He was ready for either, and unbelievably, he found himself steeling his heart against the sound of her voice. If her voice in any way matched the sultry welcome of her whiskey-colored eyes, he was doomed.
“Hi,” she said.
It did. He felt the slam-dunk with just one word.
“I’m Suzi Toussi.” She held out her hand, and like an idiot, he took it, shook it, and didn’t let go- so she did it for him, retrieving her hand and giving him a very small, very aware smile that said she got hit on every day of the week and twice on Sundays. “Thanks for coming to the showing. Are you familiar with Nikki’s work?”
“No.” He looked around the gallery and changed his mind. “Maybe.” Some of the stuff looked familiar. The paintings were all angels like on the postcard, but the full divine being, instead of just the partial view used on the invitation. Even a quick look around showed that the artist had a couple of models she used a lot, one guy with long blond hair, and a guy with short dark hair, and from the looks of some of the paintings, sometimes she put them through hell.
“She did the Brad Pitt cover of Esquire magazine a few years ago. You might have seen it.”
Probably not. He didn’t keep up with the Pittster.
“Suzi,” he said, bringing his attention back to her face, especially her eyes, and there was a correction on the color. Whiskey didn’t quite cover it. They were darker than Scotch, richer, with a warm undertone of amber, and like everything else about her, they had an elegance that defied comparison.
He hadn’t seen anyone like her, not anywhere, and he’d seen a lot of women. They were kind of a hobby with him, which he knew didn’t throw him in a very good light, but it did give him a certain expertise, and one thing he knew beyond doubt was that God made women like her for only one reason-to hurt men, to break their hearts and hurt them where they lived, which for Dax, currently, was just a little south of his belt buckle.
“So the gallery is yours?” Her name was on it- Toussi.
“Used to be.” The luscious Suzi Toussi smiled. “Now I’m just the hired help.”
“And what do you do when you’re not hired to help out here? Take care of Mr. Toussi?” It wasn’t fishing. He was dragging the ocean floor with a steel net.
“Mr. Toussi lives in San Francisco with Mrs. Toussi, and they manage to take care of each other without too much interference from me.”
“Only child?”
“Two sisters and a brother,” she said, obviously chatting him up, still so professional. She wasn’t giving away anything… not yet.
He grinned. “I bet they were glad to get the boy.”
She arched a delicate eyebrow. “In my experience, boys are nothing but trouble, but I bet you already knew that.”
His grin broadened.
“So why did you sell out?” he asked. “This place looks like the place to be.”
“I got an offer I couldn’t refuse,” she said, so cool.
“Early retirement and all that, but keeping your hand in on the side?”
“Not quite.” The barest flicker of humor passed through her gaze, and he was all but hypnotized with curiosity. “So, Mister…?”
“Killian, Dax Killian.”
“Dax,” she repeated. “That’s an unusual name.”
“Daniel Axel,” he explained. “About seventh grade, it got slammed together and stuck.”
“I see, Dax.” Her smile returned, perfectly professional, which simply wasn’t going to do, not for him, not with her. “We have wine and escabeche and some other very nice… canapés and hors d’oeuvres for your pleasure. Feel free to look around, and if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me, or one of my assistants. There are two or three still running about. Oh, just a moment.” She lifted her hand and waved someone over.
Dax followed the gesture, and if his heart hadn’t already been stolen, he might have been susceptible to the young woman heading in their direction.
Sweet lovin’ Patsy. He’d never thought of a sweater dress as summerwear, but when it was cobalt blue, sleeveless, low-cut, and barely covered a very cute butt, he was going sweaters for summer. Yeah, sweaters and curves-slinky, slender curves, not like the lush, auburn-haired bombshell on his right.
“Jane,” Suzi said, when the girl reached them. “This is Mr. Killian. He’s interested in Nikki’s work. Will you show him around, please?”
“My pleasure.” Jane had silky dark hair falling straight to her shoulders, freckles and a small scar across the bridge of her nose, a wild pixie face, and the palest green eyes he’d ever seen. She also had a small scar along her left cheekbone, which in no way detracted from her beauty. If anything, it made her even more exotic-looking.
Esme was right. He needed to spend more time in Denver. He wasn’t keeping up, especially in the old neighborhood. The chop shop where he’d moonlighted as a teenager wasn’t too far north of the gallery, home of hot women and amazing angels.
“Thank you, Jane,” Suzi said, then turned to him with another blindingly gorgeous smile. “Mr. Killian, my head assistant, Jane Linden, and my pleasure.”
Given half a chance, he thought, watching her walk away.
“Mr. Killian,” Jane said at his side.
“Dax,” he offered, getting his mind back on his business, and he did have business here.
“Dax.” The younger woman smiled with all the professional courtesy of her boss and gestured toward the far corner of the room. “We can start where Nikki McKinney started, with the Ascending Angel series. She was only sixteen when she won the prestigious Cooper-Lansdowne competition, which was the beginning of her brilliant career. She’s had a meteoric rise in the art world since her first showing at Toussi when she was twenty-one, the youngest artist to ever have a solo show here, or at our sister gallery in Los Angeles.”
“I can see why.” The longer he looked at the paintings, the more intrigued he became. He pulled the invitation out of his back pocket. “I actually came here with a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” the beautiful girl said.
Dax smiled back. “Well, I have a little sister, about your age, I guess, and she’s been corresponding with this guy who asked her to meet him here tonight, for this party, this showing, and I thought-well, I thought I better meet him first. From the invitation, it seemed like the artist knows him. Nikki McKinney wrote him a note on the card.” He handed the postcard over, address side up, so Jane would see it right off.
The girl took one look and let out a laugh, her cultivated, professional smile turning into a real grin.
“Johnny,” she said, looking up and meeting his gaze, her green eyes alight. “Johnny Ramos. Come on over here, and I’ll introduce you, so to speak.”
She started weaving a path through the crowd, and Dax followed, curiosity warring with concern. Easy wasn’t here. If she’d made it this far, she would have called him. And if Easy wasn’t here, he didn’t want to be meeting John Ramos in this room. The kid had decked Kevin Harrell with a single punch back when he and Easy were in school, and Dax wanted the guy with those instincts to be with her at Nachman’s.
Dax didn’t think Isaac Nachman would or could do anything to Easy, but he’d always felt she was on safer ground with the Otto Von Lindberg part of the night’s plan. Otto had a few sexual proclivities, sure, but Easy had his number.
Nobody had Nachman’s number, nobody, and the guy was way more than half a bubble off.
“So you know this Johnny Ramos?” he asked the lovely Jane.
“Very well,” she said. “But I didn’t know he had a girl he was seeing.”
“The relationship is in its infancy. I think that’s what tonight is all about, the first face-to-face meeting.”
“Lucky girl,” Jane said, her smile warming. “Come on.”
She led him up a staircase to a catwalk that ran across the width of the gallery. At the top, she stopped and leaned against the rail, pointing at a twelve-foot-high piece of stretched canvas that dominated the western half of the gallery.