TOO HOT TO HANDLE Page 8

  "Hello?"

  Shit, he'd woken her up again. Great way to score points. "I'm sorry I called so early."

  "Mike?"

  "Yeah. I just got up myself. I caught a couple hours of shut-eye here at the hospital, and I thought I'd call before it got crazy again."

  "Rough night?"

  "Yeah. About as rough as they get." He thought about the patient he'd lost, and that feeling of failure, sadness, and pain crushed him again. Unfortunately, knowing he'd done everything possible didn't make him feel any better.

  There was silence on the other side of the phone. "Annabelle?"

  "Yes. I'm here. I'm sorry you had a bad night."

  "Thanks. Um, I was thinking. I don't have to go to the office until two. Are you free for lunch?"

  He sensed a hesitation, but then he heard a deep breath, almost as if she were about to jump off a cliff.

  "Yes, lunch would be nice."

  "Great, I'll pick you up at noon. What's the name of the gallery?"

  "The Benjamin Walsh Gallery, but it's okay, I'll meet you."

  "No, I don't mind. Besides, I'd love to see where you work."

  Mike heard a page to ICU at the same time his beeper went off.

  "I'm sorry, Annabelle. I have to run. I'm being paged." He grabbed his stethoscope. "Bye." He disconnected the call as he ran out the door.

  Annabelle got off the subway and walked the half block to the Benjamin Walsh Gallery. She looked forward to getting back to work since taking a week off after the wedding. She took the time off since she had canceled her honeymoon and hadn't had a vacation in over a year.

  No matter how depressed she felt, her mood always lifted when she walked through those plate-glass doors and took in the sheer brilliance of the kaleidoscope of color that surrounded her. She studied the collection and admired the talent that produced such thought-provoking, insightful, and arresting works. Whether they emoted pain or happiness, the beauty acted as a catharsis.

  "Ah, there's my Annabelle. Right on time as usual."

  Annabelle jumped at the sound of her boss's voice. "You're still here!" She ran up to Ben and gave him a big hug, holding him a little longer than necessary. God, it was good to have him back. She thought since she canceled her wedding, Ben would have already left.

  "I had planned to stay while you were on your honeymoon, and no, don't put a frown on your beautiful face. You'll start looking like your aunt Rose." Ben lifted her chin with his pointer finger. "This isn't the only business I have on the right coast."

  "As opposed to the wrong coast … or is it the left coast?"

  "Contrary to popular belief, there is life west of the Hudson River. Besides, you know I can't stay away from you for long."

  Annabelle smiled. "Tell me, do the women out west actually buy your bullshit?"

  "Is that any way to talk to your boss?"

  She thought about it for a nanosecond and nodded. "Yes, it works for me. Now answer the question."

  "I'll have you know, women find me irresistible no matter what state, country, or even hemisphere I'm in."

  "Sure, you're a regular legend in your own mind. And I don't suppose your irresistibility would have anything to do with the yachts, planes, and other toys you play with, would it, Ben?"

  He put his hand over his heart and gave her his patented pained look. "Ah, you wound me."

  Ben was the best-looking man she'd seen in, well, forever. He stood tall and lean. The kind of lean only world-class triathletes achieved—with a sense of style only the well-moneyed could pull off. He had a dry wit that the richest, most famous, and most beautiful people sought.

  "I thought you'd be off to Italy with that Russian model to sail the Mediterranean."

  "That's not until July. And as for the Russian, she might be losing her shine." He wrapped his arm around her and drew her farther into her gallery. The gallery was his, but Annabelle had made it one of the top galleries on the West Side. It was her vision. Her assistants handled the bookwork. Lord knew she was no good with numbers or correspondence. But Annabelle did what she did best—she displayed the art, schmoozed the clientele and artists, and kept the place looking like a million bucks. When she discovered artists she thought would fit in the Walsh Gallery family, she contacted Ben and sold him on their work. She succeeded more often than not.

  "Come with me, little girl. I have a surprise for you."

  "Aw Ben, you're not going to try pulling that trick again, are you? I used to paint nudes. Nothing on your body would surprise me." She put her hand in front of her mouth to cover an exaggerated yawn.

  He crossed his arms, his feet shoulder-width apart. If it weren't for the sparkle in his stunning blue eyes, she'd wonder if she'd gone too far with her teasing. But no, he was enjoying himself.

  "I've heard all about those nudes you used to paint, but I've yet to see one."

  She shrugged. "They're in storage."

  He cocked his head. "For two years? Maybe now that you have your own place, I'll get to see them. I've always wondered what kind of artist you were before you packed away your brushes."

  "I'm not an artist."

  "That's not what your professors at the Art Institute said. A couple of them asked if I wanted your work for the gallery."

  "You never said you checked my references."

  "I check everyone's references. You don't think I'd allow just anyone to run my gallery, do you?"

  "Look, Ben, I'm good at what I do. I love my job. That other part of my life—it's over. I'm not an artist. Not anymore."

  "One doesn't stop being an artist. Either you are, or you're not."

  "Then I'm not. Can we drop it? I have work to do."

  "I guess you don't want your present then?"

  "What's the present for? No, don't tell me. Let me guess. It started out as a wedding gift, but now it's a disengagement present."

  He shrugged and rolled up his sleeves.

  "Okay, fine. Where's my disengagement present? Will it match my disengagement ring?"

  Ben took her hand and pulled her into the elevator that led to his apartment above the gallery. When the elevator stopped, he dragged her along behind him, not to his apartment, but to the space where they'd always stored the seasonal items like Christmas and Hanukkah decorations. He opened the door and turned, blocking her view. "Now close your eyes."

  "I don't trust you. What are you up to?"

  "Fine, be difficult. I can handle it. I'm bigger than you." He spun her around, put both hands over her eyes, and then walked her into the room. "Are you ready?"

  Annabelle pried his hands from her eyes and blinked a few times. She couldn't believe it. Incredible. He'd turned the old storage room into a fully stocked art studio. She'd have given her firstborn to have a space like this available to her when she was painting. She stood before the easel where a large naked canvas silently screamed for paint and touched the brushes neatly arranged on the taboret to its right. Boxes of oil paints, pastels, water-colors, and acrylics filled the low bookshelves beneath the large windows that lined the north wall. She looked at the once-leaky skylights, noting that they'd been replaced. She was stunned speechless.

  "All the lighting is full spectrum, so you can paint whenever you want. If it gets too late, you can always crash at my place. You have the keys and know where everything is. I'm hardly ever in town."

  "You did this for me? Why?"

  He looked like a cat that had brought a dead mouse to the door—he wondered why she wasn't jumping for joy. "Do you like it?"

  "I told you. I don't paint anymore. You've wasted your money." Maybe she could rent it out to a struggling artist. Then she saw the disappointment on his face. Christ. She gentled her tone. "Why did you do this?"

  "You're my best friend…"

  "Ha, I'm the only woman you know under the age of thirty-five you haven't seen naked. And since we discussed the difference between friends and bed buddies, I know I'm your only female friend."

  "You're an artis
t. It shows in everything you do—how you dress, how you look at life, how you choose and display the art in my gallery. I don't pretend to know what happened that made you give up your passion, but it's my job, as someone who would give his left arm to have half the talent I see in you, to make you realize you're wasting a precious, God-given gift. It's a sin. And it's time you stop hiding from whatever it was that made you walk away from the one thing I know you love."

  Annabelle crossed her arms. "I didn't walk away. I'm here, surrounded by art, and I'm doing what I should be doing—helping other artists achieve their dreams. I discover beauty. I'm happy with that."

  "You can't tell me that discovering beauty beats creating it."

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  "Fine." He threw up his hands. "Do what you want. But this is your new office. I'll have the rest of your things moved today. I've already had the place wired for the computer network and phone systems. You're going to do all your work surrounded by blank canvases and art supplies. Maybe you'll come to your senses and do something for yourself. You don't have to show anyone. Maybe by painting again, that part of you that you said died will come back to life. It's worth a try. Because you're not living the life you should."

  "No." She stomped her foot. "I'm not living the life you think I should. Welcome to the club. My family doesn't think I'm living the life I should either."

  "Hold on now. I won't be put in the same club with those people who thought you should marry that bottom dweller. That's an insult."

  "Fine, you're not as bad, but our friendship doesn't give you the right to order me around. I know you have the best intentions, but Ben, I can't."

  "You won't know until you try. That's all I'm asking of you. Just try." He checked his watch, threw his keys up in the air, and neatly caught them before slipping them in his pants pocket. "I have someplace to be, and you"—he turned her around, and with his hands on her shoulders, walked her out the door to the elevator—"have work to do. The keys to this room are on your desk. You'd better get them before the movers come. I'll be back in an hour."

  Annabelle turned and pouted. "You're not serious about moving my office, are you? I can't be that far from the sales floor."

  "I am serious. This area has more space for you to look at artist's portfolios, slides, or what have you, and it has so much more planning space. Look at all the dry erase boards I put up in here for you."

  Annabelle chewed on her thumbnail. She didn't like the idea of being so far away, but her old office would still be where it was, and there was nothing saying she couldn't use it too. "Fine."

  "I hope you know I wasn't asking your permission. Contrary to popular belief, this is still my art gallery, and I am still your boss."

  She walked into the elevator, turned to face Ben, pushed the Down button, and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. whatever."

  The door closed on Ben's too-good-looking face. God it felt good to get the last word.

  Mike rounded the corner and saw the Benjamin Walsh Gallery up ahead. Talk about spendy real estate. He checked his watch. He was a little early, so he slowed his pace and turned his face to the sun. He wished he could sneak off to Nick's beach house for a while with Annabelle. Recharge his batteries and spend some uninterrupted time getting to know her. No beepers. No phones. No brothers. No clothes … other than a bathing suit, and where Nick's place was, even that was optional—at least on the deck. The last time he'd had two days off in a row, he'd borrowed one of Nick's cars, drove out to the house on Westhampton Beach, and did nothing but sleep on the sand for forty-eight hours straight before showering and running back to the hospital. Too bad he hadn't known Annabelle then. He would have done a whole lot more than sleep.

  A picture of her lying on the sand popped into his head.

  Annabelle was beautiful, intelligent, sexy, fun—and in the arms of another man.

  Mike stared into the Benjamin Walsh Gallery and watched a man who looked like the Marlboro Man. No, he was more like the Sundance type. The man reeked of money, even though he looked as if he'd be at home in the saddle, on the range, or having sex in the great outdoors—and not the Brokeback Mountain variety either. The man even wore cowboy boots and literally carried Annabelle.

  Mike's first instinct was to walk away. He was mad as hell, and if he didn't know better, he'd say he was jealous. Not that he had any right to be, but the thought that some guy had his hands on Annabelle had him seething. Maybe in the five days they'd been apart, she'd moved on to greener pastures with ol' Quigley minus the mustache.

  Oops, too late. She spotted him, and the guilt written all over her face didn't bode well. He hoped there was a reasonable explanation. Not that she owed him one, but shit, when a man goes to meet a lunch date, was it too much to expect that he be the only guy picking her up, literally and figuratively?

  Tex finally put her down but still held her close to his side and looked smug. Mike had never felt the need to wipe a smirk off the face of a competitor with his fist, but he did now.

  No way could he avoid this meeting without looking as if he was running away, so he took a deep breath and opened the door to the gallery.

  "Mike, hi." Annabelle smacked the man next to her. "Ben, would you let me go already?"

  Ben, as in Benjamin Walsh Gallery? Not that it mattered.

  The man chuckled. "Annabelle, darlin', I'd let you go, but I don't think you can stand on your own."

  Annabelle hopped on her right foot toward Mike, which, he had to admit was one of the most interesting shows he'd seen since the one where she wore nothing but a blue garter.

  "It's not what it looks like."

  Ben laughed again. "It's exactly what it looks like. You missed a step on the ladder. You fell. I caught you. Now, are you all right?"

  "Annabelle." Mike shoved his shoulder under her left arm, taking her weight. He tried to find a place for her to sit. Ben was paying very close attention to Annabelle, and Mike didn't like it one bit. He wanted to get her away from Ben—as far away as possible. "Where's there someplace for her to lie down?"

  She blew her hair away from her face. "I can speak, you know. I'll be fine in just a minute."

  "You need to lie down so I can check you out."

  Ben nodded and tossed his keys to Mike. "There's a couch in her new office upstairs, and there's ice in my apartment, which is upstairs as well. The elevator's in back. Help yourself."

  When she went to hop away, Mike grabbed her up in his arms and carried her. She didn't seem any happier to be carried by him than she was when Ben had her.

  Annabelle felt like a hot potato the way she was passed from one man to the other. "Would you please let me down?" She tried to push away from Mike.

  "Be still. You might have broken something."

  "Look, Doc, I'm gonna break something all right if you don't put me down right this minute."

  "That's not what you said the other night."

  She let out a frustrated breath. Sure, he'd carried her the other night, but just a few yards. This was different. Every step he took shot pain through her ankle. It was all she could do not to cry.

  Ben followed and pressed the elevator button for them. She shot him her best death-ray glare, wishing she had supernatural powers. The doors swooshed open, and without a word, Mike carried her in and turned. Ben, the jerk, instead of melting like the Wicked Warlock of the West that he was, had the nerve to press the button for the second floor and give Mike the nod. She really wished she had the CliffsNotes to Alpha-Male Communication for Dummies. She growled.

  "You know, you're really cute when you're mad. That's good because it's probably better for you to concentrate on anger than pain. You're going to have one hell of a bruise."

  She cursed under her breath. The whole side of her leg had begun to turn colors and was beginning to match the tie-dyed dress she wore—yellow with splashes of crimson, purple, and green. When she saw the plain silk dress and pictured how great it would look after she painted
or tie-dyed it, she had no idea she'd end up making an entirely new fashion statement. Her ankle, which had taken the brunt of the damage, was already swelling. It was her own fault. She had no business climbing a ladder in high heels and a tight dress. Okay, scratch that, it was Ben's fault for coming to hold the ladder when she suspected he only wanted to look up her dress. She was so busy making sure he didn't get an eyeful, she hadn't paid much attention to her footing, or lack thereof.

  The thin silk did nothing to protect her from the heat of Mike's body and hands. The square neckline when viewed at a normal level wasn't at all revealing. She suspected it changed when viewed from Mike's position; he was able to see right down the front. The dress was short, not indecently short, but with him holding her, she just hoped half her ass wasn't hanging out. The elevator doors swooshed open, and she directed Mike to her new and hated office. He unlocked it without putting her down and, ever so carefully, got her through the doorway and onto the leather couch. He sat beside her, removed her shoe, and did a great impression of an orthopedist.

  "I thought you were a lung doctor. What are you doing?"

  "Trying to see if you've broken anything. I specialize in lungs, but I did study the whole body, you know. I even did a rotation in orthopedics during my internship, and believe me, I've spent enough time in the ER to know when an ankle needs an X ray."

  Annabelle crossed her arms and tried not to flinch every time he touched her. He dangled Ben's keys in front of her face.

  "Any idea which one is the key to his apartment?"

  "Why?"

  "You need an ice pack and a trip to the hospital. I'll get the ice, and then we'll go to the hospital for a picture of that ankle. I don't think it's broken. It's probably a bad sprain, and I'm concerned about possible torn ligaments and tendons. I don't want to take any chances."

  "No."

  "No? What do you mean, no?"

  "I don't do hospitals."