For once in many years, he felt pure, undiluted lust burning in his veins, which threatened him with doubts about himself. Stop this. Just stop.
She stretched out her hand and in a husky voice, Laetitia broke the silence that had descended upon them. “I’m Laetitia Galen.”
With those three words she damned both of them.
CHAPTER 4
“Tavish Uilleam MacCraig.” His warm hand enveloped hers and stayed there a second more than necessary. “I represent The Blue Dot Gallery in London, and I’m interested in seeing your paintings. I’m sorry to appear without previous notice, but I’d like to talk to you about them.”
She didn’t stop to analyze why she missed its warmth when their handshake broke, or why, for once, a man’s touch didn’t feel wrong.
How did he get my address? “Ah . . .” Laetitia glanced up, trying to judge him better. She could not be called short at five feet five, but Tavish was extraordinarily tall with his six-foot-seven broad frame. “There is a gallery in Leam, which already—”
“Ms. Galen.” Perturbed by his emotions, he didn’t let her finish. “I’m sure you’ll be interested in hearing what I have to say. Are you occupied? Could I come in?”
She took a deep breath and motioned with her hand to the right of the front garden, closing the main door behind her. “This way.”
It doesn’t match. Tavish rubbed his nape, not quite reconciling the painter with the collection of finished paintings lining the walls of her studio. She is the opposite of those images. Agreeableness versus aggression.
In the closest one, what should have been baby-blue waves breaking on a beach appeared as angry navy ocean waves that opened bigger and bigger jaws to devour the canvas and suck in the spectator whole.
He tilted his head to make sense of the next one done in a blackish-red and scarlet. He wasn’t sure if it depicted a crumbling ceiling or if it was a falling sky that crushed a child engulfed in flames.
There were also what one could call vulgar vistas: a sunset, a lonely road that ended in a curve, an alley, a river running under a stone bridge.
In her hands, they hadn’t surrendered to their subject and couldn’t have been more different from ordinary. They had been transformed on lyrical yet somber poems, or even cautionary tales, as if one allowed oneself to be overtaken by paranoia.
He walked to the last painting, the smallest one in the room, done in black and white and shades of silvery-gray. There was a man in profile, his long black hair plastered against the side of his pale face, as if he were being cut by the strands, as hard rain and implacable wind beat him. His face was etched with an unspeakable grief, as he held a motionless child in his arms.
It was as if Tavish was seeing an incident from his past. He hadn’t been in London when Alistair’s daughter, Nathalie, had died; the image in front of him could have been a photograph of his brother saying his good-byes.
Tavish squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again and stepped back, with his gaze fixed on the painting, the feeling was still there. But this time he was seeing the suffering in the broken body of the child. He had to force the bile back from his throat. Its acrid taste snapped him out of his stupor.
Laetitia, who was sitting in an armchair, quietly waiting for Tavish to finish his survey, saw the shudder that shook his body.
He whipped his head to look at her in silence, which settled heavily on her shoulders and made her sigh inward. Tavish studied each of the images once more, his trained eyes looking for the small details that would speak—or not—of the consistency of her talent.
She rose from the chair, her emotions teetering between anger against him, disappointment with herself, and relief from the fear of having her dreams fulfilled. She wondered if she should show him the first canvas of the baroness’s series, which was on the drier, but decided against it. “The paint is still fresh on those. I have more in my garage, if you wish to see.”
He nodded, and she crossed the back garden to the facing building. The heavy, short old oak door creaked open.
Tavish had to bend to enter and was impressed by the cleanliness, the adequate and consistent temperature, and the dehumidified air—perfect for storing the paintings, despite having a black Hyundai Santa Fe parked on the far side facing a large wooden door.
He paced the room, then stood in front of several practical storage racks on which her paintings were hanging.
She pulled forward one of the racks and then another. She then moved to pull another.
“It won’t be necessary.” Tavish shook his head slowly. Unsettled, his gaze scrutinized her paintings again, trying to find a fault where there was none. “I’ll take them.”
She smiled, on guard. “Which ones?”
“I don’t think you’ve understood. I’m talking about all the paintings you have. Each and every one, including those that are fresh.” Please include yourself on the bill. The corner of his lips curled. “My gallery wants to represent you. Exclusively, Laetitia.”
The way he said the last two words sent her head spinning.
The Belmont Gallery means England. The Blue Dot means the world. Her first reaction was panic, but her pragmatic side took over. “Mr. MacCraig, I don’t have an exclusivity contract with The Belmont Gallery, but I can’t be selling my paintings directly, even if you represent The Blue Dot. It wouldn’t be fair to Mr. Belmont. Besides, I don’t have a contract with you, and I can’t be left without a representative. As far as I know, you can—”
“As far as you know . . .” His lips twisted, and a strange desire to laugh itched inside him. “I am here to offer you a permanent position with The Blue Dot. We’ll be happy to pay The Belmont Gallery’s share, whatever it is.”
“Right.” Right? What is right?
When he turned to face her, the disbelieving look in her eyes made an odd urge well inside him, one he pushed away along with any desire to laugh. “Name your price.”
“I would charge for a linear meter three hundred pounds. Net.” She looked at him over her shoulder, opening the door to her studio.
“Deal.” The expression on her face—a mix of surprise, yearning, and fear—was so ambivalent and similar to many of his feelings that to put his mind elsewhere, he said, “Would you like to have lunch with me?” What are you hungry for, Tavish Uilleam?
Where? Wary, walking into the studio, she repeated, “Lunch?”
“Aye, there are many things I’d like to impart about my ideas relating to your work.”
“Your ideas about my work?”
She watched him sit down on her chair, dwarfing it, and take a silver Cartier pen and a checkbook from his suit inner pocket and, as if at home, use her desk to write two checks.
“Wait! There is a fine of one thousand pounds to be paid to The Belmont Gallery. And I have paintings consigned there, besides—” she said, eyeing his bold, clear handwriting on the checks, the words entwining like cobras in a nest she was going to jump on.
“The paintings will be rebought, and no discounts asked for.”
“You are asking me to take a big risk, Mr. MacCraig.”
“Nae,” he disagreed. “We’ll shoulder every fine and handle each legal problem you might have. I’ll be forwarding our contract for you to analyze, but I’m sure you won’t find a problem with it, and we can always revisit and revise any clause you might want to adapt.”
“But—”
He closed his checkbook with a definite snap—not a loud sound, but a firm one. “Ten canvases will fit easily in my car trunk and—”
“Mr. MacCraig.”
From his seated place, he only had to raise his eyelids to pin her with his gaze.
She had the impression the stormy greens had gone more turbulent.
One of his ink-black eyebrows arched. “Aye, Laetitia?”
“Mr. MacCraig, please.” Her desire was to step back, but she squared her shoulders and asked politely, “Why don’t you pay me the rest when you send the transportation?
”
Nae. He tapped his pen twice on the wood, before putting it back inside his suit. “I’d rather you take this as a guarantee.” His words were as polite as her, but his tone allowed no contradiction. “So, lunch?”
It was tempting: the promise of lunch with that thunderstorm-beautiful man, of an exclusive contract with the world-renowned Blue Dot. Go, Laetitia, the baron is not at home. It’s your chance. She motioned with her hand to her clothes. Her sweater and leggings were peppered with paint. “I am not dressed to go out.”
“You can change. And I can wait,” he pressed. Come on, this is business.
It should have been uncomplicated. Ordinarily, in the event of resistance from an artist, he would have gone back to London, called his brother, and asked him to take over the negotiations. Alistair had a way of convincing people to do what he wanted.
Instead, her immunity to his offer grated on his nerves, which unsettled him and made him even more determined to win her for The Blue Dot on his own.
She chewed on her lip for a moment, searching for excuses. “I am vegetarian.”
“Not a problem. I know a good vegetarian restaurant in Warwickshire.” When he saw she wasn’t convinced, he said, “I’m not altogether vegetarian, but I don’t eat red meat.”
“Seriously! You?” she scoffed lightly and saw a blue light appear in his eyes, as lightning marred the already stormy sky before the thunder crashed. His hands formed into fists.
A warning flashed in Laetitia’s mind, screaming at her that she shouldn’t have voiced the doubt in that way, in no way. He was not a man to be scoffed at, as he had a cutting edge that spoke of hardness and brutality, albeit a too-handsome brutality.
He looked away from her face and to the garden outside, fixing his stare on a tree. His hand flexed, and his voice darkened, when he offered, “I served in Royal Army Medical Corps in Iraq and Afghanistan and dealt with injured in the conflict.” Her questioning his word caught him unguarded. “Once, a small Afghan town market was blown up by a suicide bomber.”
Her throat closed, yet her first instinct was to comfort him. Her hand fluttered in the air, but there was an implacable expression in his profile that spoke of a controlled passion and something darker, intimidating.
You have no business comforting urbane and reserved men with past tales of war, much less being afraid of their tales.
Why I am telling her this? She is a no one. He saw the gesture and swung his gaze to her before he continued in a deadly voice, not sparing her that painful memory. “A desperate father rushed to our camp carrying his daughter, and there was nothing I could do.”
Their eyes locked.
Tavish felt like he was about to stomp on one perfect flower, which had been growing amid the tragedy and chaos he was describing.
Her eyes were wide, their violet-blue color clear and innocent, untouched by the horrors that he had been surrounded by for years. Her long-fingered hand fluttered in the air and started to lower, but he caught her by the wrist.
She looked down, to where his large hand had engulfed half of her arm, and up again.
“The back of his daughter’s head had been blown away. Offering pieces of her skull, he implored me to put her together.”
The heat coming off him pulsed into her, sending prickles of awareness up her arm. Its intensity only increased when in a fluid movement his hand turned, and his fingers entwined with hers, his grip firm, warm.
“All I could do was hold her wee hand, and his, in mine, in a sign of friendship. It seemed an eternity—his wails, her beautiful face and bloodied hair covering what was in pieces. Their hands joined in mine a second before I was dragged away by someone else in need.” His voice softened, the lines around his eyes smoothed. “I haven’t eaten red meat since then.”
He looked at their hands as if seeing them for the first time and reluctantly let hers go.
Laetitia’s palm felt cold; missing his touch, her curiosity piqued, which was not an easy feat. And even if the human side he had just shown her was as sharp as the creases in his suit, she wanted to peel his layers away and know every part of him. “You are a doctor? I thought—”
Enough. “I was a doctor,” he corrected, matter-of-factly, trying to process what had just happened. What the hell were you thinking, Tavish Uilleam? Grabbing her hand like that? He handed her the checks, wanting to grab her hand again to pull her flush to his body and kiss her. He felt himself heavy with lust for this angel who had shaken his world, with her pure eyes showing promises of light and renewal. Get yourself together! This isn’t your world, and angels are not made for men, much less for fallen, tainted men. You came for the contract, Tavish Uilleam. “Lunch, Laetitia?”
His question brought her back to reality.
You don’t know him. She was alone with him, a military man, powerful and strong, which was borderline manageable to her. She had let him into a house in which she shouldn’t be receiving guests. He had been touching her for more time than a man had touched her in years. And nothing had happened, and she was willing to know what more he could do to her, and she wanted to know how he would turn out to be once she knew him better.
“Yes. Lunch.” Inwardly, she shook her head, accepting the checks. Unsure if she should ask him to wait for her by his car or not, she took a step backward, still looking at him. “Give me a second to change.”
Don’t forget who you are and what you are doing here. “Do you want me to wait outside?”
“No, it’s cold. I . . . it’s my studio. That’s OK.”
CHAPTER 5
Mallory Court Hotel
12:00 p.m.
“I trust you’ll find the food excellent,” he said, parking his car in front of a Lutyens-style main house, the epitome of a classic English country house.
After she had changed clothes and came to meet him in the studio, he had known she would capture the attention of all the men in Mallory Court. It was not that her dress was transparent, clingy, short, or even brand-new. Far from that. She was wearing a lilac turtleneck long-sleeve maxi dress with a large gray belt low on her hips and gray flat booties. The vintage outfit emphasized her youth and put his imagination on fire. He wanted to rip off her dress and devour her breasts.
He wasn’t quite sure what they had talked about or what had happened on the way to the hotel, as her sweet scent wrapped him in its flowery vine.
As he helped her out of the car, the warmth of his hands penetrated through her dress. She kept her hands on his shoulders when he didn’t let go of her waist immediately, striving to ignore how rigid and well formed his muscles were. Damn, Laetitia! Stop these thoughts. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Wee lasses tend to have a difficult time descending from my car in long dresses, unaided.” And man, I’ve developed an appreciation for wee lasses in long dresses.
She wanted to point out that everything would be wee when compared to him, but she just said again, “Thank you.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, lest he would pick her up in his arms and take her directly to a room. Focus on something else. “You have a lilting Gaelic accent. But you’re not Scottish, are you?”
Her accent was unusual: English upper-middle class, with a shadow of Irish Gaelic and a rich tinge of French.
When she shook her head, he asked, “Where are you from?”
“Ireland,” she said curtly. The wind stirred through the trees, crashing branches together and sending leaves to the ground. Laetitia stifled a shudder. Careful, or you’ll fall like these leaves.
As they walked into the hotel toward the art deco–inspired restaurant, he shortened his stride to match hers, which made him look languid like a prowling panther. “Have you been living here long?”
“Yeah,” she murmured.
Mysterious, eh? He raised an eyebrow. “Are you always so evasive?”
“Are you always so inquisitive?” she countered with a smile.
“Touché,” he said. Denying me answers
will get you nowhere. I’ll probe until you tell me everything.
Before he could inquire further, she said, “And you are Scottish.”
“Half-English, half-Scottish. My mother was English. My father is a Highlander. I was raised between London and the Highlands.”
Her eyes wandered over his face, large shoulders, and broad chest. He carried himself with a confident poise that inspired trust and respect, if not fear. She could effortlessly imagine him wearing nothing but a kilt, with a sword strapped to his back, scars marring his body. You’ve been reading too many romantic novels, Laetitia!
The maître d’ directed them to a table overlooking the breathtaking grounds of the hotel, and a waiter served them water as the sommelier approached bringing the wine list.
They made small talk, trying to disguise the undercurrent of lust flowing between them. The sommelier brought the wine, tasted it, and poured for Tavish.
She looked at his sensual mouth on the rim of the glass, and her eyes wandered down to take in the movement of his strong throat swallowing and his large hand handling the delicate stem of the crystal glass. Laetitia’s heart slammed in her chest, and the tingles she felt when he had held her hand returned.
“What’s so interesting?” he asked.
She blinked and raised her eyes to his face.
He was observing her closely; the maddening ink-black eyebrow raised once more.
“Are you a wine appreciator? I am, too.” She opened the menu to hide her embarrassment. “Hmm . . . I’ll have the wild mushroom risotto with truffle oil.”
“No appetizer?” When she shook her head, he signaled a waiter, who approached. “We are ready to order. For the lady, the mushroom risotto, as main course. For me, the goat cheese and cherry tomato omelet as starter, and after, the tagliatelle pasta and Roma tomatoes.”
As soon as the waiter vanished, he asked, “Your family still lives in Ireland?”
“I have no family,” she said curtly, crossing her arms to end the subject and to close him out.