“It’s time for you to leave.”
Herman’s eyes widened at her tone, but he sat back in his chair without saying a word.
Carter cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you heard, but…”
“I heard the real reason you’re here,” she interjected. “And the answer is no, so there’s nothing left for you to say.”
Carter glanced at Herman, then back at Gillian. “If you’ll just let me explain…”
“Explain what?” she cried. “That you want to try and prove that Picture of Perfection isn’t a Thoroughbred? That the reputation of Quest Stables is more important to you than your own integrity?”
His blue eyes hardened. “You’re wrong about me. I’m not out to hurt either one of you, but the truth has a way of coming out.”
“Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?” she asked incredulously.
“Take it as a friendly warning.”
Something twisted inside of her. She hated the fact that her instincts had let her down. Again. Carter had fooled her completely. What he wanted could only hurt her, and Gillian wasn’t about to let that happen.
“Picture of Perfection looks identical to Leopold’s Legacy,” he explained. “It’s only logical to suspect that they might share the same sire. I’m not trying to pull a fast one on you.”
“Really?” she exclaimed, wondering how he could keep a straight face. “You’ve been deceiving me since I met you. Pretending to be interested in that portrait and in my art.”
And in me, she added silently to herself.
“I am interested,” he insisted.
Gillian couldn’t listen to him anymore. She walked out of the kitchen and headed for the front door, disappointment welling inside of her. All she wanted to do was escape to the sanctuary of her bedroom and forget she’d ever met him.
“Gillian, wait,” he implored. “I don’t want to leave like this. Why don’t you and I and Herman sit down and talk this out.”
She turned around, steeling herself against a change in his tactics. “There’s something you should know before you leave. My ranch borders Herman’s land, I use his pasture, but Picture of Perfection belongs to me. I’m the only one who can give you what you want.”
Carter stared at her. “All I want is one small vial of blood.”
“The answer is no.”
He hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say something else, then he walked out the door.
Gillian slammed it behind him, wishing she’d never set eyes on Carter Phillips.
“He sure got you all riled up.”
She turned to see Herman standing in the foyer, a bemused smile on his face.
“I can’t remember the last time I saw you lose your temper like that,” he said, rubbing his hand across his gray whiskers. “Seems like it might be about more than the horse.”
She took a deep breath. Maybe she had overreacted just a bit. In truth, the constant nightmares and the lack of sleep had left her with a hair-trigger temper. Her emotions had been so raw lately that Carter’s deception had caught her completely off guard.
As her anger ebbed away, a deep sadness filled the void. “I’m just tired of men who can’t be trusted.”
His smile faded as walked over to her and looped one arm around her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Gilly.”
“You know I don’t mean you, Herman.” She leaned into his shoulder, grateful for the comfort he always provided her. Her godfather might have let her down in the past, but she’d never doubted his love for her.
He kissed the top of her head. “Forget about Dr. Phillips. The way you laid into him, I don’t think he’ll be back here again.”
She forced a smile. “I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right,” he said with a chuckle, then he headed for the door. “Maybe I should make sure he doesn’t take a detour around the pasture on his way out. The man doesn’t strike me as the sneaky type, but then you never know.”
Gillian watched him leave, then headed to her room. Once inside, she grabbed her sketch pad, seeking the solace that drawing gave her.
The charcoal pencil flew over the paper, the lines coming together to form Carter’s square jaw and strong mouth. She worked intensely, never stopping as his face gradually appeared on the paper in front of her.
Shortly after the fire, Gillian’s psychologist had suggested art therapy as a way of working through her grief and providing an outlet for her emotions. Gillian had been so full of rage and sadness and confusion and hadn’t known how to deal with any of it.
The art therapist had told her to literally draw out her feelings on paper, then dispose of them in some way that would symbolically represent discarding the negative emotions inside of her.
She was certainly ready to dispose of Carter Phillips. As she sat cross-legged on her bed, the sketch pad in her lap, she remembered the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The curl of his lashes. The tiny bump in his nose.
As an artist she often noticed little details around her that other people missed. The shape of his ears. The thin scar just above his left eyebrow. The tiny nick in his chin.
Her pencil slowed as she worked on the wave in his dark hair and tried to perfect the set of his blue eyes. When she finally looked up at the clock, she was surprised to find that two hours had passed since she’d begun drawing.
She sucked in a deep breath, realizing that the last time she’d been this absorbed in a sketch was shortly after the fire. That sketch had been of her parents and it had hung in a frame above her dresser for the last twelve years.
Her sketches and paintings had proven more powerful than any antidepressant in releasing the chains of grief that had bound her soul after the fire. They had also revealed a latent art talent that had flourished under the skilled tutelage of her art therapist.
At last, Gillian put the charcoal pencil down and straightened her legs, wincing at the ache in her stiff knees. She’d been sitting in one place for too long and now her right foot was asleep. She paced the floor, trying to get rid of the pins and needles sensation flooding her foot.
Then she turned back to the bed and stared at the sketch of Carter Phillips. He stared back at her, looking so honest and handsome that she wanted to cry.
Her anger had faded and the desire to crumple up the sketch of Carter and toss him into the trash no longer burned inside of her.
She closed the sketch pad, then set it on her desk. After so many years of therapy, she knew her overreaction to his motives for buying the portrait was a symptom of a deeper problem. The nightmares were starting to take a toll on every aspect of her life. She couldn’t prepare for a gallery showing with the lack of sleep she was experiencing. That
