Tatiana squinted at the unusual sight, scribbled a few words on her notepad, and stared at her again, blinking furiously.
Lastly, she looked at Alistair. He tilted his head at her and raised a mocking eyebrow.
Laetitia grew extremely self-conscious. And it was all her fault. It was one thing to provoke Tavish with others’ reactions, but eliciting shocked and pitying looks from outsiders was another thing completely. She hated those looks of oh, that poor freak people gave her when they saw her ears. She combed her hair with her fingers and covered her ears.
“What is the reason behind your body modification?” Tatiana asked. “Is there any link to your painting concept we can use?”
Just what I need! Tavish rolled his eyes upward. “Tati.”
Tatiana tapped her pencil on her notepad. “I’d say it’s a rather charming, very attractive attribute.”
Laetitia tilted her head, puzzled. “Attractive? How?”
It happened so quickly that what happened was unavoidable.
“Laetitia’s work—” Maddox said at the same time that Tavish began to speak, “We’re no’ using her appearance—”
“Of course it can be used.” But Tatiana’s mind was already in overdrive. “It would help sell—”
“I’m not going to be used to sell my work.” She didn’t raise her voice. She never did, but there was no need to. She was standing up, shaking. “I’m not . . . a piece of meat.”
The room fell silent. Again.
Did all of that just come out of my mouth?
“What the fucking hell, Tatiana?” Tavish stood with a dark look on his face. He crossed the room in two strides. “Move, Maddox.”
Tatiana blanched when he advanced on her. “I didn’t mean—”
Tavish loomed over Laetitia, who whispered, “You said they wanted to understand my art concept and discuss how and if we are going to work together.” What is happening to me?
“That’s what we’re doing,” he said stiffly, pulling her chair closer to the table. Resting a hand on her shoulder, Tavish ordered, “Sit, Laetitia.”
All in the room were surveying her, not because of her ears anymore but because of her abrupt standing and words.
Laetitia’s lips trembled, and her throat tightened. Stop, you’re not a child anymore! She hadn’t cried in a long while and wasn’t relishing doing it there.
“Your work is what’s important.” Alistair spoke for the first time. He had a quiet but commanding tone that reminded Laetitia of Tavish’s. “It doesn’t matter how much your lovely ears and elf figure will enchant buyers and critics.”
He wasn’t being insincere.
“I . . . ah—” Laetitia swallowed and faced Tatiana. “I’m—”
Tatiana patted her hand before she could apologize. “It’s OK, sweetheart. It’s just that your ears are so attractive it’s a pity not to show them. Anyway, it’s pointless—”
She halted abruptly, and for the first time in all those years Tavish saw Tatiana blush.
“It’s a moot point to discuss any marketing or promotion if we have not settled our future working path,” said Alistair smoothly. “We won’t use you as a lure to attract buyers and critics, but an artist is part of her work. To understand the art, one has to understand the artist, Laetitia. Concepts may be created, pasts can always be embellished. Nonetheless . . . Tatiana could do her very best—and she is the best in her field—but she cannot sell you, if you don’t want to be sold.”
In moments like these, Tavish didn’t know if he liked or hated Alistair.
Laetitia looked at her hands on her lap. “I . . . understand.”
“Tati, why don’t ye tell us your ideas,” Tavish prompted.
Poker-faced, Alistair observed Laetitia’s gently voiced opinions and graceful movements as Tatiana proceeded with outlining the exciting ideas she had for promoting Laetitia’s work. Then Brian followed with dull explanations about the legal procedures necessary for them to sell her paintings.
“As much as I understand the necessity to sign a contract and give The Blue Dot the right of exclusivity to represent me, Mr. MacCraig—”
“Alistair Connor, please,” he interjected.
“Mr. MacCraig,” she repeated softly, which amused Alistair.
For fuck’s sake! Tavish wondered if any of Alistair’s former submissives would have ever behaved like Laetitia was behaving. And he considered asking his brother for some lessons on how to bring women to heel, which he dismissed in the next second with a roll of his eyes.
“As I was saying, I—” She flicked her eyes at Tavish and chewed her bottom lip.
Go on, I dare you to say nae! Not knowing what was going in her mind, Tavish turned his chair, crossed his arms, and faced Laetitia. “It’s only fair that we give you some time to look at the draft before agreeing to it.”
“I’d like to understand . . . Mr. MacCraig, does the gallery have any rules . . .” Against having an affair with the owner of the gallery. She could feel Tavish’s mood growing dark. She vacillated.
It was just the breach Alistair needed to jump in without being too obvious. He looked at her, then slowly moved his gaze to Tavish and back to her. “Monday, next week. We can reconvene to go over any conditions you might have. All you have to do is call Brian. Or Tavish Uilleam.”
Laetitia was momentarily taken aback. “Any conditions? Reasonable, I mean?”
Alistair nodded, with a smile, ready to do whatever was needed to see his brother happy.
“Are you that excited about my work?”
“We are very honored to sponsor you, Laetitia,” Alistair rose, ending the meeting with the smoothness that was unique to him. “I need a few minutes with Tavish Uilleam. Meanwhile, why don’t we let Maddox show you our storage and introduce you to our sales assistants? And Tatiana can take your picture for your profile. She is an excellent photographer. We’ll be joining you soon.”
Alistair followed Tavish to his office, locking the door behind him. He walked to the small bar and served himself a finger of Scotch whisky. “Want?”
“Nae, thanks. Too early for my tastes.”
“It’s never too early for a good dram.”
Tavish seated himself on the couch overlooking the inside of the gallery, contemplating what occurred at the meeting.
“Complicated woman.” Alistair sat in the armchair beside the couch and crossed his legs. “I could tell as much within five seconds of meeting her.”
What Alistair didn’t tell his brother was that he’d come to that conclusion before meeting her, by reading the file Baptist had delivered to him, which spiked Alistair’s curiosity to no end—not that it said much about her past.
“She is no’ complicated,” Tavish said, defending Laetitia. “She is . . . afraid.” And I don’t know why. “By what I could surmise has been a very secluded life she’s been living.”
“If you say so . . .” Alistair sipped his whisky thoughtfully. “She is right, you know?”
“About?”
“Rules and all that . . . your enchantment with each other is crystal clear. At least, yours with her.”
Tavish snorted. “Did you divine what she was thinking?”
“I’m a businessman, Tavish Uilleam, not a crystal ball reader.” Alistair’s lips curled to one side. “How do you think I have amassed so much money, Brother? How do you think I have acquired so many companies? I read people’s faces—their bodies tell more than their mouths. Most of the time, I know what others are considering before they voice their thoughts. A woman like Laetitia wouldn’t want people talking about her.”
Tavish turned his head from his brother to slide his gaze over the gallery, watching Maddox introducing Laetitia to the sales assistants on the level below. “A woman like Laetitia?”
“Tavish Uilleam. Few women can surprise or intrigue me, and yet she does.”
Tavish’s face closed, and he scowled at Alistair.
“Don’t take this personally.” Alistair raise
d his index finger, stopping his brother from speaking. “Despite the fact that she’s gentle, sweet—innocent even—there is a mature, strong, resilient woman beneath her skin. But it’s not this—there’s something more to her.”
“Like what?”
“She doesn’t appear to regret having defied the art market and its traditions by hiding herself and avoiding critics, but it’s a pretense to hide something. She appears easy to read. And ninety percent of the time she is, but what is she hiding behind the ten percent?”
Tavish raked a hand through his hair.
“And there is more.” Alistair tossed back the rest of his whisky, and rose. “It can be a disaster for her career to sign our usual contract and then appear on your arm in an interview or exposition. Either she would be labeled a whore, or her work would be looked at with less appreciation.”
Tavish heaved a tired breath. “Ye aren’t helping, man.”
“Oh, but don’t you worry, I will.” Patting Tavish on the back, he said cryptically, “Beautiful. Different. Complicated. Very much complicated. You couldn’t have chosen better, Brother.”
12:59 p.m.
Despite being impressed with all the possibilities The Blue Dot could offer her, Laetitia was a wreck. Alistair just made things worse by showing that he knew she was between a rock and a hard place.
Tavish’s brows were lowered, and in his turbulent sea-green eyes there was a veiled expression, while he waited with her for Garrick, the longtime family driver, to arrive at the front entrance of the gallery.
“Mr. MacCraig,” she said, her chest contracting with warring feelings. “Are you angry?”
“Nae. Why would I be?” he asked.
“You’re scowling.”
“It’s nothing.” And everything.
She faced the constant London traffic. “I can take the—”
“Laetitia. Are you always so contrary?”
“I’m a difficult woman,” she warned him, softly—so softly, he didn’t hear.
“I’ve already told you, Garrick is driving you to Battersea, and Munro is going to fly you back. If you are so bent on taking public transportation, you can do it from Warwick to your house.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Subject closed.”
They were silent, until the car stopped in front of the building.
“I hope to hear from you before Monday.” He hesitated for a moment, then bent and kissed her cheek. “Have a safe trip.”
Laetitia looked up, surprised, and wondered if she should return the kiss—on his mouth. She shook her head at herself and just smiled at him. “Thank you.”
The Blue Dot
Friday, September 19, 2014
10:27 a.m.
Tavish supervised the work regarding Laetitia’s paintings with something akin to curiosity, awe, pride, and, unexpectedly mixed in the fray, anger, because despite having thought of everything, he hadn’t found a solution for the impasse the contract could cause between them.
Maddox was gripping the cordless phone so hard it threatened to break, but his voice was soft and convincing. Tatiana was speaking with one of the most important art journalists in Britain. Two sales assistants were sending e-mails with PDFs of the available paintings to their clients, their excitement palpable.
Twenty-two paintings were gone, five to museums. Laetitia’s work was their biggest success so far with a young artist, and that was impressive considering that the artists they represented were among the best in the world.
“Of course, Mr. Richardson. I’ll send the other two to your house so you and your wife can choose. No problem, take your time.” Maddox hung up and shot a fist in the air, with a wide smile. “Yes! Richardson also wants numbers four and ten.”
Magnum Richardson was the gallery’s most important client. He had brought one of Laetitia’s paintings to his office, and his wife had liked it so much he was interested in buying two more.
“When this spreads, London will be in an uproar. Laetitia’s work will not be enou—” Maddox looked at his iPad, and his smile fell. Painting number four was already marked as sold. “Who bought number four?”
Tavish peered at it and stated, “It doesn’t matter—it’s sold.”
“It was hanging on the rack this morning. I saw it myself.” He sat back on his chair, stunned. “Can’t we workaround this situation? After all, this is Richardson.”
One of Maddox’s assistants, Genevieve, promptly looked at her computer screen, checking the cameras in the storage room. “It’s still there,” she said. Then she searched Laetitia’s file to discover who the buyer was. “This is strange. There’s no buyer name.”
“That painting is mine,” Tavish said in his even tone, tapping his Cartier pen on the leather folder containing the contract’s draft. As soon as Laetitia returned this morning’s phone call—if she did—he would take it to her.
“What!” If Maddox had looked stunned before, now his face was a study in confusion.
Without looking from his scribbled notes, Tavish repeated, “That painting is mine. And I don’t give a fuck about what Richardson wants.”
Maddox gaped at him, rose from the chair, and marched to his office.
Half an hour later, Tavish’s intercom buzzed, interrupting the checking he was doing on the gallery’s schedule. He saw it came from Maddox’s office. Shit. Shit! “Aye?”
“Tavish Uilleam. Would you mind coming to Maddox’s? Right now, if you please.” Alistair’s voice was so icy Tavish was sure Maddox’s complaints had echoed all the way to The City of London Bank Headquarters and brought his brother to The Blue Dot to calm him down.
He ran a hand through his hair, and as was his habit, and surveyed the ground floor of the gallery from his office window.
A sorrowful smile half opened on his face as he crossed the floor in lazy strides. He wasn’t behaving in a normal way. He wasn’t feeling normal.
When he entered Maddox’s office, the sorrowful smile turned to sardonic, and Tavish’s anger appeared once more, now toward his partners. Tatiana was trying to make Maddox drink a glass of water. Alistair was sitting on Maddox’s chair, his arms crossed over his large chest, watching the scene with his customary poker-faced mask in place.
“Well, well, well.”
Three pair of eyes turned to him.
“If this is no’ a mutiny, I don’t know what it is. Will ye make me walk the plank?”
“Grow up, Tavish.” Maddox sputtered. “Laetitia Galen’s works belong to the gallery. This—”
Alistair held up his palm. “Tavish Uilleam, Richardson is one of our best clients.”
“There are so many other paintings,” said Tatiana at the same time, her gentle tone muffled by Alistair’s. “Choose another one, dear.”
“Nae.” He perched himself on the corner of Maddox’s huge bookshelf.
“If you want to behave childishly, I’ll respond to you in kind.” Maddox was upset, which was a very bad thing. “This is petty. It demonstrates your instability. If you’re unable to—”
“Shut up, Maddox!” Alistair’s order froze the room. “Now, Tavish Uilleam, be sensible . . .”
But he paused midsentence, doubting if his brother was hearing or even seeing anyone in the room.
Tavish’s glazed eyes and contorted face inspired fear.
For him—or from him—they were about to discover.
Afghanistan
July 2008
The twenty-four women and men of the Crimson One platoon were quiet but unnerved. Red Two had stayed farther behind with only eighteen men, as the Afghan Army troop was delayed by a mechanical failure.
At an altitude of 5,750 feet, their advance over the mountain pass was slow but untroubled. The paratroopers needed to inspect a pass in a valley that led to a strategically located high mountain. At only 600 miles from their base, they reached the end of the roadway. They were forced to dismount and travel on foot along a small path of 170 feet.
“I don’t like this,” murmured Tavish.
“We’re venturing aggressively into an unknown area with an overly optimistic threat assessment.”
Thirty waiting Taliban militants watched their advance, some through binoculars. The insurgents’ mouths moved in silent prayers; their minds were trained to achieve their goal: kill the heretics. Concealed, familiar with the terrain, they moved down silently. Inch by inch, foot by foot.
“Doc, you worry too much,” said Sergeant Cameron.
“I worry because there are twenty-three lives under my command,” he answered.
“And yours doesn’t count?”
“It does,” he replied dryly.
Hearing the low conversation, Johanna, Tavish’s girlfriend, turned and said, “Cameron, Will means ‘my life counts only if all others are safe.’” She made a face at him.
But Tavish was not finding it funny. “Corporal Johanna Graham.”
“Don’t be such a tight ass, babe.” Johanna rolled her eyes at him. “Nothing’s going to happen. We’re almost there.”
“Our backup is far away and late. We’re ill equipped and disorganized. I’m calling this operation off—”
He couldn’t finish.
Shouts of “Allahu Akbar” and rifle fire resounded in the remaining three hundred feet from the peak, as thirty men came down with rifles, knives, and axes.
As impetuous as Johanna was, she leaped to the front not to help a wounded man but to shoot down the first militants.
“Fuck! Johanna!” Tavish yelled. “Come back!”
“That’s one, motherfuckers!” she shouted as she fired from behind a rock. “Two.”
“Flint! Get fucking down!” he roared. “Cameron, shoot the sons of bitches!”
Tavish’s orders boomed in the valley as he ran to tend to Corporal Niall. Shot in the mouth, the young man was choking on his own blood.
The paratroopers scrambled for cover behind whatever they could find: mountain brush or a rocky boulder.
Then he heard Johanna scream and saw her fall sideways, her body landing in an odd position.