him. She didn’t hang in the coed crowd. Instead of thinking about Justin, Candice slid on a pair of strappy black sandals, gave her hair one more fluff, and rushed out to her Mini.
The sun was just setting when she pulled up in front of the gallery. She was relieved that Barnabas had taken the paintings and poetry out of the display window. She really didn’t want to wade through another crowd of crying people to get to the door.
Stepping into the gallery she was met by Barnabas, who was wringing his hands.
“The artist insists on meeting alone with you,
madam
,” he said. “I will go, but I will be back in
exactement
one hour to hear your decision.
Au revoir
until later, then.”
“But where’s the artist?”
“In the rear gallery. That is where I have hung your work.” With one more worried glance around his gallery, the vampire minced out the door.
Candice straightened her shoulders and walked to the rear gallery. He was standing with his back to her, studying the two paintings that hung beside the framed poems.
He’s really tall,
was her first thought. He was wearing a dark, conservative suitthat fit his broad shoulders well and tapered nicely down to his waist. His thick sand-colored hair was short and neatly cut. He didn’t seem to notice that she was there.
“Hi. My name is Candice Cox and I’m the poet,” she said, wishing she’d given more thought to how she would introduce herself.
“I know who you are,” he said without turning around.
Candice blinked. Was she so excited that her ears were playing tricks on her? That voice. She knew that voice. Didn’t she?
“Why did you write these poems?” he asked.
“As an assignment for a class I’m taking.” She felt the air slowly being squeezed out of her.
“Was that the only reason?” He still didn’t turn around.
“No,” she said softly. “When I wrote them I tried to explain how I was feeling.”
“And how was that?”
“My heart had been broken. I made a stupid mistake and jumped to a conclusion that wasn’t the right one.”
Finally, the artist turned slowly around. His amber eyes met hers. “You weren’t all that mistaken.”
She couldn’t believe it was really him. With his hair cut and his suit he looked…he looked like a man who could take on the world and win.
“I’ve missed you, Candy.”
“Justin, I—I…” She tried to put together a coherent sentence while her emotions swirled.
“I’m sorry!” they said together.
“I should have given you a chance to explain,” she blurted out.
“No! I shouldn’t have gone to that stupid party to begin with,” he said. “I want you to know that I wasn’t going there to be with another woman.”
“I know that,” she said.
He took a couple of steps toward her. “Did I really break your heart?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Is there any way you could let me fix it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered again. Then she closed the space between them and stepped into his arms. He bent to kiss her, but her words stopped him. “You’re the artist!”
He smiled. “I am.”
“So you found your inspiration in my poetry?”
“No. I found my inspiration in the woman whose heart finally became soft enough to be broken, and when I did I understood that separately we are just a gigolo wolf and a burned-out teacher, but together…” His lips gently brushed against hers.
“Together we make magic,” she finished for him.
EPILOGUE
six months later
The art gallery, Dark Shadows II, was located in trendy downtown Denver, nestled between a Starbucks and a posh designer jewelry shop. It was a popular place, known for its unique exhibits and for discovering talented new artists. But even for a popular gallery, tonight’s opening was busy. No, not busy—mobbed. The gallery owner, Quentin Vlad (whom everyone in Denver believed
The sun was just setting when she pulled up in front of the gallery. She was relieved that Barnabas had taken the paintings and poetry out of the display window. She really didn’t want to wade through another crowd of crying people to get to the door.
Stepping into the gallery she was met by Barnabas, who was wringing his hands.
“The artist insists on meeting alone with you,
madam
,” he said. “I will go, but I will be back in
exactement
one hour to hear your decision.
Au revoir
until later, then.”
“But where’s the artist?”
“In the rear gallery. That is where I have hung your work.” With one more worried glance around his gallery, the vampire minced out the door.
Candice straightened her shoulders and walked to the rear gallery. He was standing with his back to her, studying the two paintings that hung beside the framed poems.
He’s really tall,
was her first thought. He was wearing a dark, conservative suitthat fit his broad shoulders well and tapered nicely down to his waist. His thick sand-colored hair was short and neatly cut. He didn’t seem to notice that she was there.
“Hi. My name is Candice Cox and I’m the poet,” she said, wishing she’d given more thought to how she would introduce herself.
“I know who you are,” he said without turning around.
Candice blinked. Was she so excited that her ears were playing tricks on her? That voice. She knew that voice. Didn’t she?
“Why did you write these poems?” he asked.
“As an assignment for a class I’m taking.” She felt the air slowly being squeezed out of her.
“Was that the only reason?” He still didn’t turn around.
“No,” she said softly. “When I wrote them I tried to explain how I was feeling.”
“And how was that?”
“My heart had been broken. I made a stupid mistake and jumped to a conclusion that wasn’t the right one.”
Finally, the artist turned slowly around. His amber eyes met hers. “You weren’t all that mistaken.”
She couldn’t believe it was really him. With his hair cut and his suit he looked…he looked like a man who could take on the world and win.
“I’ve missed you, Candy.”
“Justin, I—I…” She tried to put together a coherent sentence while her emotions swirled.
“I’m sorry!” they said together.
“I should have given you a chance to explain,” she blurted out.
“No! I shouldn’t have gone to that stupid party to begin with,” he said. “I want you to know that I wasn’t going there to be with another woman.”
“I know that,” she said.
He took a couple of steps toward her. “Did I really break your heart?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Is there any way you could let me fix it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered again. Then she closed the space between them and stepped into his arms. He bent to kiss her, but her words stopped him. “You’re the artist!”
He smiled. “I am.”
“So you found your inspiration in my poetry?”
“No. I found my inspiration in the woman whose heart finally became soft enough to be broken, and when I did I understood that separately we are just a gigolo wolf and a burned-out teacher, but together…” His lips gently brushed against hers.
“Together we make magic,” she finished for him.
EPILOGUE
six months later
The art gallery, Dark Shadows II, was located in trendy downtown Denver, nestled between a Starbucks and a posh designer jewelry shop. It was a popular place, known for its unique exhibits and for discovering talented new artists. But even for a popular gallery, tonight’s opening was busy. No, not busy—mobbed. The gallery owner, Quentin Vlad (whom everyone in Denver believed
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