He stopped in front of the picture and counted slowly backward from one hundred. His eyes drank in the vision in front of him. Technique aside, the rendering was near perfect. He almost felt like a voyeur, as if he’d caught a glimpse into the private life and time of the woman, as she dragged a dripping rag gracefully over one softly rounded shoulder.
A dreadful urge to simply rip the painting from its hook and race down the stairs and out of here bloomed inside. An urge he instinctively suppressed. He hadn’t waited this long just to ruin everything now but it was harder than he’d expected to finally see the painting his grandfather had been forced to sell twenty-five years ago.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Avery said from behind him. “Apparently she was one of the maids in Baxter’s household. There was a bit of a scandal over this back then. She was dismissed by Baxter’s wife, Isobel, when she saw the painting. Isobel accused the maid of having an affair with Baxter and insisted her husband destroy the picture. Obviously he didn’t. There was a rumor that he sent the painting to the maid, but we have no actual proof of who owned it after it left his house.”
“Interesting that there was no blame laid at her husband’s feet for exploiting a maid in his employment.” As hard as he tried he couldn’t keep a hint of bitterness from his voice. The underclass always bore more than its share of blame in situations like this.
Avery shrugged. “I don’t know whether there was or not. His wife was apparently quite a forceful character. Probably necessary when Baxter was oblivious to everything but his work.”
“And, no doubt, his subject.”
A small smile tugged at her lips. “Yes,” she conceded. “And his subject, although I wonder if he ever saw her as anything other than tones and light and shadows.”
Marcus clenched his jaw to hold back the words that hovered on the tip of his tongue. It wouldn’t do to let Avery know that he had no doubt that Baxter Cullen had most definitely seen his model as far, far more than that.
After all, the subject in question had been Marcus’s own great-grandmother.
Marcus forced himself to shift the conversation away from the woman in the painting. Knowing it was because of him that the nude no longer hung on Grampa’s sitting-room wall made seeing the work more emotional than he’d anticipated—and Marcus didn’t do emotion.
“How did your father come into possession of Lovely Woman?”
“Through a broker, I imagine. That’s how he bought most of his favorites, although he was pretty good at spotting bargains in estate lots and secondhand stores. Even so, he was a stickler for paying a fair price.”
“I’m surprised you have it here in your studio.”
“It’s my inspiration,” she answered simply.
“For your nudes?”
“Not just my work—for everything, really. It reminds me to look for beauty in all things, no matter what the circumstances.”
“I’m surprised you have to look. Aren’t you surrounded by beauty here in your home?” He tore his gaze from the painting and turned to face her.
Her full lips twisted in a wry smile. “You’d be surprised at what surrounds me and what’s expected of me.”
He could sense there was hurt lying behind her words, but surely living in her gilded world couldn’t be all that bad? In the distance Marcus heard the sonorous chimes of a grandfather clock, counting out the hour. It was getting late. While every urge pushed him to press the advantage of her current openness he knew that underneath she was probably still as skittish as a first-time buyer at auction.
“I’d better head off,” he said. “Thank you for showing me the painting.”
“You’re welcome. Here, let me show you back downstairs.”
Avery led the way down the two flights of stairs and through to the black-and-white-tiled foyer. At the door, Marcus turned and put out his hand, surprised when, without hesitation, Avery took it in her smaller one.
“I’m not going to give up, you know,” he warned her with a smile.
“Give up?”
“On getting you to agree to sell your father’s collection.”
Avery laughed, the intensity that had clouded her features while they were upstairs in the studio lifting with the sound. “It’s not going to happen.”
“I usually get what I want,” he drawled, this time letting his gaze caress her face before sliding lower to where her pulse beat visibly at her neck.
A warm flush of color stained her skin and her fingers tightened on his imperceptibly before she withdrew them from his clasp.
“Perhaps it’s time you learned to cope with disappointment,” she said, her voice a little husky.
“You think I don’t know disappointment?” he asked, injecting just the right amount of teasing into his tone.
She flushed again. “I’m sure it’s not up to me to know that.”
“I’ve had my share. It just served to make me more determined to get exactly what I want out of life.”
“And is brokering the Cullen Collection what you want out of life?” she asked, lifting her chin a little in a silent challenge.
“It’s at the top of my list at the moment,” he acceded with a calculated smile. “But there are other things I want.”
“I’m intrigued,” Avery said, stepping back a little, as if creating more distance between them could overcome her curiosity. “Perhaps you could explain to me exactly why my father’s paintings are so important to you over dinner here tonight? We dine at eight.”
Satisfaction swelled inside him. It was like taking candy from a baby. She’d gone from emphatically saying “no” to now being interested, albeit remotely. It was an important first step. Now he had to make sure he left her feeling secure enough that she’d grant his request.
“I’d love to discuss it further over dinner, but not here. Why don’t I take you out instead? I still need to check into my hotel but I can be back here in say—” he cast a glance at the wafer-slim Piaget timepiece on his wrist “—two hours. Does that suit you?”
For a moment he thought she might refuse, but then her face cleared and she gave him a small smile. “I haven’t been out in a while, so, yes, I’d like that. I’ll see you at seven?”
“I’ll be here.”
As Marcus made his way down the shallow concrete stairs that led from the front door toward where he’d parked his rental car, he fought to control the urge to fist pump the air in triumph. Every word, every second brought him closer to success. He could see the ink on his partnership offer already.
Three
Avery leaned back against the door after closing it behind Marcus. She couldn’t believe she’d invited him to come back for dinner, let alone agreed to go out with him!
