AN IRRESISTIBLE BACHELOR

by Jessica Bird

  Landing a conservation job, however, was like getting struck by lightning and this was why she'd ended up at Stanley's gallery. While going through NYLPs conservation program, she'd interned at MoMA and received some great experience working under experts in the field, but with her mother so sick, she hadn't wanted to move out of the city when she got her degree. The field was competitive enough to begin with, but because she needed to stay where she was, her prospects were even more limited.

  Callie stopped in front of one of the more prominent galleries, thinking they might need help. Maybe a receptionist. Or someone to empty the trash. She didn't care. Aside from her very real financial imperative, she just wanted to be around the art. She went inside, but was told that they had laid off their receptionist two weeks before. When she asked, halfheartedly, if they knew anyone who was hiring, the shake of the head and lowered eyes told her that many of the galleries were in the same shape as Stanley's.

  Just keep going, she thought as she reemerged into the cold. At least if she wore herself out, she'd sleep tonight.

  She was strolling past a newspaper stand when she saw a picture that stopped her. Picking up the paper, she looked at the face of Grace Woodward Hall.

  Her half sister.

  The stunning blond was in a gown at a podium, addressing a crowd of the city's most influential people. According to the caption, the picture had been taken at the Hall Foundation's annual gala and Callie was shocked when she read the article. A killer had tried to attack Grace in her office and she'd been saved when her bodyguard had taken him down. Also, it appeared that her marriage to the Count von Sharone was over and her soon-to-be ex-husband was shopping around a tell-all book about her.

  Focusing on the picture, Callie was glad she'd finally introduced herself to Grace and sorry that the woman's life was in such turmoil. After years of reading about her half sister in the society pages, Callie had never expected to meet her, but things changed when their father died. She'd become determined to see her next of kin up close. Just once.

  Grace was Cornelius Woodward Hall's daughter. Callie was his dirty little secret. At birth, she'd been given Burke, her mother's name, and the lies that began with her first breath had followed her into adulthood, creating a wild disparity between the kind of life her half sister lived and the kind Callie struggled through. Despite the fact that Cornelius was worth close to a billion dollars, lavish financial support for his illegitimate daughter was out of the question. When he was alive, he could barely stand to be in the same room with her, as if she were too obvious a reminder of the double life he was leading. Anything that would have increased her profile was to be strictly avoided.

  Although, even if he had wanted to be generous, such gestures probably wouldn't have been accepted. Her mother's pride had cut off much of what Cornelius had tried to give his lover over the years. Extravagant gifts to her went unopened. A fancy apartment was left uninhabited. The only thing she'd accepted was the payment for Callie's college and graduate school tuition.

  And some jewelry that had ultimately helped to ease her death.

  Callie read on. The article mentioned that at the gala's auction, Jackson Walker had purchased a portrait of his ancestor, Nathaniel Walker, the Revolutionary War hero.

  Jackson Walker.

  At the sight of the name, she felt like a blast of hot air had hit the back of her neck.

  "Hey! Are you gonna buy that or do you want me to get you a chair?" the stand's owner barked at her.

  Callie put the newspaper down and kept going.

  She'd first learned about Jack Walker through the gossip columns years ago. He came from one of America's most famous families and had more money than most small countries. He was also too damn handsome for anyone's good. For years, he'd been a notorious bad boy and the tabloids had carried endless stories about his women. He'd tended to date models, actresses, and debutantes; usually more than one at a time. The ensuing catfights and his casual dismissal of jealous rages had probably moved more newspapers than the exploits of Bill Clinton and Jennifer Lopez put together.

  Needless to say, it had been a surprise to meet him in person.

  Evidently, he and Grace were friends and he looked like the kind of man Grace would know; everything about him was expensive. From his fine, tailored suit to his polished shoes to the leather briefcase he carried, he was from the world of privilege.

  And in all his finery, he was precisely the kind of man she avoided.

  Okay, maybe avoided was the wrong word, because billionaires didn't cross her path very often. But all that money, all that smooth confidence was a red flag. Her father had taught her everything she needed to know about rich men and little of it had been good.

  But she had to admit Walker was attractive. Aside from his physical attributes, he spoke with the authority of someone used to being followed, in a voice that was seductive even when he was talking about nothing sexual. She could have listened to him speak for hours, his words enunciated with that aristocratic drawl, a signet ring flashing gold on his hand as he gestured.

  And then there was the way he'd looked at her. He'd met her eyes directly and it was as if he'd really seen her. As someone who was used to being sidelined, it was nice to be noticed. Especially while standing next to a woman like Grace.

  It had been another surprise when he'd offered her the job of conserving the portrait of his famous fore-bearer. He made the proposal even though he didn't yet own the painting, taking for granted he'd prevail in the auction. Considering the kind of money he had, she supposed no price would be too high for him.

  But she'd walked away from the proposition, in spite of the fact that it was a plum job. It wasn't that she couldn't handle the project. She'd worked under some renowned conservationists during school and had tackled some very difficult restorations. The Copley, though dirty and in need of a cleaning, wasn't a big deal in terms of technical difficulty.

  Callie just wasn't in a big hurry to work for the man. She knew how the Jack Walkers of the world operated, having had to deal with them on occasion in Stanley's gallery. Having had one for a father. They thought of themselves first and that meant there was always an angle and always a demand. He probably treated his employees as if they were disposable and found fault with even the most successful of efforts.

  Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Walker was a perfectly nice man who just happened to have built a business empire. Maybe he was honest and forthright, a beacon of human virtue laced up in a Saville Row suit. Maybe he was closer to Nelson Mandela than Donald Trump.

  But more likely, he was a tough guy in gentleman's clothes and not someone she should work for. Getting mixed up with Walker had Bad Idea written all over it, even if she could have used the money.

  Abruptly, Callie turned around and started for home. She reminded herself that walking alone through the city on a cold night could only get her two more things she wasn't interested in: a case of pneumonia and mugged.

  Besides, she had more important things to worry about than the real or imagined character defects of some man she was never going to see again. She had to think about shelter. Food.

  She shoved her hand into her pocket and felt the lining give way.

  Clothing.

  Chapter 3

  Jack stood in front of the dingy six-floor walk-up and frowned. The front door hung off-kilter in its jamb, a pile of Chinese food leaflets littered the stoop, and the place looked as if it was sagging in on itself. He went up five stone steps and leaned in, looking through grungy glass. A bald lightbulb hung over a battered set of stairs and a decrepit tile floor.

  He went over to an intercom with a row of buttons below it. There were no names attached to the thing so he punched a few randomly. He wasn't surprised when there was no answer. He hadn't expected it to work.

  With a curse, he stepped back and looked up again. He was finding it hard to believe that the conservationist lived in such a building, so he took out the slip of paper he'd written her
address on. After double-checking the street and the number Grace had given him, he thought maybe it was a working studio.

  A cold gust of wind shot down the street and he glanced in its direction. He'd tried calling Ms. Burke a number of times throughout the day, but hadn't gotten so much as an answering machine. Since he was going back to Boston tomorrow, he'd figured his best shot at reaching the woman was to do a flyby in person, but it appeared, unless he was prepared to do a little breaking and entering, that he'd reached another dead end.

  He tried the front door in case its lock, like so much else, was broken. When it held fast, he figured enough was enough.

  He didn't have any more time to waste. If she was so damn hard to find, it was her loss. Crumpling the paper in his hand, he started down the steps.

  Just as he hit the sidewalk, a woman rounded the corner at the far end of the block. He was about to look away when he caught a flash of red hair and his breath left him in a cloud of mist. An image from the dream, of pale hands touching the skin of his stomach, brought him to a standstill.

  Christ, he told himself, don't think like that.

  He watched as she moved between two parked cars and crossed the street, her head down as if she were deep in thought. It wasn't until she was halfway to him that she lifted her eyes, caught sight of his limousine, and stopped dead in the middle of the road.

  "Hello," he called out, raising a hand. "You're a hard lady to track down."

  She frowned and looked to the left and the right.

  "Yes, you," he said, smiling.

  When she started walking again, it was much more slowly.

  "What are you doing here?" she said.

  He narrowed his eyes, taking in every detail of her. Her cheekbones and the tip of her nose were glowing bright red from the cold. Her hair, which fell past her shoulders, was being tossed around by the wind. Her blue eyes were regarding him with open suspicion.

  She was as beautiful as he remembered and he had to wonder if her body was anything like what he'd dreamt of. He couldn't make out anything under her enormous coat and he was surprised at what she was wearing. The thing was old and shaggy, a mottled brown tent that did nothing to accentuate her dramatic coloring or her curves.

  "Well?" she prompted him. "Why are you here?"

  He lifted an eyebrow. People didn't tend to address him with annoyance in their voices.

  "As I said before, I want you to conserve my painting."

  The cool glance she shot him wasn't encouraging and he felt himself gearing up for a lively negotiation. Which was just fine with him. He loved a good barter, whether it was over a company, a stock position, or a piece of art. The tougher the battle, the sweeter the reward when he won.

  She walked up the stone steps, not even looking at him as she passed. "I told you, I'm not interested."

  "I find that hard to believe," he said sharply. "Considering the way you stared at that portrait. "

  As she turned around, he knew she was itching to get rid of him and her impatience made him want to pull up a chair and hang around for a while.

  Tm not right for the job."

  "Then you have a low opinion of your capabilities."

  "It has nothing to do with my skills." She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.

  "Come on, you're dying to work on that painting."

  She got out her keys and pivoted away again. "I'm not prepared to take the assignment. Thank you."

  She was putting her hand on the doorknob when he took the steps two at a time and reached out for her arm. The moment he touched her, he felt her stiffen through the sleeve of her coat.

  "Let go of me. Please."

  As she refused to meet his eyes, he grew curious.

  "Tell me, what have I done to earn this animosity?" He dropped his hand and threw her a smile.

  "You show Up uninvited on my doorstep," she retorted. "I've told you no and you're still standing here. You're obviously prepared to pressure me into working for you for reasons that I can't begin to guess at. Why should I welcome you cheerfully?''

  "Are you always this wary?"

  "When things don't make sense to me, yes."

  "So how's my offering you the job of a lifetime senseless?"

  "Because I don't believe in miracles."

  "Atheist?"

  "Realist."

  Jack grinned. He liked her resistance, even more so because he could tell she wasn't nearly as tough as she was pretending to be. Her face might have been composed but those eyes of hers were bouncing around, touching on his face, the top knot of his tie, the width of his shoulders.

  "I think you can do the work."

  "Based on what? You must be a quick study because we've only met once before."

  "I'm considered to be pretty astute."

  Her head tilted to the side, as if she were waiting for him to prove it.

  He shrugged. "I know you graduated at the top of your class, with highest honors, from NYU's master's program in conservation. That's a damn good indicator of interest and aptitude. I know your professors liked you and thought you had talent and a willingness to work. I also understand you interned under Micheline Talbot and Peter Falcheck on some very complicated, high-profile projects."

  Her eyes skipped away to the front door of her building. She was no doubt eager to put those keys in her hand to good use. "How did you find out all that?"

  "The! head of your former department holds the Walker Chair in Art History. He was amazingly forthcoming." Her lips pursed. "Anyway, I took that track record, thought about the way you looked at my ancestor, and came to the conclusion that as someone early on in her career, you might appreciate a shot at the big leagues. That's pretty sound reasoning, don't you think?"

  The strand of hair was back in her face again, blowing into her eye. She pushed it away, obviously aggravated.

  "Listen, Mr. Walker, your new acquisition is an extraordinary piece of history. One wrong decision or badly executed maneuver and the loss would be monumental."

  "Scared?" he taunted mildly. As she stiffened, he smiled. He was more than willing to use her pride to his advantage.

  "Of course I’m not scared. But you need someone—”

  "So if you're qualified, interested, and able, that means only one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "You have another reason for turning me down. What could it be, I wonder?"

  "I don't like you," she blurted. As soon as the words came out, her cheeks reddened even more. "What I mean is—”

  He laughed. "You don't know me well enough to dislike me."

  "I'm not so sure about that," she muttered. "I don't tolerate playboys all that well."

  His smile faded. "What makes you think I'm a playboy?"

  "I'm also considered pretty astute," she said, lifting her chin. "And I'm a very good reader."

  As she eyed him with another challenge, he was less than amused. Living down his past had been getting on his nerves lately.

  "But I haven't done anything to offend you personally, have I?" he drawled. "Haven't propositioned you for sex. Haven't touched you in an inappropriate manner."

  He'd made love to her in his sleep, sure. But that didn't count.

  When she remained silent, he smiled grimly. "Maybe the problem is that you're attracted to me."

  Her mouth opened in a rush of indignation. "I don't think so."

  "You mean I shouldn't assume you're just playing hard to get with all this latent hostility?"

  She shook her head in disbelief. "You know, I'll bet you assume anyone in a skirt is attracted to you. Which is the hallmark of a playboy, I might add."

  He gave her a level stare. "Well, now that I know what you think of me, I'm going to give you a little something to chew on. I think you're looking for excuses not to take this job and it would be a shame to turn down something so important on the basis of fear, don't you think?" He took out his business card and pressed it into her hand. "This could make your career and you kn
ow it. Call me tomorrow with your answer."

  "I gave you my answer."

  "Think about it."

  "I have."

  "Well, think about it some more," he shot back.

  As she glared up at him, he could tell she was framing another argumentative response and thought, if she wanted to keep going, he was more than willing to indulge her.

  For some reason, the heated exchange made him think of Blair. When he got wound up, she tended to become easygoing, moving like water over his sharp edges. This woman, on the other hand, was meeting him head-on. Facing her determination, feeling the strength inside of her, he felt very much alive.

  Abruptly, he grinned. "You know something? I like you."

  "No, you don't," she said quickly, her eyes widening.

  "Yes. I do."

  Another gust of wind shot down the street and that length of hair flipped back into her face. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked the strand behind her ear.

  The simple gesture brought their volley to a halt.

  She jerked her head away, but his hand went with her, following the silky waves of red down to her shoulder.

  He looked into her eyes. They were glowing with alarm and something else. Something heated. He had a passing notion that he should be very careful around her, but then her lips parted and he lost his train of thought. The lower one was fuller and he felt an urgent need to test its softness with the pad of his thumb. With his own mouth.

  Abruptly, he realized he'd leaned forward, as if he was going to kiss her.

  Jack quickly stepped back and pushed a hand through his hair, thinking she seemed as dazed as he was.

  Pointing at his card, which she was gripping tightly, he said, "Call me tomorrow."

  And then he left before she could give the thing back to him, walking briskly down to his limousine. As soon as he got inside the car, he glanced at the seedy building. The front door was just shutting.

  He let out a curse.