Page 7 of The B!tch is Bad

Santiago spread his arm wide. “Well, why didn’t you tell me? I have some out in my Hyundai Sonata!”

Pippa frowned. “Seriously? Is that why you’re always so happy? Well, go with him then, Patience.”

Santiago put his hand on my shoulder as he steered me toward the lobby. “I will whisk your painting away to my abode in Taos, my dear. I will let no one know you are the model. Let us briskly get away from these lame-os.”

He referred to the men conglomerating around the front desk. By this time, I was a little sick to my stomach. Truth is, if you have easy access to physical tenderness you have no clue the stress it puts on people who’ve never been touched. I grew up practically an orphan, my mother socializing with my sponsors, the people who paid me to pose. I had no actual relationships with anyone. I had no physical contact. And there are accurate studies showing untouched people are more easily depressed, anxious, and sick.

Santiago’s warm caress was making me ill.

“Slayer!” shouted Sean Wildstar. “You know Patience is the girl in the painting. Is that why you’re joining the bidding?”

I could breathe a bit better when Santiago raised both hands to the crowd of men. “Listen, you shitpickles. The painting is mine and mine alone.”

The fit bald guy said, “Yes, but it’s her, right? Is that some damned coincidence? The fact that I had a dream of her and the painting, should have some weight.”

My heart almost thudded to a stop. A dream of her. Last night, I’d had the most erotic dream of my life—with a studly bald man. His button-down shirt had been open several buttons, I’d run my palm down that built pec, I’d fondled the soft hair that arrowed between the firm abs.

“A dream? Yes!” This seemed to affect Santiago as well. Maybe the man about town had a spiritual side. “And you are…?”

The man stepped forward, hand at the ready to shake. “Creed Trucks. New owner of Pictures of Lily winery.”

Yes. This was the man of my dreams. I’d been in love with this man last night, the most intense, passionate, adoring sensation I’d ever felt. It had lingered with me all day, as though the dream man really existed. Now, for the first time in my life, I wanted to touch someone. With a craving infatuation.

Santiago clapped his hand in Creed’s and blurted, “Pictures of Lily! Their Pinot is so…”

“Temperamental,” Sean Wildstar filled in.

I butted in front of Santiago to shake Creed’s hand. “Patience Bedford. Not the girl in the painting.”

His touch was so electric, my spine tingled. The feeling darted down to zap my labia, clenching my pussy. Now this I was familiar with. I masturbated all the time. I was a pro, you could say.

I knew that Creed knew. He’d seen inside my soul during our sojourn last night. He already knew I was head over heels for him. His voice was so deep and resonant, almost like a roast beef with vegetables. He sounded smoky. “All right. Not the girl.” I could tell he didn’t believe me, but would pretend for society’s sake. “I’d still like to buy the painting.”

Santiago commanded, “Come outside with us. We need something from my car.”

“Certainly,” said Creed. His eyes locked onto mine and lingered just a split second longer than manners dictated. He stood so close my nostrils flared with his enticing scent of the outdoors, grass and vines mingled with honest sweat.

The atmosphere buzzed like clouds over our heads as we followed Santiago to the parking lot.

I asked, “When did you have this dream?” Of me.

He spoke matter of factly. “Last night. I know it sounds crazy, but it was you.”

“What was I doing?”

For the first time Creed seemed to hesitate. “Well. It would seem too forward of me to tell you.”

For all his fumbling in his glove compartment, Santiago sure knew how to eavesdrop. “It is never too forward to tell a woman you love her.”

Love me? Was Creed’s dream that forward?

It was amazing how unfazed Creed was by all of this. His smile was relaxed, suave. If he owned a winery, he was no doubt a hipster poseur like Sean Wildstar, but his gaze was . . . genuine. “Do you agree with him?”

Did I? My anxiety had somehow leveled off, and I was able to think. “Yes. I do. I’ve been around the block. Nothing can freak me out.”

He smiled, looked at other things—a rock, a bumper, Santiago’s white shoes. “Well, it was like a story. A whole story unfolding about how I was engaged to you—”

“Yes!” I couldn’t help but interrupt. It was all so spine-tingling, so coincidental.