“Sullivan Wainright, editor of Oregon Art Experience magazine,” he says.
“Lisa Michaels of LM Interior Design,” she says. “And this is Dax Kensington.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” I shoot a glance at Lisa, not sure if I’m supposed to rattle off my business as well, or say something meaningful about the wolves who may or may not be preparing to bang. I settle for gazing thoughtfully at an image of two cinnamon-colored canines curled around each other in a cozy snuggle.
“Aren’t you just spellbound by the raw energy and recognizable emotion in this one?” Sullivan adjusts his glasses. “I love what it says about the circular nature of instinct and survival.”
Beside me, Lisa licks her lips and nods. “It’s sure something.”
“Phenomenal,” Sullivan says, swinging his attention back to the first image with the wolves exchanging the heated look. “Such an exquisite display of might and instinct. I love what he’s done with the composition here. The statement Kahn is making with his choice in aperture—no other artist could make such a bold critique of societal norms and the way humanity relates to them.”
“Uh, yes.” Lisa bites her lip in a way that tells me she’s stifling laughter at the memory of our shared joke. “It’s very…um…sensuous.”
“Exactly.” Sullivan beams like she’s gotten an answer right on a test question, and Lisa clears her throat.
“I think I need to visit the ladies’ room,” she says. “It was wonderful meeting you, Sullivan.”
“Likewise,” the man says, and steps toward the next image.
Lisa grabs my arm and hurries toward the far side of the room, but stops short to whisper in my ear. I lean down to listen, and to enjoy the tantalizing view down the front of her dress.
“Oh my God,” she says, half whispering, half giggling. “We’re surrounded by creepers and snobs and wolves making lusty eyes at each other.”
Her words make me snort-laugh, and I love that she sounds so delighted. “What a striking artistic observation you’ve made, Miss Michaels. Would you care to elaborate?”
She smiles up at me, green eyes sparkling with laughter. “Why, yes,” she murmurs in a prim little art critic voice. “I’m deeply moved by the saturation and symmetry in that piece next to the fern.” She points to an impressively large photo of two Arctic wolves.
It’s a damn fine image, and I love that she brought me here to see it. I also love that she’s not taking this whole thing too seriously. That she isn’t afraid to have fun with it.
“Yes, it’s quite exquisite,” I agree, adjusting my imaginary monocle as we step in front of an image showing a wolf belly-crawling through the mud. “Don’t you find this one here makes a bold statement about focal point and negative space while demonstrating the wolf’s underlying need for a good bath and brush?”
She laughs so hard she nearly spills her cocktail. When her gaze meets mine, she bites her lip. “Did I ever tell you I used to volunteer at this museum?”
I shake my head, wondering what that sexy smirk is all about. “You never mentioned it.”
“There’s an exhibit on the third floor called Oregon Adventure,” she says. “It’s laid out to look like different cabins so you can get a glimpse of how fur trappers and gold miners and other early Oregon settlers used to live.”
“That sounds interesting.” I’m not sure how to reconcile this little history lesson with the suggestive gleam in Lisa’s eye.
“My first month here, I caught a couple going at it on one of the bunks in the Lewis and Clark exhibit,” she continues in a hushed voice. “They were buck naked, right there between the bearskin rug and the display of nineteenth-century muskets.”
She sounds scandalized, but there’s intrigue in her eyes. Desire. I hold her gaze, pretty sure I get where she’s going with this. “Did you say anything to them?”
She nods, cheeks flushed. “Of course. I lectured them for twenty minutes about lewd behavior and the importance of being respectful of culture and public spaces.”
I can picture it in my head, and I try not to laugh. “And were they embarrassed?”
“Not at all.” There’s an awe in her voice that makes me picture it perfectly. Lisa in her heels and pearls, scolding the disheveled couple for their scandalous behavior while deep down, wanting it for herself.
I lean closer, cocktails and wolves and art critics all but forgotten now. “I don’t suppose you still have a key to the room?”
She grins, her expression equal parts nervous and excited. “No key necessary. I even know a shortcut.”
“Well then,” I murmur. “How’d you like to take me on an Oregon Adventure?”
Chapter 13
Lisa
