Santa Fe Fortune & How to Marry a Matador

inspiration was specific to a particular painting. Megan brought her a glass of wine and a small plate of food, and Gwen thanked her with a gracious smile, feeling her tensions ease. Speaking with these people wasn’t nearly as intimidating as she’d thought. Everyone was so nice and appeared genuinely interested. Even those who might not have appreciated her particular style were far too polite to say so. The fact was this was a crowd that was interested in art, and that commonality bound them together, despite the fact that the bank balances of the browsers in here were sure to outnumber hers a hundred to one. The men were casually well dressed and the woman fixed nicely without looking overdone. Gwen glanced down at her flirty earth-toned dress and boots, hoping she’d chosen right. A whisper in her ear confirmed it.
    “You look dynamite,” Dan said, stepping up behind her.
    A current rippled down Gwen’s spine as heat centered in her belly. He was incredibly handsome in a sports coat overlaying a deep-blue polo. She turned toward him with surprise and suddenly felt light-headed. Was it him or those first two glasses of wine back at the inn? She scolded herself for pregaming, when the occasion was important as this one. At least she’d taken care to triple-check her hair for Havarti. “Dan! I didn’t see you when I came in.”

    Dan had certainly seen her. He’d spied her the moment he’d stepped around the corner. She’d been captivating the group with her soft smile and subtle Southern accent. Dan noted a few of the men eyeing Gwen a tad too appreciatively and flashed hot at his nape. He was silly to feel jealous. She was a beautiful woman. It would be impossible for other men not to notice. Dan silently cursed himself for insisting she wear those sexy-as-all-get-out boots, then realized he was being absurd. He didn’t have any sort of claim on Gwen. For some reason, that admission made him unhappy.
    “I was just in the back gallery,” he said. “There are a couple of folks in there dying to meet you, if you can pull yourself away?” He raised his brow at Megan, who picked up right away on his lead.
    “Right. Ms. Marsh, why don’t you run on ahead? I’m sure these good people will excuse you.” Gwen said her good-byes to them, and they thanked for her time, saying what a pleasure it had been to speak with her. Dan noted she was exceptionally bubbly tonight, charming them all with her natural effervescence.
    “They were nice,” she said to Dan, her cheeks flushed with color. She really did look amazing. No wonder none of the guys in here could take their eyes off her.
    “People always love talking to real, live artists,” he said with a grin.
    “As opposed to real, dead ones?” she asked pertly, pretty blonde curls playing about her face.
    Dan repressed a smile, thinking she was being awfully plucky for someone who’d never worked a room like this one before.
    Big brown eyes flashed up at him with innocence. “What? I understand that many artists are famous posthumously.”
    “Let’s hope you don’t fit into that category any time soon.”
    “Famous?”
    “Posthumous.”
    Dan escorted her toward the back gallery, wishing she’d stop looking so damn cute and flirty. He found it almost aggravating of her to exercise her winsome wit besides. He was already growing agitated at the thought of her leaving. The overabundance of appreciative male gazes only made things worse. That signaled Gwen would have no trouble easily getting another guy. Dan paused, allowing Gwen to pass into the large anterior room ahead of him. She sashayed through the threshold with a sway to her hips and clomping cowgirl boots. Dan withdrew a hanky and dabbed the back of his neck, thinking someone had turned up the heat in here. That someone being Ms. Gwendolyn Marsh!

    Gwen entered the anterior gallery and paused, clasping her hands to her chest. Her oils were skillfully hung on the walls and in a perfect arrangement. They looked so good it was almost hard to imagine they were hers and she was the featured artist!
    Two tanned blondes turned from their study of her work, pivoting toward her on spiky heels. She recognized them at once as the pair from Canyon Road and the women she’d seen flirting with Dan through the window. Both held empty wineglasses and looked of the ilk that could hold their liquor.
    “You must be the artist,” the taller one said, exuding haute sophistication. “We’ve just been