blinked at Damon but kept my tone even. “There’s nothing to clear. My father is innocent.”
“I know that,” Damon said in the tone that used to give me goose bumps. Used to, being the operative words. “But you’ll be needing an experienced X-ray infrared technologist along, yes? I’m at your service.”
So that was why he was here. Word had gotten out that I’d been awarded the coveted assignment of preserving the Maitreya. Damon, self-serving as always, was here to capitalize on my good luck.
“I’ll interview one if I need one,” I countered.
Damon catapulted out of his chair, approaching my desk. He spread bronze-colored hands across the surface. I thanked the Lord for the safety of the barrier between us.
“Why bother interviewing, Phe? I’m your man. I’m as good as it gets and I wouldn’t charge you what the others will.” His voice was a whispered caress.
“Maybe I’ve already hired someone,” I lied.
“Who? Lyle Greenspan’s already committed. He’s working on a project for the Museum of Modern Art and Felicia Michaels is in Egypt. You wouldn’t use Earl Kincaid. He’s not exactly dependable.”
“And I wouldn’t use you, either, for the same reason,” I said firmly. I picked up the receiver and punched in a number. “Whit, please show Mr. Hernandez out.”
Damon leaned in, placing his copper-colored face very close to mine. I could smell the heat emanating from him and the aroma of coffee on his breath. He probably still took it black.
“I am not ready to leave, Phe,” he said, without any inflection in his tone. “You need me. Let bygones be bygones and hire me. We always made a good team.”
Although there was no longer a “we,” the idea of working with Damon again was tempting, but not to be considered. Only masochists would hitch their wagons to his.
Whit, still standing at the door, cleared her throat.
“Phoenix, do you need me?”
“Yes, Mr. Hernandez is ready to leave. Please help him find his way out.”
“I’m not done,” Damon said again, his voice even. I wondered about this new calmness.
He took a couple of long strides toward my assistant, who seemed spellbound by his physique. Her eyes practically bugged out of her head.
Damon placed a hand on Whit’s arm and eased her out of the doorway, firmly shutting the door in her face. Not in the mood to be alone with him, I picked up the phone.
“I’ll call the police and have you removed,” I threatened.
He reached a hand out for the receiver. “One minute, Phe. Listen to what I have to say.”
I’d never been one to take orders. That came from living with four bossy brothers who would run over me if I let them. I’d learned one thing at an early age: if you wanted to be heard, and respected, either you spoke up or fought back. So hoping to send him a message I was not to be toyed with, I grabbed Damon’s arm, right below the crease of the elbow and applied pressure.
His sharp intake of breath told me I’d accomplished my mission. I relinquished my hold and his entire body relaxed.
The moment I let go, Damon’s free hand clamped down on mine. “Hang up, Phe,” he ordered.
My reflexes kicked in and my hand opened of its own accord. The receiver catapulted, clunking against Damon’s temple.
Startled, I reached out to press my fingers against the injured flesh. I hadn’t meant to hit him that hard.
“Oh, Damon, I’m sorry.”
We exchanged a long, charged look. Damon’s fingers remained twined around my wrist. Sympathy was not what he was after.
“That hot temper hasn’t mellowed with age, I see,” he said more amiably than I would have.
“It was an accident, I’m sorry. But if you hadn’t manhandled me it would never have happened.”
“Manhandled you? I reached across to touch you, chica.” Smoky gray eyes swept my face. Blood thudded in my ears. Damon Hernandez could no longer get to me. I repeated it like a mantra.
And chica wasn’t going to work. Not this time. Using my free hand, I poured water from my water bottle on some tissues and tossed them to him.
Damon held the wad against his bruised temple. “Sorry doesn’t cut it.”
“That’s all you’re getting.”
It was all he was getting. And, yes, I was sorry I’d hurt him. But he’d hurt me badly, too. It had taken me forever to recover from Damon’s betrayal.
But I’d filed that painful experience under “Lessons Learned,” and cautioned myself never to give my heart to a man who thought that women weren’t equal.
And I had learned some things from the experience: independence and resilience. How many African-American twenty-eight-year-old females could say they owned their own business? How many twenty-eight-year-olds owned anything at all?
Damon took another step toward me.
I stepped back.
He advanced.
“I’m not going to get on my knees and plead for forgiveness, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I jabbered, feeling like a cornered rat. This was my office. My studio. I was still in control.
“Then make it up to me in another way,” Damon said, his voice deceptively low. “Take me to Tibet with you.”
“When hell freezes over.”
“Oh, Phe,” Damon said, shaking his head and pressing his advantage. One hand still held the wad of tissues against his temple. “Admit you need me.”
A morsel of guilt finally kicked in and with it my normal compassion. “Maybe you should have that…uh…injury looked at by a doctor. I’ll pick up the tab, of course.”
“It’ll heal.”
He balled up the tissues and tossed it at me. I deftly caught it. For a brief moment I considered stuffing it down his arrogant throat. But I’d done enough damage for one day.
He reached around me and picked up the newspaper, reading out loud.
“‘Maitreya, “Future Buddha,” one of a priceless trio, found on the grounds of a deserted Tibetan monastery.’ Now that’s intriguing stuff.”
He took his time reading the article while I seethed. After he was through, he uncapped a pen and scribbled some words down on a card before thrusting it at me.
“By the way, Maitreya’s supposed to be yellow. That statue has a greenish tinge to it. Here’s my home and cell numbers. You’ll need my help.”
We
