studios are set up like boudoirs, with props to create a sexy mood, and locked doors for privacy. The photography equipment is digital, of course, so our guests can get creative without worrying about anyone else seeing their artwork.” She inhaled a deep breath for dramatic effect. “Just pop the disk out of the camera and take it home to view or print.”
Even from this distance, she could see the lightning flash of surprise smoldering in the depths of his eyes. Lennon paused in her unpacking, holding a slinky beaded sheath in front of her, and met his gaze with a carefully blank expression of her own.
He must have seen right through her, though, because he recovered with impressive speed and rose to her challenge. “What’s risqué about the masque?”
“The guests have to impersonate characters who’ve contributed to enhancing erotic culture.”
“I hope you’re going as Lady Godiva. Riding naked through the village…I’d say she did her bit to support the arts.”
At his quicksilver grin, Lennon’s heart thudded dully in her chest. “I can’t tell you or I’ll spoil my debut.”
She couldn’t tell him or he’d know her bravado was all an act. She might sound unaffected by discussing risqué events with this man, but she wasn’t. The sight of him sprawled across that shiny bedspread—long muscled lines of his body making it impossible not to think of how it would feel to snuggle against him—disconcerted her completely.
Mr. Wrong, Mr. Wrong, Mr. Wrong.
His grin widened, and Lennon suspected her efforts went for nothing, because he probably already knew she was bluffing.
“Seeing you dressed in nothing but hair will be worth the wait, chère.”
He was definitely on to her.
Lennon jammed the sheath dress onto the rack and tried to segue back to business, without appearing to admit defeat. “Auntie Q likes to mix business with pleasure, so fund-raising isn’t so dry and stuffy. Talking business with Lady Godiva should liven things up, don’t you think?”
“The Eastman Gallery could expect some hefty donations.”
“Humph.” Lennon didn’t need to turn around to see his grin. She heard amusement loud and clear in his voice.
“Okay, I got the risqué part. Now I need to know how the finances work, but let me grab something to take notes on.”
From the corner of her eye she saw him sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. Lennon waved him off and said, “I’ll get something. Where?”
“My briefcase on the table.”
She sailed out of the room without a backward glance, relishing the activity and the breather from being bombarded with testosterone at close range. “Do you think money could be the motive, Josh?”
“I always cover all the angles. You never know what’ll motivate people.”
Lennon didn’t reply, just dug through his briefcase and told herself to get a grip. She couldn’t think of Josh as a romance hero. Sure, he looked the part of some Navy SEAL or Cold War spy, but he needed a quick demotion to a more human plane.
Palming a day planner from his briefcase, she weighed its worn leather cover in her hand. Businessmen used day planners. Businessmen from the twenty-first century. Day planners hadn’t been around when swashbuckling romance heroes had inhabited the earth. Except the hero she currently wrote about. A spy for England during the Napoleonic Wars, he was also a titled lord, which meant he had an estate to manage and would own a leather-bound journal to record his activities, one very similar to this….
Arrgh! Heading back into the bedroom, she tossed the day planner at Josh, ignored his politely murmured thanks, and sought refuge in the closet. “The finances are really very simple. In a nutshell, your grandfather bequeathed his collection to Auntie Q along with the pieces they owned jointly. She took those and included some she owned herself and donated them to the museum. Together, they included a financial endowment large enough to construct the gallery and the sculpture garden.”
After hanging up her dress for the cocktail party, she stowed her empty garment bag on the closet floor, out of the way. “Technically, the museum owns the collection now, but there’s overhead it can’t swing until the exhibition starts bringing in income. That’s where the fund-raising comes in. We need to collect enough to carry the Joshua Eastman Gallery until it establishes a name for itself.”
Lapsing into silence, she stacked her shoe boxes to the sound of Josh’s pen strokes.
“Sounds like a lot of work,” he finally said.
“It has been. Pulling this together has consumed Auntie Q for the past two years.”
“I’m sorry my grandfather wasn’t around to help her.”
Lennon didn’t have to turn to know he watched her. She sensed his gaze, felt her heartbeat thud in response. “Auntie Q’s convinced he meant to keep her busy after he died.”
“What do you think?”
“She’s probably right.” Steeling her nerves, Lennon swung around, leaned back against the wall and tucked her legs beneath her. “Great-uncle Joshua used to talk about his plans for this gallery. It was his passion. But whenever I’d ask when he was going to break ground, he’d just smile and say he wasn’t done collecting yet. He told me not to worry, though, that he’d been given Auntie Q as a gift to help him focus on what was important, and that she’d make sure things got done. I remember thinking he knew he might not be around to get the gallery started because he was older than she was.”
“You knew an entirely different side of my grandfather.”
She heard regret in Josh’s voice, a realization that he’d missed out on something special. She wanted to reach out and smooth the tight edges from his mouth, say something to erase his hurt, but squelched the crazy urge. She had no right to comfort this man. She hadn’t seen him in years and hadn’t really known him even back then.
Sure, he’d sometimes showed up on their doorstep, and Auntie Q had whipped out her stash of cookies. But Lennon had been eight years his junior and not particularly interested in hanging around to listen to whatever her great-aunt coaxed out of him.
“Damned bizarre situation.” His gaze pierced the distance, and Lennon felt the connection as if it were physical. Two people bound by the actions of others, each clinging to their parts of the whole and wondering what they were missing.
Then, in an instant, Josh shuttered his expression behind a grin. “Are you scarred forever?”
“Naw. Just focused. Despite the unusual gestalt of the situation, what’s not to like about love?”
“Ah.” He gave a brisk shake of his head that sent his black ponytail brushing his collar. “The romance writer.”
“I can write it however I like it.”
“And how do you like it, chère?”
The intensity of his expression made her pulse quicken. “If you want to know, you’ll have to read my books to find out.”
She
