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A pair of strong hands slid beneath her arms and lifted her to her feet.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he reached for her shopping bag.
“Yes. I think so,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. She brushed the wet snow from her coat. “Thank you.”
“Maybe you need to hold on to something,” he said, a light chuckle in his deep voice. He took her hand and hooked it in the crook of his arm, drawing her close to the warmth of his body. He patted her leather-covered hand. “I wouldn’t want to see you get knocked over by another senior citizen.”
She looked up at him and he was smiling. The corners of his mouth were lifted to a perfect angle, revealing just a hint of even, pearly white teeth. His eyes crinkled at the corners and seemed to sparkle with a boyish mischief that made her stomach suddenly quiver. It was the sexiest smile she’d ever seen.
He stuck out his arm and like a magician made a cab appear.
“Come on.” He opened the door and helped her inside before easing in next to her.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked, inching away from the curb.
The windshield wipers licked furiously against the driving snow, offering only split seconds of visibility.
Desiree turned to her knight in black cashmere. “I’m going to 22nd Street and 7th Avenue.”
“Really? There’s a building that I’m looking to buy over there.” He settled back in the cab and dusted the snow from his coat.
“You’re buying a building?” she asked incredulously. The only people she knew who bought whole buildings were in the newspapers and on TV dramas.
“You sound surprised or skeptical. I can’t tell.”
He grinned, and this time Mother Nature didn’t stand between her and that smile. Her heart lurched in her chest.
Desiree dipped her head for a moment. “I wouldn’t say skeptical, maybe surprised.”
He folded his hands on his lap. “Tell me why.”
His gaze was so direct and penetrating that she imagined he could read her thoughts as easily as strip her naked with only a simple look.
Desiree swallowed and blinked away the vision. “It’s just that I don’t know many—well, any—black folks who own buildings other than their homes.”
“That’s one of the best-kept secrets,” he joked.
“I know I must sound naive, but…”
“Not at all. Like I said, it’s a pretty common belief. But the truth is, there are hundreds of black real estate owners.”
“So what do you do with these buildings?” she asked, genuinely interested.
“Some of them I rehab and sell. Others I keep.”
“How many do you have?”
“Six.”
Her eyes widened. “A regular Donald Trump.”
He laughed. “I have a long way to go. By the way, my name is Lincoln Davenport.”
“Desiree Armstrong.”
He stuck out his hand and Desiree placed hers in it, and when his fingers closed around hers a flood of heat shot through her like a good brandy.
“Pleasure,” he uttered.
The deep vibration of his voice sent a shiver up her spine and it had nothing to do with the bone-numbing cold.
“So what do you do?”
“I paint.”
“For a living?”
She giggled. “If that’s what you want to call it. But my teaching is what actually pays the bills.”
“Ah, the starving artist in person. So tell me, why do you paint?”
For a moment she was taken aback. She’d never been asked why she painted, only what.
She took a breath and turned to him. “For as long as I can remember, there were images running around in my head. I could see things in the ordinary that others couldn’t. And the images and colors nag at me, compel me to bring them to life. When I paint or sculpt, it’s as if I’m transported, driven. It fuels me with energy, an ongoing passion. I…don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t create.”
“Wow. I’m sold.”
She lowered her head, embarrassed for gushing like a schoolgirl. “I must sound like an idealistic nut.”
“No, you sound like someone who truly loves what she does. That’s rare.”
Suddenly the cab swerved to the right, tossing Desiree against Lincoln’s hard chest.
Instinctively he grabbed her. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said with that wicked sparkle in his eyes.
Her breath skidded in her chest as she realized her mouth was inches away from his.
“Sorry about that, folks,” the cabbie said, breaking the magic spell in concert with a knock on the door.
* * *
Desiree shook her head, and that snowy afternoon was replaced by warmth and green.
“Just a moment.” She went to the door and opened it.
“I know I shouldn’t be here…”
She took his hand. “Come in, Lincoln.”
Chapter 10
Rachel took her glass of white wine and went into her home office to check her messages. She was expecting an overseas call from one of her jewelry suppliers, and the call was already two days late. Any further delay with this shipment was going to cause her major problems with her clients. She’d make sure never to use this supplier again.
She set her wineglass down on the desk and depressed her messages-waiting button.
“This better be you, Javier,” she muttered.
The last person she expected to hear from was Cynthia. She frowned as she listened to the message.
Damn. Well, if she had anything to do with it, Carl wouldn’t get anywhere near Desiree. The last thing she needed now was to be hassled by Carl. Rachel could never understand how Desiree allowed herself to get so deeply involved with him anyway.
She knew part of it was Desiree’s determination to make it in the art world despite her breakup with Lincoln. It was her way of showing him that she could survive without him, and also of putting her pain behind her. But she hadn’t succeeded on either score. Not really. She’d merely existed through her work. Now she didn’t even have that.
Rachel took a sip of her wine. But now that opportunity had stepped in and brought them back together, maybe Desiree would finally come to her senses and put the past behind her for good and move into the future—with Lincoln.
Rachel picked up the phone and called Cynthia.
* * *
“Have a seat,” Desiree said as she shut the door.
Lincoln stepped in and turned to her.
“Desi, we really need to talk.”
“I know,” she said softly.
She crossed the room and sat at the foot of the bed.
“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable staying here. If my presence bothers you I’ll leave until you check out.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
He took a breath and asked the question that had been nagging at him.
“Why did you decide to come here of all places?”
“To be truthful, it wasn’t my choice.” She paused. “Rachel found it. I had no idea this was your place and neither did she. Although for a minute there I swore she did. You know Rachel,” she said not unkindly.
They chuckled with the knowledge of Rachel’s true feelings about their breakup and her one-woman campaign to get them back together.
Lincoln traced and retraced his steps across the floor before finally sitting down. He braced his forearms on his hard thighs and leaned slightly forward.
“How have you been, Desi?” he asked with genuine concern. “I mean, really.” His eyes probed hers.
“Getting better,” she said on a whispered breath. She looked away.
“What do you mean…getting better?”
Desiree inhaled deeply and straightened her shoulders, then slowly told him what had happened, at least parts of it. She left out the part about her losing everything, that she was still afraid to go to sleep, that she couldn’t paint, that all she had left in the world was a meager savings account and her car and that she owed Carl Hampton thousands of dollars.
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