Lynda Sandoval – One Perfect Man (страница 3)

He straightened in his chair—a holdover habit from his less-than-stellar high school days, he supposed, when hearing his name meant he’d been busted for screwing around.

“Mr. Garza? Do you have any ideas for how to incorporate Las Vegas into your piece?” She smiled.

He relaxed his expression, but a flare of inexplicable self-preservation ignited inside him. Lifting one ankle to rest atop the opposite knee and smoothing his palms together, he took his time working his idea into words. Luckily, he had given this some thought, and he considered himself reasonably articulate, even paying only half attention. “Yes. I’d like to craft piñatas to replicate some of our city’s historic buildings, for an interesting twist. An amalgam of Mexican craft work with New Mexican culture. And definitely representative of Vegas.”

Her gaze brightened, and Tomás caught several appreciative nods from the other artists around the room in his peripheral vision. That pleased him. Some artists dismissed piñata making—his family’s artistic heritage—as a child’s craft rather than the endangered art it truly was. He worked hard to overcome the misconception, creating piñatas people wanted to display as well as those for children to break open at birthday parties. The reaction from his peers gathered here today seemed encouraging. He looked to the lady and raised one eyebrow in question.

“Fabulous,” Ms. Gonçalves said. The distant look in her eyes told him that sharp mind of hers was already three steps ahead in the planning. “Really different.”

“Gracias.” He warmed beneath her praise.

“How many houses were you thinking of incorporating?”

“One to represent each of our historic districts. Seven total. They’ll need to be big to capture detail. I don’t want to overdo it.”

“No, that’s perfect. You’re right.”

“Great.”

“Perhaps we can suspend them low over a map or photo of the town,” she said, swirling her hands out in front of her as though she had the full picture in her mind, “approximately near the locations of the districts they represent.”

He shrugged. “Works for me.”

A raised hand caught their attention, and they both turned toward a dazzling, dark-haired muralist from Angel Fire who sat near the far wall.

“I have a cartographer friend who’d jump on this project if the budget allows enough to pay him,” offered Monét Montoya, bangle bracelets tinkling as she gestured. “He’s worth it. His maps aren’t just maps, they’re art.”

Erica nodded. “Great. Get with me after the meeting and I’ll take down his information.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “If that’s all right with you, Mr. Garza? It is your project, after all.”

He appreciated the consideration. “Fine.”

“Good, then.” She typed the idea into her laptop with finality, and moments later it appeared on the projector screen:

Las Vegas: Display of seven piñatas in the form of historic buildings suspended above an art map of the city.

“Thank you, Mr. Garza.” Erica smiled at him, and his stomach tightened with a distant emotion he vaguely recognized as lust. His wariness increased. Granted, she was hot. Any red-blooded man could see that. But he had no intention of bringing a strange woman into his life—or his daughter’s life—lust or no. As Bob Marley so wisely crooned, “no woman, no cry.” He and Hope had learned their lesson on that account long ago.

“My pleasure.” He managed to smile with his mouth, but his eyes failed to cooperate. Not wanting to appear surly, he softened what he was sure had been a cold expression with a wink. To his surprise, her eyes widened slowly before she averted her gaze and cleared her throat. Interesting. When she raised her face to the crowd, Tomás noticed a flush to her chest in the V of her blouse, which belied the calm, cool exterior. He looked away, denying his own awareness. Awareness that had no place in this meeting room, or in his life.

“Okay, let’s move on.”

Please do, he thought, with palpable relief.

He watched Erica toss her hair and focus on another lucky artisan in the room. Grateful that her disconcerting attention had shifted elsewhere, Tomás tuned out a bit while the rest of the towns weighed in. He sat back to ruminate further about the best way to approach Erica Gonçalves with his proposition.

The job probably wasn’t as prestigious as her regular gigs, but he needed her, much as he hated to admit it. She could pull this off without a hitch, and he…well, he wasn’t so sure he could pull it off at all on his own.

The very thought of not being capable, of knowing he needed to seek help, brought self-disgust bubbling up in his throat. He and Hope had never needed help from anyone before. He hated admitting that he didn’t have every aspect of his busy life under control. Lately though, where his little girl was concerned, he didn’t seem to have a damn thing under control, and he’d do just about anything to make it better.

Part of it was her age, he knew. Kids went wacky during the middle-school years. Part of it was hormones, something he didn’t want to think about in relation to his baby girl. He needed to accept the fact that Hope wasn’t a baby anymore, however, and that sometimes young ladies acted…mysterious. Detached. More confusing the closer they came to womanhood—the nature of the beast. He pictured her and smiled with equal parts love, fatherly concern and sympathy, remembering age fourteen only too well. It wasn’t so many years since he’d been there, considering he’d been little more than a child himself when Hope had come along.

But he wasn’t the child anymore, he was the parent, and it was his responsibility to fix things, to make life perfect for his daughter. All that mattered was her happiness, and, much as he hated to admit it, the lady standing at the front of the small conference room could be the answer to his prayers. He wouldn’t allow stubborn pride to keep him from reaching out to her. No. He’d buck up and solicit her help, no matter how galling it was to admit his parental shortcomings. He’d do anything for Hope, even go into debt, even swallow his own foolish pride.

Calmer, more determined, he took in a breath and tracked Ms. Gonçalves’s smooth, efficient movements with his eyes, feeling better by the moment. If anyone could pull this off, she could. Everything would work out, and his daughter would magically revert back into the adoring, open, happy girl she had once been.

Pride swallowed. Help accepted.

Problem solved. Balance restored.

Hope and Daddy against the world once again.

Chapter Two

The meeting had gone well. Erica smiled to herself as she organized her notes. Creating a statewide cultural arts festival out of thin air and big dreams was a monstrous undertaking, but luckily the artisans she’d brought on board were not only talented but creative and enthusiastic, as well. The firm had a full team of event planners working on the festival, but the art included was the most important part, and Erica was in charge of finding appropriate artisans. She felt good about it.

If the sculptor from Albuquerque could pull off his idea, if he got the scale right—and certainly he would—the whole festival would feel as if it were taking place outside, beneath New Mexico’s blue skies and a rainbow of hot-air balloons. The undertaking was so huge, so fresh, it bordered on arrogant. She loved it. They’d make history…not to mention national news, which suited her five-year plan perfectly. She’d take all the help she could get making a name for herself in this competitive business. That out-of-the-box creativity was exactly what Erica had hoped for when she called this final planning meeting. Now that all the decisions had been made, they could all focus on pulling this beast together.

A knock sounded on the conference-room door, yanking Erica out of her thoughts. She glanced up and frowned, then checked her watch as she crossed the room, certain that she had another half hour at least before she needed to vacate the meeting space.

At the door, she hesitated, her mother’s grave warnings bubbling up from somewhere in her subconscious. She smiled at the absurdity, but nonetheless asked, “Who is it?” before opening the door. She hoped the effort would win her a few respect-your-mother points in heaven.

“Tomás Garza,” came the deep but gentle voice from the other side of the door.

The piñatero? Her heart revved, remembering her surprise when she first saw him at the meeting. When she’d sent a letter requesting his participation in the festival, she had expected him to be an old, paunchy man. How wrong her preconceived notions had been.

He was a quiet, watchful man, but certainly not old. And not even close to paunchy. She’d guess him to be in his early thirties, with long dark hair he wore pulled back into an utilitarian ponytail. It managed to look ultramasculine and enticingly rebellious at the same time.

She’d found him attractive, sure. But he’d stuck in her mind mostly because he’d been so…still. Utterly still, like an animal. Alert, aware, taking it all in, and ready to bolt at any moment. She found it disconcerting. Maybe she was crazy, but she’d gotten the feeling that Tomás had watched her every move during the meeting. His body motionless, deceptively casual. Those unusual brown eyes tracking her like prey.