Measure of a Man Page 6

  “Black,” he answered.

  Surprised, she glanced over her shoulder, but found him staring at her bottom. Typical.

  “Cornel Dyson is a good friend of mine. I was surprised by his referral. Usually, he’s very protective of newly discovered talent. How did you two meet?” she asked, pouring his coffee.

  Carver laughed. “My best friend pulled him over for a traffic violation and then recognized his name from some feature in Creative Loafing.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. It’s a pretty popular paper. They cover a lot of art stuff in Atlanta.”

  She returned to the table and handed him his cup. “You’re telling me that Cornel referred you to me because he—”

  “He was trying to get out of a speeding ticket.”

  Peyton was going to kill Dyson. He never met with Carver, he just pawned him off on her. After taking a deep breath, she was determined to remain professional. “So, you say you’re from Atlanta?”

  “Actually, I live in Marietta. It’s a suburb of the city.”

  Peyton settled back into her chair, feeling grateful that she had successfully maneuvered away from last night’s shenanigans to a safer topic. “I have a brother in Decatur. Are you far from there?”

  “Actually, I used to work out in Decatur. It’s about thirty-five, forty miles from me.”

  “Yikes, that’s a distance.”

  “It’s not too bad. Everyone is pretty much used to traveling in that area.”

  “I doubt you know him. He’s pretty new there. Anyway, let’s get started. What did you bring for me, Mr. Carver?”

  “Please, call me Lincoln.” His onyx gaze held hers prisoner as he reached for his portfolio. “It’s what my friends call me.”

  Breathe. Just remember to breathe. “All right, then, Lincoln. Let’s see what you got.”

  He placed his portfolio onto the table and slid it over to her. “I hope that you like what you see,” he said.

  She lowered her gaze to the first black-and-white photo. Hell, I did that the minute you walked through the door.

  “Why the smile?” he asked.

  “Hmm?” She glanced up and forced her best innocent look.

  “You were smiling.” Amusement sparkled in his eyes and hugged his lips.

  Damn, he’s sexy. “Nothing. I like this.” She returned her attention to the photographs. The images of the iron sculptures were quite good. Actually, they were outstanding.

  “How long have you been doing this?” she inquired.

  Lincoln braided his fingers and looked along with her as she turned the pages. “Twelve or thirteen years. It’s pretty much been a hobby.”

  Peyton leaned in to study the photographs and couldn’t help but be impressed. She was also beginning to feel a familiar bubble of excitement. In her mind she was already running through a list of dealers and museums that would be interested in some of the pieces.

  “What are you wearing?” he asked suddenly.

  “Huh?” She glanced over at him. Her heart leaped at his closeness.

  “Your perfume. I’m trying to place it. It’s soft, clean—”

  “It’s soap.”

  He blinked. “Well, it…uh, suits you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, struggling to keep a straight face. Her gaze traveled back to his work. “How many shows have you done?” she asked.

  “Shows?” Lincoln threw his head back and laughed.

  The rich vibrato of his laughter instantly had her twitching in her seat. How in the world was this man doing all these things to her when he hadn’t so much as laid a finger on her?

  “I’ve never done a show,” he said. “But does this mean you think they’re good?”

  She reached for her coffee and took a sip while she weighed her words. “Art is a funny business,” she began. “One of the most frustrating things is that it’s also very subjective.”

  “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure?”

  “Something like that.” She smiled.

  As their gazes locked again, Lincoln folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “What do you see—trash or treasure?”

  She immediately sensed that he wasn’t talking about his work. Their eyes met again and her body’s wires threatened to short-circuit. And yet, she managed to remain calm. “I see a man with a lot of potential.”

  Lincoln nodded. “Do you see yourself accepting my invitation to dinner?”

  “Dinner?” She shifted in her chair and fought like hell to prevent the corners of her lips from curling into a smile.

  “We both have to eat,” he said. “And with this being my first time in New York, I don’t know my way around town. Maybe you can help me in that department?”

  “You found 2i’s pretty good.”

  “I’d be willing to go back if you’d go with me.” He shrugged. “Maybe we can finally get that dance together.”

  Despite the temptation, Peyton laughed and shook her head. “We’re supposed to be talking about business.”

  “We can talk about business tonight. You can tell me then if you’ve decided to represent me.”

  Her eyes fell back to the photographs. They were good. “Truth is, I already have plans for tonight.”

  “Break them.”

  She laughed. “I can’t break them.”

  Lincoln leaned forward on his arms. “And why not? I can tell you want to have dinner with me.”

  She continued to be amused by him. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re turned off by a confident man?”

  “Confident or arrogant?” she challenged.

  “Are you sure you’re qualified to tell the difference?”

  “Qualified?” She blinked and forced out a laugh, cringing at just how hollow it sounded.

  Lincoln’s smile widened. “How about a test?”

  Peyton’s brows lifted.

  “A small test. If you pass, then you’re off the hook and you don’t have to have dinner with me tonight.”

  “I don’t have to do that, anyway.”

  “But if you fail,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard her, “it’s Citarella’s. You and me.”

  “I thought you didn’t know anything about New York?”

  “I read about it somewhere.” He winked. “So what do you say?”

  “About what—taking a test? I don’t want to take your silly test.”

  “Forfeit counts as a failure.”

  She rolled her eyes. “There you go being arrogant again. Has it occurred to you that I simply don’t want to go out with you? Not all women go for the…muscular, tall, dark—”

  “And handsome type?” He smiled. “Yeah, I heard there was an underground movement of women seeking out short, morbidly obese, ugly men.”

  “You’re not funny,” she said with a deadpan expression.

  “So charming is off your list, too?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Lincoln shrugged and held up his hands in surrender. “I think you’re right. We shouldn’t go out. I can already tell you’re a bit on the high-maintenance side.” He flipped another page of the portfolio. “So back to my work.”

  “I am not high maintenance,” she retorted.

  Lincoln looked up while another shrug tugged his shoulders. “If you say so.” He returned his attention back to the pictures. “Now, this is one of my earlier works—”

  “I wouldn’t have any proble
ms dating a…heavyset guy,” she huffed. “And there’s nothing wrong with dating someone who isn’t GQ material, either. In fact, I find pretty boys to be…”

  “Arrogant,” he filled in for her.

  “Exactly!”

  His eyes narrowed. “You know what my problem is with your type?”

  “My type?”

  “Too judgmental.”

  “Judgmental?”

  “Do you always repeat everything someone says? You’re starting to sound like a parrot.”

  “A parr—” She clamped her mouth shut.

  Lincoln leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I bet you try to put everyone in a box. ‘He’s attractive, so I can’t go out with him. He’s too confident, so I can’t go out with him.’” He shook his head. “High maintenance.”

  “Mr. Carver, I don’t think I’ll be able to represent you.”

  “I agree,” he said, seemingly unruffled by her announcement. “You don’t strike me as the type who’s capable of separating business and pleasure.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Rattled by his obvious disbelief, she ranted on, “I assure you, Mr. Carver, I’m a complete professional.”

  “So,” he began, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling as if considering a hypothetical scenario. “If we were in a passionate, intimate, personal affair…”

  “It would never infringe or disrupt our business relationship.”

  His onyx gaze centered on her. “Prove it. Have dinner with me tonight.”

  She laughed. “Nice try.” She crossed her arms and studied him. “You’re a tricky little devil, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged with an easy smile. “I thought a little reverse psychology would help my case. I’m interested, and everything in my body tells me that you are, too.”

  She started to deny it, but stopped. She was attracted to him—very attracted. “One date?”

  “Just one,” he said.

  Peyton drew a deep breath and considered him. He was different, there was no doubt about that. And he was definitely a man who knew how to take charge. She liked that, but it was his arrogance that disturbed her the most. “All right, Mr. Carver. You’re on.” What was she saying? The man had called her a parrot. “Meet me tonight in the lobby at eight o’clock.” She slowly stood up and closed the portfolio.

  “It’s a date.” He smiled.

  Peyton turned and walked toward the door. “Do try not to be late.” She tossed him a smile over her shoulder and slipped out the door.

  Once she was in the hallway, her smile disappeared as she blazed a trail toward the elevator. “I must be out of my mind.”

  She pressed the down button on the elevator and waited. “He’s just going to be like all the others.”

  “I’m sensing that your heart isn’t in this.”

  Peyton jumped and swiveled toward the velvety baritone. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”

  “My apologies.” Lincoln frowned. “You know we don’t have to go out.”

  The elevator arrived.

  “So what do I get if you forfeit?”

  They stepped into the small compartment.

  Lincoln shrugged. “Fine. We’ll go out, but do try to sound more excited about it. You’re starting to give me a complex.”

  Peyton punched for the thirtieth floor. “We wouldn’t want that.”

  “I have a feeling this is going to be an interesting date,” he said calmly.

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  He laughed. “Do you always have to have the last word?”

  She chuckled along with him. “Do you?”

  “Oh, boy. What have I gotten myself into?”

  “You know what I hate about your type?” she challenged, with a painted-on smile. “You can’t appreciate a woman with a good head on her shoulders. You think everyone wants you just because you’re good-looking. Well, I’m not impressed. I prefer a man with a little more substance than—”

  Lincoln kissed her.

  And it was no ordinary kiss, none like she’d ever experienced, anyway. His lips were soft, but his mouth was hard—hungry. His tongue delved into her mouth and destroyed her every wall of defense with smooth skillful strokes.

  The portfolio dropped to the floor, freeing her arms so they could glide gently around his broad shoulders.

  Was that her moaning? Please, say I have a little more dignity than that. She didn’t.

  She felt small and yet protected in his embrace. Before now, only her father had ever made her feel protected. How strange for her to think of that now. Just when her mind had acclimated to staying cocooned against him, the elevator stopped and the doors slid open.

  Lincoln lifted his head and ended the kiss. “I believe this is your floor.”

  “What?” she questioned through a clouded haze.

  “Your floor.”

  His arms slid away and she missed them immediately. “Huh? Yeah.” She stepped back and nearly fell when her legs failed to support her.

  “Whoa.” His arms returned to prevent her from taking a nasty spill. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” she whispered and ran a hand through her hair. “I’m just fine.”

  The doors started to close and Lincoln released her to block them.

  Peyton used the time to grab the portfolio off the floor and compose herself. “Well,” she said, unable to meet his eyes. “I guess I’ll see you tonight, then?”

  “Eight o’clock,” he confirmed.

  She nodded while her lips trembled through an awkward smile. “See you tonight.” She stepped out of the small compartment with her head held too high.

  “Ms. Garner?”

  “Yes?”

  A wide smile broke beneath his twinkling gaze as he stepped back into the compartment. “You’re a great kisser.”

  The doors slid closed.

  Peyton slumped back against the wall and whispered, “You’re not so bad your damn self.”

  Chapter 9

  Lincoln twirled his silver cane as he strolled down the crowded sidewalks of Manhattan. Like last night, he was able to suppress all feelings of pain in his leg, while his thoughts focused on Ms. Garner. What man wouldn’t like that kind of spice in his life? he mused.

  By the time he returned to his hotel, he was floating on cloud nine and singing R. Kelly’s “Your Body’s Callin’” aloud.

  “Hey, man.” Tyrone’s voice boomed behind him. “You’re back already?”

  Lincoln flashed his friend, who was dressed head to toe in New York Yankees memorabilia, a smile as they both stopped in the elevator bay.

  “So, how did it go?” Tyrone asked.

  “Better than I could ever have expected.”

  “That good, huh? Does that mean we’re about to be big ballers now?”

  “We?” Lincoln laughed. “What is this ‘we’ crap?”

  The men stepped into an empty elevator.

  “Oh, it’s like that now?” Tyrone said, bobbing his head. “You’re not going to hook a brother up for discovering you?”

  Lincoln pressed the button for their floor. “Get a hold of yourself. I went to meet an agent, not a buyer. Hell, there’s no guarantee that I’ll ever make any money at this.”

  “You better if you’re thinking about leaving the fire department. You’re too old to be a starving artist.”

  “I have a
little saved up.”

  Tyrone shook his head. “And when that’s all gone?”

  “I’ll manage,” Lincoln said, but he was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Did he have enough saved up? Would he ever sell anything? “I thought you came to be my moral support?”

  “I did. I am.”

  “Then how come I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack? I was fine until you started grilling me.” He pressed his palm against his forehead. “I have about sixty thousand in the bank and—”

  “Sixty? Hot damn. What bank did you knock over?”

  Arriving at their floor, they stepped out of the elevator.

  “It’s called being frugal, my friend,” Lincoln said. “Live beneath one’s means, as my father likes to preach.”

  Tyrone rolled his eyes. “Like father like son.”

  “Please don’t say that.” Lincoln slid his key card in the door and then entered the room. “I’m nothing like my father.”

  “If you say so.” Tyrone laughed. “I don’t know what’s the big deal. Your dad’s a pretty cool guy.”

  Lincoln sighed at the back and forth of the conversation. “Can we please just focus? You’ll never guess who P. J. Garner is.” He slowly lowered himself into a chair. The throb in his ankle had finally gotten his attention.

  “It’s someone you know?” Tyrone asked incredulously.

  “Not yet, but after tonight I will.”

  * * *

  “What are you so upset about?” Joey asked, watching Peyton storm around the room. “Did your meeting not go well?”

  “I’m not upset.” Peyton grabbed her carry-on bag and dug out a copy of the program for the night’s art show. “Great, it starts at eight o’clock. I’m going to be late.” She dropped onto the bed and tried to think of how she was going to manage to show up late for Yosa’s first show and also leave early. “What was I thinking, agreeing to go out with him tonight?” she mumbled.

  Joey sat next to her. “Go out with who?”

  “I wasn’t thinking,” Peyton whispered, and reviewed what had happened between her and Lincoln—all the way up to their departing kiss.

  “P.J., are you blushing?”