Santa Fe Fortune & How to Marry a Matador

continue to beat herself up over Robert’s shortcomings. When she was thinking clearly, as Marian often encouraged her to do, she understood that her marriage falling apart had more to do with him than her. Or perhaps it was due to them both and the fact that, once they’d escaped from the cocoonlike sanctuary of the university, neither of them truly fit together. Gwen wondered sadly if she was destined to fit together with any man. Perhaps that wasn’t in the cards for her, and maybe that was okay. If her art took off and she built herself a career, something that she adored and was really proud of, that might be enough.
    She considered her meeting this evening with Dan, realizing she’d been acting like a silly schoolgirl. It wasn’t his fault she hadn’t dated since her divorce, so why should she hold him accountable for her surging hormones? Any nice-looking man who’d paid her attention would likely have made her feel the same. As an elementary schoolteacher, she simply hadn’t had much opportunity for that. All the men she met were either married or formerly married and quickly reattached. It seemed the decent ones didn’t last long on the market. From what she’d gathered from her quick perusals of Internet dating sites, the perpetual bachelors all seemed to have something wrong with them. Then again, Dan appeared normal. Exceedingly normal, healthy, and sexually enticing as well. So why hadn’t a tamale-hot catch like him been snapped up already?
    Gwen decided to head back to the inn to cool off for a few hours before her gallery appointment. This praying business didn’t seem to be going too well. She thought she’d probably done it wrong. It had been such a while, she couldn’t tell. In any case, she was grateful to Dan for granting her this chance. At the heart of it, Gwen understood that was all this really was, a chance to sell some of her art to a very fine place and hopefully help turn her sister’s life around. That was worth a few amens, no doubt. She dipped her head, offering them quickly, and bowed out of the cathedral before anyone could stop her and ask her for money. That was one part of going to church she hadn’t forgotten. There was a lady near the door collecting donations for the restoration fund. Gwen slipped silently past her and out into the sunshine before the woman could hold up a brochure. Maybe once Gwen was rich and famous she’d feel a bit more philanthropic. At the moment, she scarcely had cash for dinner. She’d have to hurry to catch the wine-and-cheese hour before the other guests cleaned out the Havarti.

    Dan paced the redwood-pine floors, double-checking the time on his BlackBerry. The afternoon couldn’t have dragged out more if he’d planned it. It all seemed to go in slow motion, as if he were deep-sea diving, arms and legs battling against ocean pressure.
    The occasional browsers stopped by, and there was the shipment to get out to Los Angeles, but Nancy’s assistant Megan had come in to see to that. She wore a nose piercing and a puckish haircut that added to her image of a small sprite sprinting around the gallery. Dan had never seen a twenty-three-year-old with so much energy. She was very astute though, her nimble mind eager to acquire anything and everything about gallery running. She hoped to manage a place of her own one day and apparently did some sort of printmaking on the side.
    “That’s it, then,” Megan said, peering up at him through heavily mascaraed eyes. “Think that I might sneak out early? I’ve got a date for drinks at Nines.” Nines was the hipster bar on an adobe rooftop overlooking the mountains.
    “Don’t let me hold you back,” Dan said.
    “Are you all right?” Megan asked. “You’ve seemed a little…off this afternoon. Maybe you should head out early too.”
    Dan was more than a little off; he was distractingly discombobulated. He’d spent over three hours poring through Nancy’s customary client list, trying to discern those who might be interested in Gwen’s work. If he’d had his head on straight, the task might have taken him forty-five minutes. Instead, he’d caught himself daydreaming at every turn, reliving his lively lunch with Ms. Gwendolyn Marsh. Just as in the gallery the day before, he’d been sucked in by the feminine scent of her. Didn’t help one iota that she obviously perfumed her legs, legs that were attached to one knock-out of a womanly body, teamed with a damnably adorable and