain a moment to catch up before she realized he was teasing her. Or, more likely, mocking her. She felt the color rush to her face, an old remnant of shame at her appearance, and for a moment, she felt like the scared fourteen-year-old she’d once been, whose “big brothers” in the salon gave her hand-me-down men’s shirts to wear to disguise the figure that was beginning to appear, the one she could not bear for anyone to see.

She’d come a long way since then. She wore women’s clothes now, and many people had complimented her on her sense of style. But, considering her appearance through the eyes of this elegant Spaniard, she saw herself in another light.

“I’m on my feet all day,” she protested. “I dress for comfort.”

He said nothing, and though Chelsea could only see his profile, she felt sure he was raising an eyebrow skeptically.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Chelsea going over every item of clothing she was wearing, regretting all of it. The motorcycle boots had been custom made for her, a gift from a lover. Her jeans were from a West Hollywood thrift store but had once cost some rich woman hundreds of dollars, and they fit her like they’d been painted on. Her shirt was a simple black sleeveless rayon tunic, loose enough to cover the curve of her breasts. Her hair was pulled back from her face and pinned in a loose knot. By the end of the day, much of the knot had usually escaped, and today was no exception; she could feel the loose strands cascading to her neck.

At least she’d put on makeup this morning. Some days she skipped it, but when she took the time, she favored dark kohl liner around her eyes, loads of
mascara, and pale lipstick. It was a natural outgrowth of the look she’d adopted in her late teens; she liked to think that the more grown-up version looked iconic and fierce.

But next to Ricardo, she simply felt ugly. Overdone.

They turned into a small alley that Chelsea had passed a hundred times before and never really noticed. Halfway down the block, appended to the back of a building like a barnacle, a small patio had been carved from the broken concrete and overgrown weeds. Tiny café tables were set with embroidered cloths and vases of yellow flowers.

Ricardo steered her to a table, pulling out her chair, as a man burst from the dark interior of the building, carrying a bottle and a linen napkin.

“Ricardo! Where have you been!” the man bellowed in heavily accented English. He wasn’t Spanish; Russian, perhaps, Chelsea thought.

The two men embraced, slapping each other on the back, and then the man glanced down at Chelsea, who sat primly on the chair, trying to hide her clunky boots under the table, pressing her hands between her knees so he wouldn’t see her dark chipped nail polish. She supposed that like Ricardo, the restaurant owner probably preferred women in dresses. And while ordinarily she didn’t give her appearance much thought—she blended in easily enough on the art scene—this little café was made for floral skirts and pastel sweaters and red lipstick and French perfume.

As if reading her mind, the café owner bowed deeply, then plucked a flower from the vase and handed it to her. “What may I get for you, beautiful lady?”

“She will have iced coffee,” Ricardo said before Chelsea could speak. “As will I. And perhaps some of the
pryaniki
, yes?”

Another bow and the man disappeared into the restaurant.

“Forgive me for ordering for you,” Ricardo said, sounding not at all penitent. “But I am sure you will enjoy the
pryaniki
. They are a specialty of Alexander.”

Torn between curiosity and irritation, Chelsea said nothing. It would serve Ricardo right if she didn’t drink or eat anything since he didn’t bother to consult with her before ordering. She had been fiercely independent since her first real date, at seventeen, when a young man who delivered lunch to the salon took her to see a double feature, and she insisted on buying her own ticket. And her own popcorn. Even now, she kept careful track of who treated when she was with Caleb and Benedict and the handful of other men in various cities who she occasionally dated. It was a bit of a record-keeping challenge, but independence was worth the effort.

Chelsea was determined never to depend on any man, ever.

Which begged the question of what she was doing sitting in this romantic little bistro with a man she had no intention of dating.

“I have a proposition for you,” Ricardo said, interrupting her train of thought. “It is not precisely professional in nature, so your answer may come from your heart, rather than your head. Either way, however, I’m confident you’ll say yes.”