she knew the reason for the sudden urge to have his portrait painted was nothing to do with artistic appreciation and a lot more to do with the fact that the poor man was ill.
The last of the Elstrom family. A shiver ran across Toni’s shoulders. She didn’t like the sound of that.
Like it or not, she and Amy were the last of the Baldoni dynasty. Her father had been an only child and the only male cousins were far more interested in IT than fine arts.
Perhaps she had more in common with Scott Elstrom than she was prepared to admit?
Now all she had to do was convince him that the best thing for the business was to have his portrait painted. She couldn’t return the fee. The money had already been spent on Amy’s round-the-world plane ticket. And she needed the rest of the fee to help her through university.
So Scott had better get used to the idea.
Being immortalised in oil and acrylics was quite painless really.
Oh, yes. A man who chose to work in Alaska in the middle of winter was really going to go for that idea.
Now that did give her the shivers. That and the rivulet of rain water spilling out from the awning.
She was doomed!
Toni dropped her shoulders and shoved her free hand into the pocket of the practical but not very elegant all-weather coat she used for outdoor photo shoots.
The things she did for her sister!
Two weeks. She had two weeks’ holiday to sketch the portrait and work in at least two full sittings before heading back to work. She could finish the portrait at home over the next few weekends and collect the rest of her fee. With a bit of luck, there might be a little left over from paying Amy’s university fees to squeeze in a quick holiday somewhere warm and sunny.
Now that—she shivered in the icy wind—would be nice.
Exhaling slowly, Toni glanced from side to side to find a gap in the stream of people who had their heads down, their umbrellas braced forward against the driving sleet and rain and oblivious to anyone who might walk in their way.
Seizing on a momentary lull, Toni dashed out onto the road in the stationary rush hour traffic. She had almost made it when she had to dive sideways to dodge a bicycle courier and planted her right foot into a deep puddle. Dirty cold water splashed up into her smart high heeled ankle boots and trickled down inside, making her gasp with shock.
Hissing under her breath, Toni stepped up onto the kerb and inside the porch.
A brass plaque set into the old stone read: ‘Elstrom and Sons. Map-makers’ in the most stunning cursive script.
Blowing out hard, Toni rolled back her shoulders and tried to think positive thoughts. A flutter of nervous apprehension winged across her stomach.
This was so ridiculous.
She was here to paint Scott’s portrait. That was all. The small fact that he did not actually want his portrait painting was not important.
Much. She peered through the tiny squares of thick old glass set into the door but couldn’t see a thing—no lights or movement.
She ran her hands down the front of her raincoat and lifted her chin, stretched her hand out and rang the doorbell.
Instantly a low buzzing sound came from the door and a green light flashed.
Oh. Right. Security door. Well, that made sense.
She turned the handle, pushed the door a little and stepped inside.
Water dripping from every part of her, Toni shook the rain from her hair and instantly inhaled the glorious deep, rich aroma of antique wood, polished leather and that certain delicious muskiness that came from old manuscripts and bound books.
Laughing and half choking in the slightly dusty air, a sudden smile caught her unexpectedly.
Strange, Toni thought. That smell. It was so distinctive. She inhaled deeply and instantly recognized it. Of course. Her mother used to have a tin of beeswax and linseed oil mixed with lavender under the sink and brought it out whenever she dusted her father’s studio, which wasn’t often, considering how rarely any flat surface remained uncluttered with paperwork and art exhibition catalogues and letters and, occasionally, bills.
She hadn’t thought about that polish for years. Perhaps she should make some up when she got back to the house to protect the furniture against the ravages of a new tenant?
The door buzzed behind her, demanding to be closed, breaking the spell.
Then she stood, frozen and blinking, trying to take in what she was looking at.
It was like stepping back in time. Light streamed into the space from long, narrow stained glass window panels at the other side of the room that seemed to lead into a corridor. But in front of her, on either side, the walls were covered in rows of square wooden panels probably not wider than her arm above a tough-looking, very weathered wooden floor.
No carpet or textiles. Just hardwood panelling.
Cupboards and cabinets were lined up to her left and at head height along each wall were sea charts and maps in heavy gilt frames.
Well, that explained the security door!
The last time she had seen anything like this was at a stately home which had not been touched for hundreds of years. The financial demands of keeping the place going had finally caught up with the family and they had very reluctantly opened their home as a film set for historical dramas. The media company she worked for had been there for months, filming what they needed.
But this room? This was more like a museum.
Toni strolled over to a stunning wide table decorated in marquetry which stretched the full length of one wall. It was covered with scrolls, brightly coloured documents inside plastic sheets and an assortment of what looked, to her uneducated eyes, like antique survey equipment and sextants.
She was so engrossed in admiring the stunning elaborate engraving on the handle of a brass magnifying glass that it took a blast of cold air on her neck to snap her back into the real world. Toni whirled around in surprise and inhaled sharply.
Little wonder. A towering dark blond-haired man filled the entrance to the corridor, blocking out the light. He was wearing a navy blue round-necked light sweater with the sleeves rolled up, oblivious to the cold and wet outside.
His deeply tanned face was glowing from the rain and wind and he ran the fingers of his right hand back through his long damp hair from forehead to neck in a single natural motion. That simple movement only made his paler heavy eyebrows and pepper-and-salt moustache and beard even more pronounced.
Last night at the town house, his eyes had seemed dark and cloudy. But here Toni realised just how wrong she had been.
Despite the lack of a comfortable bed, the exhaustion had faded to a slight crease between those eyebrows, drawing her gaze to eyes the colour of a Mediterranean sea.
His square jaw was so taut it might have been sculpted. But it was his mouth that knocked the air
