Pepper stared at the gorgeous man across from her. He was ruggedly handsome in a Jason-Momoa-do-me-now sort of way. Beard, tats, perfectly fitted suit. She wanted to call it maroon because her brain recognized it was near that shade.

Except maroon didn’t do the man in front of her justice. He was plum or ruby or claret.

Yes, that was the perfect description. A crisp white shirt paired with the crisp reddish purples of a glass of . . . well, claret.

“These are absolutely brilliant, aren’t the Sara?” He prodded the gorgeous nugget of petite blondness next to him with his elbow. “How much? Six grand?”

Pepper’s throat closed up.

Her teeny tiny slapped together piece of glass and driftwood and shells was going to be priced at six thousand dollars?

What in the what?

“At least that much,” Sara said.

“Are you Sara Jetty?” Pepper couldn’t help but asking. She didn’t fan girl over much, but she certainly watched the Olympics. And Sara Jetty had been right around her age when she’d won her gold medal.

Though it had been taken away, after her former coaches had accused Sara of cheating, and only recently returned.

Why it had taken ten years for the truth to come to light, Pepper didn’t know. She was only glad that her childhood-hero-turned-talented-artist, Sara Jetty, had been cleared of all wrongdoing.

“It’s Sara Stewart now,” Sara said. “But, yes. I’m that Sara.”

Mitch smirked. “Always infamous.”

“Not quite so much anymore.”

Pepper glanced around at the gallery’s walls as they teased each other. “And those are”—she stood, crossed to a rendering of the Golden Gate bridge, done in shades of gray with the barest hint of copper—“that is incredible,” she breathed.

“It’s yours,” Sara said from behind her shoulder.

Pepper jumped, not having heard the other woman come over. She’d been lost in the swirls of fog, the twisting wires of the span, the flecks of cars as they drove across. “Wh-what?”

Sara grinned. “I mean you can have it. So long as you promise to eventually make me a sculpture in return.”

She gulped. How could she ever hope that her artwork could possibly compare to Sara’s? She was a novice with no practical experience. Her degree in art history could hardly be a suitable substitute for real, hands-on training.

“I had that look,” Sara said. “The I’m-not-worthy, I-can’t-compare one you’re sporting now.” She stopped, waited until Pepper met her eyes. “Here’s the thing. I’m not a bull-shitter. If I say your stuff is good. It’s good. Your first piece for six grand? That’ll sell like the last chocolate bar at a Sugars Anonymous meeting.”

“But—”

“Shh, honey,” Mitch said. “I gave little Ms. Stewart this talk not too long ago and I want a front row seat for her version of my brilliance.”

“You’re terrible,” Sara told him. “But I love you anyway.”

“I know.” Mitch laughed. “No, keep going, sweetie. I think this one is smart enough to get it on the first go around.”

“The bottom line,” Sara said. “Is that you deserve something good in your life. I’ve probably seen your name come up as frequently as mine in the gossip columns, but that doesn’t define you.” A pause. “You’re not the words they assign to you.”

Pepper thought of the newspaper article she’d seen only that morning. Train Wreck in Tahiti, the latest scoop on the death of Pepper O’Brien’s ex-fiancé.

She’d made it almost too easy for the paparazzi. Of course, she hadn’t exactly—

“And I think you know that,” Sara said firmly. “I think you’re starting to understand that exact thing.”

Pepper’s mouth turned up. “It took me long enough.”

“The important thing is that you got there, honey.”

Oh. Pepper sighed. The good ones were always—

“What did I say?” Mitch asked.

“Nothing,” Sara said. “Pepper just realized you were gay.” In a stage whisper she added, “He gets that a lot.”

“In fairness, he’s pretty much the hottest man I’ve seen in my life—”

She’d registered the tinkle of the bell as the door to the gallery opening, but hadn’t actually processed that someone might be walking into the shop.

So Derek’s voice made her jump.

“The hottest man?”

Growly. Definitely irritated and growling and pissed-off-male-lion-like.

Lion? For the love of . . . things her mind wouldn’t think of. Because . . . Derek.

Who was rumpled and pissed and—

Derek.

She sighed. God she loved him. Pathetic. Yes, she realized that with crystal clear accuracy.

But—

Mitch slid in front of her, eyed Derek up and down. “Can I help you?” There was a note of warning in his voice, and considering that Derek looked as though he’d been pulled backward through a car wash, Pepper appreciated the show of male concern.

“I’m here to see Pepper,” he said, sidestepping in an attempt to move past Mitch. Who quickly adjusted his position to stay between them.

Mitch crossed his arms. “You stay over there and talk.”

“We don’t have anything to talk about anyway,” Pepper muttered. “You made things clear.”

“I didn’t make anything clear,” Derek snapped. “I was trying to make things right with your father.”

Oh, that was rich. He was worried about her father’s opinion of him and his contract. She rolled her eyes. “I know all about your relationship with my father, thank you very much. Just leave, Derek. I won’t do anything to affect your contract.”

Not that it would make any bit of difference anyway.

Her opinion wasn’t exactly high on her father’s list.

“I don’t have a contract with your father. Not any longer.”

A twisting feeling began in her stomach, tying her insides tighter and tighter. So that was why he was there.

To get his contract back.

The small bud of hope she’d felt at seeing him—come on, she was an intrinsically optimistic person—shriveled and died.

“I’ll talk to my father,” she said quietly. “See if I can do some press or something in exchange for a new one.”

“That’s not what I want!” Derek all but shouted.

“I don’t know what else you do want!” she shouted back. “Not me. Not my body. Not my heart. It’s—”

“I want everything,” he said. “Every piece of you. Your heart, your soul, your—”

“Sweet, sweet ass,” Mitch said.

“Shut up,” Sara hissed.

Too late, Pepper thought. All of it was too late. She started to take a step back and stopped, heaven forbid she collide with some priceless—okay, she was in gallery—expensive piece of art.

Look at her, growing up. Making a difference. If a difference could be called saving artwork from her particular brand of calamity.

“I don’t want a contract with your father,” Derek said. “I don’t give a damn about him. I want you.”

“Ding. Ding. Ding,” Mitch said. “Now that’s the ticket.”

“No,” Pepper said. “It’s not.”

And she all but sprinted out the door, the tinkling bell cheerfully obscene behind her.