“It doesn’t matter. We have her paintings, and we’ll be contacting clients to see how they respond to her work,” Alistair said. “If the answer is positive, I will see to it. If it’s not, it was a very well-calculated risk. Now, it will be in Maddox’s and Tatiana’s hands.”
“Right.” Tavish didn’t contradict Alistair, who motioned with his pen for him to continue.
“So. About her concept or inspiration, she . . .” And again Tavish felt the unfamiliar will to smile—to smile at a discovery of a wonderful secret his soul knew but was still keeping in the dark.
“She what?” Alistair was watching him closely.
Focus, Tavish Uilleam. “Aye, right.” He shook his head inwardly, pushing away the lust. “She’ll shrug and say the critics’ world is too complex. At first, she didn’t even bother to explain it to me. But, in fact, when she starts talking about her paintings . . . ach! To her, excess of conviction makes the work suffer.” He leaned back in the chair, relaxing as they followed his words raptly as he retold all he had felt when Laetitia had explained to him her ideas. “It’s as if with all the explanations the artists do, the work would be already unveiled for us, and its impact would be lost. Her lack of concept is the most incredible concept I’ve ever heard. When you look at her images, it’s as if she understood the world’s dreams and pains, and it flowed out of her onto the canvas.”
“How old is she?” Tatiana asked.
Fuck. “She didn’t offer.”
“You didn’t ask,” Alistair pointed out.
We had more interesting things to talk about. “She’s young, midtwenties. Extremely intelligent, but not pedantic, with a charming way of expressing herself; classy, but unpretentious; and to top it all, a beauty. We will have another stupendous success if she signs with us.”
“Perfect. It’ll be a nice—” Maddox started to say.
“Niceness doesn’t sell, and critics love this blah-blah-blah.” Tatiana interrupted Maddox. “Nice sounds like something my mother would say when she put me to sleep at night.”
“To me, she sounds nice to work with,” Maddox muttered under his breath, looking down at the notes he had jotted on his notepad.
“Stop bickering, you two,” Alistair cut them off and looked at his watch, motioning to Tavish. “Why don’t we let Tavish Uilleam finish? I have less than half an hour.”
“Hit me with a good inspirational sentence, Tavish,” Tatiana demanded. “Something short that could sell your young beauty.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Tavish Uilleam and Maddox don’t have to think about marketing and promotion. That’s your job, Tatiana,” Alistair said, irritated.
“I can take care of everything and anyone, Alistair, dear,” Tatiana said swiftly. She knew that Alistair would buy out her share without a second thought if he deemed her unnecessary or incompetent.
Niceness? Her work is spectacular. “She is not my beauty, nor is she nice. In fact, I’d say she will probably be as difficult to work with as any other artist. This is not about her, but her work.” As much as Maddox’s use of the adjective had an appeal, Tavish had taken offence with Tatiana’s wording. “One inspirational sentence you ask, Tati?”
She nodded. She thought he couldn’t possibly give it to her. Promotion and marketing had never been Tavish’s forte. But with Laetitia’s work, he understood perfectly.
He whirled his chair to face her. It was with conviction that he said, “I’ll give one name. Samuel Beckett.”
“What?” The three of them asked in unison, looking perplexed at him.
He didn’t turn to the men but continued facing Tatiana. He wanted her to be convinced of Laetitia’s work possibilities. She had a way with marketing and a loquacious conveyance he had rarely seen. “I could cite many of Beckett’s passages that apply to her, Tati. Even a poem—”
She crinkled her nose. “Tavish, I’ve already understood she’s a young beauty—”
“My dear, as far as I know, we are no’ in the human traffic business.”
Alistair and Maddox laughed out loud, and even Tatiana smiled, amused.
“With your abilities you could sell an old crone, Tati, but I’ll give you one inspirational sentence by Samuel Beckett that seems made specially for her.” In all senses. He didn’t need to think it twice. He pointed at a vista. “Look at it. Look well. Close your eyes. Open them again.”
He waited for her to face the painting and obey his commands.
“It is . . . fantastic.” Tatiana turned to him, her face aglow. “You gaze at her images and think everything is clear. Then you blink, and it disintegrates before your own eyes.
“Aye. ‘You lie in the dark with closed eyes and see the scene. As you could not at the time.’”
She smiled, nodding, and that told Tavish her strategy to conquer the market would be an easy feat.
“Beckett’s saying is perfect for her.” Maddox relaxed in his chair. “The absolute identity with her references is brusquely fractured to be rebuilt again.”
Tavish exhaled, satisfied, and narrated the other important things that had happened that afternoon with Laetitia, keeping out his personal feelings.
When Alistair left, the meeting proceeded to include the classy and intelligent receptionists and sales assistants of the gallery. After another lengthy explanation and answering many questions, he passed the baton to Maddox. “Call on your preferred clients and keep me informed. The photos of the incoming works will be ready in your portfolios in an hour or so. Good luck.”
He walked to his office, feeling all the eyes on his back. He was certain everyone in the meeting room was probably finding strange the passion in his voice for Laetitia’s work. I’ve never felt so manly, so alive, since yesterday.
He sat in his armchair and whirled it around, facing the inner window of the gallery, imagining her paintings displayed there. He frowned, calculating the space. He could hear the packed emotions of her images as his own. He could feel them, the bulky forms and landscapes weighted by the thickness of the paint, deforming—provoking—illusions of every kind in the spectators.
Just remembering Laetitia’s teeming smile, Tavish experienced a jolt of blistering arousal. There’s an effortless grace to her. And still there’s a somber beauty, a quiet majesty in muscles poised for an action that never came. I want her to turn those violet-blue eyes on me—
The intercom buzzed, making him aware he was thinking of Laetitia again, and confusion wedged its way under his skin. Fool, stop woolgathering. Work calls.
He shook his head; he didn’t know how to feel about the intense feelings that assaulted him for a woman that would be a name in a contract with his gallery.
As he learned to do during the war, he pressed the intercom button and pushed Laetitia and every thought concerning her away.
But like honorable guests, they sat comfortably there in a corner of his mind, flirting with his heart.
CHAPTER 7
The Blue Dot
7:12 p.m.
“Good night, Eamon.” Tavish nodded to his secretary.
Eamon’s bright-red head came up. “Mr. MacCraig, I didn’t receive . . .” he said, consulting his notes, “Ms. Galen’s address and the list of her paintings we are to transport.”
He stood there for a split moment divided between his business consciousness and personal hankerings. It irked him that he let his urges win.
“Nae, Eamon, I didn’t forget.” I did it unconsciously. “I’m going to accompany the collectors. Please tell them I’ll be waiting for them at my friend Richard Smith’s house, Lakeside Manor, Monday, at eight thirty sharp. I’ll be using the chopper, so please ask Munro to plan the flight.”
He exited the gallery, absently nodding to the assistants, not caring about their sighs or looks, which followed him. He knew with a snap of his fingers he could have one of them in his bed, yet he had no time or desire for relationships in his life now, especially not one that involved employees of the gallery.
Unless it was with one woman: Laetitia.
Beardley Lodge
Sunday, September 14, 2014
4:01 p.m.
Laetitia sat still for several minutes looking at the stencil in front of her. Her exhalation made a lock of white-blonde hair flutter in the air before falling over her eye.
Impatient, she pushed it aside, and gathered her hair up in a messy bun.
She had never had any trouble figuring out what to paint before, much less how. When she launched herself on a new project, she worked incessantly until it was stenciled and the last coat of paint put on.
Twilight was approaching, and she hadn’t managed a decent drawing since waking up that morning, and it hadn’t been for lack of research. On her table lay the last three photographs ready to be put together to form the black alley where the baroness liked to lure her sexual prey.
Night and blackness were ready to reveal a mysterious, unfathomable, and frightening space. Or a nothingness.
But Tavish kept popping into her head, threatening her concentration. Remembering his faint smiles, which didn’t open fully, she experienced the rare feeling she had felt when she was with him. She had wanted him to touch her more than he did, to kiss her, to consume her whole.
There was nothing that reassured her he wouldn’t hurt her, nothing delicate in him. And yet, she didn’t fear him.
She had Googled his name during the weekend and couldn’t find any information about his personal life. There were articles on his military service, his kidnapping, and his struggle to survive after being wounded. There were a few links concerning The Blue Dot Gallery: expositions, vernissages, and art funds he supervised along with his brother.
She discovered he was third in line to a dukedom and a marquisate heritage; facts about his phenomenal work in the Royal Air Force; photos of him being awarded the Military Cross in 2006 and many more receiving the Victoria Cross from Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace in June 2010 for his service in war, using a cane to support himself, and one or two with his family, in weddings or celebrations, but none with a woman on his arm.
Laetitia never knew what was really true from what she read online. She flexed her aching shoulder muscles, thinking it was unfair to judge all men from her experience. Don’t be silly, Laetitia. He is to be your representative.
She didn’t regret sending Tavish away without securing the contract. Agreeing to sign anything—or giving anyone such power over her life—made her feel like she and the life she had built were being threatened.
You are being a fool; his interest is professional, and you have to reveal only the essentials. She went to the window and placed her hands on the glass, not really looking at her garden.
Cleopatra danced around her legs, purring.
“What shall I do, Cleo?”
To avoid wondering if she really knew what she was asking her pet, Laetitia picked up the baroness’s diary, trying to find inspiration for the next painting. However, after fifteen minutes all she managed to do was drive herself to arousal as she read the graphic, sexual first recounting between the gardener and the baroness.
What I need is a long, relaxing bath. She threw the notebook angrily on the velvet settee and stormed up to her room.
However, as she disrobed and filled the tub, she couldn’t shake the ideas the baroness’s diary had put in her mind. Her fingers circled her peaked nipple and pulled gently. She licked her lips and ran a hand over her body and between her thighs. She was wet, and it wasn’t just because of the baroness’s sexual escapades. She had been thinking of Tavish and wasn’t going to pretend anymore that she hadn’t been. For the first time since she ran away, Letitia touched herself with sexual intent.
She looked at herself in the fogged mirror, and her lips parted when she imagined that the shadowy image of Tavish appeared behind hers, his strong hands taking hers and leading her to the bathtub.
Resting her head against the curved-lip border of the giant bathtub, she closed her eyes.
The hot, oiled water caressed her body, and her legs parted. Her hand ran down, experimenting, enjoying the slow clenching of her stomach muscles, and then the tightness of her channel. Her other hand cupped one breast and palmed it, then kneaded harder.
She closed her eyes, breathless. The fantasy made her wet as she had never been: She was straddling Tavish, facing away. His full mouth on her neck, biting, not gentle. His breaths hard as he thrust inside her, not even bothering to face her or kiss her, left her powerless to do anything more than to be there, submitting to the huge man, his fingertips digging into her hips to keep her still, as he plunged deep and hard inside her.
Her fingers moved with increasing speed, circling, and heat blossomed; a small moan left her mouth. She threw back her head even more, and her hips bucked against her hand. “Yes . . .”
She was so close to climax; the tautness of her muscles and the pulsing between her legs were there. Her hitched, rapid breaths echoed on the walls, mixing with the low moans escaping her mouth. And they were his grunts and pants.
Laetitia’s head snapped to one side; her legs closed tightly over her moving hand. She felt close to bursting. “Yes. More, yes.”
A small wave of pleasure came over her; an orange light flickered in her mind, and bile rose to her throat.
She lost concentration. The elusive strong orgasm escaped her.
“Ah! Dammit. Dammit all the way to hell,” she screamed, in frustration.
In need of something to erase the fear.
In need of a completion that she had never felt, for a release to a pain she could not name.
In need of more.
She lay there for a few minutes, controlling the nausea and wondering if she would ever truly feel the mind-blowing pleasure of the infamous orgasm.
She rose and opened the shower. Cold water washed away the reminiscent arousal as she scrubbed her body until her skin was red. She didn’t look at the mirror anymore that night.
She wanted distance from whatever remembrance—shadowed or not—of Tavish’s image.
Monday, September 15, 2014
8:57 a.m.
Tavish couldn’t explain the inexplicable sense of urgency that had driven him to seek her again. He’d had many women as lovely as her before the war: one-night stands, casual relationships, many friends with benefits—the most serious of them, Johanna.
It took a while after his physical recovery for him to feel psychologically ready to start going out with women again.
He tried going out with his friends, but it hadn’t worked. He had gone out alone to bars and went to bed with unknown women, who were up for one-night stands in hotel rooms.
Some had their sexual fantasy of an entire night of great sex with a tough, intimidating soldier fulfilled; others, who pitied him or wanted to cuddle with him after the first round, were left wanting more.
And there were those who couldn’t hide their horror at his scars when he disrobed. The effect was instant: his erection died and stayed flaccid. Even though those were few, they were more than enough for him to lose interest even in casual sex after a while. Then he had enrolled at the Sapphire Club and became a scarce user of its services, with rules in the open, no strings attached, scars fully described, and it had sufficed. It had been perfect. Until now.
And yet, here he was, knocking on Laetitia’s door, lust in charge, anticipating her reactions, his performance, the pleasure, planning to use every last whit of his seduction skills to take her to his bed, make her scream and, in the aftermath, see her glowing and smiling with satisfaction.
And then what? Leave her? Screw up what could be an excellent contract? He was still working the questions around in his mind when she appeared from the side passage and entered her front garden. He held back a groan of pleasure at seeing her.
Some women blazed with fire and energy.
Laetitia reminded him of a precious bright grayish-white winter moon; a purplish-blue hint of winter dawn, which crept under the do
or after a long, dark night; and the fresh, unblemished snow.
“Good morning, Mr. MacCraig.”
The shy smile shot directly to his gut, and the sweet sound of her voice circled around him in tendrils of a gentle breeze. His eyes longed to close, but he craved the sight of this woman.
“Hullo, Laetitia.” He motioned to the trio of men behind him. “We came to pick up the rest of the paintings.”
If I knew you were coming along, I’d—
It registered on her that Tavish and the transporting company’s employees were waiting for her as she daydreamed of the hunk in front of her. “Of course.”
“As you didn’t call, I came to talk about the contract.” Ach! Stupid excuse!
“Of course.” Are those the only words you can say, Laetitia? “It’ll be easier if they drive to the back.” She motioned to the side passage she had just come from.
It thrilled her to think he might be accompanying the crew just to see her again. He is a stranger. You don’t even know if he has a girlfriend or, worse, is married. By the way his eyes were leisurely caressing her from head to toe and back again, she knew he was mentally taking off her clothes, though he kept those turbulent sea-green eyes of his hidden. However grand his gallery or urbane his looks or even civilized his manners, he’s still a man with basic needs.
While Laetitia’s mind was tripping over her thoughts, Tavish stole constant glimpses of her, entranced in his own lust, but feigning utter interest in the trio wrapping her paintings with extreme care and professionalism.
Where can this possibly lead? His anxieties and fears were getting the best of him. It will lead to disaster.
His traumas were so many that he didn’t know if he could even establish a business relationship with her, much less a personal one. At the gallery, Maddox was responsible for the artists, Tatiana for the marketing, and Alistair for the financial part. From the third floor of the gallery, in his office overlooking the whole first floor, he oversaw the daily running, schedules and invitations, mounting of expositions, the comings and goings of sales assistants and buyers, and other important areas where he didn’t need to be in such close contact with people.