Scarlett

This was a new low, even for me. Here I was, Scarlett Bishop, owner of the second largest contemporary art gallery in America, a woman Art Business News called one of the most influential art dealers under thirty, scouring an escort company’s Web site for a date.

Wrinkling my nose, I flipped through the pictures of hot men on my laptop. “I don’t know how you managed to talk me into this.”

My assistant, Violet, tapped on her cellphone as she paced behind me in the hotel room. “We’re desperate, and desperate times call for desperate measures.” She stopped next to me and pushed her dark-rimmed glasses up on her nose. “Would you rather show up at Mystique’s opening night cocktail party without a date?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well?” We stared at each other for a moment in silence. “If you have a better option, I’m all ears.”

“No, you’re right.” I rubbed my forehead. “It’s just been a long week.”

“I know.” Violet patted my shoulder reassuringly and shifted her attention to her cell. “But that breakup was for the best. Henri was all wrong for you.”

Yeah, but he represented security in a business that was constantly changing. Without him, I felt like a ship lost at sea, just bobbing along and hoping the sharks in the water didn’t pull me under. I sighed and scrolled through several more profiles.

My problems started last week when I learned that there had been a break-in at my gallery. The thieves had taken only one painting, but it was one close to my heart. The piece was from an up-and-coming artist in Brazil who was as gifted as he was temperamental. Thanks to Henri, I was able to outbid my rival, Bridget Simpson, and swipe it out from under her nose. Not only was the painting beautiful, but it was symbolic of the force Henri and I had become in the art community. Whoever stole the artwork took a piece of my pride with them.

While the cops investigated the theft, I decided to crash at Henri’s condo where we could both lament my sudden misfortune over our favorite Pinot Noir. Imagine my surprise when I walked into his living room and heard moaning down the hall. Following the noise, I walked to the bathroom, where I found him fucking a willowy blonde in the shower. A twenty-minute shouting match ensued, where I learned that my boyfriend liked to collect women just as much as he liked to collect contemporary art. Tall, short, fat, thin . . . To him, we weren’t human beings, but objects to be displayed alongside his Andy Warhols and Richard Hamiltons. The willowy blonde and I decided that we no longer wanted to be a part of his collection.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. We were less than a week before the start of the most prestigious modern art show in the western hemisphere. In an effort to forget Henri, I had thrown myself into the preparations, boxing up paintings and making the flight down from New York to Miami where the show was to be held. I had been so busy making arrangements that I had completely forgotten about finding a date for the show’s opening-night cocktail party.

And I needed a date. Anyone who was anyone in the art world would be at Mystique’s opening night. Rumors were already flying around about how I had broken up with my biggest client. The future of my gallery depended on how I presented myself over the next several days. I needed to show the world that my gallery didn’t need Henri D’Lay to survive. In fact, the middle-aged collector was yesterday’s news. I had moved on to bigger and better things.

That meant I needed a date who symbolized the future of my company. Someone young, fresh, and full of energy. Someone who’d not only make Henri jealous but would make me outshine my competition and secure a lucrative deal that would plug up the gaping financial hole left with Henri’s departure.

“This is hopeless,” I muttered. “I wish we had more time.”

“We have plenty of time. You just need to be less picky.” Violet put down her phone and pulled up a chair next to mine. “This is a high-end escort service. It’s not like you’re slumming it in a seedy bar. Surely there’s someone here who will meet our needs. Here.” She turned the laptop away from me. “I’m your assistant. Let me assist.”

I snorted and watched Violet scroll through the profiles. After five years on the payroll, she was more than an assistant, she was one of my closest friends. She knew more than my appointments. She knew my secrets and my dreams. Always ready with a glass of wine or a good joke, Violet seemed to know just what I needed to make it through the day. Her steady presence meant the world to me. I had no idea what I’d do without her.

“Make sure he’s smart,” I said.

She flashed me a frown. “We’re looking for a beefcake, not a soul mate.”

“I know. I just need a guy who has his act together if I’m going to impress people.” This show was the only one of its kind in North America. Over the next week, partnerships would be formed and careers would be either broken or made. I should know. Five years ago, this cocktail party launched my gallery, Splash of Scarlett, and made the art world stand up and take notice. It was also where I had met Henri. He’d most likely be at the party tonight. Just the thought of him showing up with one of his bimbos made my blood boil.

“You’re doing that thing with your brows again,” Violet said.

“What thing?”

She ran her finger in between her eyebrows. “Making those lines. That’s how wrinkles are formed, you know.” She motioned to the bottle of Malbec on the bureau. “Have a drink. It will help you loosen up.”

Sighing, I walked over and poured myself a glass. As I swirled the full-bodied wine in my hands, I tried not to think about the way Henri’s lies had made me feel special, or how I was going to manage running my gallery without his financial support.

Suddenly Violet sat back and grinned at me in triumph. “I’ve found him.”

“Found who?”

“Who? Your date, silly.” She turned the laptop around so I could see. “Here, have a look.”

I took several steps forward and studied the screen. Holy shit. It couldn’t be. And yet, there was no mistaking those dark, turbulent eyes, or those chiseled Latino features.

“He’s nice, eh?” Violet winked at me and scanned his profile. “Damn, he cooks, too. I swear, Scarlett, if you don’t pick this guy, I might go out with him myself.”

I blinked at my friend. “I know him.”

Violet moved the mouse over his features. “And look at those eyes—” She glanced over at me. “Wait a minute. You know him?”

I nodded. “We went to high school together, although we ran in different crowds. He was two years ahead of me.” I scanned the bio on the screen. “Gabriel Sargent. Two tours in Afghanistan, a handful more teaching young recruits. Left the service when his college debt was paid off.” I took a large gulp of wine. “Back in high school, he was known as Gabriel Ferreira.”

Violet shrugged. “Are you sure it’s the same guy? I thought you went to high school up in Boston.”

“Oh, it’s him. I’m not sure what he’s doing in Miami, but . . . it’s him.” I’d know those gorgeous eyes anywhere.

“And you let him get away?”

I averted my gaze and stared at the glass in my hands. “We were young.” And in love. Back then, I had felt as if our relationship would last forever. He didn’t feel the same. I guess some things were never meant to be.

I cleared my throat and pushed aside my memories. We were both older now, and I was quite sure he had forgotten about the wild girl he had dated when he was eighteen.

“Are you okay?” Violet asked.

I cleared my throat. “Sure, why?”

“I don’t know. It’s just . . . It seemed as if your mind was somewhere else for a moment.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh-huh.” She turned back to the screen and studied his profile. “With a guy as hot as this at your school, it’s a wonder you ever graduated.”

I took a large sip of wine to cover up the sudden stab of regret that sliced through me. I had no reason to feel this way. Our relationship had run its course and we had both moved on. I hadn’t seen him in years.

“I didn’t know he spent time in the military,” I said. “Back in high school, he had talked about becoming a cop like his brothers.”

“Well, this is a far cry from writing parking tickets,” Violet said as she returned her attention to the screen. “There is only one explanation for it: fate.”

I paused mid-sip. “It’s not fate.”

“Of course, it is.” She stood and placed her hands on my shoulders. “How many years has it been since you’ve seen each other?”

Too many. “Ten.”

“And how many miles away from Boston are you?” She dipped her head and caught my gaze. “And you just had that messy breakup with what’s-his-face.”

“Henri.”

She waved her hand in dismissal and sat back down at the laptop. “There is just too much coincidence to be anything but fate. Face it, Scarlett, you were meant to be together.”

“I don’t think—”

“And he’s free tonight.” She tapped the screen. “Think about it. How many people get second chances with their high-school crushes? This is a unique opportunity.”

I shot her a disgusted look. “I never said that I had a crush on him.”

“You didn’t need to. It’s written all over your face.” She stood and went to retrieve the wine bottle.

“I’m not sure this escort thing is a good idea,” I said as she brought the bottle over and refilled my glass.

“Come on, don’t back out on me now. You used to be much more adventurous than this.”

“Being adventurous is overrated,” I said.

Violet filled her own glass and returned the bottle. “Admit it, he’d be just the thing to make Henri jealous.” She turned back to the screen. “Hell, this guy would make all the men at the event tonight question their manliness and every woman green with envy.”

I nibbled my lower lip as I stared at Gabe’s picture. Violet was right. The years had been kind to Gabe. If anything, he looked even more handsome now than he did in high school. “I don’t know.”

“If you won’t go out with him, I will.”

I jerked my gaze away from the computer. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

I straightened and sipped my wine as Violet grinned. She had caught me, damn her.

“I knew it,” she said. “Even after all of these years, you’re still burning a torch for him.”

“That doesn’t mean we should date.” I returned my attention to the screen.

“This isn’t a relationship we’re going after. It’s just one night.” She crossed her arms and gave me that I-know-you-better-than-you-know-yourself look. “You’ve been working day and night on getting everything ready for this show. You deserve a little fun. And if it makes Henri and all of those other collectors jealous?” She shrugged. “So much the better.”

“He’d be bored.”

“He’d be doing his job, just like you’d be doing yours.”

“But—”

“Stop it. You’re going with him and that’s final. A little tickle with his pickle and you’ll be—”

“Ugh.” I held up my hand, stopping her words. “Enough with the euphemisms. You’re sounding like a bad romance novel. Besides, I don’t think sex is part of the deal with this particular escort service.”

“Not officially, but you never know.” Violet shrugged and took a long sip of her wine. “If the moment feels right, you should just go for it. For old time’s sake.”

“I told you, we never—”

Violet held up her hand. “Then do it for yourself.” She put down her glass. “Henri messed with your head, Scarlett. I can tell. Your confidence is shot to hell.” She nodded at the computer screen. “I’m willing to bet that a night with this guy will give you your mojo back. He’ll put things right again.”

Turning back to the computer, I looked at Gabe’s strong jaw and tanned, flawless skin. Perhaps Violet was right. This might be just the thing to help me get both myself and my gallery back on track.

I finished the last of my wine and moistened my lips. It would be pretty cool to show up at this cocktail party with Gabe on my arm. With him, no one would talk about my messy breakup with Henri, or wonder if I was mentally stable enough to conduct business. I’d be making a statement to the artistic community—I was ready to move on.

“It has been a long time since I last saw him,” I said as I rolled the stem of the empty wineglass between my fingers. “It would be nice to catch up.”

“That’s the spirit.” Violet grinned and turned the computer screen to face her. “Do you want him to meet you at the party?”

“God no, that would be too awkward.” I placed the glass on the table and walked over to the hotel room closet. “Have him meet me here. We need to develop a backstory before we get to the estate.”

“What time do you want him?” Violet asked.

Throwing open the doors to the closet, I stared at the large variety of dresses and ran my fingers over the fine fabrics. “Seven. That will give us two hours to get our story straight.” Smiling, I picked out a jade-colored bandage dress that I knew accentuated my curvy figure and left nothing to the imagination. Tonight wasn’t a night to remain in the shadows. It was a night to be fearless and dominating.

It was a night to give Henri and those other snobs in the art world a run for their money.