bike roared to life, the motor throbbing between his thighs. He didn’t look back as he twisted the throttle and sped down the street.
He’d made the right decision. He knew he had.
1
Twelve Years Later
LIAM FINGERED the single button on his jacket as he approached the well-lit entrance of Hartman’s Art Gallery. A woman in her thirties waited in the foyer, tall and elegant. Her platinum-blond bob swung around her jaw as she turned to face him, a welcoming smile on her face.
“Liam. You came,” Jacinta Hartman said.
“Of course.”
Her smile faded as she registered his clothes.
“You’re not wearing the tie I bought you.”
“Nope.”
“Liam…”
He held out his arms to draw attention to the well-cut wool trousers, jacket and crisply tailored shirt he was wearing.
“Come on, cut me some slack here. Not an inch of denim or leather in sight,” he said.
“And you’re not wearing your beautiful new shoes, either,” she said, eyeing his favorite boots unhappily.
He slid an arm around her slim waist and pulled her close.
“I said you could try to civilize me. I didn’t say it would work,” he reminded her. He kissed her and she pulled back before he could smear her lipstick.
“Liam, people can see us,” she said.
Which made him laugh. Jacinta always made him laugh with all her prim little rules and guidelines. In public, that was. In private she was as dirty as the next woman—if the next woman had a penchant for hard, sweaty sex. They’d been friends for years now, lovers when the mood took them. When he’d built his new house near the St. Kilda shore six months ago, she’d volunteered to help him decorate it. The catch had been that she wanted to redecorate him—“civilize him,” as she put it—at the same time.
“I don’t know why you’re so resistant to the idea of stepping it up a notch,” Jacinta said. “If you had any idea how good you look in a suit, you wouldn’t think twice.”
“I’m a bike builder. I spend my days covered in grease,” he said.
“You’re a millionaire. You never have to get your hands dirty again if you don’t want to.”
“Babe, you have your world, I have mine. I’m not going to ask you to bend metal for me. And you’re not going to get me in a tie.”
She looked as though she was going to argue some more, then she shrugged. “Stubborn bastard. Come on, I’ll show you the pieces I’ve picked out for you,” she said, taking his hand and guiding him into the gallery itself.
A few heads turned as they walked the length of the space past asymmetrical sculptures and brightly hued canvases and jagged twists of metal. Five years ago Liam would have figured people were looking at him because he so clearly didn’t belong. His hair was too long, his walk had too much swagger to it, his hands were too rough and ready. Back then, he’d have stared every person down, maybe taken his attitude right up to a few of them to show them how much he didn’t care for their opinion of him. Now he ignored them because he knew he didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, ever. He had the big house, the big car and the big bank account to prove it.
Jacinta stopped in front of a smooth obelisk of shiny white stone.
“I thought this would be nice on the balcony in the west corner,” she said.
He eyed it for a long beat, not saying a word. Jacinta slanted a look at him.
“You don’t like it, do you?”
“No,” he said. “It looks like a big stone dildo. Call me crazy, but no man wants something that big casting a shadow over his life.”
She sighed. “For a man who doesn’t know much about art, you certainly have strong opinions.”
“I want to see some craftsmanship, that’s all. Any of the fabricators at my workshop could make this before lunch,” he said.
“Lovely. Maybe we should ask them to whip up a few for us, then,” Jacinta said dryly.
He shrugged, unapologetic. She narrowed her eyes in thought for a moment then nodded decisively.
“Follow me. We’ve got a smaller collection in one of the side spaces. I have a feeling Paulo Gregorio’s work might be more up your alley,” she said.
Liam followed her across the polished concrete floor, admiring the sway of her hips. He wondered if she was wearing garters and stockings like she had been the last time she stayed the night. He loved a woman in red lace—it was one weakness he was more than happy to admit to.
“Okay, this artist is definitely more traditional. I think you’ll find all the craftsmanship you could possibly want in his work,” Jacinta said as they stepped into a smaller room.
Eight large canvases hung on the four walls. They were all portraits, all women in various stages of undress. Jacinta pointed to the first painting, a six-foot-by-six-foot canvas of a woman lying on a chaise lounge, a filmy negligee falling off her shoulders and tangling in her legs.
“Lots of color. Strong technique. And a subject that I know is very close to your heart,” Jacinta said.
He smiled at her dry humor as he studied the painting, noting the warm look in the woman’s eyes, the delicate way the artist had captured the texture of her clothing and the blush on her skin.
“Nice work,” he said.
“Nice work? It’s not one of your motorbikes, Liam.”
He checked the price list in her hand.
“You’re right. A custom Masters Mechanics bike is worth three times as much.”
She rolled her eyes. “What about this next one? I was thinking it would look great in your bathroom, above that huge Roman tub.”
Liam dutifully shifted his attention from the lounging woman to the next painting. This canvas was bigger, eight-by-ten, he estimated, and the subject was completely naked, lying sprawled on her back on a forest-green quilt. Her arms were spread wide and one knee was bent, the leg dropping out to the side. He followed the line of her calves to her thighs and the mysterious shadows between them. The artist had only hinted at what a man would be able to see in real life, but it was enough. More than enough.
If he had this painting in his bathroom, he’d be taking a cold shower every freaking day.
“I don’t suppose the artist hands out phone numbers with each painting?” he asked, only half joking.
Jacinta made an impatient noise. “Does that mean you like
