Santa Fe Fortune & How to Marry a Matador

face-to-face when she’d made the latter assessment.
    The hardness lining her eyes eased just a little. “I suppose I could stay for a bit,” she said, her voice taking on the lilt of the mid-Atlantic South. She took her seat, splaying the lap of her flowered sundress across tightly nestled knees.
    The Californians tastefully removed themselves to the back of the gallery to study a photographic desert landscape series, and Dan sat as well. He plucked a hanky from his suit pocket and dabbed the back of his neck, thinking it had to be over a hundred degrees in here.
    Something tender welled in Dan’s throat, and he realized he wasn’t just doing this for Nancy. For some inexplicable reason, he felt driven to be nice to Ms. Marsh for her own sake. Never mind that she’d practically bulldozed right over him crashing in here. After all, he’d dealt with worse in business before. The truth was Nancy had given him some leeway. If Marsh really pushed, Dan could go up as high as three thousand a pop, mostly because Nancy had faith in Marsh’s work and thought it was good. Nancy also believed that Marsh could develop a Santa Fe following. Many of the buyers here came from the West Coast, and Marsh’s oils capturing snippets of sea life would be a ready sell. Dan had seen the slides, and they were impressive. Borrowing more from impressionism than realism, Marsh had a way of zeroing in on the smallest, seemingly inconsequential detail, like an isolated seashell, and illuminating it in a special and grandiose way.
    She opened her purse and withdrew a thin ledger. “If you’d let me show you my figures, I’m sure you’ll understand why my prices have gone up.”
    Dan scanned the haphazardly arranged numbers, deciding she was no mathematician. He pointed to one clumsily assumed total. “I can understand where material costs have climbed, but how exactly is it that your hourly rate has doubled?”
    “Hard times, Mr. Holbrook,” she said without flinching. “Don’t you read the papers?”
    “ Wall Street Journal and you?” he bantered without skipping a beat.
    “Well, I…read, of course.” With that, she awkwardly angled an elbow and sent her clutch crashing to the floor. “Oh no!”
    A small cloud of makeup powder-puffed up from beneath them as a rolling lipstick assaulted Dan’s loafer. To this day, he’d never understood the mysteries of a woman’s bag.
    “Here, let me,” he began.
    “No! I’ve got it!”
    They bent simultaneously toward the mound of sprawled purse contents, nearly knocking heads. “I’m sorry!” he said, down on hands and knees to help her.
    “My fault!”
    A scent overtook him as cunning and fine as the most succulent desert flower. Dan looked up into bewitching brown eyes less than six inches away. Whatever was happening here, he had to put a halt to it. This was no sensible way for a man pushing forty to behave. He was reeling like a raving teenager. He hadn’t been in a position this compromising with a woman in a while, and it showed. All sorts of crazy thoughts went racing through his head, like how it might feel to kiss her good and hard as she probably deserved.

    “You guys okay over there?” a pair of cowgirl boots called from the corner.
    “Thanks, we’ve got it!” Gwen replied, scooting back on her knees. She couldn’t believe this mess! What had she gotten herself into? Here she was with this hunky beast of a man, trapped beneath a solid yet decorative desk.
    He had a rugged face, tanned like he was used to working outdoors. His sandy hair held a hint of sunlight too. Toned muscles strained beneath his suit jacket as he posed on all fours, looking far more like a predator in the wild than a staid art collector. Gwen had an improbable instinct to flee but was powerless to run away. He’d been an impossible man above board, but down here in the shadows, he revealed something more. Instinct told Gwen that Holbrook was the sort of man who knew how to kiss a woman and kiss her right. She imagined getting swept into his powerful arms, his mouth moving down on hers…
    “Are you all right?” His gaze dove into her as heat crept up her cheeks.
    “Yes, fine. That’s all, I think,” she said, scooping the remainders into her clutch.
    Gwen didn’t know why his gorgeous stare had unnerved her so. It wasn’t like she was attracted to him, for heaven’s sake. If her take on Holbrook was correct, he had plenty of women falling all over him already. What would a