Lone Star Legacy: Relentless Pursuit. Sara Orwig

“It was nice to see you both,” she added, moving on, aware of Garrett across the gallery talking to two people. She wondered whether he knew them, too.

      She stopped at the desk to look at his card. “Cantrell Properties Inc.” It was a plain card with a downtown address, logo and phone number, but little else. She returned it to the drawer.

      Garrett appeared at her side. “Can you leave? You still have quite a few people here.”

      “I can leave. My staff can manage quite well. They weren’t expecting me to be here tonight anyway.”

      “I’m glad you are,” he said.

      “We can go out the back way and it’ll be less noticeable.” She led him through a door, down a hallway that opened onto offices, a mailroom and a studio and out the back into a parking lot where five cars were parked. Four tall lampposts illuminated the area as brightly as if it were day. A security guard sat in a cubicle watching a small television. He stepped to the door.

      “Good night, Miss Rivers.”

      “I’ll be back after a while to get my car, Teddy.”

      “Sure thing. Evening, sir,” he said, nodding at Garrett who greeted him in return.

      “My car is in front,” Garrett said, taking her arm.

      “It’s a nice night. We can walk if you want,” she said, pleasantly aware of his height because she was taller than some men she knew and as tall as many.

      “I saw you talking to Meg and Jason Trent. Jason said he leased property from you.”

      “Yes, he’s a good tenant,” he said. “They like your art.”

      “I’ve had a gratifying response from people,” she said.

      They entered the bright hotel lobby, then the darkened bar where a pianist played a ballad for couples who were dancing.

      Garrett got a booth with a small lamp at the end of the table. It spilled a golden glow over his fascinating features, highlighting his prominent cheekbones and leaving the planes of his cheeks in dark shadows. She felt breathless again, a steady hum of excitement that she couldn’t explain.

      They ordered drinks—a cold beer for him and an iced soda for her. When they came, he raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to a new friendship. May it grow.”

      “A toast to friendship,” she repeated, touching his cold bottle lightly. She sipped her soda and set the glass down.

      He reached across the table to take her hand, his warm fingers enveloping hers. Again, a current streaked through her like lightning. “Shall we dance?”

      As she stood, he shed his coat and tie, folding them once on the seat of the booth.

      Sophia followed him to the small dance floor and stepped into his embrace. Her hand was in his, her other hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him through the fine cotton shirt. She enjoyed dancing around the floor, aware of how well they moved together. He was agile, light on his feet.

      “I’ve been waiting all evening for this moment,” he said, setting her heart fluttering again. She had never had such an instant and intense reaction to a man. “I’m glad I decided to come tonight. I didn’t expect to see the artist, but I knew I would enjoy looking at your art. Now, the whole world has changed.”

      She smiled. “I don’t think it’s been a world-changing night,” she said, though she actually agreed with him. She wasn’t sure things would ever be the same after having met Garrett Cantrell.

      “The night isn’t over yet,” he reminded her, obviously flirting.

      She slanted him a look. “Perhaps you’ll change my mind.”

      “That’s a challenge I’ll gladly take.”

      The ballad ended and a faster number began. Garrett released her and she put a little distance between them. The man had sexy moves that set her pulse at a faster pace. She was unable to tear her gaze from his until she forced herself to turn and the spell was broken.

      By the time the music finished, she needed to catch her breath.

      Garrett took her hand. “Shall we go back to our drinks?”

      They returned to the booth. He loosened the top buttons of his shirt. The temperature climbed a notch and her desire revved with it.

      Her cell phone chimed. She looked down, reading a brief text from Edgar.

      How is your evening with G.C.? Call me when you get home. I promised Mom.

      She had to laugh. “I have a text from my friend Edgar. You bought a painting of mine from him.”

      “Yes. I remember.”

      “He once promised my mom that he would look out for me and he’s been like the proverbial mother hen ever since. He’s checking on when I’ll get home.”

      Garrett flashed a breathtakingly handsome smile. “Is he jealous?”

      Shaking her head, she laughed. “Definitely not. Edgar always loved my mother. They dated some, but for Mom it was a good friend sort of thing. Then as my interest in art developed, Mom told Edgar. He became a friend and mentor, helping me in so many ways.”

      She sent a text back.

      Go to bed, Edgar. I’m fine and he’s fun.

      “I let him know that I’m okay and we’re having a pleasant time.”

      “A pleasant time. I’ll have to try harder if I want to move that into the ‘world-changing’ arena.”

      She smiled as she put away her cell phone. “So tell me about yourself,” she said.

      “I grew up with the proverbial silver spoon. Well, my dad began to make big bucks when I was about seven years old. Life was easy in some ways.”

      “What wasn’t easy?”

      “My mom died when I was fifteen. My dad and I were close. I lost him this past summer.”

      “Sorry. It hurts. My mom died a couple of years ago.”

      “Your dad?”

      “I never knew him,” she said, her eyes becoming frosty as she answered him.

      “I’m glad you and your mom were close. So how did you get into art?”

      “It’s my first love. I went to college, got a degree in accounting, got a good job, moved up. I began to invest my own money and did so well, I finally took over managing my mother’s finances, which was far more than I had. Finance became my field, but art was—and is—my love. We have something else in common—our financial backgrounds.”

      “So we do.”

      “The difference is, you love it and pursue it. I wanted something else.”

      “Sometimes I think about something else, but I’m locked into where I am.”

      “What else do you think about doing?” she asked.

      “Nothing serious. I’m where I should be, doing what I’ve been trained to do and have a knack for doing.”

      “There’s something else you like,” she persisted, tilting her head to study him. “I don’t think it’s art. I’ll bet it’s far removed from the world of property management.”

      “Yes, it is. It’s not that big a deal for you to even try to guess. Someday when I retire, I’ll make furniture. I like working with my hands.”

      “It’s getting a little scary how alike we are,” she said, noticing how his thick lashes heightened the striking effect of his gray eyes.

      “Perhaps it’s an omen indicating we will get along well.”

      “Usually, it’s the other