“Oh. He can be quite intimidating, Alistair Connor,” she interrupted her husband but gazed at Tavish, who rolled his eyes at her. But Sophia was serious. “I know this from experience.”
“Marchioness, if what I’ve heard is correct, the interest is mutual,” said Alistair, trying to placate Sophia.
“You heard?” Tavish asked, surprised how far the gossip had spread, while adjusting the resistance on the bicycle. “How and what exactly did you fucking hear?”
Sophia and Alistair completely ignored his question and kept talking as if Tavish were not in the room.
“The transport company’s employees told Eamon, who told McKeenan, that they had eyes only for each other.”
So, I was right. “Jesus Christ,” Tavish groaned. “I’m surrounded by old gossiping bitches.”
Alistair laughed but didn’t address the comment. “Sophia, artists are not employees. Artists’ contracts are pretty flexible. If Tavish Uilleam wishes to—”
“Legally, they are similar. On behalf of Tavish Uilleam’s—”
“Oh, please! As exciting as this may sound to your roguish, libidinous mind, Brother, on behalf of The Blue Dot’s and Ms. Galen’s interests, I won’t squander this. I want to represent her exclusively, and I’ll be having it.”
Alistair stared at his brother, surprised at his vehemence. “If you say so, Brother, forget what I said in the meeting. I won’t be meddling. She is all yours. Do as you will.”
Aye, I will. “Her works will be a success, and they will be exclusively ours. I guarantee that.”
Sophia cocked her head, studying him.
When Tavish’s gaze crossed with hers, he saw on her face the same questions that had plagued him since he had met Laetitia: How much of this is business? How much is pure lust?
And how am I going to solve the equation?
What am I getting into? Not wanting to dwell upon the last question, he rose and picked up his duffel bag. Before he entered the men’s bathroom, he said over his shoulder, “You know what? I’m going to shower, then seek more enjoyable company. I’m sure my niece and nephew are less curious than you two.”
Soon after he closed the door, Sophia stopped her treadmill and ran a towel over her neck and face, shaking her head in deep thought. “I don’t know if he is ready for such a relationship.”
“Wife.” Alistair stopped running and joined her, rubbing a hand over her already showing, pregnant belly. “We are not speaking of relationships. And after that bitch friend of Tatiana’s—”
“He was not interested in a relationship with her, Alistair Connor. For him, it was simply sex,” Sophia said with certainty. “She made that gratuitous, stupid remark about his scars and limp out of spite.”
“Possibly. Did he tell you this?” He studied her face.
“He didn’t need to,” Sophia answered. “If you don’t believe me, ask him. Her enormous ego was bruised. She retaliated stupidly.”
“They were in public. He is a proud man, and worse, with a wounded soul,” he said, not yet convinced.
“It grated. Might’ve hurt his pride,” she conceded. “But has not inflicted any permanent injury, certainly not in his spirit.”
“Anyway, this Laetitia is attracted to him, very much so. A good fuck is what he needs.”
“He needs more than that,” she replied, seriously.
“I know, he deserves more, but I also know his scars trouble him enough, sexually speaking. Maybe a sensitive, creative artist is the one who can help him with that.” Alistair continued, concerned, “Yet, she has weird habits. A couple of scars herself—body modifications or a genetic defect, tattoos . . .”
“Defect? Body modifications?” It was not usual for Tavish to speak about people in such a way. She narrowed her eyes at her husband. “He told you such a thing? Have you met her already?”
“Nae,” Alistair answered, distractedly.
“Pray tell, then.” Sophia’s voice took an edge. “How do you know that?”
When he gazed into her eyes, Alistair realized he had said too much. An implacable mask descended over his face. “The usual way.”
“Beware, Husband. He is not as understanding as I am.”
“He asked for a PI. He asked for Baptist,” he answered.
“He did?” Sophia was surprised, but Alistair had been her husband for more than four years now, and she knew both men well. “For a complete background check? And shared such intimate details with you?”
“He asked for her address, saying he wanted her work for the gallery,” he answered truthfully. “I asked for a . . . reconnaissance.”
“Alistair Connor.” There was an annoyance in her tone, which rarely appeared when she talked with her husband. “He is not some business you’ll pounce over.”
“Nae, he is much more. Tavish Uilleam is my brother.” Alistair scowled at her. “That woman’s work called to him. You just heard the passion in his voice. When have you heard him speaking this way? You haven’t seen him depressed. I’ll not have him hurt, Sophia.”
“This is not for you to decide!” she exclaimed. “It’s his life!”
“His, yours. I don’t care! You are my family!” he snapped, turning away from her and pacing the length of the room, agitated. “I’ve lost a daughter. I could have lost him, too. It’s a miracle he is alive!”
“I’m not—”
“Fuck!” He stopped in front of her and lowered his face, crowding her. “If I deem her a risk to him, she’ll be eliminated!”
His words echoed in the room, shocking both.
“Oh, my God.” The words left her mouth in a trembling whisper. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her face. “Haven’t you learned from my mistakes? Have you forgotten what we have gone through? That you could have lost more, because I decided to play God? Do you want to see it happening again?”
Alistair was taken aback for a moment as the memory returned, cutting painfully. “I didn’t mean—”
“Sometimes, I think I don’t know you, but unfortunately I do. Very well.” She turned and fled the room, climbing the stairs two at a time, sick with the idea that he could act as she once had.
“Sophia . . .”
“Screw you!”
Tavish came out from the bathroom in a rush, with only a towel around his waist, as the door banged shut. He found Alistair in the middle of the room, his head bent with his hands entwined behind his nape. “What was that all about?”
“That was me being a stupid asshole and her being a blind moralist.” Alistair raised his head and looked at the door. “Ah, fuck! I’ve hurt her.”
Tavish’s right hand slapped down on Alistair’s right shoulder, gripping it firmly.
The brothers faced each other, their bodies angled, their green eyes clashing.
“Then fix it. Before dinner is served,” Tavish said in his quiet voice and ran his left index finger over his crooked nose, before walking back to the bathroom to dress.
Alistair had broken his brother’s nose because of his rude assumptions about Alistair’s late wife and their way of life. When he got his chance to rebuild his life, marrying Sophia, Tavish promised him if Alistair hurt her, Tavish would return the favor.
Alistair socked his fist against his palm, wishing it were his brother’s fist connecting with his nose. His mind spun around possible ways of convincing Sophia he was sorry.
They were equally matched in shrewdness and acumen, in power and wealth, Sophia being owner of one of the biggest oil companies in the world and a very intelligent woman. They had similar approaches regarding business and would stop at nothing.
His wife was a forgiving, understanding woman, but there were some things she wouldn’t tolerate anymore, and she would know that he had no intention to stop his meddling.
London
Dr. Beatrice Cecil’s office
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
6:59 a.m.
Leaning on the window frame, of the doctor’s waiting room, hi
s arms crossed over his chest, gazing at nothing, Tavish was so immobile he could have been a statue. However, the instant that Dr. Beatrice Cecil opened the door of her office, his head snapped in her direction. “Morning.”
She gave him her customary welcoming smile. “Good morning.”
Dressed conservatively, wearing a minimum of makeup, she embodied what was supposed to be a collected British lady, with her shoulder-length whitening blonde hair, blue eyes, and rose complexion. Based solely on her appearance and demeanor, one would never have guessed she held many titles in clinical, psychosocial, and mental health care, including a doctorate in neuropsychology—and to top it off, she also had been a soldier.
Inside her office, Tavish picked a small leather ottoman and adjusted it to the foot of the divan so it fit to his height when lying down.
Dr. Cecil’s trained gaze swept over him. “Not sleeping again, I see.”
“Is it so apparent?” He held himself still, awaiting her judgment.
She smiled a little and sat in her comfortable armchair behind the divan. “Not to others.”
“Good.” Tavish dropped on the divan, resting his head on the crook of his bent arm, crossing his ankles, and resting his foot on the ottoman.
No further word was spoken. Dr. Cecil could go a whole session in silence if Tavish so wished. She was listening more than if he were babbling to cover his uneasiness.
His mind spun as he looked at the ceiling. He knew no sound would slip out of him in the next fifty minutes, and he made his lips and throat work to keep them inside, until they were hurting.
That airy room was where his dark thoughts, testimonies, and hurts were being ripped from the bottom of his soul; it was his private hell, the place where he castigated himself for things he had done and things he had failed to do, until he was ready to stitch the gaping wounds the best he could. Until they reopened and he had to revisit them once more, experimenting with them under a different light.
He would not share his therapy place with Laetitia, a woman who had made him feel once more and remember times when he was happy, because nothing was ever going to be the same. He was not yet ready to explore whatever might come from new possibilities.
Each time he had gone silent, Dr. Cecil had given him a card before he left: an order to return immediately to his psychiatrist, Dr. Lakhi Sikka, in the time frame stipulated by her, to review his medication.
He went on counting. Seconds, minutes, hours.
Time was not a mystery for Tavish.
He had learned to measure it when he was prisoner inside lightless, dank cells. It had been a way to survive then, because he had to be comfortable in that zone of death.
Now, it was a way to madness, because he recognized there was a whole life waiting for him.
Two minutes before the session ended, he croaked, “I’ll no’ be seeing doctor Sikka. Not this time.”
“Do you think you are prepared to deal with your anguish in a different way?” she asked.
“No pills can solve it.”
“I’m here for you.” The soft way she voiced her support strengthened him.
“I count on you, Beatrice.”
“When are you coming back?”
A wry, hoarse laugh left his throat. He rose and faced her. “You know me too well.”
She gave him a sweet smile.
He shoved his arms in the sleeves of his overcoat, and with a powerful movement of his shoulders it was in place. “Soon. I just need some time.”
When his hand turned the knob, she called quietly, “Tavish Uilleam.”
There was something in her voice that was not usually there. He didn’t turn. “Aye?”
“Next time, bring a candle.”
CHAPTER 9
Over London
9:47 a.m.
Since they had left Leamington in Alistair’s helicopter—because technically it was his brother’s helicopter and not the company’s—Laetitia had begun to unnerve him with her monosyllabic answers.
In the last several minutes, she became taciturn, sitting so rigidly, hands gripped tightly on her lap, facing away from him. Tavish wondered if she was sick. “Are you feeling well?”
“I’m fine,” she muttered, looking out the window.
“What’s the problem?”
She pushed her sunglasses up and fixed her gaze on him. “This was supposed to be a settling of”—she made quotes in the air—“taxes and all that, and not a meeting with the whole Blue Dot top brass.”
His brows rose. “Will it hurt to hear what my brother has to say?”
Yes, it will hurt. “Mr. MacCraig. We agreed I had until Monday to decide about the contract.”
“That hasn’t changed,” he answered patiently, as if talking to a child. “The Blue Dot . . . top brass . . . wants to hear more about your work. We have numerous important collectors and museums interested in seeing and buying your paintings.”
“So fast?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “How is that possible?”
“We are The Blue Dot,” he said proudly. “We are known to choose our artists with care. Their careers are groomed for success.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.” What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Laetitia? “As they will be felled even quicker from their pedestal if they are dismissed from your portfolio.”
“Well, aye, I won’t deny.” His lips curled up at her correct assessment. “Yet, every artist’s dream is to have a chance of working with us and being featured at The Blue Dot.”
“I don’t like to be pressured, Mr. MacCraig.”
“No one is pressuring you.” The thought that he was pressuring her—and he acknowledged to himself he was—annoyed him. “I’ll show you the gallery and introduce you to my partners and my brother. Alistair Connor is a financial genius.”
He can be a genie, for all I care. Laetitia’s heart was thundering loudly in her chest. Actually, she wasn’t feeling pressured—she was afraid she’d like it too much. “I’d rather have known that before.”
What difference does it make? Imitating her posture, he crossed his large arms over his broad chest. “You know now.”
She pulled her sunglasses down and turned her back to him. She didn’t know why, but suddenly she felt like crying. From her closed throat, she croaked, “Fine!”
“Fine!” he growled low.
In the heart of Chelsea, set in an historic building, The Blue Dot Gallery was a stunning space comprising over three floors, with five main high-ceilinged rooms, wooden floors, and glass stairwells. The old and traditional Georgian façade on the outside concealed an amazing and fresh approach to contemporary art on the inside.
“Spectacular,” she whispered as she climbed the stairs beside him. Her mood had improved slightly as she watched London’s majestic buildings pass quickly by the tinted windows of the huge BMW, which picked them up at Battersea.
“Don’t let my brother intimidate you,” Tavish said, before they entered the meeting room.
“He cannot be more intimidating than you, Mr. MacCraig.”
Alistair was intimidating, but his charming and seductive smile masked the straightforward business thoughts that she was sure he was having as he eyed her when she stepped in the room.
He instantly stood up and walked over to greet her. “Alistair Connor MacCraig. I’m very pleased to meet you, Laetitia.”
She stretched her hand, and Alistair shook it. “My pleasure, Mr. MacCraig.”
There was no mistaking the fact that Alistair was Tavish’s older brother. Like Tavish, he was the embodiment of tradition and power, though in different ways.
Physically they looked very much alike: Both had the same windblown hair, but Tavish’s was a bit more bluish-black and shorter than Alistair’s. Long and dark eyelashes framed their green eyes, but Alistair’s eyes were darker, a forest-green. Tavish’s mouth was fuller and softened his otherwise stern face. He was an inch taller and more muscular than his broader and leaner brother.
But their emotions played out in contrasts: Tavish’s severe face and turbulent eyes versus Alistair’s smirk on a poker face with inscrutable eyes.
Whereas Tavish was naturally, brutally intense, the other was more refined, his intenseness smoother.
Tavish introduced her to the others in the room. There was an underlying current of curiosity, and it grated on her nerves.
Discreetly, Alistair observed her as she greeted Maddox; Brian O’Neill, the head of The Blue Dot legal department; Eamon, Tavish’s secretary; and lastly, Tatiana.
Then, instead of circling the table to sit on the chair Tavish was holding out for her, she sank down on the vacant chair between Tatiana and Maddox, on the other side of the large square table.
She was scared of walking another step.
There was a strained silence in the room while notebooks, pencils, and papers were rearranged, filling in the gap of unspoken emotions.
Tavish leveled an inquisitive stare at her, which she countered with raised brows. He could see she was very nervous but couldn’t fathom the real reason behind it.
Without waiting for them to initiate the meeting, Laetitia said, “It’s so nice to know that you are excited about me meeting the buyers and critics.”
Then she pushed her hair behind her ears and readied herself for their reactions, her gaze fixed on Tavish’s face. She saw when his smile waned.
What the hell? Her small ears were slightly pointed at the top, with delicate, plump, perfectly round earlobes—unusual enough to at first appear fake, but no makeup or latex could be that good, and Tavish immediately ruled out the possibility of them being prosthetics. How did I not see that? His stance changed when he noticed the tenseness of her shoulders. She’s waiting for an . . . attack. Why?
Maddox looked at her and dismissed her ears as if they were the most normal ones he had ever seen.
Eamon smiled, captivated by her charming appearance.
Brian’s lips parted, and his gaze riveted to her before Tavish kicked him so hard beneath the table he yelped.