if you hope to do a showing.”
“Fame?” What painter didn’t secretly yearn to be this generation’s Renoir or Picasso? Disclaimers aside, surely Ben had an artist’s ego.
Destiny shook her head. “He thinks Richard and Mack have all the limelight that the Carlton family needs.”
Frustration burned inside Kathleen. What else could she come up with that might appeal to a reclusive artist who had no need for money or fame?
She drew her gaze from the incredible painting and turned to the woman who knew Ben best. “Any ideas?” she asked Destiny.
The older woman patted her hand and gave her a serene, knowing look. “I’m sure you’ll think of something if you put your mind to it.”
Even though she’d suspected the plot all along, even though Melanie and Beth had all but confirmed it, Kathleen was taken aback by the determined glint in Destiny’s eyes. In Destiny’s mind the art and the man were intertwined. Any desire for one was bound to tie Kathleen to the other. It was a diabolical scheme.
Kathleen looked from the painting to Ben Carlton. She would gladly sell her soul to the devil for a chance to represent such incredible art. But if she was understanding Destiny’s sly hint correctly, it wasn’t her soul she was expected to sell.
One more glance at Ben, one more little frisson of awareness and she couldn’t help thinking it might not be such a bad bargain.
* * *
Ben watched warily as his aunt guided Kathleen into the dining room. He saw the way the younger woman came to a sudden halt when she saw his painting, and despite his claim that he painted only for himself, his breath snagged in his throat as he tried to gauge her reaction. She seemed impressed, but without being able to hear what she said, he couldn’t be sure. It irked him that he cared.
“You’re amazingly talented,” Kathleen said the instant she’d taken her seat beside him.
Relief washed over him. Because that annoyed him, too, he merely shrugged. “Thanks. That’s Destiny’s favorite.”
“She has a good eye.”
“Have you ever seen her work?”
“A few pieces,” Kathleen said. “She won’t let me sell them for her, though.” She met his gaze. “Modesty must run in the family.”
“I’m not modest,” Ben assured her. “I’m just not interested in turning this into a career.”
“Why not?”
His gaze challenged her. “Why should I? I don’t need the money.”
“Critical acclaim?”
“Not interested.”
“Really?” she asked skeptically. “Or are you afraid your work won’t measure up?”
He frowned at that. “Measure up to what? Some other artist’s? Some artificial standard for technique or style or commercial success?”
“All of that,” she said at once.
“None of it matters to me.”
“Then why do you paint?”
“Because I enjoy it.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “And that’s enough?”
He grinned at her astonishment. “Isn’t there anything you do, Ms. Dugan, just for the fun of it?”
“Of course,” she said heatedly. “But you’re wasting your talent, hiding it away from others who could take pleasure in seeing it or owning it.”
He was astounded by the assessment. “You think I’m being selfish?”
“Absolutely.”
Ben looked into her flashing violet eyes, and for an instant he lost his train of thought, lost his desire to argue with her. If they’d been alone, he might have been tempted to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until she forgot all about this silly debate over whether art was important if it wasn’t on display for the masses.
“What are you passionate about?” he asked instead, clearly startling her.
“Art,” she said at once.
“Nothing else?”
She flushed at the question. “Not really.”
“Too bad. Don’t you think that’s taking a rather limited view of the world?”
“That from a man who’s known far and wide as a recluse?” she retorted wryly.
Ben chuckled. “But a passionate recluse,” he told her. “I love nature. I care about my family. I feel strongly about what I paint.” He shot a look toward Richard. “I’m even starting to care just a little about politics.” He turned toward Mack. “Not so much about football, though.”
“Only because you could never catch a pass if your life had depended on it,” Mack retorted amiably. He grinned at Kathleen. “He was afraid of breaking his fingers and not being able to hold a paint brush again.”
“Then, even as a boy you loved painting?” Kathleen said. “It’s always mattered to you?”
“It’s what I enjoy doing,” Ben confirmed. “It’s not who I am.”
“No ambition at all?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. None. Richard and Mack have more than enough for one family.”
Kathleen set down her fork and regarded him with consternation. “How do you define yourself, if not as an artist?”
“A reclusive artist,” Ben corrected, quoting the usual media description. “Why do I need to pin a label on myself?”
She seemed taken aback by that. “I don’t suppose you do.”
“How do you define who you are?” he asked.
“I own an art gallery. A very prestigious art gallery, in fact,” she said with pride.
Ben studied her intently. He wondered if she had any idea how telling it was that she saw herself only in terms of what she did, not as a woman with any sort of hopes and dreams. A part of him wanted to unravel that particular puzzle and discover what had made her choose ambition over any sort of personal connection.
Because right here and now, surrounded by people absorbed in their own conversations, it was safe enough to ask, he gazed into her amazing eyes. “No man in your life?”
A shadow flitted across her face. “None.”
“Why is that?”
Eyes flashing, she met his gaze. “Is there a woman in yours?”
Ben laughed.
