Chapter Twelve
Dax
As we climb the steps to the museum, I reach for Lisa’s hand. Our fingers lace together like a matched set. It’s not until she turns and smiles at me that I realize what a relationshippy thing I’ve done.
Then again, this is sort of a date. Today’s outing has nothing to do with The Test, and I’m not sure how to feel about that.
“Here we are,” she says, reaching for the front door. “You have the tickets?”
I nod and pat the pocket of my shirt. It’s the only dress shirt I own, and I’m not sure what it says that I’ve donned it today for Lisa. “Got ’em,” I tell her. “I still can’t believe I let you drag me to some swanky gallery party.”
She rolls her eyes and pulls open the door. “I told you, it’s not a swanky gallery party. It’s an opening for a new art exhibit. One I think you’ll really like.”
There’s a part of me that wants to mutter like a surly jackass about being cleaned up and towed to a highbrow arts and culture affair like a monkey in a suit.
There’s another part of me that loves the idea that Lisa’s chosen something special with me in mind. That she put “Dax” and “art” into the same sentence and didn’t bust up laughing.
“Come on,” she says, pulling me along through the stark white corridor. “The cocktail lines at these things are always huge, so I want to beat the crowd.”
“Far be it from me to get between Lisa Michaels and a fancy cocktail.”
She grins at me as she turns a corner and halts in front of a large easel. “Here,” she says, pointing at the sign. “This is what we’re going to see.”
I stare at the words, absorbing the significance.
Wild and Untamed: An Intimate Photographic Exploration of North American Wolves, by Nathaniel Kahn.
“Wolves,” I repeat, too dumbfounded to say anything smarter than that.
“Like your sculpture,” she says. “I knew you liked them, so when I saw the ad for this opening, I thought…” She trails off, furrowing her brow as she studies my face. “I’m sorry. Is this not okay?”
I’m not sure what she sees in my expression. Awe? Gratitude? Sadness? All of those things, maybe, but I’m determined not to let it show. “It’s awesome,” I tell her, which is true. “I’m blown away that you thought of me.”
Her smile returns, and she grips my hand again. “I’m so glad. The artist is supposed to be amazing. He’s a photographer who works mostly in black and white images, but this is the first time he’s done a show of wildlife photography.”
“What does he normally do?”
“He specializes in erotic imagery. Very artistic.”
“Erotic?”
“Not like that,” she says, probably recognizing intrigue in my voice. “It’s not porn or anything.”
“That’s too bad. I kinda like porn.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she’s not really annoyed. “He usually does abstract, boudoir photography. The sort of thing where you can’t tell whether you’re looking at a thigh or a shoulder or a breast. Very unique.”
“That sounds…confusing.”
She grins and pulls me toward the door. “It’s mysterious.”
We walk into a room filled with well-dressed intellectuals gazing thoughtfully at massive, well-lit photographs. Two men near the door sip from champagne flutes while debating the use of light. Next to them is a woman in a black cocktail dress holding a tiny white dog in a sequined bag. Across from her, a trio of well-dressed hipsters stand with faces tilted upward in that snobby, high-society pose that always sets me on edge.
I’m so busy being a judgmental prick that it takes me a second to notice Lisa has gone strangely pale.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I just—I know that guy over there.”
I follow the direction of her gaze to a dark-haired man in the corner wearing a crisp navy suit and a bored expression. He looks like old money and probably smells like expensive cologne. I’d rather not get close enough to sniff him. I glance back at Lisa.
“Is that Gary?”
“No.” She shakes her head and squeezes my hand. “Stop staring. I don’t want him to come over here.”
“Who is he?”
“A client,” she says, then makes a face. “An ex-client. He made a pass at me when his wife was out of town and I was finishing up one of their summer homes. He got kind of aggressive about it.”
Everything about that statement irritates me. The fact that this prick tried to screw around on his wife. The fact that he’d try it with Lisa. Hell, I hate that he has multiple summer homes. It’s all I can do right now to keep from storming across the room and punching him in his smug-bastard face.
“Come on,” Lisa says. “Let’s get that drink.”
I take a deep breath and pat myself on the back for having the self-control not to hit anyone at a swanky gallery party. I stop patting when I see the guy headed our way.
“Lisa? Lisa Michaels? I thought that was you.”
Douchebag struts up to us and leans in like he’s going to kiss her cheek. Lisa’s grimace is the only cue I need to run interference.
“I’m Dax,” I announce, wedging my body between his lips and Lisa’s face. I don’t bother with a last name. The asshole deserves as few syllables as possible. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
I don’t extend a handshake, and neither does he. Lisa rests a hand on my back but keeps most of her body tucked behind me. If I had any doubts about whether she’s okay with me stepping in, they’re erased by that one tiny gesture.
Douchebag stares me down. More like up, actually, since I’ve got a good eight inches on him. “Miles,” he says. “Miles Pritchard the Third.”
He says it like I’m supposed to be impressed, and I concentrate very hard on channeling the same bored expression he reserved for the artwork. “Miles,” I repeat, adding a slight sneer to my voice. “You having a good time here tonight, Miles?”
“Uh—yes, excellent.” He tugs at his tie and glances around me at Lisa. “And you?”
“Splendid,” Lisa says, nestling up closer. I slide an arm around her, glad she’s not pissed at me. Glad she’s not having to confront this guy alone.
“Is your lovely wife here with you tonight, Miles?” I ask.
He blanches and shoots a nervous glance at Lisa. “Uh—”
“Gwendolyn,” she supplies, like he might have forgotten. “Such a sweetheart,” Lisa adds as she gives me a smile I can’t quite read. “President of the Women’s Charity League. And a wonderful tennis player.”
“She sounds terrific,” I say. “I think it’s important for a man to respect and appreciate his wife, don’t you, Miles? Your beautiful, charitable, tennis-playing wife?”
“Um, yes—yes, certainly.” Miles appears to very much regret crossing the room. Like if he could hit reverse on his Gucci loafers, he’d back his ass up so fast he’d leave streaks on the carpet.
“Good.” I clap him on the shoulder and smile like we’re best buddies. “I’m glad we had this talk, aren’t you?”
He nods and takes a few steps back, spotting his escape route. “Of course,” he says, still backing away. “It was great to see you again, Lisa. And good to meet you—uh—Dex.”
“Dax,” I tell him, though I’m betting he damn well knows that.
I’m also betting Lisa won’t be getting any more business from the guy. I turn to face her as Miles disappears around a corner. “Sorry about that,” I mutter. “I hope I didn’t screw up a valuable client relationship or anything.”
“Are you kidding?” She beams at me, then stands on tiptoe to plant a furtive kiss at the edge of my mouth. She draws back and gives me a shy smile that makes my chest ache. “I was hoping I’d never have to see that guy again.”
“I think we made sure of that.” I slide my hand over hers and give a small squeeze, glad I didn’t make the wrong call. “Let’s get you that cocktail.”
We step up to the bar, and she orders something that has more ingredients than a bottle of drain cleaner. I get a Jack and Coke, and we move back into the foyer for our first real look at the art on display.
“Wow,” Lisa says, tipping her head to stare up at a framed photo that’s taller than she is. “That’s a big wolf.”
I laugh and take a step back to get the full effect. “Nice teeth,” I say. “You wouldn’t want to meet that guy in a dark alley.”
“Mmm,” she says, giving me a coy little smile as she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Especially not if you were in that alley without panties.”
My dick throbs with the reminder. I can’t believe we’ve reached this point. That we’re sharing inside jokes and shared memories as we stand here holding hands in a museum. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something mushy and romantic and utterly unlike me, but Lisa tugs my hand and pulls me toward another photo.
“What do you think of this one?”
The photo shows a shaggy gray wolf staring down a smaller brownish wolf with wideset yellow eyes. It’s a stunning image, and it might be two males squaring off to brawl. But I’m pretty sure it’s not.
“Is it just me, or is that a smoldering look?” I ask.
“Definitely,” she agrees. “I’m guessing that one’s the lady wolf?”
“He looks like he wants to jump her bones,” I whisper low in Lisa’s ear.
She giggles and tilts her head up so her lips brush my ear. “And she looks like she wouldn’t mind at all.”
I’m about to suggest we skip the rest of the show and go back to my place when a skinny man in a black tie comes rushing toward us with tiny spectacles perched on his nose. “Isn’t it spectacular?” he asks.
His expression is friendly enough, and he’s so damn earnest I find myself nodding. “Absolutely,” I agree, hoping he didn’t hear me make that crack about the wolves humping. “Very…uh, artistic.”
“I agree,” he says. “It’s mesmerizing to see two creatures engaged in the most primal, magnificent display of nature and instinct.” He sticks out a hand, which I shake firmly before he grabs Lisa’s hand and plants a kiss on her knuckles.
“Sullivan Wainright, editor of Oregon Art Experience magazine,” he says.
“Lisa Michaels of LM Interior Design,” she says. “And this is Dax Kensington.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” I shoot a glance at Lisa, not sure if I’m supposed to rattle off my business as well, or say something meaningful about the wolves who may or may not be preparing to bump uglies. I settle for gazing thoughtfully at an image of two cinnamon-colored canines curled around each other in a cozy snuggle.
“Don’t you just love the raw energy and recognizable emotion in this one?” Sullivan adjusts his glasses. “I love what it says about the circular nature of instinct and survival.”
Beside me, Lisa licks her lips and nods. “It’s sure something.”
“Phenomenal,” Sullivan says, swinging his attention back to the first image with the wolves exchanging the heated look. “Such an exquisite display of might and instinct. I love what he’s done with the composition here. The statement Kahn is making with his choice in aperture—no other artist could make such a bold critique of societal norms and the way humanity relates to them.”
“Uh, yes,” Lisa says, biting her lip in a way that tells me she’s stifling laughter at the memory of our shared joke. “It’s very…um…sensuous.”
“Exactly.” Sullivan beams like she’s gotten an answer right on a test question, and Lisa clears her throat.
“I think I need to visit the ladies’ room,” she says. “It was wonderful meeting you, Sullivan.”
“Likewise,” the man says, and steps toward the next image.
Lisa grabs my arm and hurries toward the far side of the room, but stops short to whisper in my ear. I lean down to listen, and to enjoy the tantalizing view down the front of her dress.
“Oh my God,” she says, half whispering, half giggling. “We’re surrounded by creepers and snobs and wolves making lusty eyes at each other.”
Her words make me snort-laugh, and I love that she sounds so delighted. “What a striking artistic observation you’ve made, Miss Michaels. Would you care to elaborate?”
She smiles up at me, green eyes sparkling with laughter. “Why, yes,” she murmurs in a prim little art critic voice. “I’m deeply moved by the saturation and symmetry in that piece next to the fern.” She points to an impressively large photo of two Arctic wolves.
It’s a damn fine image, and I love that she brought me here to see it. I also love that she’s not taking this whole thing too seriously. That she isn’t afraid to have fun with it.
“Yes, it’s quite exquisite,” I agree, adjusting my imaginary monocle as we step in front of an image showing a wolf belly-crawling through the mud. “Don’t you find this one here makes a bold statement about focal point and negative space while demonstrating the wolf’s underlying need for a good bath and brush?”
She laughs so hard she nearly spills her cocktail. When her gaze meets mine, she bites her lip. “Did I ever tell you I used to volunteer at this museum?”
I shake my head, wondering what that sexy smirk is all about. “You never mentioned it.”
“There’s an exhibit on the third floor called Oregon Adventure,” she says. “It’s laid out to look like different cabins so you can get a glimpse of how fur trappers and gold miners and other early Oregon settlers used to live.”
“That sounds interesting,” I say, not sure how to reconcile this little history lesson with the suggestive gleam in Lisa’s eye.
“My first month here, I caught a couple going at it on one of the bunks in the Lewis and Clark exhibit,” she says. “They were buck naked, right there between the bearskin rug and the display of nineteenth-century muskets.”
Her voice is scandalized, but there’s intrigue there, too. Desire. I hold her gaze, pretty sure I get where she’s going with this. “Did you say anything to them?”
She nods, cheeks flushed. “Of course. I lectured them for twenty minutes about lewd behavior and the importance of being respectful of culture and public spaces.”
I can picture it in my head, and I try not to laugh. “And were they embarrassed?”
“Not at all.” There’s an awe in her voice that makes me picture it perfectly. Lisa in her heels and pearls, scolding the disheveled couple for their scandalous behavior while deep down, wanting it for herself.
I lean closer, cocktails and wolves and art critics all but forgotten now. “I don’t suppose you still have a key to the room?”
She grins, her expression equal parts nervous and excited. “No key necessary. I even know a shortcut.”
“Well then,” I murmur. “How’d you like to take me on an Oregon Adventure?”