Kate shrugged. “Not personally, although I’ve been to a party his parents attended.”
My chest hurt for him, realizing that his mother’s death must have been recent. “Max doesn’t talk much about his family.”
“I’m not surprised,” Kate murmured. She studied the sketches then cut me a considering look. “The rumor is that he was responsible for his mother’s death—drunk driving. It was all over the papers four years ago.”
“No.” Instantly, the denial sprang to my lips. I refused to believe it. Whatever had happened, there had to be a reason. He must have been so young… God! No wonder he had so much anger in him…so much pain. Was that why he refused to go home or talk to his cousin? Why he rarely slept?
“Come on, Ila, you must have heard about it?”
Four years ago, my mother had had her first stroke. I barely paid attention to anything else, much less read the paper, and I certainly wasn’t interested in scrutinizing someone else’s tragedy. “You can’t believe everything you read.”
At Kate’s knowing smile, I had to clamp down on my cutting retort before the woman fired me.
“It’s the dark, dangerous sort that does it for us women, isn’t it? And he’s grown up now. Much better. Being a trust fund baby and all that, society won’t shun him for his teenage misdeeds.”
A slow burn started inside me. She was speaking about Max as if he were some toy with no feelings.
“Kate, do you mind? I have to get going. I’ve lots to get done.” If I stayed, I would say something I shouldn’t, and I couldn’t afford to lose my job.
“Enjoy him while you can, just don’t lose your heart. No matter how many tattoos he has or the dangerous air he projects, we’re still far too low on the social rung to enter the hallowed halls of the Meade-Sinclair dynasty.” Cynicism edged her voice. “They’re old money, sugar.” Kate walked off, then paused at her office door. “If you have nothing going on with him, ask him to call me.”
My jaw hurt, and I realized then how hard I had gritted my teeth. I didn’t care who Max’s family was or if they were richer than the Queen. I liked Max…I like who he is, I finally admitted to myself. It didn’t matter that there was nothing between us; there was no way I would pass on her message.
But the conversation ricocheted in my head all day long. More, I realized I had no right to ask Max about his past when I kept him at arm’s length. Much as I wanted to go online, find out what had happened, I didn’t. I didn’t want the tabloid’s biased opinions about something obviously painful to him.
The drizzle finally gave way to a deluge as the bus I’d taken slowed near my apartment. I hopped off and sprinted toward my building. Gah, despite my fast dash, the rain won, soaking me right down to my underwear.
As I neared my place, a cab slowed to a halt. Titus jumped out seconds later. “Ila,” he greeted with a wry twist of his lips. “Lousy weather.”
“Yeah.” I ran up the stairs with him close behind. He pulled off his long car coat, and as we both entered the foyer, the soft strains of piano music drifted to me. I walked into the living room and gaped at the huge piano keyboard against the wall.
Ray and Max turned. His unreadable gaze slid behind me.
“That sounds really cool,” Titus said, seeming to have forgotten Max’s attack on him.
Max said nothing as he ran his fingers over the keys, then he stopped playing, rose, and started stacking a pile of paper neatly on the dining table.
“Ugh, sis, why couldn’t you come a little later?” Ray sighed. “I was enjoying Max tinkering about.”
“I’ll be out of your hair in a moment.” I turned to Titus. “See you in a few, I need to get out of these wet things.
“Right. I’ll get ready.” At Titus’s words, my gaze shifted back to Max. He wasn’t looking at me, but the rigid line of his body spoke volumes.
With a sigh, I made my way upstairs.
Later, while I worked, sounds of Max playing the piano drifted into the studio, a little muted with the closed door. The compelling draw of his music made me want to send Titus home and go and listen to him.
But that wouldn’t help pay the bills. And Titus had already paid half his fees.
The pounding strains of Chopin rebounded for several seconds, followed by dark, haunting pieces that troubled me. At last, it eased, and a more fluid melody surrounded me. I barely noticed a naked Titus as I worked on his torso, lost in the music. It wrapped around me, calming, soothing. The need to work on something different—my own paintings—took hold.
Maybe it was fear that kept me from doing what I wanted. But with Devyn always pushing me to work at something morelucrative, I’d shied away from a dicey career as a full-time artist and settled into advertising with thoughts of…no, withDevyn’sthoughts of opening my own agency later.
“Ila, we done here?”
I blinked and found myself staring blankly at the wet paint on the canvas, paintbrush in hand. Since my concentration was shot to pieces, I nodded. “We are. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
After Titus had left, I pulled out a new canvas, fresh brushes, and a new array of oils and stilled. Aw, crappity crap! I’d forgotten all about the fake date I’d told Max I had tonight.
