The action had a different effect, as the swell of her breasts pushed against the soft cashmere. He pictured her beneath him, her nipples brushing his chest as he pounded into her.
His own reaction made him curiouser and curiouser.
He gave himself a brisk mental shake. Jesus, Tavish. Stop that! “Why did you move to Leamington?”
“Nearer London, better market,” she offered curtly.
And for the first time since they met, he noticed her closing down, the walls rising, and the barbs sharpening. He recognized it easily, the need for protection; he had done it himself many times, but it didn’t bode well for his instincts. I’ll disarm you, and you’ll tell me everything. Masking the wild vibes emanating from his mind and body, he said in a businesslike manner, “Makes sense. What’s your concept?”
“If you want, you can make up my . . . uh . . . concept.” She scrunched up her pert nose. “I leave such things as concepts of art to others. The art critics speak in such a complicated language, using so many big words, that the art itself is relegated to the background.”
“A refreshing thought, Laetitia,” he said, the unfamiliar desire to grin tugging once more at his lips. “But, please, don’t tell this to any critics, or I won’t be able to sell you.”
“In fact, I’m not at all worried about what the critics would say about me, but about my art.” Laetitia drilled her short, clean nails on the glass tabletop.
He almost hissed with the imagined pleasure of her hands on him, her nails digging in as he showed her how good it would be if they came together. You can’t have her. He shook his head to himself. Again.
“I don’t understand why an artist’s life or one’s art needs a concept explained in minute details.”
“It doesn’t,” he said, and felt totally disconnected from his next words: “But the concept helps art critics to contextualize aesthetics and theorize the beauty of the connection. It pursues a rational political, social basis or inside purpose for your art. Well-known, positive opinions from critics facilitate the presentation of you as a new artist and promotes the sales of your work.”
“I think art is to be appreciated, not explained.”
Aye, and I want to appreciate yours. At the inner badly waxed poetry, he snorted softly. Aloud.
And she started. “Why do you want people to find my work hard to understand?”
She is making you crazy! “Art is to project ambiguity,” he said, clearing his throat, willing his turbulence away for the moment. “Just go out in the world and everything you confront, from the prescription for your medicine to your grocery list and your job description and everything in between, is in some way or another trying to eliminate ambiguity. It’s like science and religion. There are things which are designed to explain away mystery, but there are those which are better developed in blind faith.”
Blind faith, ha! She didn’t like her work linked to faith, but it was not time to talk about her issues with it. As he talked and explained how the art market worked, her mind wandered, only half listening, her subconscious watching his mouth and hands. To her artistic eyes, his handsomeness was rugged, brutal, pure animal male. He would never be referred to as beautiful.
“So, forget the concept. What inspired you to create your series, Laetitia?”
Her name brought her back to the conversation. “I think art is the opposite of science. Unrestrained by definition and clarity, my art is opened to interpretation. One can think it’s about overt lies or secret needs.” Her hands moved in the air as if she could paint her ideas with them. “Unseen beauty or plain ugliness. Hidden agendas. Wild desires. Unnecessary deaths or forgotten births. The black-and-white magic of every day—” She stopped when she noticed his eyebrows had shot high on his face. “Hmm . . . basically, my work is the outcome of our lives, be they in a fortunate or ruined status, Mr. MacCraig.”
Our? Her words hit a place too near his heart. “Tavish Uilleam. Call me Tavish Uilleam. Are the paintings about your own anxieties, then?”
“Hmm. I’d say every creative artist is involved in their own affairs and neuroses, even when they are expressing their feelings over the more worldly situations. I don’t want the spectator to see my work as representations of myself or my take on the world but more if it were a painting done by nobody, who used my hand. Actually . . .” Her pale-brown eyebrows lowered as she mused how to correctly answer his question. She snapped her fingers as she grasped what she wished to express. “Actually, I want my art to be a catalyst for different reactions in different people, like a magic potion whose effects can only be known after each individual imbibes it and discovers what it does uniquely to them.”
“And you don’t think you have a concept?” He stared incredulously at her, the sexual tension there, but half forgotten, more focused on her ideas as she spoke so passionately about her work. “It’s one of the most perfect concepts I have ever heard.”
She made an elegant gesture with her slender shoulders as if she didn’t care. “What is important for me is . . . umm . . . the collective unconscious. That is why I carve the stencil for the paint to be layered on. Without us knowing, this collective unconscious controls and impacts the lives of the majority of people. It directs our everyday routine, so it’s quite interesting to describe in my paintings the life of those who failed to live as they or others expected them to do. The concept is not really that important to me.”
During the rest of the meal, the safe subject of the gallery, art, and general subjects helped them both relax in the company of each other.
When she excused herself to go to the restroom, she realized she was enjoying herself, as she hadn’t for a long time.
She came back to the table, eager to continue where they left off. When she looked around, she saw that they were the only ones in the restaurant. The unobtrusive service and simply exquisite food had allowed the hours to slip away unnoticed as they talked. And here lies the danger, Laetitia. Are you going to be fooled again? She looked at her watch, praying the baron was still in London with his family. “It’s late. I must go.”
He signaled for the waiter to bring the check. Still, he had a million unanswered questions. He knew there was more to her, and he decided he was going to discover who she really was, why she behaved so skittishly, and why she was so evasive about her private life. When an idea was planted in his mind, it was impossible to sway him. He would nag and cajole, until she begged for mercy and ceded.
Tavish stood and held the chair for her.
They walked out of the restaurant and crossed the elegantly furnished corridor and hall. Outside the house, Tavish’s car already waited.
He had escorted her with a hand on the small of her back, barely touching her, and helped her in the car before rounding it to get in.
Although they seemed like gentlemanly actions, they came from a need to deepen touch—a desire to further that tiny physical connection of hands.
Laetitia had achieved what she had yearned to have for years: a job and a place where she could live alone and in peace, but it now seemed a silly wish.
She wanted the man sitting beside her in the car; there was no denying it. She was shocked by how much she wanted to say yes to everything he was proposing. Yes to selling her paintings in London, yes to a sole exposition, yes to the exclusivity and to whatever came after. And yes to his unspoken desire, too.
He might not care about your past. But nothing had changed since Tavish had arrived at her doorstep. Nothing but the possibility of her childhood dreams being fulfilled. The rest continued exactly the same: herself, her life, and her world. Everything was rotten and ruined as before. Or he might care about it too much, and it would be the end of Laetitia.
On the drive back to the lodge, the only sound came from the window wipers. They were each immersed in their own thoughts and sensations.
CHAPTER 6
In the twilight, the road seemed longer, the place emptier, the air colder.
“You??
?re very far away from the city.” Tavish looked around, his military-trained gaze sharper, now worried. Her house was lonely in that haunted nowhere, just as she now looked to be, silent and huddled in the car seat.
“We’re at the south entrance of Beardley Manor.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Really? I thought everyone knew about Baron—” she interrupted herself before mentioning the baron’s crime. It was not her style to speak ill of others, and especially not in this case. The baron’s family was at times abusive in their demands, but in all his madness, the baron himself was respectful and polite to a fault with her and the other employees.
“It doesn’t scare you to live here alone?” he asked as they walked past the garden to her front door, frustrated at not being able to decipher her.
“No. It has a good security system.” She glimpsed at him and delved into her bag to find her heavy, original iron key. “And I . . . I am the manor housekeeper. It’s a twenty-minute walk through the woods. Pretty convenient,” she said, evasive, unlocking the doors. “Big cities and crowds aren’t my thing.”
“What exactly is your thing, Laetitia?” He rested a hand on her shoulder, stopping her, not wanting the day to end.
She licked her lips nervously, feeling the firmness of his hand, and when she turned to him, she saw from the corner of her eye one of the few outside lamps flicker, sputter, and turn to the glazing orange-red of a dying fire of hot coals. Of her past. Her back itched, and she stiffened in response to the memory.
She is a contract, not a woman you can fuck and forget. His hand fell. “I’ll be sending for the paintings tomorrow—”
“You can send the truck to pick up the other paintings on Monday morning, nine o’clock,” she interrupted.
“Next week!”
“If it’s OK with you.” The Blue Dot is not an obscure gallery in a small town. An exposition there would garner attention from all over the world. “I need to put the last touches on them.”
“I’ll be forwarding the contract tomorrow morning. Shall we meet on—”
“I need time to think your proposal over, Mr. MacCraig,” she interrupted, again, in a cold tone, edging from the dream before it could transform itself into a nightmare.
“And why is that? I thought we had established an agreement.” He crossed his arms, looking as implacable as the Highland warrior she had imagined him to be. “You can’t have changed your mind so drastically after having been so enthusiastic during lunch.”
“It will entail a lot of changes in my life. It’s all rather sudden,” she said, stepping over the threshold.
The street lamp went black suddenly. Her mouth became parched. Laetitia saw the shadows on the pavement grow longer and darker, slowly, so very slowly. Shadows don’t grow on themselves. She stood taller and squared her shoulders. Stop hallucinating. “I’ll call you after I think about it carefully.”
“I’ll give you two weeks to consult with your lawyers and give me your final answer,” was all he managed to say in a businesslike fashion, as she seemed to become a different woman. She was still fragile and delicate, but a strength and resolution that were hidden before came to the front, and something more that he didn’t like. “Of course, if you don’t sign with us and your paintings don’t sell, you will have to reimburse us.”
She raised her chin and gazed in his eyes, steadily. Sparks flew.
Tavish thought she would balk. Or so he hoped.
“Of course, Mr. MacCraig.” Her chin rose a notch farther. “I wasn’t planning on cashing the checks, anyway.”
He didn’t know which womanly behavior attracted him more—the soft and innocent, or the firm and bold—but he was profoundly annoyed by not having achieved what he had come to do. A battle lost, a war won. He dipped his head. “Good evening, Laetitia. It was nice to meet you.”
Go. She could feel his eyes searching. Just go, dammit. “Good evening, Mr. MacCraig.”
He didn’t move, so she had to close the door on him.
Two bolt locks engaged, and he heard the low beep of an alarm. When he exited the property, the gates closed smoothly behind his car.
The Blue Dot
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
9:10 a.m.
“We were just waiting for you to begin the meeting.” Alistair looked at his watch and remarked, “You’re late, by the way.”
Tavish harrumphed; he was not in a good mood that morning. He had decided to drive back to London instead of staying with his friends, and the traffic had been chaotic. He arrived home late and had not slept well. His mind had been a knot of conflicting thoughts, all of them about Laetitia. The idiosyncrasies of others were the last thing he wanted to endure this morning. Her work merits the sacrifice.
“Good news, Tavish dear?” Tatiana Aksoy, the PR director of the gallery and their Russian minor partner, smiled at him. Tall, voluptuous, and dark haired, Tatiana reminded him of the type that used to attract him. There was no doubt that she was one of the most exotic and sensual creatures Tavish had ever beheld. She wore her sensuality without apologies, in a raw, elemental way, and her looks made men fall like leaves at her feet.
“Not exactly.”
“Tell us everything.” Maddox leaned back on his chair as Tavish threw himself in the black leather-upholstered armchair, facing Laetitia’s paintings, which hung on the farthest wall.
He stayed silent for a moment, organizing his thoughts and sifting through what he should say.
“Come on, Tavish, cut the suspense,” Maddox complained.
“I bought all the available paintings, including the fresh ones which were finished. Forty-three.”
Maddox whistled. “That many?”
“But only ten fit in my car without risk of damage.” He looked at his secretary, Eamon O’Neill, a proud Irishman, who seemed to know every inch of his land and every Irish family genealogical tree. I could ask him if he knows Laetitia’s family. He squinted his eyes for a second as the tantalizing thought drifted through his mind, but he shooed it away. “Eamon, please arrange for the transportation company to go pick up the rest the day after Monday, nine a.m. sharp. I’ll e-mail you her address and directions later.”
“Of course, Mr. MacCraig.”
“The ones I brought are being unloaded right now. With the ones we already have, they add to sixteen.”
“Fifteen,” Maddox interrupted, with a grin, pointing to the biggest one of a well-built man on his knees, surrounded by skin-thin children. “That was reserved yesterday.”
“Really?” Tavish’s brows shot to his forehead. “Well, the ones I brought are being unloaded and will be organized and set in the storage room for you to sort with our sales assistants and consider which of our patrons we’ll give first options to buy them.”
“And you guaranteed exclusivity, I bet.” Maddox was almost brimming in his armchair.
“That is the bad news. As any artist, she said she would think about the proposal and call us as soon as she had an answer. But my guts tell me we’ll have to convince her.”
“Oh, please!” Tatiana exclaimed. “We are The Blue—”
“How much have you offered her?” Alistair interrupted.
“She priced her paintings at three hundred pounds per linear meter, net.” And I’d pay much more just for the pleasure of her company, especially in my bed. “The Belmont Gallery fine is on us. I offered to buy the paintings there, no discounts asked.” Tavish glimpsed the momentary narrowing of his brother’s eyes before his customary poker face returned. He took in a fortifying breath. “I took a calculated risk and said I would set her price point at . . . say, fifteen hundred per linear meter. In this case, we would pay her a commission of thirty-five percent. Net.”
Maddox hissed.
Tatiana snorted unladylike.
And Tavish could almost see the whirls inside Alistair’s head spinning, although no muscle moved on his face.
As Alistair didn’t pounce on the price or percentage
, he moved on. “I informed her we would explore the possibility of selling them for more—”
“More?” Tatiana squealed. “You promised that?”
“Tsk-tsk.” He shook his head to look at the beautiful woman beside him. He renewed his point, “I said explore, Tatiana, not achieve. Besides, I could not fix any price before having an answer from critics and prospective buyers, and without consulting Alistair Connor, could I?”
“Still she wasn’t tempted?” Alistair asked, and for the first time he raised an eyebrow.
“Temptation or not, her work deserves it. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen such an ingenious artist,” said Maddox.
“Slow down, Maddox,” Alistair drawled. Alistair didn’t need to raise his voice to make the power of his decisions known. “I value your decisions in choosing new artists, but they are always a bet.”
“She is the black horse I’m betting on, Alistair.” Maddox sat straighter in his chair. “I’m rarely wrong in these matters.”
Alistair shook his head. “That’s not the issue here.”
Alistair had years of experience overseeing one of the biggest banks in the world and controlling many other businesses. One of them, The Blue Dot, was initiated by Maddox and Tatiana, who worked well together and had a good eye for art and promotion but knew nothing of finances, contracts, or securing exclusivity of artists. They had made the gallery a success in the art world, but it was a financial disaster, which had made Alistair, who could sniff a good deal from a thousand miles away, dive in many years ago, take control, and keep the two under his leashes and whip. It turned out to be one of the best business decisions he had made in the MacCraig name, as the investment not only paid for itself a thousand times over but also provided a place for Tavish to restart his life when he came back from the war.
“Do you think she is playing a game with us?” he asked Tavish.
Tavish thinned his mouth. Despite his mixed feelings toward her, he didn’t like the idea. “No’ exactly. She was very interested, but . . .” He trailed off, not wanting to voice his doubts. He had no proof of whether she was hiding something or was just afraid of the world he was presenting her. “She just said she would like to think it over, which—”