“The artist herself. And even more beautiful than your paintings,” he said as he released her hand. “You’ve caught the atmosphere of the West.”
“It’s New Mexico, around Taos. And thank you,” she added. Her pulse jumped at his compliment and she was keenly aware of him as they moved to view another painting.
“You’re very good at what you do. I look at these and feel as if I’m there instead of standing in a steamy metropolitan city.”
“That’s what I hope to achieve. So this is the first time you’ve been to my gallery.”
“Yes, but I own one of your pictures,” he said, moving to the next painting. “You must spend a lot of time in New Mexico. I assume you have a gallery there?”
“Actually, I don’t. I intend to open one early next year, but I haven’t launched into that yet. It will take time away from painting.”
“I understand.” He sipped champagne and moved to another painting. “Ah, I really like this one,” he said and she looked at a familiar work. It was an aged cart in front of a brown adobe house with bright hollyhocks growing around it. A small mesquite tree stood at one corner of the house.
He looked at the next series of paintings. “These are my favorites. The Native American ones,” he said, indicating a man with a long black braid standing beside a horse in an open stretch of ground dotted with mesquite. Overhead, white clouds billowed against a blue sky and a large hawk sailed with widespread wings.
“That’s a great painting,” he said. “The light and shadows are an interesting contrast.” Happy with his compliment, she smiled. “I’ll take this one. Any chance the artist will help me decide where to hang it? A dinner is in the offering.”
Again, she had a flutter in her heartbeat. “We’re strangers, Mr. Cantrell.”
“It’s Garrett. We can fix the ‘strangers’ part. When you can get away tonight, why don’t we go around the corner to the hotel bar and have a drink? Tomorrow evening we’ll hang my painting and then I’ll take you to dinner.”
“You don’t waste time. I’d be delighted to have a drink tonight. I should be through here in another hour.”
“Excellent,” he said, glancing at his watch.
“I’ll get one of my staff to wrap your painting and we can deliver it tomorrow if you’d like.”
“That will be fine. The delivery person can leave it with my gatekeeper.”
She smiled and left to find one of her employees. “Barry, would you help Mr. Cantrell? He wants number 32. Please take care of the sale and get the delivery information.”
She had to resist the temptation to glance over her shoulder at Garrett.
Instead, she strolled around, speaking to customers and friends, meeting Edgar again.
“I see Cantrell bought a painting.”
“Yes. I’m having a drink with him after this.”
“That was quick,” he said, glancing across the room. “Seemed nice enough. Wealthy enough, too. Last week he bought your painting from me without hesitation. Now, a week later, he’s buying another one. The man knows what he likes.”
“I see the Santerros. I have to speak to them.”
“Have fun this evening,” Edgar said as she left him.
“I intend to,” she stated softly. “Garrett Cantrell,” she repeated, glancing back to see him at the desk, handing a business card to Barry. Her gaze drifted over his long legs while her heartbeat quickened. Dressed in a navy suit with a snowy dress shirt and gold cuff links, the handsome man was a standout even in the well-dressed crowd.
She spent the next hour all too aware of where Garrett stood.
When she saw him talking to a couple she recognized, she waited until he moved away, then worked her way around to them.
“How are the Trents tonight?” she asked.
“Fine,” Jason Trent answered.
“We love your new paintings,” Meg Trent said. “Thanks for the invitation.”
“Thank you for attending. I saw you talking to Garrett Cantrell. I just met him, but it looked as if you two already know him.”
“We do,” Jason replied. “I lease a building from his company. He keeps up with whether everything is going smoothly, which it is. Good bunch to work with.”
“We’re getting one of your watercolors for the family room,” Meg said. “It’s the one with the little boy and the burro.”
“I’m glad you like that one. I hope you enjoy having it in your home.”
“You’re a prolific painter,” Jason remarked.
“I enjoy it.”
“More than the financial world,” he said, smiling.
“I have no regrets about changing careers.”
“That’s what I keep trying to talk Meg into doing—She’d love to have a dress shop.”
“Accounting seems to hold fewer risks. You’re established now, but weren’t you nervous when you started?” Meg asked.
“I suppose, but it was absolutely worth it,” Sophia said. “It was nice to see you both,” she added, moving on, aware of Garrett across the gallery talking to two people. She wondered whether he knew them, too.
She stopped at the desk to look at his card. “Cantrell Properties Inc.” It was a plain card with a downtown address, logo and phone number, but little else. She returned it to the drawer.
Garrett appeared at her side. “Can you leave? You still have quite a few people here.”
“I can leave. My staff can manage quite well. They weren’t expecting me to be here tonight anyway.”
“I’m glad you are,” he said.
“We can go out the back way and it’ll be less noticeable.” She led him through a door, down a hallway that opened onto offices, a mailroom and a studio and out the back into a parking lot where five cars were parked. Four tall lampposts illuminated the area as brightly as if it were day. A security guard sat in a cubicle watching a small television. He stepped to the door.
“Good night, Miss Rivers.”
“I’ll be back after a while to get my car, Teddy.”
“Sure thing. Evening, sir,” he said, nodding at Garrett who greeted him in return.
“My car is in front,” Garrett said, taking her arm.
“It’s a nice night. We can walk if you want,” she said, pleasantly aware of his height because she was taller than some men she knew and as tall as many.
“I saw you talking to Meg and Jason Trent. Jason said he leased property from you.”
“Yes, he’s a good tenant,” he said. “They like your art.”
“I’ve had a gratifying response from people,” she said.
They entered the bright hotel lobby, then the darkened bar where a pianist played a ballad for couples who were dancing.
Garrett got a booth with a small lamp at the end of the table. It spilled a golden glow over his fascinating features, highlighting his prominent cheekbones and leaving the planes of his cheeks in dark shadows. She felt breathless again, a steady hum of excitement that she couldn’t explain.
They ordered drinks—a cold beer for him and an iced soda for her. When they came, he raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s