do for either of us to try to find other accommodation at this late hour.”
“What’s your plan, then?”
Ethan always had a plan. His life was structured around plans. He was about to embark on his biggest yet—moving Aunt Louise into retirement and taking the CEO seat.
“We will both spend the night here.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. I’m sure you’re a very nice per—”
“I assure you, Miss Motta, I have no motive other than getting a peaceful night’s rest. You will sleep in the bedroom and I will make do out here.” He gestured toward the sofa.
“I need to think about that. That doesn’t seem right. Maybe I should call my brother. Let me just get my things straightened out.” Holly returned to her task of sorting out her duffel bag, quarantining paint-stained items in a plastic bag.
She didn’t look up at him until she lifted out a pair of white socks. They were splattered with the same blue that had been disguising her lovely face. “Occupational hazard.”
“You are a painter, I take it?”
“Yup.”
“And you have come to New York to pursue fame and fortune?”
“Ha! That would be nice. Who wouldn’t want their work to hang in a museum or a gallery here...?”
“I sense there is a but at the end of that.”
“I’ve been making money doing large pieces and collections for corporate properties.”
“Office art, lobby art, art for furnished apartments?”
Ethan was well aware of that kind of work. He’d spent many hours with interior designers making decisions about the art at Benton developments all over the world.
“Indeed, the right pieces are vitally important to a unified decor. They announce a mood.”
“A point of view,” Holly chimed in.
“It sets the tone.” He pointed at the two black and white nature photos on the wall. “Those, for example.”
“Dull.”
“Safe.”
“Yawn.”
They both laughed in agreement. A sizzle passed between them. It was so real Ethan was sure he saw smoke.
How alive Holly was. The type of person who said exactly what she thought. A bit like Aunt Louise. And nothing at all like most of the women he knew.
He flashed on a possibility.
Then quickly thought better of it.
“My aunt’s new husband selected this apartment. He frequently comes down from Boston.”
Ethan rolled his eyes. Fernando Layne was no favorite of his. Definitely no substitute for Uncle Mel. Fernando was a plaything for Aunt Louise. Ethan tolerated him.
“I will remodel this property while I am in New York. Perhaps you can advise me?”
What a stupid thing to say. He was never going see Holly again past this awkward evening interlude. An unfamiliar sense of disappointment came over him.
He generally steered clear of his feelings. When they did arrive they were usually of the painful variety and proved too confusing.
“Do you want to look at my website?” Holly gestured to the tablet he still had in his hand.
“I am sorry to be rude but I have a phone meeting in five minutes. I need to prepare.”
“At this time of night?”
“I am expecting a call from Tokyo, if you must know.” He also wasn’t used to explaining himself to anyone. “I will take it in the bedroom,” he declared.
Then he picked up a roll of architectural blueprints from the desk and marched down the hall, perturbed in twenty different ways.
* * *
Ten o’clock on a rainy New York night.
Holly had left Fort Pierce at eight that morning.
Hungry and tired, she absentmindedly ran her hand along the sofa where Ethan had been sitting when she came in. The leather still held his warmth.
She probably should have been afraid when she’d opened the door to find a total stranger in the apartment. Yet she hadn’t felt the slightest inkling of fear. She’d felt ticked off, maybe. Or something else entirely.
It might have something to do with the fact that Ethan Benton looked less like a serial killer than he did the lord of a countryside manor. With his imposing height and lean muscles and that stunning wavy brown hair that had a touch of red flecked in it.
His tone was bossy, but she supposed it must have been quite a shock for him that a woman with a blue face, a tattered duffel bag and a squeaky-wheeled suitcase had just barged into the apartment he’d thought he had to himself.
Now she was trapped here with him unless she was willing to face the stormy night. The man—who may or may not have a British accent—definitely had the most soulful eyes she had ever seen. The man who was now in the next room, conducting business halfway around the world.
New York was getting off to a rollicking start.
Would he be angry with her if she checked to see if there was anything to eat? Should she care, given that this apartment was supposed to be hers?
A rumbling stomach propelled her to the kitchen. She’d picked at snacks all day, but had not had a proper meal. On the counter lay one basket of fruit, and another of breads and bagels. The refrigerator held beer, milk, eggs and cheese.
Had this food been purchased for her arrival as a hospitality custom? Or was it Ethan’s? Or did it belong to his aunt’s husband, who Ethan had said used this apartment frequently?
The sight of the food rendered Holly too hungry to care. Being hungry was a unique ache that she had experience with. Surely Ethan wouldn’t mind if she took one shiny red apple.
She hoisted herself up to sit on the countertop. Let her legs and bare feet dangle. Smiled remembering the apple’s symbolism here in New York. Like so many others, she was here to take her bite. With one satisfying chomp after the next, her mind wandered about what might be.
“Miss Motta!” Ethan looked startled to find her sitting on the kitchen counter after he finished his call. “Must you always make yourself so...so comfortable?”
Holly shrugged her shoulders and slid off the countertop. Whatever. If her sitting on the counter was a big deal to him, she wouldn’t do it.
She jutted out her chin. “I bet you haven’t eaten.”
“Not since early this afternoon on the flight,” he confessed.
