His lips thin with disapproval. “You don’t need to know anything but art to sell art.”
“As much as I agree, I’m a slave to Mark’s demands.” Rebecca’s writing plays in my head, catching me off guard. You know I have to punish you. I am immediately uncomfortable, and my nervous rambling tendency proves it is alive and well. “My knowledge of opera, or classical music, amounts to absolutely nothing, and frankly I don’t enjoy either.” My misspeak washes over me immediately, and I can feel blood drain from my cheeks. His father had been a famous classical pianist. “Oh God. I’m sorry. Your father- ”
“Was brilliant,” he says and his expression is unreadable, his tone even, “but as with all things, music can be an acquired taste. How ‘clueless’ are you about wines?”
I blink at the abrupt change of subject, and I’m so off kilter, I don’t seem to possess the ability to filter my comments. “I know how to point to the name on the menu and the waiter brings it.”
Amusement dances in Chris’s pale green eyes and his mood is instantly transformed from intense to relaxed. “And you pick the wine you point to how?”
“It’s a highly complex method,” I explain. “First, there is my mood. Do I want red or white? Once that choice is made, I move to the choice of chilled or not chilled. Finally, step three, comes down to--what is the cheapest glass of wine that meets my decided upon criteria.” He is smiling, but not laughing at me, and I am both charmed and pleased.
“You do know you live in wine country, right?” he teases. There is a sultry flirtation to his voice that I hope I am not imagining.
“Neither my apartment, nor the school where I teach sport vineyards in the backyards. I suppose I’m highly uncultured.”
His mood turns somber. “You’re not uncultured, far from it, but I assume you feeling that way is the whole idea in all of this. Mark looks for a weakness and uses it to disarm people. Not that a lack of knowledge in those areas is a weakness. Not unless you allow it to be.”
I tilt my head, studying him. “You don’t like Mark, do you?”
“Liking him is irrelevant. He gets the job done.”
In other words, he doesn’t like Mark. “Has he tried to find your weakness?”
“He tries to find everyone’s weakness.”
He’s avoiding a direct answer and I can’t think of a way to ask again. “I fear he’s found my weakness, or rather weaknesses, rather easily.”
“You’re better off to let your customers be experts in everything else, while you ask questions, and feed their egos. You stick with art and you’ll be golden.”
“A brilliant plan if I ever heard one.”
His lips quirk. “Brilliant? I like your choice of words.”
I purse my lips. “Like you don’t hear brilliant about your art all the time.”
“I don’t listen to my own hype. Besides, for every ‘brilliant’ there’s a critic.”
I study him a moment, his strong jaw, his intelligent green eyes and I realize I’ve stopped being all nerves and fear. I’m remarkably at ease right now considering Chris has managed to wake every hormone I own and some I didn’t know I had. “I sold two more of your paintings today.”
His eyes soften and warm at the same time. “And you did it without any knowledge of wine and opera. How is that possible?”
I find myself laughing easily and it feels good. Until this moment, I didn’t realize just how tense I am, how on edge, and it amazes me that this man I barely know has disarmed me. Our laughter dissolves into crackling current that steals my breath away. Our eyes lock and heat pools low in my belly. I want this man but I am so out of my league. I know this but my body doesn’t seem to care. I am but a ship passing by, a teacher headed back to class, and he is talented beyond belief, a man who’s worth millions, who has seen things I have only read about.
“Are you one of those wine snobs?” I ask, hungry for details about what makes a talent such as his tick.
His mood shift is instant, the shutters over his eyes dropping, the tension in the air almost palpable. I regret the question though I don’t know what was wrong with it.
“I know wines very well,” he says, his tone flat as he glances at the thick leather watch he’s wearing that is far more biker than the millionaire he is, and then back at me. “I’m booked for a meeting with your boss I need to get to.” He studies me for an intent moment and his eyes warm again, and I can almost see the ice melting before me. “Don’t play his games, Sara, and he can’t beat you at them.” He pushes to his feet. “Until next time.”