“Fine. Whatever.”
“Grouch.”
“Meanie.”
“I’ll have Wyatt run Eduardo through a background check. We don’t want you hooking up with another serial killer.”
MATT SLOWED HIS pace as he approached the building. Glancing in a store window, he ran a hand down his beard and checked his hair. He was actually a little nervous. He’d made a bad impression that he really wanted to change. Deep breath. She’s just a person. Apologize. Mean it and move on. He grinned as he walked the few feet to the door of Reyes Financial Management. He had a suspicion that Lena Reyes was far more than just anything.
A pretty blonde sat at the receptionist’s desk as he entered. She looked up and smiled. Her polite business expression didn’t change, but her eyes moved over him and her smile widened. “Mr. Matthews?”
“That’s me. You can call me Matt.”
She stood and swept her hand in a graceful motion toward a leather sofa against the exposed brick wall. “Please, have a seat. I’ll let Ms. Reyes know you’re here.” She stepped through the doorway to the back of the office and paused. “May I bring you anything? Coffee, water?”
“No, I’m good.”
He sat and looked around. Broad Street was a pricey location. The reception area was small but tastefully decorated. His experienced eye noted the antique reception desk. The leather sofa was butter soft. Dark wood end tables held an array of local magazines. The floors were the original pine, probably two hundred years old and the brick wall behind him looked to be made of hand-kilned brick.
The blonde was back. “Ms. Reyes is ready for you.”
“Okay.” Question was, he thought as he followed the blonde, was he ready for her?
Lena stood as he entered her office. It was a bit more spacious than the reception area, but just as richly decorated. “Thank you, Chloe,” she said. “Sit down.”
He sat in the chair across from her and smiled. “I really want to apologize for the other night. Really. I had no idea.”
Her cheeks flushed but the expression on her face remained cool. “I’ve asked my assistant to sit in with us.” She picked up the phone. “Mose, we’re ready.”
He sat back. Okay. Definitely not forgiven. Let it go. Get this money stuff over with. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a file, setting it on the desk. “I had the accountant who is handling this for me send the information.” He put the file on the desk.
“Good. You’re here. Let’s get started,” Lena said when a striking African American woman walked in and took the chair next to him. She smiled. “I’m Mose. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Matt,” he said, shaking her offered hand.
Lena pulled the file to her and opened it. Matt watched her face as she flipped through the papers. He was sure she was unaware of how readable her face was. Little nods, quick quirks of the lips, fleeting frowns. It was her eyes that held his attention though. Nearly black, keenly focused and simply gorgeous. He wanted to paint those eyes.
“Good,” she said, looking up. She handed the file to Mose, who took it and began riffling through the pages. “Mr. Matthews, what is your financial goal?”
Mr. Matthews. Inwardly, he groaned. He dropped his voice a few octaves and put on a snooty country club voice. “Well, Ms. Reyes, the thing is, you make me feel like my father when you call me Mr. Matthews and I’d really prefer not to feel like my father.”
Mose snickered but Lena’s face did not change. “Your goals then, Matt?”
He leaned forward. Give it up, man. Stick to business. “Okay. You can see my grandmother left me a sizable trust fund. I won’t have access to that for another four years, but I’d really like to put it somewhere and let it grow. My immediate goal is to take the money I’m making now selling art and grow that now. Quickly but safely. I want to open a nonprofit to provide art therapy for kids who need it but can’t afford it.”
Wait. What was that? A flicker of warmth in those black eyes?
“Art therapy,” Mose said. “What is that?”
He turned to her. “Basically what it says. It’s a form of therapy using art instead of talking or what have you. Works really great for kids who may not have the vocabulary to say how they feel about things, but they can draw pictures and talk about the things in the pictures.”
“Is that what you do now?”
“Yes. I do it part-time at the Children’s Hospital. And teach private art lessons also. But I really want to take advantage of my sudden popularity as an artist before it goes away to get some capital and connections to help make my nonprofit a reality.”
He looked back at Lena. There was a definite thaw in her expression. “Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Get me talking about it and I’ll go on all day.”
A smile curved Lena’s lips and now he really wanted to paint her. Gorgeous and complex and shut up, man, she’s handling your money. “I can see you are very passionate about it.”
As she began listing options for him, he felt his eyes glaze over. He held up a hand. “Listen. I’ll be honest. I’m an artist. I don’t know anything about money or markets. I trust you. Do your magic.”
The ice was back. “I don’t like to do business like that, Mr. Matthews. I want my clients to know exactly what I am doing and why.”
“That’s fine. Keep me in the loop. But just do what you think is best.”
* * *
“OH. MY. GOD.”
Lena looked up as Chloe appeared in her doorway after seeing Matt out. “What?”
“What?” Chloe and Mose asked in shocked unison.
Fanning her face with her hand, Chloe leaned against the doorjamb. “Seriously, Lena. That was about the hottest chunk of man I have ever seen in real life with my own two eyes.”
Mose made a sound. “For a white boy, he’s all right.”
Lena closed Matt’s file and handed it to Mose. “Wipe the drool off your chins and get to work, ladies.”
“Don’t even start with me, Ms. Frosty Cakes. I know you. You were checking him out. Hell, I’m gay and I was checking him out.”
“Get out of my office. Both of you. Degenerates. We don’t drool on our clients.”
Chloe shoulder-bumped Mose as she reached the door. “Because our clients are all ninety-year-old farts.”
Lena smiled as they left. She’d tried to hide it but those blue eyes had about undone her. The long dark blond hair, the slightly too-long beard, neatly trimmed over his cheeks and longer at the chin was a look she was sure only he could make look so sexy. And when those luscious lips parted in that grin of his, she’d about lost her ability to count to ten much less evaluate his portfolio.
“Basta.”
She logged on to her computer and began going through her emails. Frat boy. Trust-fund brat. Probably a man whore. Bad boy. She repeated the litany over and over in her mind. In English. In Spanish. Still, the memory of those eyes looking directly into hers would not go away. Nor the feeling of breathless heat she’d experienced. The look on his face when he talked about helping kids. Melt.
Yeah, well, get over it. Ain’t gonna happen. Serious men only need apply. Like Eduardo. Serious. With a job. Ready for a commitment.