Obsession

“I have a buyer for your seascape.”

“Oh, thank God!” Roxy Shea declared to her broker, Meredith Brennan, who was on the other end of the cell phone call. “I accidentally moved to one of the most expensive towns on the planet. If I don’t drum up more business soon, the next time you talk to me, I will literally be a starved artist.”

Back in the day, skipping a few meals wouldn’t have killed her. With a great-grandmother and two great-aunts who’d been ’50s pinup girls—and every generation thereafter having inherited the family curves and boobs—Roxy could have afforded to shave a few inches off the hips and been no worse for the wear. That no longer proved to be the case.

She was also reaching the point where life in Bayfront, California was putting a huge strain on her bank account. But the view of the ocean was spectacular and the gorgeous town square rivaled Rodeo Drive, featuring a collection of upscale, awning-trimmed boutiques, galleries, wine bistros and bookstores. The latter being her preferred place to hang in between the art galleries unveiling new paintings for her to ooh and ahh over. Shopping wasn’t currently in the budget, but it was always entertaining to browse.

Best of all? Roxy’s ex-fiancé would never come looking for her here.

Meredith said, “I know you want to keep me in the dark as to where you actually are, for my safety as much as yours, but I do worry incessantly about you.”

“Please don’t. This little hideaway is better guarded than Fort Knox,” she quipped—though she also spoke the truth. “Cartier, Tiffany’s and Van Cleef & Arpels have made sure of it.”

As well as the elite populating the coastal community. The hillside overlooking the marina and the cove was dotted with sensational mansions and estates. Bayfront lay south of San Francisco and was adjacent to the wine country of River Cross and not far from Bliss Mountain. Havens for the rich and affluent.

Of which, she was neither. Roxy had only been passing through town on a scenic route up to Oregon when her used Fiat had crapped out on her. One night at a seaside B&B and she’d fallen in love with the sun, the surf and the endless blue skies. The freedom.

At first, she’d been leery of rubbing elbows with the upper-echelon again—having previously fled upstate New York and one particularly powerful group of high-society types before working her way across the country. But the West Coast was much more laid back and the residents, though still possessing anticipated eccentricities, were easy going and friendly. Also quite fascinating. Roxy had never been happier.

Though after just four months of living here, she was already strapped for cash.

Bringing her back to the topic at hand.

“So is this a done deal?” she asked of the seascape she’d painted as she wound her way through the throng of guests bidding on golf and spa packages, precious gems and other silent auction items at a fund-raising gala held on the event lawn of the estate owned by indie movie mogul Nicholas Faulkner.

“Minor glitch,” Meredith said in her smooth, cultured voice. She was a chic silver-haired woman who’d been a friend of Roxy’s since her art history days in college when Meredith had taught some of Roxy’s favorite classes.

She was a retired professor now, but repped Roxy’s and others’ oil paintings in her second-stage-of-life career. And it worked out beautifully for Roxy’s current scenario so that she could move around at will and still collect a paycheck.

Searching for a spot that offered more privacy for her conversation with Meredith, Roxy skirted a table where Devon McMillan and Morgan Presley, who co-owned the Bayfront Yacht Club, were apparently protecting a bid on a sapphire and diamond necklace for their girlfriend, Fallon Carteris.

Seth Lofton, who’d resuscitated the now Aspen-esque Bliss Mountain Ski Resort, and Noah Donovan, the hotel magnate building a high-end boutique resort down the coast from Bayfront, were also hovering close to a bidding sheet. This one for a week at the Four Seasons Maui. A cozy getaway for them and Sylvia Carter, their significant other.

Sylvia was a saucy redhead who often joked about the mystical element in the water that bred sexy alpha Bayfront billionaires or attracted them to the community. There was also a new trend on the rise in town—alternative lifestyles of the ménage à trois variety.

Roxy wasn’t exactly knowledgeable in the ways of the polyamorous, but her friends Fallon and Sylvia were both deeply in love with their men. Following some minor hiccups, the relationships now worked flawlessly.

More power to them, was Roxy’s motto.

She herself had no interest in hooking up with a guy, let alone a pair of them. And definitely not a one-percenter in an unfathomable tax bracket. Falling in love with a Richie Rich had bitten her in the butt—two years later, the wounds had yet to fully heal.

Besides, her most critical focus was on survival. Therefore, Meredith’s comment about a glitch in this latest sale did not bode well for Roxy.

She asked, “What’s the problem?”

“The buyer wants a full series of six paintings, not just the one of that particular scene.”

Roxy’s spirits sank. “You know I only do one-of-a-kinds per location.”

“Yes, but he happens to be a fan of the ocean and wants a collection for his office. He’s willing to pay three times above your normal asking price—times six pieces. Rox, you need the money and let’s face it, with no identifiable landmarks included, seascapes hardly pinpoint your immediate residence. You could be painting a sandy beach and palm trees in the South Pacific, Caribbean, Grand Cayman, Dominican Republic . . . or Hawaii or Mexico. The list goes on and on.”

She sighed. Meredith was right, of course. But Roxy’s paranoia ran deep where her ex was concerned. He’d made his first threat with his fist. Had followed that up by assuring her that if she left him, he would find her. He would always find her.

She could only hope and pray he’d long since given up on that mission.

Meredith helped to divert some of the ominous thoughts as she further pointed out, “Your artist name is nowhere near similar to your real name, so there’s no reason anyone would put two and two together. Including Tommy.”

A dark shiver rippled along Roxy’s spine. She simmered over how he’d terrorized her. How he’d turned her life upside down.

“I’m not trying to be difficult, Mere.”

“I know that. Believe me, I know that. But me brokering your artwork is your sole source of income at the moment.”

“And I greatly appreciate your assistance. As well as your discretion so that I never have to deal with the buyers and you arrange all the round-about courier services to get their purchased works to them. It just makes me nervous to leave any potential clues in my wake.”

“I understand. I’m sorry this is the situation you’re in, Rox. I hate it,” her friend said with conviction. “But I don’t want you homeless. So think about this over the weekend. Get back to me on Monday, okay?”

“Sure. I have to go now, anyway.” The live auction following a brief intermission was about to start and her donation was second up on the roster.

“Call me if you need anything else,” Meredith implored. “Including rent money.”

Roxy laughed, though it was fringed with emotion as she said, “I’m paid through the end of the month. Try not to stress over me.”

“I’d feel much better if we made a big sale.”

“Yeah. Me, too. In the meantime, go have dinner and drinks somewhere fabulous in Denver and put me out of your mind for now. I’m fine, Mere. I promise.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I always do.”

Roxy disconnected the call and slipped the phone into her small clutch that she tucked under her arm. The silent auction had closed and the major winners were being announced by the emcee on a makeshift stage overlooking the lawn where guests were seated at elegantly decorated rounds of ten. Some of the most decadent desserts and pastries in the world, created by internationally acclaimed chefs, were also being served.

The earlier dinner had been outstanding and Roxy was pretty damn certain the sweet treats would rock her world, too. But at the moment, she was concentrating on the gala’s main event. She’d donated a wine and canvas painting party for twelve to benefit tonight’s cause: women’s shelters in the inland communities that were more heavily populated with a much lower per capita income ratio than Bayfront.

A worthy charitable effort she was more than happy to contribute to and support. Had, in fact, worked with the committee to sell more tickets, particularly in neighboring River Cross wine country, as well as Sonoma and Napa.

As such, the organizers had offered Roxy a seat at one of the tables for a deeply discounted price and she’d willingly written the check, despite the financial setback. This was a concession she could certainly justify making.

It also provided the perfect opportunity for her to launch her new business, which she hoped would be a stable supplement to her sporadic income.

She needed to promote her fledgling company, but she did so while taking precautions, as she’d always done with Meredith. Case in point, tonight Roxy kept a keen eye out to ensure she didn’t end up in anyone’s pictures of the soiree, despite her significantly altered appearance—her short, platinum-blond hair (stylishly, messily chopped and dyed), her high cheekbones and pert nose (necessary plastic surgery given hairline fractures) and her bluish-violet eyes (colored soft contact lenses).

Also on her radar was adding a few pounds to her lithe frame, which had turned near gaunt while she was with Thomas Hamilton Horton, III. The trophy wives of his friends and colleagues—whom he’d insisted she spend her time with—had all been quiet, polished-to-the-nines stick figures. And unbeknownst to Roxy in the beginning, Tommy had wanted his own cookie-cutter replica.

It hadn’t been easy shoving her square peg into his round hole. Downright impossible, truth be told—precisely what had set him off to a horrifying degree.

And a damn good reason to avoid the snap-happy press this evening, keeping her exposure to the base, necessary amount. She figured having her company’s name and logo in the program and displayed on the big screens above the stage would go a long way in marketing the painting parties without her face being plastered anywhere.

So she relaxed a bit and from the perfect vantage point along the bluffs, Roxy simply soaked in the breathtaking vistas of the ocean sprawled beyond the cove, the white-capped waves glistening in the golden light of a full moon and the cloudless, star-studded sky.

Truly, she’d found bliss here. A gentle, balmy summer wind wafted along the coast and Roxy had a glass of bubbly in hand, the effervescence humming through her, chasing away her earlier disconcertment over the series of seascapes her new buyer requested.

“You’re missing the strawberry flambé, crêpes Suzette and a half-dozen other desserts,” came a male voice from alongside her—not startling her because she’d noticed his approach in her peripheral vision. She recognized him from the program as the benefactor of this evening’s venue, Nicholas Faulkner.

“However,” he continued, not missing a beat, “you have strategically positioned yourself in the pathway of a server with a full tray of champagne. Very clever. My kind of woman.”

Said server headed toward Roxy and she exchanged her empty glass for a fresh one. Then turned to the man with the deep, intriguing timbre.

He was tall and intense looking, with a thicket of lush onyx hair and the palest of green eyes set off by his tanned face. As were his pearly white teeth. His strong facial features commanded attention. So, too, did his dominant physical presence.

Roxy’s blood turned molten at the sight of him in the flesh. Not a reaction she was expecting.

Ignoring the sudden liquid heat flowing through her veins, she gave him an amiable smile and said, “Oh, I intend to partake in both the champagne and the desserts.” She’d paid for the indulgences, after all. “The wait staff has set mine aside so I can wave to the crowd when my company is announced during the live auction.”

“Then I’d better make our meet-and-greet a quick one so I don’t interrupt the festivities.” The studio mogul extended his hand to her. “Nick Faulkner. Welcome to the manor.”

“Thank you. It’s a beautiful property.” Roxy’s palm slid across his. Instantaneously, she experienced an arc of electricity—and saw the flicker of acknowledgement in Nick’s expression as well.

Her breath caught. His skin was wickedly hot and alluringly smooth. The simple touch evoked a flash of scintillating sensations that distracted her, making her usually preoccupied mind go blank while her nerve endings sizzled.

Apparently the high voltage had the same effect on Nick Faulkner, because sheer curiosity radiated from his piercing gaze and he didn’t say a word, didn’t release her hand. Just absorbed the moment with her.

Roxy eventually came around and attempted to shake off the searing vibrations. Somehow, she managed an even tone as she said, “I know who you are. I’m now a fan. Mostly of the fact that you’re so generously hosting this event. I confess to not having seen your productions. That I know of, that is.”

With a sexy grin that quirked one corner of his mouth, he said, “Now that’s a dose of unprecedented honesty. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who can’t name at least one of my films—and find the first opportunity to bring it up. Or to suck up,” he added with a wink.

Igniting another spark low in her belly. Her pulse jumped and Roxy choked back a gasp. She cleared her throat to cover the strangled sound.

Holy. Hell.

All of this was unprecedented—for her.

Roxy hadn’t responded to a man’s flirtation since she’d left New York in the rear view mirror. And at that, she’d never been jolted so powerfully.

Then again, she couldn’t recall meeting a man who emitted a mysterious and compelling vibe that perplexed her, set her the tiniest bit on-edge and enthralled her—in one fell swoop.

A hint of alarm caused her to gently pull her hand away. It occurred to Roxy that she should be wary of anyone who stood six foot three or four and was magnificently built with wide shoulders and chiseled muscles she could easily discern behind his tailored tux. Specifically with those well-defined pecs nearly straining against his black dress shirt.

She drew in a full breath to steady herself, then sipped her champagne to cool the innate flare of excitement and heightened awareness within her. And calm her snapping nerves.

Nick said, “You are positively stunning.” He still appeared riveted by their immediate chemistry. “Are you here alone?”

After another much-needed sip, she said, “I’m part of the committee. And I regret to say I’m not much of a moviegoer. Bookstores and art galleries are my thing, more so than theaters.”

“No apologies necessary. This evening isn’t about me or my studio. It’s about the shelters I’ve helped to construct over the past decade and the programs we’re collectively continuing to improve upon or develop from scratch in order to ensure battered and homeless women find safe havens and steady sources of income.”

Now her stomach twisted. This relevant cause hit close to home, so she could deeply appreciate Nick Faulkner’s interest in lending his support. “You’re not only generous, but also valiant.”

His prominent features hardened ever so slightly. “My mother was abused by her stepfather when she was a teenager. Her mother didn’t believe her—or accept the situation for what it was—and kicked her out of the house because she wasn’t willing to take a stand against her husband. My mom lived on the streets outside of Chicago for a while. Until she lobbied local businesses and built a shelter. Years later, she fell in love with and married a wealthy real estate investor and together they fund numerous foundations under the Faulkner name.”

“That’s amazing. I’ve never read that about your family—nor did anyone tell me.” And, quite frankly, she was surprised someone of Nick’s stature would relay his mother’s grim circumstances to a complete stranger. Though . . . this benefit was his plight, so it made sense that he’d tell his own story to better humanize the issue and ramp up the fund-raising efforts.

Nick said, “The Junior League ladies of Bayfront are also targeting homeless female veterans around the outskirts of L.A. and inland, among other nearby areas.”

“Yes. Sylvia Carter is a friend of mine—and sits on the Board of Directors. That’s how I heard of this event and volunteered my services. I don’t have a personal anecdote that relates to women’s shelters, but I certainly believe in their importance.”

Roxy had been blessed to have her own means stashed away so she could start anew after Tommy had tried to suppress her under his thumb with his violent outbursts. With his highly regarded influence, he’d had officials and politicos in his back pocket and Roxy hadn’t even believed that a restraining order would protect her. She’d had to save herself. Thus, she vehemently empathized with and wanted to help those who experienced something similar—women who had to run or die.

She told Nick, “Sylvia mentioned the veterans. I hadn’t known the problem was so prevalent.”

With a nod, he said, “A number of the female vets of this generation—of these recent wars—don’t consider themselves eligible for VA benefits. So they’ve depleted their own resources dealing with combat-related or military sexual trauma. Behavioral health issues. Other gender-specific conditions, including childbearing and rearing.”

“Clearly, you’re well attuned to the country’s pressing and gritty current affairs.”

He leaned in close—so that she inhaled his rich, sensual scent—and said, “You really ought to watch one of my movies.”

Christ, the man was drop-dead gorgeous, successful and socially conscious to boot.

Although it wasn’t his responsiveness to poli-social-econ climes that shocked her. It was the peculiar flutter inside her, which he so effortlessly elicited, that continually threw her for a loop.

She said, “I understand you’d need to have your finger on the pulse in order to keep your productions cutting edge. I suppose it’s that you’re so deep in the weeds that impresses me.”

“Definitely not a suck-up,” he mused.

“Not by any stretch.”

“And here you still haven’t told me your name.”

“Oh!” She laughed heartily—and marveled at how great it felt every time she did. “How rude of me. Roxy Shea. Local artist. Fairly new to the community.”

“How fortunate for us.” His nearly translucent, peridot-colored irises glowed warmly under the gilt-edged illumination of decorative lampposts and the twinkle lights wrapped around the trunks of palm trees. “Stunning and talented.”

“You don’t know that yet. I could just be a legend in my own mind.”

He chuckled, low and deep. A sound that rumbled along her spine in the most delicious way. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“I guess we’re about to find out.”

The emcee was announcing her company and her donation. His assistants presented some of her sample works on stage and he provided the details of what she was offering for auction.

“That’s my cue,” she said. She gave a friendly wave to the guests when the emcee introduced her, then discretely stepped to the side so that Nick’s hulking body shrouded her as a precaution.

His brow crooked. “You hardly strike me as the shy type.”

“Not shy. Just humble.”

And hiding out.

Interesting how she had to remind herself of that fact. Nick Faulkner did not make it easy to focus on anything other than his smoldering gaze and seductive grin.

He said, “And you are apparently as talented as I’d assumed, because the bidding is off to a lively start.” His smile deepened as he added, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Roxy Shea. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other. In fact, I’ll make a point of it.” He turned on his heels and sauntered off.

Leaving Roxy breathless and burning from head to toe.

And that was not a good thing…