The Appraisal
He couldn't remember the last time he'd worn a white dinner jacket. Maybe never. He'd bought it a week ago in Atlanta for this little get-together in his honor. The last time Cutter Forsyth had been in this ballroom at the country club in Flowery Springs, Georgia had been for his brother's wedding reception/dinner. How long ago? Four years? No, five."Hey, Cutter. Why the frown?" A hand landed heavily on his shoulder.
"Speak of the devil." Cutter turned to face Colin. "How long have you been married?"
"Five years this June." Realization lifted his brows. "That's in only a couple of months!"
"Time flies," Cutter murmured, but he didn't feel the sentiment. Tonight, for instance. Every minute seemed like an hour.
Colin patted his shoulder. "You thinking about the day you'll tie the knot with some unfortunate beauty?"
"God, no." Cutter produced a shiver, rounding his shoulders for extra effect. "I was remembering that your wedding was the last time I was here."
"Oh, right." Colin elbowed him. "And look at you now!"
"What's he done?" The oldest son of Preston and Roxana Forsyth joined them, quirking his left eyebrow in that censuring way he'd mastered when he was a judgmental eight-year-old. "Hey, Conrad." Colin touched his highball glass against Conrad's. "I was saying that our little brother here has come a long way. Who would have thought that the whole damn town would be throwing a bash in his name. Cutthroat Cutter is a hometown hero now."
Cutter made a sour face. He hated that stupid nickname and his brothers knew it.
Conrad gave Cutter a shoes-to-head perusal, eyebrow still arched. "I'm not sure how creating sculptures translates into heroism."
"Ditto," Cutter agreed. "It's more like the Forsyth screwup found a way to use screws and make money with them."
That got a chuckle from the usually droll Conrad. "I was just with dear old Dad. He's making the rounds, schmoozing everyone, dazzling all the ladies." Conrad released a long, suffering sigh and downed the rest of his drink. "Probably trolling for his next girlfriend."
"Some things never change." Cutter observed his brothers over the rim of his glass as he took another swallow of the Scotch and soda, a tad surprised that they'd slipped into their familiar banter so quickly, so easily. He hadn't been around them very much in several years, but they'd somehow picked up right where they'd left off.
They all three resembled each other enough to be easily pegged as brothers. Tall – ranging from six feet two to six feet four – and in good physical shape. Blessed with thick heads of hair. Cutter and Conrad were blonds like their father and Colin was a brunette like their mother. Conrad and Colin had Roxana's brown eyes, but Cutter's were hazel with gold sunburst centers. All three had square jaws, slashing, carved cheekbones, and noses that hadn't been broken or bent. They had heavy eyebrows with natural center peaks, lending more expression to their faces. His brothers worked in the family pharmaceutical business, taking the reins that Cutter had never wanted or touched.
"As I live and breathe, if it isn't the three most handsome men in all of the county," a shapely blond purred as she approached them. Poured into a green sheath of some kind of metallic material that made her shimmer, Tricia Finley stopped shoulder-to-shoulder with Cutter and flashed a smile that was as sexual as red lacquered fingernails skimming down a man's bare back. "You have to dance with me tonight, Cutter Forsyth, or I'll pout something awful."
Sensing his brothers' amused regard, Cutter glanced up at the chandeliered ceiling. "Spoken like a true Southern belle. Good to see you again, Tricia."
"Good to be seen," she said with a sweep of her outrageously fake eyelashes that were interspersed with sequins. "I was positively thrilled to hear that you'd moved back to Flowery Springs."
"I'm here merely to finish my commissioned artwork. I'm not planting roots and throwing out a welcome mat."
"You'd welcome me, though, wouldn't you?" Her fingernails scraped over the back of his hand. "You're in the old Hartford place, right? Out by the mill?"
"That's right. I set up the barn as my studio."
"Studio." Her smile displayed perfect teeth that were so white they were almost blinding. "That's so cosmopolitan. Cutter Forsyth, a famous artist! And I knew you when you carried a switchblade, dressed in torn jeans and a dirty t-shirt, and rode a Harley." She glanced at his brothers. "Y'all must be so proud of him."
"Oh, we are positively bursting at the seams," Colin said with wide eyes and mock sincerity.
"How's your father doing, Tricia?" Conrad asked. "I was relieved to hear he's recovering at home now . . ."
Bored with the turn of conversation, Cutter glanced past her at the glitter of gowns and sparkle of jewels on fingers and throats. Black hair, as glossy as a raven's wing, caught his eye, and his breath froze in his lungs when he recognized that perfect profile. The slightly upturned nose, round chin, high cheekbones, warm smile, and those eyes – deeply set and dark umber, framed by a thicket of ebony lashes. A modern day Cherokee princess. Gemma Summerhill.
His heart kicked like a mule in his chest and his palms became sweaty. White noise filled his head for a minute as the world stopped. Just stopped. Jesus H. Christ, why had he ever thought he was over her? There was still something about her – something that pulled at him like an invisible force and never let go. He let out a slow breath as he appreciated every line and curve of her body encased in silver satin, sleeveless and almost backless. Emotions warred inside him – arousal fought with guilt, desire battled independence. Memories, sweet and innocent, wafted through him of times he'd spent with her before that night when he'd ruined everything good and true between them.
"Isn't that right, Cutter?" Conrad asked, bumping his shoulder and jostling him out of his momentary trance.
"Uh . . . right," he agreed, breathing normally again and hoping he hadn't acquiesced to something he'd regret.
"Really?" Tricia's blue eyes rounded. "You're ready to find Miss Right?"
"Miss . . ?" He frowned at his grinning brothers. Assholes knew he hadn't been paying attention. "Not likely. As I said, I'm only in Georgia long enough to finish my work and see that it's properly displayed."
He redirected his attention again to where he'd seen Gemma, but she wasn't there now. They'd been best friends before he'd taken off after his high school prom and graduation.
Gemma had been a year behind him. When he'd come back here a couple of times for family obligations, he'd kept his distance from her. On purpose.
Trisha's cool fingers wove between his. "Dance with me, Cutter?" she whispered, pressing her breast against his arm.
He nodded and took the dance floor with her, setting his empty drink glass on a waiter's tray as he passed. Tricia felt like butter in his arms, all soft and warm and a little slippery. Glancing down into her upturned face, he shook his head at her hungry eyes and parted lips.
"You are shameless, Tricia Finley," he admonished her.
"Are you complaining?"
"No. Not at all." He pulled her closer and bent his head to graze her bare shoulder with his lips. Her hands smoothed through his hair and curved around the back of his neck. She'd been one of his regulars in high school. Always ready for a good time in the back of her pickup truck. "You look good enough to eat, girl."
"People will talk, Cutter," she warned.
"They always do." He lifted his mouth from her perfumed skin as her comment unfurled a black ribbon of antagonism within him. Being gossiped about was a sore spot in his soul, although he was proud that he hid the pain well. "What have you been up to, Tricia? You didn't do something stupid like get married, did you?"
"Not yet. I'm holding out for my Mr. Right." Her eyes flirted with him as she straightened his black bow tie. "Did you know that I'm the social secretary here?"
"Here? At the country club?"
"Uh-huh. You have me to thank for this lovely party, Mr. Forsyth. I book all the events and make sure they come off without a hitch." Looking around them at the tuxedoed orchestra surrounded by gold and white balloons and streamers, her smile grew. "Do you approve?"
"Absolutely. I'm honored."
Her high, squeaky giggle made his ears hurt a little. "I just adore your pieces."
"Are we talking about my pieces or my art?"
She giggled again, drawing some attention their way. "Your art, you dirty boy you!"
"Oh, damn." He frowned, feigning disappointment. "Do tell, Tricia. Which piece of mine is your favorite?"
She glanced up in a coy way, her blue eyes sparkling along with the sequins in her lashes.
"All of them."
He arched a brow, silently calling her a lovely liar. "Oh yeah? Huh. I would have thought that Butterfly in Amber would be your favorite."
She rounded her eyes. "I do love that one," she agreed with a nod. Her blond curls bounced around her bare shoulders. "But like I said, I love all of them."
He delivered an indulgent smile as the final notes of the song faded along with his fleeting interest in Tricia. He'd never created any butterflies in or out of amber. He'd been lied to often lately, but hadn't developed a tolerance for it. Spotting his father a few feet away, he excused himself, stepped around the eyelash-batting Tricia, and sidled up to the man with an almost constant blinding smile and laughing green eyes.
Preston Forsyth was as handsome as ever in his tailored tuxedo. Standing an inch taller than Cutter, his once blond hair was now snowy white, plentiful, and parted on the side. Dimples all three sons had inherited bracketed his big smile that grew even bigger when he spotted Cutter. He draped a congenial and oddly impersonal arm around Cutter's shoulders.
"I'm damned proud of you."
"Gee, thanks," Cutter said without emotion. "Wish I could say the same about you."
Preston threw back his head and guffawed. "Now isn't that the god-awful truth! They call me careless. Ha! After that damn mess you got yourself into back there in Los Angeles? Guess the rotten apple didn't roll far enough from the tree, huh, kiddo?"
An icy shower of anger swept through him at the comparison. As far back as he could remember, he had wanted to be the opposite of his glad-handing, egotistical, windbag of a father. In L.A. he had lost his way, and for the first time in his life, had felt like his father's son. He'd hated it. Hated himself.
Preston whacked him between the shoulders. "Who were you dancing with?"
Cutter winced. "Tricia Finley."
"Oh, right. She does something here."
"Books and arranges these shindigs."
"I guess your mother knows her. She's a looker," Preston said.
"Tricia or your estranged wife?"
Preston snickered. "Both. Roxana is a knockout tonight. She came with Autry Beauchamp."
Cutter pretended to choke. "Her taste in men isn't improving."
Preston lifted a hand to cover his laugh. "Beauchamp is her new beau. He looks like a penguin in his tux. Walks like one, too."
Cutter shrugged. He'd given up trying to understand Preston and Roxana's relationship. They couldn't stand each other, but neither had filed for divorce. They still lived in the family home together and dated other people.
Looking toward the long line of tables laden with expensive gifts being auctioned for the arts council, Preston motioned for Cutter to join him. "I like that piece you did for the auction. It's small. It would fit on my desk or the credenza in my office."
Cutter moved with him through the crowd, pausing every so often to acknowledge a greeting or word of congratulations. His artwork was on the center table atop a raised platform. Overhead lighting made every twist of polished or hammered metal shine and glimmer like jewels. Comprised of metal scraps, nuts, bolts, and a few machine parts, the surprisingly delicate hummingbird hovered above a bowl of fruit fashioned from blown glass, all created by Cutter.
"I'll make a note that fitting on a desk should be a top consideration when I design art," Cutter drawled, getting another guffaw from his shameless father. People crowded in front of the table to write down their bids. Amid the whispered voices, one tempted his ear like a familiar musical phrase. He searched for her. Found her. Gemma stood off to the right side of the hummingbird piece, her dark eyes sparkling, a smile of appreciation curving her full, pink lips.
"It's so clever how he made the bird look suspended," she said to the woman next to her. "See? Its wings are barely resting on the basket handle. Perfectly poised and balanced there."
"The bids!" The woman beside her gasped, pointing at the scribbled list. "They're already over ten thousand!"
"Oh, my." Gemma sighed. "Out of our league, huh, Hannah?"
Hannah. Cutter examined the other woman more closely, realizing that she was Gemma's older sister. Hannah had been one grade ahead of him in school. Two years older than Gemma.
"Are you, by chance, Dan Summerhill's daughters?" Preston asked, wedging himself through the small clutch of people to stand right behind Gemma and Hannah and blocking Cutter's view of them.
"Yes." Gemma sucked in a breath before exclaiming, "Mr. Forsyth! Hello!"
Cutter stepped sideways in time to see his father take Gemma's hand and kiss the back of it. Indignation and jealousy whipped through him like a cat o' nine tails.
"It's been ages since I've seen you," Preston enthused, glancing at Hannah and then locking his gaze on Gemma. "You've certainly blossomed!"
Unable to watch his father turn on the charm a moment longer without pounding something like his dear dad's face, Cutter pivoted and melted into the crowd. He made a beeline for the bar, but he heard Gemma ask, "Where's Cutter?" and his father answer, "He's . . . around here somewhere."
♥
Cutter's artwork sold for a shade more than thirteen thousand dollars when all the bidding was over. Gemma knew the winning bidders – Mr. and Mrs. Aaron Blackstone – so she made a point of seeking them out and congratulating them.
"It's so lovely, don't you think?" Mrs. Blackstone gushed. "It's going to be delivered to our home tomorrow. I know just the place for it, too. In our sunroom on the east side of the house. You know Cutter Forsyth, don't you, dear?"
"Yes, we went to school together. I even tutored him in some subjects." Gemma glanced around, wondering where the artist was hiding. Shouldn't he be here talking to the Blackstones?
"He's very talented and a native son!" Mrs. Blackstone looked past Gemma, smiling at someone. She raised a bejeweled hand. "Clara! Burt!"
Gemma moved aside, giving a nod to the couple before easing around the clutches of people. She spotted a set of French doors ahead that were slightly ajar and made her way to them, slipping outside for a breath of spring air. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the man in the white dinner jacket and dark slacks leaning his elbows on the iron railing and gazing at the fountain and gardens below.
The white coat stretched across his wide shoulders and rode up enough to give her a good look at the fit of his tuxedo trousers against his long legs and toned backside. Starlight shimmered over his dark blond hair, alchemically changing some strands to gold. In profile, his expression was pensive; his lips dipped in a frown and his brows lowered to shadow his eyes.
Seeing him again made Gemma's heart swoon, freefalling from her chest to her stomach. She grabbed the door frame, reminding herself to breathe before she passed out. Her intense reaction to being near him again alarmed her, but wasn't surprising. She'd wanted to see him – had been looking for him ever since she'd arrived – but until that moment she hadn't realized how desperate she'd been to reunite with him.
A black cat padded onto the balcony and rubbed against his trouser leg. Glancing down, he scooped up the small feline.
"Hello, lovely." He stroked the cat and dipped his nose in the animal's ruff. "Fancy meeting you here."
Suddenly, as if sensing her presence, he twisted slightly to glance over his shoulder. Spotting her, he straightened abruptly and pivoted to face her. His lips parted, but he said nothing. Silence stretched between them until Gemma couldn't stand it another second.
"Hello, Cutter. Is that your date?"
He swallowed hard before he spoke her name in a whisper. Clearing his throat, he stroked the cat and stared at Gemma for a few seconds. The cat's purr increased, grabbing his attention. "Oh. Uh, no. He or she is a new acquaintance." He set the cat on its feet and it leaped up onto the railing. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "How's it going?"
That voice. It slid through her like a shot of smooth whiskey. Kind of rough, kind of growling, kind of sleepy. Like he'd just awakened after a night of great sex. She gave a little shake of her head and told her libido to calm down. "I'm fine," she answered the lame question with an equally lame response. "Am I disturbing you?"
"No." His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug.
She ventured a few steps closer, her heart drumming in her ears as her eyes took in the changes in his expressively handsome face. The last time she'd seen him in person, the vestiges of boyhood had clung to him. From photos in magazines, newspapers, and online she'd seen the subtle changes maturity had brought to him. He was a man now; the angles and planes harder and sharper, his beautifully colored eyes void of any trace of innocence or callowness. His body had filled out with muscle and sinew. This man had been her one big crush; her first love. Every time she'd been around him, her heart had galloped, just like it was doing now. Could he hear it?
"I loved that hummingbird piece that was auctioned off tonight." She released a light laugh. "I told your father that I wished I could own it, and he offered to buy it for me! Naturally, I refused." She flung out a hand, feeling awkward and out of her element. "But I was tempted."
Something in his expression changed. It was like his whole demeanor hardened. His gaze bored into her with the precision of a drill. "You should have let him. He's shopping around for a pretty playmate. It's evidently not a bad gig."
Her hand flew to her heart and she stumbled back a step, unbalanced by his rude insinuation. She angled her chin up as her momentary shock was quickly replaced by a flash of affront. "That was uncalled for." Her voice came out harsher than she'd intended, but still she demanded, "Apologize."
His dark brown brows shot up. "For what?"
"You don't talk to a friend like that."
He turned aside, staring off into the night. "For Christ's sake, Gemma. I was pulling your leg."
"No, you weren't. You were being a jackass. Now apologize, Cutter Forsyth."
His insolent gaze slipped sideways to her. She clutched her small evening purse in front of her so that he wouldn't see the slight trembling of her fingers. What had she done to make him lash out at her like that? To even suggest that she'd take up with his father? His lips slanted in a cocky half-smile that was almost a snarl. Who was he? What had happened to bring out this cruel streak in him toward her?
"Okay. I'm sorry you can't take a joke."
To hell with him. "And I'm sorry you aren't man enough to offer a decent apology." She turned away, but he moved quickly, grasping her upper arm and spinning her back around to face him.
"Don't stomp off mad. Sorry. Okay?"
Jerking her arm, she dislodged his touch. "What's wrong with you, Cutter? Did you forget who your friends are?"
He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets again and stepped back from her. A humorless chuckle rattled in his throat. "Yeah, right. Friends." His sunburst eyes lifted to hers. "You're an attorney now."
She nodded and shifted her stance. This wasn't how she'd envisioned their reunion. She'd thought he would be happy to see her again.
"Putting murderers away or are you handling divorces and child custody battles?"
Releasing a long breath, she made herself settle into a normal conversation. The last thing she wanted to do was argue or fight with him. "Nothing that dramatic. Being a lawyer – for most of us anyway – consists of listening to clients vent and filing documents in a timely fashion."
"Here you are!" Tricia Finley swept through the doorway and hooked her arm in Cutter's. "You can't get away from me that easily." Her gaze glanced over Gemma. "Oh. Hi, Gemma."
"Hello, Tricia." Gemma eyed them for another second or two before turning away, wondering if Cutter was Tricia's escort. "See you around, Cutter. Tricia." She left them, but her thoughts lingered behind her with the hometown boy she'd crushed on. When they were teenagers, he'd presented an arrogant, contemptuous attitude around others, but with her he'd always been kind and trusting. Had life pounded the softer emotions out of him or were traces left? Others had denounced him – including her own family – but she had been his champion, always defending him when people said he was lazy, shiftless, bad to the bone. They'd shared secrets, dreams, and laughed at the same bad jokes and crazy situations. They'd been close. One night they'd been very close . . .
Shaking loose from those girlhood memories, Gemma joined a group of women she knew and accepted another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Her friends were in the middle of a lively discussion about the pros and cons of dating men who were old enough to be their fathers when Gemma noticed Cutter's mother standing near her. A beautiful woman, Roxana was resplendent in a midnight blue gown, its draped skirt gleaming with hand-sewn crystals. Her white hair, once dark brown, fell to just above her shoulders in a blunt cut. She'd pinned a blue sapphire and diamond bird in her hair, its wings outstretched along the side of her head. Two- carat diamonds winked in her earlobes.
" . . . proud of Cutter now," a woman standing beside Roxana said.
Roxana gave a half sniff, half laugh. "At least he's making honest money, so I suppose that's something."
"Oh, Roxana," the other woman said, eyes wide and her smile a little naughty. "Whatever do you think he was doing before he began selling his art?"
"Making a fool of himself and making headlines for being a fool. Like his father, he thinks he's God's gift to women."
The woman's laugh was more like a twitter. "Well, he's very talented and seems to have turned over a new leaf."
"I suppose if your idea of art is rusty parts and grimy nuts and bolts." Roxana sighed and sipped her glass of wine. "Don't let that tuxedo fool you. He's as much a gentleman as cut glass is Lalique crystal."
Stung by her comments concerning her own son, Gemma looked past Roxana and spotted Cutter and Trisha as they rejoined the party. With a sweep of contempt, Gemma paraded past Roxana, extending her an arched glare, and walked straight to the woman's youngest son.
"Cutter." She set her champagne flute on a table and tucked her small evening purse in the pocket of her gown.
Cutter arched a brow, clearly surprised by her appearance again. "Gemma?"
"Would you dance with me?"
"Uh." He glanced at Tricia, who was staring daggers at Gemma. A grin raced across his lips. "I dare not refuse." He bowed slightly at Tricia. "Excuse us."
Taking her by the hand, Cutter led Gemma onto the dance floor. His other arm circled her waist but he didn't pull her closer. She followed his lead effortlessly, keeping her gaze focused on his chin because she knew that looking into his eyes would make her pulse double again. The fabric of his sleeve whispered against her skin, bared by her almost backless gown. Now that they were dancing and her irritation at his mother had subsided, she felt foolish.
"May I ask what prompted this sudden need to dance with me?" he asked after another few moments of loud silence between them.
She swallowed her nerves. "I . . . um . . ." Should she try to lie? No. She was a lousy liar. "Your mother was being a witch."
"Oh?" He angled his head to look past her at Roxana. "Did she say something bitchy to you?"
"No. She said something rude about you."
"About me." That brow shot up again and his fingers tightened around hers. "So, what else is new?"
"It irritated me." Her gaze lifted to his to find glimmers of humor and interest. "She should be bursting with pride over you, Cutter. I just don't get her."
"Don't try. She's not worth the effort." He dipped his head lower, his gaze searching hers. "So, you decided to dance with me because my mother doesn't adore me."
"Something like that." She tried not to smile and failed. "I don't know!" She laughed under her breath at her own ridiculous actions. "I just wanted to show her that her opinion certainly wasn't shared by me."
"Funny."
"What?"
"A few minutes ago, you were telling me off."
"Oh, that." She shrugged one shoulder. "Just a friendly spat."
"Friendly. So, that's what we are? Friends? Pals."
"Of course." She blinked in confusion.
He stared over her head and his fingers tightened on hers. "I left without even saying a word to you after I – well, that wasn't very friendly."
Warm color crept up her neck and into her cheeks. "Right." She shrugged again. "But you didn't say goodbye to anyone, did you? I heard that your family was even surprised that you left so suddenly." She tipped her head sideways, studying him, trying to ferret out his feelings, but she couldn't. He was too good at masking them. "What made you leave in such a hurry?"
His smirk was back in place. "My life."
"And it was a lot better away from here?"
He pursed his lips in consideration. "Most of the time, yeah."
"And now you're back. The hometown boy has made good." The last notes of the song faded and she stood still, waiting for him to let go of her. His arm shifted and his fingertips brushed along her spine, leaving goosebumps. She started to smile, but something dark in his expression stopped her.
"You should hate me."
She blinked in confusion. "Why?"
"Why?" he echoed, but his tone was incredulous. "Because I treated you like you were nothing, nobody. That's why. You have every right to hate my guts."
She pulled her hand from his. "I don't remember it that way."
"Gemma." His warm, wide palm slipped from her back to her hip. "I took your—"
"I'm cutting in," Preston interrupted with his usual big smile. "It's my turn."
Cutter sent his father a piercing glare. "Why don't you pick on someone your own age for a change?"
Gemma felt her color deepen as Preston's smile diminished slightly. She stepped in, wanting to avoid another pointless confrontation. "Don't mind if I do." Smiling, she diverted Preston's attention from Cutter and Preston grasped her extended hand.
"Great! Excuse us, son."
Past Preston's shoulder, Gemma's gaze battled with Cutter's for a few moments before he turned sharply away from her and melted into the crush of people. It was the last she saw of him that evening.
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