Chapter 7

All this talk about a curse would do him in, his efforts all for naught.

Luke stood at the window of his office overlooking the northwest portion of the city. If he squinted just right he could almost make out the Paseo Arts District. Well, the trees covering it, in any event.

His little chat with Ockwell had gone amazingly well. The old bastard was almost deaf, but Luke felt sure he’d made his point. He just hoped Ockwell made the call as promised.

Next on the agenda was finding that damned doll. Malia believed in the curse, and nothing he said would alter her opinion.

Luke moved behind the desk and sat. He frowned. The desk was in desperate need of organization. After shifting some of the piles around, he finally located a tablet. He ripped off the top sheets to an empty page and scribbled.

Fifteen minutes later, he sat back and barked. “Inez!”

The scrape of his secretary’s hastily pushed back chair banged the wall of the outer office before she stood in the door. Coarse gray hair escaped the bun at the back of her head without detracting from the bright red lips and sturdy black shoes. Her appearance struck him as a character sketch worthy of Saturday Night Live, with her flower-printed frock, large enough to make a set of frilly parlor room drapes. She was a helluva secretary, though.

“Sir?”

“I need some information.” He ripped off the scribbled page and held it out.

She pounded forward with heavy steps and snatched the paper from his fingertips. As always, he found himself thankful she was on his team. She glanced through the list. “Perry Ockwell, Eugene Wilson, Challen Jones, Hercules—” She raised a questioning brow at that one.

“I know, I know. His parents must have been part of the flower-child movement or something.”

“There’s no last name.”

“Do we really need one?” he remarked. “Find out where they are now. And, if you can—” He coughed to cover his embarrassment. “Find out if they have any—”

“Any?”

“Uh…broken appendages…noses, to be exact.”

“Noses…”

“Yes! I said noses.” He bit the words out, then busied himself with the closest stack of files. “I need that back as soon as possible.”

She grunted under the assault, her back already to him when he glanced up.

“I heard that,” he muttered.

****

“Oh. My. God. Darling! These are splendid. The intense use of color—or rather—lack of. Well!” The exclamation huffed out on a breath. “It just sends my heart all-a-flutter!” Charlie Rogers, her best friend and, obviously, the most dramatic, patted his chest to better demonstrate the fluttering heart. “I tell you, Malia, this exhibition will dazzle the local news, the art world, the masses.”

His hand flew up to fan his face. “I think I might cry.”

“Enough!” She laughed. “Honestly, Charlie.” She gave him a quick hug. “What would I do without you?” She scraped away a vague dampness in her eye.

In Charlie fashion, he pushed her away, intent upon the art itself. “It’s just…look at this. Blood! In shades of plum, blush, mauve, mulberry… Well, I could go on and on—”

“And you have.”

“I love it—” He traced the finely etched lines of black, then stood back to take in the whole picture. “And the infamous doll.”

Malia pursed her lips together. “Yes.” The notion had come to her after she’d returned from Luke’s demanded visit. Was it only a week ago?

“It’s the perfect centerpiece.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Charlie. There is no way this should be in the exhibition. It’s dreadful.”

“Dreadful, my eye.”

“You mean, your nose,” she muttered.

“Excusez-moi?”

“Nothing,” she breathed. “Forget it, Charlie, this is not some of my better work—”

“Oh, but it is. The depth of color, the subtle shifts… Well, it jumps right off the canvas.” He strutted before the picture, his steps tracing an arc, considering it from various angles. “I love the carved rose in the chest. What’s the significance?”

“I wish I knew,” she said under her breath, but Charlie ignored her.

“It’s so…so…dramatic,” he said with flourish, flinging out an arm.

“Dramatic?” Malia rolled her eyes at that bit of irony.

He spun on his heel and trolled the room, flipping through the other works, pulling out first one here and then another there, at random, setting them aside. “Three more days, you know,” he sing-songed.

Her stomach dropped at the pronouncement. “Honestly, Charlie…” The man had to be ADGC—Attention Deficit Gone Crazy. She was convinced of it.

Charlie held out one perfectly manicured hand. “No! I’ll not listen to another word. In fact—” Hands fisted at his hips, he moved back to the “centerpiece­ painting,” in which the doll was etched in black on the pink blotches. “This one leaves with me today.” He then circled in place, fanning himself again. “Goodness, it’s hot in here, Malia. Is your AC working properly?” Before she could answer, he stalked over and took her face in his hands. Kissing the air near each cheek, he said, “You are my greatest investment, darling. Have trust. By the way, I wanted to let you know—”

“Dammit, Malia, I told you to keep this door locked.” Luke’s deep, irritated tone snapped her head up. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded of Charlie.

“Who the hell are you?” Charlie raked a glance over Luke that had her quickly covering her mouth stifling the sudden laughter that threatened to burst through.

“Meet my friend and agent, Charlie Rogers.” She turned to Charlie and said, “Luke Rieser. I freelance graphic work for him occasionally.”

****

Luke knew a moment of discomfort under her friend’s intense scrutiny, not certain if all of it was in Malia’s interests. Surely not. Khaki trousers, pressed and tailored, told his role in the art world. He’d wager it didn’t include dabbling in messy mediums, either. The man stood about five-eight, sporting red hair, gold-brown eyes, and freckles. But every hair was in place. His posture would do a pageant committee proud—stiff and straight as if a board braced his back. “Nice to meet you,” Luke growled, throwing out his hand.

“Mm-hum,” Charlie said. “You are one nice-looking man.”

Heat crept up Luke’s neck, and he found himself at a loss for words. Definitely some gay pride there, he thought.

“Stop it, Charlie. You’re embarrassing him,” Malia chided. But she couldn’t hide the twitch of her lips. She was enjoying this!

Turning on her heel, Malia headed to one corner of the studio and pulled out a large plastic tarp. Charlie helped her drape it over “the pink painting,” as he’d dubbed it. She smiled. Luke saw the pride steal over her as she secured the wrap. She’d outdone herself. The doll did “jump off the canvas.”

Luke cleared his throat. “Uh, it’s finished, then?”

“It is,” Charlie declared. “My exhibition’s centerpiece.”

Luke quirked a brow at Charlie’s possession of her exhibition. She ignored both of them, shoving a ball of twine into Charlie’s hand.

“We need to start hanging these pieces,” Charlie told her. In swift, sure motions the painting was secured and ready for transport. “I’ll send Joey for those, first thing in the morning.” He pointed to a newly formed stack of works Luke hadn’t noticed.

“Joey?” Luke frowned.

“His partner and right-hand man,” Malia said.

“Oh, your business partner.” Hell, Luke was just trying to make conversation.

She grinned. “That, too.”

Luke pulled the collar from his neck, looking everywhere but at the two of them. The AC was definitely going out. He turned back in time to see her flamboyant friend-slash-agent tug Malia into a quick, affectionate embrace, unleashing a thread of jealousy. But that was ridiculous.

“Remember what I said, darling. Trust.” Charlie swept up the newly wrapped package that was easily his size and flounced out the door. There really was no other word for it.

Malia spun on him. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. Ah, much safer territory, resorting to outrage. But Luke, still reeling from the whirlwind, had his own aggravation to unleash and turned it on her. “What the hell was that?” He pointed to the closing door. Malia threw her hands in the air and stormed up the stairs.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” He darted up after her. “You’re not running from me again.”

Her steps echoed on the hollowed wood. “What are you talking about?” Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

“We need to talk.”

She halted at the top of the stairs. A sense of déjà vu surged through him when he plowed into her. Only she’d turned to blast him. He caught her up in his arms, plied her body to his. “I swear, you do that purposely. Admit it,” he rasped.

“No—” she started.

But the shape of the word left her mouth positioned perfectly for his. And he took full advantage. Her mouth was sweet, hot, and pliant. He swept his tongue in before she could grab her next breath. A relentless assault he mounted, over and over, only letting up slightly when graceful arms snaked behind his neck in a hold that threatened his air intake. He lifted her by her bottom, and slender legs encased his waist.

It was too soon to take her, but he’d waited for a year now. He made the short stride to her curtained bed and swept aside the thin, useless draping. Her legs dropped from his waist, and, in a slow descent, he let her slide down his body.

Roaming hands up her backside, he tugged her hair from its confinement, then cupped her face. He brushed his lips over her brows, nose, jaw, finally resting in her neck. Her throbbing pulse beat against his lips. It sent the blood in his body in one direction. Down.

The palms of her hands, like fire on his chest, pushed beneath his shirt. They felt delicate, frail against the heat of his torso. “More,” he said, burying his nose in her hair. Thick, luscious waves of corded silk, wafting scents of white citrus, promised respite from one of Oklahoma’s hottest summers on record. “Touch me,” he whispered.

Eyes fluttered shut, she leaned forward and placed those plump lips on one flat nipple. Her tongue lavished attention he’d just as soon have elsewhere, but he couldn’t seem to pull himself from its current winsome torture.

She smoothed cool palms down his bare skin, over his abdomen. His insides twitched with anticipation. She didn’t stop until she reached the barrier of his jeans. Even then, her fingers fumbled with the snap. When the zipper gave way, he groaned and tore at his shirt, whipping it overhead. It floated to the ground like a drifting leaf.

Too impatient for her struggles, he stripped the jeans away himself. “I’ve waited a long time for you,” he said softly. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her between his knees. “Come here.” Under a buttoned-up smock, she wore a fitted tank splashed with paint, no bra. He lowered one strap, freeing her breast to take it in his mouth. She arched into him like a seductive siren.

Yes, much too long a time. He pushed her tank up, and she grabbed it to continue the fluid motion. Peeled off her leggings and tossed them aside. He found himself in the heady position of an aphrodisiac. Perfect position for what he had in mind. He urged her legs apart, ignoring her gasps, and stroked the heart of her sex with his tongue.

He wanted to tell her to breathe, but he couldn’t spare the words. He stroked, licked, and kissed until she was all but malleable clay in his hands. Perhaps he had some artistic abilities as well. She was wet, swollen, ready to fly, and he fell back on the bed, pulling her on over his body.

Green-blue eyes met his, churning with uncertainty. Desire warring with restraint. “Oh, love,” he sought to reassure. “If I break my nose, I promise you, not only is this worth it, but I would more than deserve it.”

“I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you,” she whispered. “I think…I…I love you.”

Something inside his chest exploded, not unlike the Fourth of July fireworks. “I know you do, love. Now, guide me in before I lose my sanity.”

****

Malia lay on her back, sated, if confused. The heat had her wanting to pass out—and not just the temperature in her tiny apartment. Yet she lay there, wide-eyed, as the early evening sun began to set, casting shadows throughout the room. Luke, stretched out beside her, had drifted off into never-never land. She studied his profile, the stubborn jaw where dark stubble had begun to form. Thick, dark lashes rested on sharp cheekbones that should have softened in slumber but appeared as implacable as ever. Firm lips that had mastered—no, stolen—her composure. Her skin heated at thought of the liberties he had taken. That she had allowed.

And—his nose. She recognized the Greek heritage from her human anatomy sketch classes. She couldn’t draw an ear to save her life. Noses? Well, they were her specialty. Hawk, Snub, Aquiline, Roman, Royal, Rumpole…if one could name it, she could draw it. She was the nose expert. And that was only six. She could spout eight more off the top of her head on a moment’s notice. There had to be some weird correlation in that…

So attractive, it brought tears to her eyes.

“Quit thinking.” Luke groused, startling her. His arm whipped out, snagging her close.

“Don’t you think it’s too hot to lie like this?” she squeaked, hoping she’d disguised such silly emotion.

In a flash, he rolled, hovering above her on strong forearms. “Oh, yes.” The husky tone sent shivers of desire prickling her skin. “You are very hot.”

The tongue lashing he proceeded to dish out proved worthy of a medieval torture. Malia moaned under the assault, praying it would never end yet striving for the climax. Neck, earlobe, breast, stomach, he was everywhere. His erection grew hard against her thigh. She writhed against it, a sudden urge to feel it in her hand, her…mouth.

“Luke,” she moaned. “please…” Her fingers edged between them. She grasped hold and squeezed. His fingers locked around hers.

“If you move, we’ll both be very disappointed,” he rasped. A second later, he positioned himself and drove into her moist, overheated center, fulfilling every dream, expectation, every need she’d had since college. Never had she felt so exhilarated, so lusted after, so free.

She held on for dear life.

Then, of their own volition, every internal muscle she possessed clenched onto him, had her biting into his shoulder to keep from screaming out. His roar muffled into the pillow. His body collapsed onto hers, both drenched in perspiration, the sweltering heat blanketing them.

Still breathing heavily, Malia flinched when Luke pulled out, leaving her feeling hollowed as he moved off to her side. He alternated a nuzzle with a lick on the side of her neck that made her forget the lack of AC in her small efficiency.

“We still need to talk,” he said. Heated breath wisped over her skin, and she wanted to beg for more. She decided to revel in his actions, rather than his words, and ignored him. “We still don’t know what happened to the doll,” he mumbled in her hair.

Unfortunately, he seemed determined to relinquish their blissful peace.

He rose up on an elbow.

Malia pressed her lips together, irritation flooding her. “She was stolen.” She flung out her hand. He caught it and pressed a kiss on the inside of her wrist. “Did you see her anywhere? You have to admit there are not too many places to hide in this hovel.” She snagged her arm back, dropping it to her side, and let out a sigh. “I should just let it go. She’s kind of creepy anyway.”

“You can’t be serious. If someone broke in, we sure as hell need to find out who or what we are dealing with.”

“We?” He’d officially lost his mind, she decided. She sat up, gauged the distance to her robe flung over the back of the dining room chair. At least it was on the top of the pile. She thanked the small mercies. “Look, there is no we. It’s me. And I don’t have time for this. I have an exhibition in three days. And you...” She huffed. Inhaled. Deeply. “You are a distraction.”

He snaked that iron-banded arm around her waist, rendering her immobile. “Oh, there’s definitely a we,” he bit out. “And we are going to talk. I did some checking. Not only did Perry Ockwell lose his job with the state two weeks ago, but Challen Jones has been in and out of the state mental institution ever since his accident. Currently, he’s AWOL.”

“How do you know all that?”

“I told you, I did some check—”

“You’re spying on me?”

“For god’s sake, of course I’m not spying on you. Besides, Ockwell’s my neighbor. Did you forget?”

Angered beyond reason, Malia struggled against his vise-like grip. Not that it mattered. “Just who the hell do you think you are, Luke Rieser, butting into my business as if…as if…” She was so mad she could hardly choke the thoughts aloud. “…as if you own me.”

“I don’t own you, I love you.”

****

“What!” She stilled in his arms like a flashbulb capturing a Kodak moment.

Luke winced. He hadn’t meant to blurt it out in a heated moment like that. He’d rather have made the big production—five-course meal, expensive wine, starlit night.

In another instant, she bristled with fury…or fear. He couldn’t tell which. She twisted free of his hold. Head held high, she marched to the kitchen and retrieved a worn-through, dingy white housecoat off the mound of clothes stacked on a chair. Watching her did nothing to stifle his desire. Her nipples teased him without mercy before the robe was flung over them. “We’ll just see about that,” she stormed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Why were they yelling, he wondered, half dazed in shock. This should have been a tender moment that had them making love for the third time that day.

“We’ll see when you trip down those stairs and break your nose. Just be sure to put your pants on before you leave.” Under her anger, he heard the tremor of tears.

And that’s when it hit him. She was terrified.

Luke threw his legs over the edge of the bed and raced Malia to the tiny bathroom. She beat him to it. Unsurprised, he let out a resigned sigh when the door slammed shut. The click of the lock had him blowing out a frustrated breath.

“Dammit, Malia, open this door.” Like he couldn’t pick the lock with a toothpick? No answer. He resisted the urge and located his jeans two feet from the foot of the bed and slipped them on. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t ever see her again. Curse be damned. “We’re not finished here,” he called out. He paused and waited.

A suspicious sniffle sounded, and the rustle of clothes.

Now that she’d spilled her guts, she’d gone into hiding? Over his dead body. He stalked back to the door and pounded. “I never figured you for a coward, Malia Kane.”

He paused again. Movement?

Finally, her voice came through the door, small and muffled. “What do you mean?” He heard the faucet.

“Don’t you see?” he coaxed. “You put yourself out there for the world to see, every day. Through your art, your stories.”

The water cut suddenly. “Stories?” The door flew back. She’d slipped on fitted, faded jeans and another paint-stained tank. “Where on earth—the trunk! You went through the trunk? Does my grandmother know you have that thing?”

“Of course. She’s the one who told me where to find the doll.”

“But why would she tell me—” When she stepped outside the bathroom, Luke snagged his prize, fastening her to him. Right where she belonged.

“I think she’s playing matchmaker,” he whispered in the hollow of her neck. He felt her body’s quivering response. “Guess what? It worked.”

“I wrote that stuff just after my mother died. It was awful.”

“No it’s not. We’re getting married, you know.”

“We are?” she softened in his arms. Warm breath against his chest had him ready to toss her onto the bed for a third roll. He slid his fingers through the mass of thick, dark hair and pulled her mouth to his.

“Yes, but you’re going to have to wait at least three days.”

“Three days?” Her dazed tone almost had him throwing logistics out the window.

“The exhibition, remember?” That snapped her head up.

“Right. My show.” Back to all work and no play... He grinned. Tipping her chin, he brushed his lips against hers.

“I have so much to do.” She spun for the stairs and skipped down two at a time.

Luke shook his head, realizing the artist had returned and all else had vacated her brain. He circled in place, looking for his shirt. How it had ended up on the kitchen table…

Slipping it over his head, he paused at the refrigerator for a bottle of water. Sanctified coolness met his sweat-lined brow, tempting him to crawl inside. Oklahoma heat, he thought. You had to love it.

Luke cast a last glance over the cluttered apartment, smiling, before heading down the stairs after her.

And tripped.

****

Horrified, unable to move, vaguely aware of a dampness spreading against her jean-clad leg, Malia watched Luke land head first on the concrete floor. A deathlike stillness fell over the studio. Paint brushes covered the area like pixie sticks where his foot had tipped the table near the door. In slow motion, one of the small jars filled with turpentine teetered on the edge before rolling back toward safety.

“Malia?”

“Luke!” She rushed over, dropping to her knees. “Oh, Luke, don’t move.” This was it, he’d broken his nose, cracked his skull. He shouldn’t talk. “Shush. Don’t talk. You’re bleeding.”

“I am?” He groaned and rolled to his back.

“There’s blood on my jeans.” Panic choked her. She placed a hand on his forehead.

He grabbed her wrists.

“What are you doing? Luke, let go. I have to call nine-one-one.”

“It’s not blood, love.”

“Yes. Yes, it is. My jeans…” He was surprisingly strong for busting his nose and cracking his head. She swallowed the tears. She had to be strong for him. Perhaps, he’d survive better than most.

“Malia. Darling.”

“Luke, we can save you. But I-I have to get to the phone.”

He pulled her head to his, touched his mouth to hers. Her lips parted instinctively. “My water bottle flew out of my hand,” he said. “I’d just opened it.”

She could almost believe him. Wanted to believe him. Dazed, she pulled back.

“I’m fine. Here, touch my nose.” He placed her hands over his face.

“N-no blood?”

“I’m afraid not,” he grinned. “As you can see, my love is true.”

“It’s water?”

“Water.”

Fury plowed through her veins like an avalanche gathering momentum. “You bastard,” she yelled, straddling him. “How dare you scare me like that?” She grabbed his face, kissing him. His eyes, his chin, his nose. “Don’t ever do that to me again, do you hear me? Do you?”

“I hear you, love.”