The Charmer. Kate Hoffmann
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knew she was good at that, even though it was more of a job than a passion.
Alex retrieved a bottle of red wine from the cabinet and set it on the counter. She handed him a corkscrew and he deftly dispatched the cork and poured two glasses of Merlot. “This is a nice place,” he said.
“It belonged to my grandparents. My great-grandfather built it for them as a wedding gift. After my grandmother died, my grandfather moved into town, and I moved here.”
“What do you do?”
“I was just going to ask you the same thing,” Tenley said, deflecting his question. “What brings you to Door County in the middle of a blizzard? It must be something very important.”
“Business,” he replied. “I’m here to see an artist. T. J. Marshall. Do you know him?”
Tenley’s breath caught in her throat and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. This man had come to see her grandfather? How was that possible? She was in charge of her grandfather’s appointments and she didn’t remember making one for—Oh, God. That was where she knew his name. He’d left a string of messages on her grandfather’s voice mail. Something about publishing a novel. Her grandfather already worked with a publisher and he didn’t write novels, so she’d ignored the messages. “I do. Everyone knows him. What do you want with him?”
“He sent us a graphic novel. I want to publish it.”
Tenley frowned. Her grandfather painted landscapes. He didn’t even know what a graphic novel was. She, however, did know. In fact, she’d made one for Josh Barton, the neighbor boy, as a Christmas gift, a thankyou for caring for her animals. “Do you have it with you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice indifferent.
“I do.”
“Could I see it?”
“Sure. Do you like graphic novels?”
“I’ve read a few,” she replied.
“This one is incredible. Very dark. The guy who wrote this has got some real demons haunting him. Or he’s got a great imagination. It’s about a girl named Cyd who can bring people back from the dead.”
Alex walked across the room to fetch his briefcase. Tenley grabbed her glass of wine and took three quick gulps. If this was her work, how had it possibly gotten into Alex’s hands? Perhaps Josh had decided to start a career as an artist’s agent at age fourteen?
Alex returned with a file folder, holding it out to her. “The story is loaded with conflict and it’s really edgy. It’s hard to find graphic novels that combine great art with a solid story. And this has both.”
Tenley opened the folder and immediately recognized the cover of Josh’s Christmas gift. She sighed softly as she flipped through the photocopy. What had he done? He’d raved about the story, but she’d never expected him to send a copy to a publisher. It had been a private little gift between the two of them, that was all. Josh had shared his love of the genre with her and she’d made him a story of his very own. She’d never intended it for public consumption.
Tenley had always had a love-hate affair with her artistic abilities. Though establishing her own career in art might make sense to the casual observer, Tenley fought against it. She and her brother had always talked about striking out on their own, leaving Door County and finding work in a big city. She’d wanted to be an actress and Tommy had been interested in architecture.
But after the boating accident, Tenley had given up on dreams. Her parents had been devastated and their grief led to a divorce. There was a fight over where Tenley would live and in the end, they let her stay in Door County with her grandparents while they escaped to opposite coasts.
They still encouraged her to paint or sculpt or do anything worthy with her art. But putting herself out there, for everyone to see, made her feel more vulnerable than she already did. There were too many ways to get hurt, and so many expectations that could never be met. And now, the one time in years that she’d put pen to paper had brought this man to her door. What were the odds?
“This is interesting,” she murmured. “But I think someone is messing with you. T. J. Marshall paints landscapes. This isn’t his work.”
“You know his work?”
“Yes. Everyone does. He has a gallery in town. You must be looking for another T. J. Marshall.”
“How many are there in Sawyer Bay?” he asked.
Two, Tenley thought to herself. Thomas James and Tenley Jacinda. “Only one,” she lied.
“And you know him. So you can introduce me. Tell me about him. How old is he? What’s his background? Has he done commercial illustration in the past?”
What was she supposed to say? That Tenley Jacinda Marshall was the T. J. Marshall he was looking for? That she was twenty-six years old, had never formally studied art or design, and had spent her entire life in Door County? And that she’d never intended anyone, outside of Josh Barton, to see her story?
“I know this will sell. It’s exactly what the market is looking for,” Alex continued. “A female protagonist, a story filled with moral dilemmas and great pictures.”
Was he really interested in paying her for the story? It would be nice to have some extra cash. Horse feed and vet care didn’t come cheap. And though her grandfather paid her well, she never felt as if she did enough to earn her salary. Still, with money came responsibility. She liked her life exactly the way it was—uncomplicated.
“I think I’ll make a salad,” she said.
He reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her escape. “Promise you’ll introduce me,” Alex pleaded, catching her chin with his finger and turning her gaze to his. “This is important.”
“All right,” Tenley said. “I will. But not tonight.”
He laughed. “No, not tonight.” He bent close and dropped a quick kiss on her lips, then frowned. “Are you ever going to tell me anything about yourself?”
“I don’t lead a very exciting life,” Tenley murmured, as he smoothed his finger along her jaw. A shiver skittered down her spine. His touch was so addictive. She barely knew him, yet she craved physical contact. He’d come here to see her, but somehow she knew that revealing her identity would be a mistake—at least for the next twelve hours.
“You rescued me from disaster,” he said. “I could have frozen out there.”
“Someone would have come along sooner or later,” she said.
They continued preparations for dinner in relative silence. But the thoughts racing through Tenley’s mind were anything but quiet. In the past, it had always been so simple to take what she wanted from a man. Physical pleasure was just a natural need, or so she told herself. And though she chose carefully when it came to the men who shared her bed, she’d never hesitated when she found a suitable sexual partner.
This was different. There was an attraction here she’d never felt before, a connection that went beyond the surface. He was incredibly handsome, with his dark hair and eyes, and a body that promised to be close to
perfection once he removed his clothes. He was quite intelligent and witty. And he seemed perfectly capable of seducing her on his own.
It might be nice to be the seduced rather than the seducer, Tenley thought. But would he move fast enough? They only had this one night. Sometime tomorrow, he’d find out she was the artist also known as T. J. Marshall. And then everything would change.
“Would you like some more wine?” Alex asked.
Tenley nodded. “Sure.” The bottle was already halfempty. Where would they be when it was gone?
THEY HAD DINNER in front of the fire. The sexual tension between them wasn’t lost on Alex. By all accounts, the setting was impossibly romantic—a blazing fire, a snowstorm outside and the entire night ahead of them.