Page 11 of Paw Inspiring (Paranormal Dating Agency #86)
TEN
H eat crawled up Meara’s neck. “I don’t?—”
“Save the innocent act for someone who didn’t watch you two generate enough electricity to power Manhattan.” Frenchy adjusted her dress strap. “And speaking of power surges...”
The gallery door opened on a gust of autumn air that stirred the roses. Meara turned, drawn by some primal instinct, and there he stood. Artek commanded the doorway like he owned it, his custom suit doing illegal things to his shoulders while his presence scattered her thoughts like leaves in a storm. That untamed energy still simmered beneath his controlled surface, making her pulse skip and dance.
His friend Trey followed, saying something that made Artek’s lips quirk. But Meara barely registered it. Artek’s eyes had found her across the room, that molten hazel gaze igniting every nerve ending in her body.
“Sweet mother of modern art.” Frenchy clutched his chest. “If you two don’t stop eye-mapping each other’s DNA, we’re going to need industrial-strength fire extinguishers.”
“Frenchy!”
“What? I’m just saying, the way he’s looking at you could melt steel beams. My carefully arranged cheese display is about to spontaneously fondue.”
Heat bloomed across Meara’s cheeks as Artek approached, his predatory grace parting the crowd without effort. Up close, his presence hit even harder. That woodsy scent wrapped around her while his slight smile sent her stomach performing an interpretive dance.
“Ms. Adams.” His voice still carried that thunder rumble. “Remarkable work.”
“Thank you, Mr. Riggs.” Two could play the formal game. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” His eyes traced her face like he was memorizing details for a master class. “Especially after such an... electrifying introduction last week.”
Frenchy swooped past, stage-whispering, “The UST is making my hair frizz! Someone call FEMA!”
Meara bit back a laugh, grateful for the tension break. But when she looked back at Artek, his expression had softened into something dangerous—a hint of genuine warmth beneath the brooding exterior that made her knees threaten mutiny.
The evening whirled into a tornado of sales and congratulations. Artek bought Storm’s Edge for a sum that made Meara’s accountant probably faint somewhere, while Gerri Wilder’s purchase of another piece for her charity auction triggered a buying spree that left most of the collection with “SOLD” tags.
But through it all, Meara’s attention ping-ponged between Betsy’s quiet corner and Artek’s magnetic presence. He moved through the crowd like a jungle cat in Armani, his eyes finding her every time she glanced his way. The air crackled whenever they stood close, making coherent conversation nearly impossible.
“Girl.” Frenchy materialized periodically to whisper commentary. “The way that man tracks you around the room, I’m pretty sure he’s got your GPS coordinates memorized.”
And later: “If his voice gets any deeper, we’re going to need seismic monitoring equipment.”
And: “Security CEO? More like Security SEE ME ACROSS A CROWDED ROOM AND SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST.”
Finally, as the crowd thinned, Betsy beckoned her over.
“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.” Her grandmother’s voice had grown softer lately, but her eyes still sparkled. “You’ve created something magnificent here.”
“Thanks to you.” Meara knelt beside the chair, squeezing Betsy’s delicate hand. “You’re the one who bought me my first easel, remember? Who let me paint all over your garden fence.”
“And a lovely abstract it was.” Betsy smiled. “Though the neighbors did question my decorating choices. Mrs. Tribble thought I’d joined an avant-garde cult.”
They laughed together, but Meara’s throat tightened at how tired Betsy looked. “You should head home, get some rest. Ora and I can?—”
“Don’t fuss.” Betsy patted her cheek. “I’m fine. Just need my beauty sleep before I start planning your next showing.”
“Grandma...”
“I love you, dear. So much.” Betsy’s eyes grew misty. “Thank you for making an old woman’s dreams come true.”
Meara hugged her carefully, breathing in the familiar lavender scent. “I love you too. More than anything.”
After Ora helped Betsy to the car, Artek materialized beside Meara like a very attractive shadow. “Have dinner with me.”
It wasn’t quite a question. Heat pooled in her stomach at his commanding tone, but reality crashed back in. “I can’t. Not yet. I need a few days to wrap things up here, and Betsy...”
Understanding flickered in his eyes. “Another time, then.”
He left with a last scorching look that promised this wasn’t over. Meara sagged against the wall, overwhelmed by everything—the successful show, Betsy’s decline, the magnetic pull toward a man who set her blood on fire with a single glance.
“Well!” Frenchy appeared with cleaning supplies. “That was quite a show. And I don’t just mean the art.”
“Don’t start.”
“Oh honey, I’m just warming up.” He began gathering empty glasses. “You and Commander Smolder? That’s a romance novel waiting to happen. Your kids would probably come out of the womb color-coordinated and able to hack the Pentagon.”
Despite everything, Meara laughed. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m a prophet. Speaking of prophecies—did you see how he watched you all night? Like you’re his own personal Da Vinci Code, and he’s got a PhD in Meara Studies.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“But accurate! The man practically growled every time someone monopolized your attention. I think three art critics wet themselves when he did that thing with his eyebrows.”
They cleaned in comfortable silence until Frenchy spoke again, softer this time. “You know it’s okay to let someone in, right? Even with everything else going on. Maybe especially then.”
Meara stacked empty boxes, considering his words. “I know. I just... need time.”
“Take all the time you need.” Frenchy hugged her. “But when you’re ready, that man will move heaven and earth for you. Pretty sure he’s got an app for that.”
“Good night, Frenchy.”
“Sweet dreams! Try not to dream too much about our favorite security titan who looks at you like you’re the Mona Lisa and he’s got trust issues with smiles!”
Meara smiled all the way home, Artek’s business card still burning a hole in her clutch. Maybe Frenchy had a point. Maybe, when things settled down...