Troy couldn’t help himself, though. He had to go to that book signing. His supplier dinner could definitely take place in July.
But first, there was Gareth’s gallery showing, where he would once again see Michaela Killian. And her plus-one.
Troy was aware the moment Michaela arrived at the gallery. He swore he could smell her breezy scent and pick up the soft tones of her voice even in this crowd.
His worst fear was that she’d be hanging on the arm of a handsome man who was perfect for her. The plus-one she’d asked to bring.
He’d never been the dueling kind, but for her, he’d consider it.
Like ripping off a bandage instead of peeling it back slowly, he turned.
For a long moment, she was hidden in the packed gallery as patrons moved from painting to painting, viewing, absorbing, buying, and sipping the plentiful champagne.
Gareth Tate was a master painter; anyone could see that now, though he’d hidden his talent behind a lawyer’s façade for ten years. Troy had already put money down on an image of three male divers ready to hit the water. Troy might have been the inspiration—after all, Gareth had known him during his Olympic diving days—but the young men were indistinguishable except for their form, which Gareth had captured precisely. Troy had to have the painting for his home. It reminded him of his glory days, with Dirk Pendergast and all his diving buddies. The camaraderie, the striving for a goal, fans falling quiet as he stood high on the board, then jumping to their feet and screaming when he plunged into the water after a perfectly executed dive.
He’d never lost his need to strive toward a goal, but now that goal was his sporting goods business, as well as inspiring young people to be the best they could be. Whenever he traveled for business, he always set up speaking gigs, talking to youths, inspiring them to have a goal, showing them by example that they could accomplish whatever they strove for.
Then the crowd parted. It was as if a spotlight shone on Michaela rather than the paintings. Troy’s heart flipped over.
Michaela Killian was stunning in a flirty black cocktail dress with a flared skirt that seemed to swish around her luscious thighs. Don’t think about her thighs. The lights caught glittering jewels along the neckline, which plunged low, enough to make him sweat at the sight of her cleavage. Spaghetti straps bared her shoulders, her throat.
He had the urge to kiss every inch of her exposed skin.
But it was her high heels that did him in. His heart pounded hard enough to make him feel lightheaded.
Then he saw her plus-one.
And he thanked God he wouldn’t have to challenge anyone to a duel tonight.
The woman beside her was obviously her mother, with the same luscious dark hair, though the older lady’s was shot through with an attractive silver. Her black sheath dress, also trimmed with jewels around the neckline, outlined a form as delightful as her daughter’s. He could even make out the sparkle in green eyes the exact shade of Michaela’s.
He made a beeline for his special guest and her mother.
Before Michaela could react, he took her hands in his, the feel of her warm skin as sensual as the thought of her lips on his body. “Hey, Mikey, I hope you like it.”
Her eyes widened. She didn’t laugh. And his heart whispered, Please, please, please, have a sense of humor.
It was her mother who laughed and got the reference to the old-time commercial with a little boy named Mikey. Like her daughter’s, her voice was a melody as she said, “You’re far too young to remember that commercial.”
He shrugged, held out his hand, and said, “I love old-time TV. I even know who Mr. Whipple is.”
The woman laughed as she shook his hand. “I’m Flo Killian. Mr. Whipple is a bit before my time, but I do know of him.” Then she whispered, “Please don’t squeeze the Charmin.”
They laughed together. Until Michaela broke in. “My name’s Michaela, not Mikey.” Then, without cracking a smile, she added, “and it’s not Mr. Whipple either.”
Wow. Was that a trace of humor leaking through? He could only hope. But he said, “I thought it was only Mick you didn’t like.”
She scowled. “I’m not partial to Mikey either.”
Could that be a smile flirting at the corners of her pretty lips? He sure as hell prayed it was.
Then he set about introducing the ladies to everyone in the gallery.
Chapter Three
Gareth Tate’s gallery showing was a who’s who from San Francisco all the way down to Monterey Bay, including Silicon Valley.
Troy had sent a limousine—complete with a bottle of the best champagne—to pick up Michaela and Flo at the townhouse and drive them down to Carmel. And now he was squiring them around the gallery, making introductions. Though Michaela had dealt with a lot of billionaires through her work, this was different. She had to admit to being a bit bowled over by the number of amazing artists. Troy introduced them to Charlie Ballard and Sebastian Montgomery, who were both renowned for their work, Charlie as a metal sculptor and Sebastian for his ink drawings. Michaela had read in the gossip columns that they’d recently been married in Las Vegas.