Page 8 of Painted in Love

And she led this exquisite man to her favorite bar.

Of course she knew who he was. She’d worked for years in the art world, and she’d seen Art Space, his new video platform, watched interviews about how innovative it was, how perfect for artists who wanted to put their work out without a lot of hassle and criticism. Though how he’d accomplish that, she had no idea.

Outwardly, he seemed like a good guy. And he had saved her life. Based on her past experience, though, she didn’t trust him or his new platform. He could be luring unsuspecting artists, taking advantage of them because they were unknowns. Really, no one could promise an artist that they wouldn’t be hassled once their work was out there for everyone to see. And to judge.

She’d read the articles, watched the interviews, and knew his history. A highly successful entrepreneur—not to mention to die for in the looks department—he came across well on screen, the perfect combination of dark hair, startling blue eyes, and a body that made her pant.

Several years ago, he’d developed an exercise and nutrition app, then sold it for a whopping half billion dollars. His Harvard degree was in business. What could this man possibly know about exercise and nutrition? It was just a way to jump on the app craze and make money. Now a billionaire, he’d moved into the art world, starting this video platform where artists could showcase their work, create podcasts about their process, their inspiration, and sell their art in virtual galleries. But what on earth could he know about art? Businesspeople cared only about the value of something. They didn’t understand art or artists.

But the man was so handsome he actually made her heart stop. That hadn’t been the car. No, it had been the sight of him. Before she’d recognized him. When she’d been gazing into those sexy eyes and getting hot and bothered. Then there was his voice, the deep tones like fingers playing all her strings.

He hadn’t been smarmy, as if she owed him something for saving her life. She didn’t want to believe he was like the other rich art patrons out there preying on struggling artists. She’d had her fill of that type.

But a man that devastatingly handsome could make people believe in him. He made her want to believe in him.

He made her want other things too.

Plus, he’d pulled her off the street before the car could mow her down. Would a smarmy user have done that?

It was time to find out. Okay, it was also time to breathe in his delicious male scent, to gaze into those beautiful eyes, to?—

Whew! Get hold of yourself, Saskia.

She backed away as they entered the bar. “Why don’t you get us a table? I have to make a call. I had a meeting. But it’s more important that I buy a drink for the man who saved my life.”

“Shall I order for you?”

“That would be great. A Toasted Almond. The bartender will know what it is.” She craved the sweetness of amaretto and the coffee taste of Kahlúa. Then she shook her finger at him. “But don’t you dare pay for it. This is on me.” She pulled a bill out of her tunic pocket.

“You don’t need to pay me back.” He stared her down, his eyes seeming to touch every part of her without actually moving. “I couldn’t stand there and watch such beauty get creamed by a robotaxi.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What about an ugly guy?”

He laughed, a soul-touching sound. “Or an ugly guy either.”

“Let me pay anyway,” she insisted. “Because I want to.”

Gazing into her eyes for a long moment that seemed to steal the very breath out of her lungs, he finally took the money and headed to the long mahogany bar with its rows of bottles reflected in the mirror behind it.

The place wasn’t full, since it wasn’t even close to five o’clock, and she headed to the back by the bathroom hallway and tapped her phone, making her call. “Hey, I know we had a meeting. I swear I was on my way. But I need to postpone till tomorrow.”

The answer was just as rushed. “But I got this huge offer I need to tell you about.”

She looked at Clay Harrington’s backside as he leaned on the bar. “Let’s table that until tomorrow.”

An exaggerated breath huffed air on the other end. “Okay. But I really need to talk to you. Call me ASAP.”

Clay had a table and their drinks when she finished, and she slid into the seat next to him rather than across from him, their knees touching. “Isn’t this place great? The owners recently refurbished the upstairs, turning the place into a funky hotel, with dark wood paneling like down here in the bar, and super-cool artwork.” She’d asked for a tour and found each room decorated uniquely, the paintings all having a different theme. “I love that they put as much thought into the art as they did the accommodations.”

Clay looked around him at the polished hardwood floors, the long, elegant bar, the old-time San Francisco photos on the walls. “I like it.”

Then he slid her drink to her. She sipped before saying another word, the sublime taste of Kahlúa, cream, and amaretto hitting her tongue and tingling in her toes.

Or maybe that was him. Oh yeah, it was breathtakingly him.

Spreading her arms, she tipped her face to the ceiling, eyes closed as she relished the moment. “Oh my God. I’m alive.”

He saluted her. “Thank God, you’re alive.” He slugged back his draft beer without getting a trace of foam on his upper lip. “I’m Clay?—”

---