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He was spectacular, and—as much as she would like to believe otherwise—completely wrong for her. He was dashing, exciting, eccentric and unpredictable—things Tara might have always secretly wished to be, but wasn’t. She was about as exciting as...as...well, as the tax codes she spent so much time studying, she thought with another hidden sigh. She really couldn’t fathom why Blake had bothered to look her up.
After putting the rose in a crystal bud vase, Tara picked up the slim black purse she’d packed for the evening, took a deep, calming breath and turned to Blake, who was watching her with a bit too much perception behind that deceptively lazy smile of his.
In a courtly, old-fashioned gesture, he offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Tonight is only business, Tara reminded herself. We’ll have dinner, he’ll make his pitch, I’ll turn it down, and then send him on his way.
But there was no reason she couldn’t enjoy the evening while it lasted, was there? She smiled and took his arm.
Their smiles faded as both of them looked down at her fingers curled around his forearm. He felt surprisingly strong beneath the loose fabric of his jacket, s
uggesting that his slender physique was a bit misleading. She looked up, only to find him gazing into her eyes, and she suddenly realized how very close they were standing.
She cleared her throat. “I’m ready when you are.”
This time his smile was purely sinful. “Sweetheart—I’m past ready.”
Still trying to decide how to respond, she allowed him to tow her out of the apartment and into the beautiful spring evening.
“AN ART GALLERY? We’re having dinner at an art gallery?” Tara looked at Blake in confusion when he turned the car in to the already crowded lot of the exclusive Buckhead establishment.
Though there were available spaces much closer to the door, Blake chose a parking space just inside the entrance to the parking lot. Tara thought it was a little strange but assumed he just wanted a space close to the exit, so he wouldn’t get hemmed in when they were ready to leave.
After he’d turned off the car’s engine Blake smiled at Tara. “Actually, we’re having dinner later. We’re here now because of the case I told you about.”
She felt her eyes widen. “The case? You mean, you’re working now? And I’m here to help?”
He nodded. “Yeah. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“But, Blake, I—”
He opened his door, cutting off her arguments that she’d never agreed to this and that she wasn’t qualified to assist a P.I. in any assignment, regardless of what it might be. Her only expertise was in tax law. But he rounded the front of his sleek black sports car, opened her door, and helped her out before she could manage to ask him to take her home.
“I don’t even know what you want me to do,” she murmured to him as he drew her inexorably toward the gallery doors.
“Smile and look beautiful,” he advised her casually, then nodded genially at a wealthy-looking middleaged couple who reached the doors at the same time.
Tara swallowed hard and tried to smile.
A rather intimidating man with a clipboard stood at the entrance to the crowded gallery. “Name?”
“Bill Austin,” Blake supplied smoothly, then smiled at Tara. “And guest.”
The guard glanced at the list, nodded, and scrawled a check mark on the page. “Have a nice time,” he said, waving them in.
“I didn’t know your last name was Austin,” Tara whispered as they entered the room full of interesting-looking, fashionably dressed guests.
“It isn’t,” he replied quietly, snagging a glass of champagne from a conveniently located table. He offered it to Tara, who took it automatically as she tried to figure out what on earth was going on.
“Look over here, darling,” he said a bit more loudly, guiding her toward an easel on which stood the most incredibly ugly painting Tara had ever seen. “Isn’t this breathtaking?”
“It certainly is,” she muttered, trying to find anything at all of interest in the muddy swirls of green, brown and yellow. “Looks like something you’d find on the floor of a barn. I’m surprised there aren’t any flies buzzing around it.”
Keeping his eyes fixed on the canvas, Blake cleared his throat. There was just the slightest quiver in his voice when he asked brightly, “Wouldn’t you love the opportunity to own a genuine McCauley painting?”
She cocked her head. “If this is a McCauley, I’d just as soon have an Elvis on black velvet. With sequins,” she added, making sure no one but Blake could hear her.
Blake took her totally by surprise when he bent his head and pressed a quick, firm kiss against her lips.
