Chapter 19
Nineteen
Ava
When Dagen said the meeting would be fast, he meant it. We stop outside a building I’ve never been to, a tall one with “Kline, Inc.” emblazoned on the sides, where he parks the car right in front in the no parking zone.
“Wait here,” he says. “If you don’t mind. Larry is behind us already and will keep an eye out for trouble.”
“Are we allowed to park here?” I ask, glancing around.
He laughs. “Yes. Of course, I can park here. I own the building.” He tugs his dirty suit jacket off and tosses it behind the seat before rolling up his dress shirt to his forearms. The makeup stains are bright against the white. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
True to his word, I get exactly five minutes to stew in my thoughts.
I watch cars drive past us, uncaring about my world as they move through their own struggles.
None of them look malignant or like a threat, but part of me worries.
I’m sitting in this car alone, an easy target even if it would be bold to attack me in Dagen Fox’s car with a security guard behind us.
It had been bold for him to grab me while I was with coworkers, too.
I’ve successfully worked myself into an anxious mess when the driver’s side door opens again, making me jump at the sudden sound. Dagen drops into the car with barely any sound. He looks over at me and takes in my tense shoulders and the expression on my face.
“Are you okay?” he asks, studying me carefully.
I nod, but don’t say anything, afraid my voice will reveal just how stressed I am.
“Will you come somewhere with me?” he asks.
I nod again and he puts on his seatbelt before pulling back into the lane. We don’t go far, only a few minutes down the street, before he pulls to the valet spot. I glance at him in surprise.
“The Natural Museum of Art?” I ask. “Do you have a meeting here, too?”
Rich people buy art. Everyone knows that. Maybe he’s here to purchase something.
“When I feel anxious, art calms me,” he supplies helpfully. “Maybe it’ll do the same for you.”
Oh. This is for me. Which doesn’t put me at ease.
Instead, I’m intensely aware of how dangerous this is.
We’re dancing along a fine line between professionalism and intimacy that I’m not prepared for.
I should refuse, ask him to take me home.
Better yet, I should ask him to send me home with Larry. That’s safer.
While I debate the danger I’m in, he steps out of the car and comes around to my door. He opens it and offers me a hand. When I hesitate, he waits patiently.
“It’s just art,” he says. “Museums never hurt anyone.”
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I reach up and take his hand. The feeling of my fingers in his is comforting and I like it far too much. I shouldn’t be touching him, and yet here I am, letting him help me out of his expensive car.
“I probably look a mess,” I murmur, wiping at my face again.
“You look beautiful,” he replies as he hands the keys to the valet and takes the ticket. “Besides, no one will be paying attention to us.” He shoots me a smile. “Unless they mistake you for one of the works of art.”
My heart stops. “I. . . uh. . .”
His smile turns charming. “Still wholly unable to accept a compliment, I see.”
I flush. “You just do that to mess with me.”
“You’re not wrong,” he admits. “I do so enjoy ruffling your feathers.”
There aren’t many people inside the museum, but I should have expected that for a Wednesday afternoon.
The few groups meandering around are mostly made up of older couples and small children on field trips.
We’re the only ones dressed in business attire and Dagen is right. No one pays us any attention.
Dagen offers me his elbow and I take it carefully before he leads me deeper into the museum. Gentle music plays over speakers above us, so soft it’s almost impossible to hear unless you focus on it.
“So, you like art?” I ask, glancing up at him as he pulls me towards a large painting and studies it. It’s of a woman draped over a chaise lounge, men fanning her.
“I do,” he nods. “I suppose I can blame my mother for that. She dragged me to one too many art gallery openings as a child and left me to my own devices. I had no choice, but to study the art or else suffer my boredom.” He glances at me.
“There’s something about the brush strokes that calm me. In them, I find peace.”
“Do you paint yourself?” I study the painting in front of me as we move further in, the strokes creating the image of a baby that looks a little too much like an adult in the face.
“Unfortunately, I didn’t get the painter gene,” he says. “Not for lack of trying. It seems I’ve only got the collector one.”
I sigh. “I used to love to paint.”
He glances at me in surprise. “You don’t do it anymore?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t done it since.
. . I used to have an easel. A really big one that my parents got me when I was a kid.
Wooden and perfect and everything I’d ever wanted.
They saved for a couple of months for it.
When I got married to Ric and tried to bring it with me, it.
. . he said it broke. He used it for kindling.
Apparently, a wife shouldn’t focus on painting.
She should focus on her husband. Anytime I tried to do any sort of art, he’d accuse me of neglecting him and my supplies would mysteriously disappear again. So, I stopped.”
He'd gone still at my admission, his eyes tracing my face as I talk. When I finish, his hand slides over mine in comfort. “Would you paint with me sometime?”
I bite my lip and study the painting in front of me again. “I’m not very good.”
“Neither am I,” he muses.
“I’m not sure I even remember how to—”
“Then we can learn together,” he says.
I look up at him to find he’s already looking at me, and something in his eyes looks very unprofessional.
In fact, this all feels as far from professional as someone can get, but I don’t look away.
My mind suddenly flickers with the image of him leaning down to kiss me, of his hand wrapping around the back of my neck and him pinning me against the wall like one of these paintings.
I shiver at the imagery of it, at how badly I want it, but blink to clear it quickly, not wanting to ruin the plan.
I can’t fall for the man helping me do this. I can’t ruin it before it’s begun.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, his eyes tracing my face.
I’m flushed. I know I am. I can feel it.
“Nothing,” I lie. And then I check my phone to escape his penetrating gaze.
Something tells me he knows, and how terrible would that be for him to know I’m no different than any other woman he’s encountered?
Dagen Fox must not go anywhere without attention, and maybe he likes it.
To me, it would be endlessly frustrating.
When I see the time on my phone, I tilt my head.
“Would it be possible to pick up Elsie on the way home?” I ask, but then I wince.
“Oh, wait. There isn’t a backseat in your car. ”
“No problem,” he says. “I’ll have the Aston Martin switched out by the time we go out there.”
I stare at him in surprise. “You can do that?”
He laughs. “You’d be surprised what money can do.”
We stroll back through the museum, and I’m sad we didn’t get to see all the art, but we can always come back another day.
Will you paint with me?
I don’t think a man has ever asked me to paint with them, let alone seemed eager to. But I hadn’t been lying. I haven’t painted in so long, I doubt anything I produce will be any good by this point. Still, the temptation. . .
Sure enough, when Dagen hands his card to the valet, a different black car pulls up, this time a Porsche with a backseat big enough to pick up Elsie. Another car appears behind it, a couple of guys with sunglasses in the front seats. When I tense, Dagen follows my gaze.
“They’re with me,” he says.
“Oh,” I answer, relieved, before climbing into the car and buckling my seatbelt. “I didn’t realize you have your own security.”
He nods as he climbs in. “They’ve been with us the whole time. I wasn’t going to leave you by yourself after what that asshole pulled earlier.”
I hadn’t even realized they’d been there while I’d been sitting in the car, only that Larry had been sitting close. Which only shows how oblivious I am, and how much I need to pay better attention. Elsie’s safety depends on it.
I don’t have to tell Dagen where to go to pick up Elsie.
It would have worried me if I didn’t know it was because of all the security measures.
Apparently, he’d even donated better security systems to her school as well under the ruse of charity.
The school had been grateful and accepted, and part of me had softened toward the CEO for that act alone.
He doesn’t have to go so above and beyond, but he is.
Whether he’s protecting his investment or not, it doesn’t matter.
He’s doing us a service and he’s keeping us safe.
I’d texted Tonya on the way that I was going to pick up Elsie, so it was easy enough to park and climb out to wait on the sidewalk with the rest of the parents.
Dagen stands beside me, his fingers flying across his phone as he addresses some emails.
When a bell rings from inside and kids start streaming out, I smile when I see the bright eyes of Elsie as she skips out.
She smiles and then freezes when she sees Dagen standing beside me.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “He’s a good friend.”
Dagen immediately puts his phone away and smiles softly. “Hi, Elsie. I’m Dagen. I’m working with your mom.”
She tilts her head. “The security man. The one who sent the science kit?”
He nods. “That’s me.”
She glances between us, taking in how close we’re standing. It’s only as she perceives it that I realize we’re probably far too close to each other to appear professional.
“I like the science kit,” she admits. “Mom says you’re rich.”
I flush. “Elsie—”
“She’s right,” he laughs. “I got lucky. But your mom, she’s an amazing person, too.”
Elsie tips up her chin. “I know she is. You should keep paying her. She likes that.”
I press a hand against my face, trying to hide the blush staining my cheeks.
“Yes,” Dagen nods. “I plan to keep paying her and protect the both of you.”
“Good,” Elsie says, grinning. “We could use some protecting.”
And then she follows us to the car and climbs in without a second thought, trusting Dagen to do just that. I stare after her, shaking my head. Leave it to Elsie to say something like that at a first meeting.
“She’s cute,” Dagen says, grinning over his car at me.
“She is,” I laugh, climbing into the front seat. “But you made a mistake getting her that science kit. She’s going to tell you all about it now.”
“I don’t mind one bit,” he admits, looking in the rearview mirror as Elsie launches into her explanation of the experiments she’s already done from the kit and future ones she wants to do. Dagen listens intently as he drives us home.
It all feels very homey. Not professional in the slightest.
It’s only at that moment that I realize I may be in real, actual trouble.