by Jessica Bird
And now she better understood why he'd tracked her down.
"Is there a problem?" he asked as she stayed silent.
"I just don't want to be a charity case," she blurted.
He frowned and then laughed.
"Then you'll be pleased to know that my lack of philanthropic interest is legendary. You've got the credentials and you're going to work for every penny. My money's far too important to me to have it any other way." He gestured at her clothes. "Besides, if you can afford to wear Chanel, you're not exactly starving. Although I have to say, I’m surprised you have a workshop in such a worn-down building."
"Workshop?"
He frowned. "The one in Chelsea."
Callie almost laughed. He thought she worked where she lived? It was certainly conceivable. There were a lot of artists' studios in her neighborhood.
She was about to disabuse him of the error when she decided to keep quiet. There was no reason to tell the man her life story, and if he thought she had money, it worked in her favor by putting them on more equal footing.
As she fell silent again, he let out a frustrated noise. "Fine, no more chitchat. When can you start?"
"As soon as you want me to."
"Can you be in Boston the day after tomorrow?"
"Boston?" She stiffened.
"The painting is going to be shipped to my home on Tuesday,"
"Oh. I'd assumed it would stay here."
"I don't live here."
"But you could have the portrait bonded and leave it with me," she said hopefully.
"That's not what I had in mind."
And she could tell his mind was made up. "This changes everything."
"Why?"
"All my contacts are here. My, ah, work space. My tools."
"None of that will be a problem," he said smoothly.
Maybe not for him, she thought.
"I'll see to everything for you," he continued. "And I'd like you to stay at Buona Fortuna while you work."
"Where?"
"My house. Buona Fortuna means good fortune in Italian. My great-great-grandmother had a fondness for the Renaissance period." He took another croissant from the basket. "I'm going to dedicate studio space to you, get you whatever equipment you need. You can set up everything exactly as you want it."
She pictured herself sleeping under the same roof as him and the pool of heat that set up shop in her stomach made her want to get away from the man, not move in with him.
"I don't know whether that would be such a good idea. It could be at least six weeks. That's a long time for a guest."
"True. But it's a big house."
Yeah, well, the damn thing could be the size of a football field and it would still be too small, she thought.
"I don't know."
"I won't charge you for the hospitality," he said with disapproval. "If that's what you're worried about. I'll still pay you the same."
And then he named a price that almost made her fall out of the chair.
With that kind of money, she wouldn't have to worry about rent for a year and then some. She'd be able to do a job search in comfort. She could start a nestegg.
Callie tried to keep her voice level. "That's very generous."
"It's the going rate for a professional. And remember, I'll get you anything you need for your work on the painting."
She hesitated, finding it hard to imagine doing the job in a private home. It wasn't impossible, but it would complicate things.
"Why is it so important that the work be performed at your house?"
"No museum is going to get the mistaken impression that my painting is hanging on any wall but my own. I've been burned a few times, having to wrestle pieces back once they'd been conserved, even if I've footed the bill for the restoration. The attachment can become personal for some conservationists and their museums, which is another reason why you're attractive to me." There was a slight pause. "You're unaffiliated with an institution, so there'll be no confusion."
"But I'll need equipment that will be either prohibitively expensive or hard to get."
"There are no such things," he said, pouring himself some more coffee.
Taking a sip, he looked at her over the rim and she shifted her eyes to his pinkie ring. She was close enough to see that it had a crest on it and she thought that with the money and connections he had, there was probably nothing Jack Walker couldn't get his hands on.
No material possessions, at any rate.
"If there's something you absolutely can't do on-site, we can take it to the MFA. I've already spoken with their head of conservation and he's offered to help even though I've made it clear that I'm going to have an independent do the work." He wiped his mouth on his napkin and leaned back in the chair. "So, you see, everything is arranged. All you need to do is show up."
Callie wavered, thinking the job was taking her in directions she wasn't entirely comfortable with.
Moving sharply, Walker threw down his napkin and got to his feet. "I've got a meeting in ten minutes. I know my terms are generous so I’m not inclined to negotiate. Are you in or out?"
As she measured his expression, she realized he was totally prepared to walk away and that eased some of her concern.
She took a deep breath. "Where should I meet you in Boston?"
Showing no particular reaction, he walked over to a desk.
"My house is in Wellesley. We live on Cliff Road." He bent down and wrote something with a gold pen. "That's the address and phone number. I'll make a point to be there by five on Tuesday."
He handed her the paper and she squinted at the wide scrawl. His handwriting was barely legible.
"Is this a nine?" she asked, surprised at how sloppy it was.
He nodded and smiled. "My penmanship has always been awful. It was one of many things my father never liked about me. A therapist would probably tell you my enduring carelessness is a passive-aggressive expression of independence targeted at a dead man. But I reject that theory out of hand."
She couldn't help it. The corners of her mouth lifted.
"You don't smile very often, do you?" he said softly.
Callie folded her napkin and stood up, clearing her throat. "Thank you for this opportunity."
Walker extended his hand to her and looked darkly amused as she just stared at it. When she finally stuck her hand out, his fingers wrapped around hers and she felt a surge of warmth shoot up her arm. She pulled back quickly and went over to pick up her coat.
He frowned as he looked at it.
"May I help you with that," he murmured.
She shook her head, draped it over her arm, and headed for the door.
"Callie?"
She halted and looked over her shoulder.
Jack Walker stared at her for a long time, his eyes lingering on her hair and then moving downward. She shifted her coat so it blocked his view of her body, feeling as though she was being measured against something. She wondered what the standard was.
When he said nothing, she got antsy. "Good-bye, Mr. Walker."
"Jack. Call me Jack."
She didn't bother replying and left his suite quickly.
As she rode down in the elevator, her body shaking and her head in a fog, she had to remind herself that she'd survived a hell of a lot worse than the job offer of a lifetime. Just because her new boss was capable of melting paint off a wall with those hazel eyes of his didn't mean she should be overwhelmed.
She just had to be strong.
And, fortunately, she'd spent a lifetime in training for that.
Jack stared at the door.
She was really quite attractive. He'd never bought that whole passionate redhead cliché, but there was a real fire in her. He loved how she stood up to him and the fact that she fought harder whenever she was especially uncomfortable.
Was she with someone? She didn't wear a wedding ring, but maybe there was a boyfriend in the picture.
He frowned, thinking that shouldn't be
relevant.
The phone rang and he answered it. Grayson Bennett, his college roommate, was on the line.
"I've cleared my calendar," Gray said. "I'm ready to spend the next month or so assessing your candidacy in Boston."
"Excellent. "What's the first order of business?"
"We're going to set up your exploratory committee. We'll pull together ten or twelve people from different sectors in the state and do a quiet assessment of the landscape. We need to know who will back you and who's going to be trouble, what kind of money we can raise, how you're perceived. Should take four or five weeks."
"When are you coming in?"
"Tomorrow night. I'm staying at the Four Seasons."
"You bringing female company?" As a resounding no came over the line, Jack laughed. "No more—what was her name? Sarah?"
"Sophia. No, she's gone. She was starting to talk rings and as you know, I'm allergic to diamonds. She's a good woman—for someone else."
After they hung up, Jack headed for the bedroom to finish getting dressed. For a long time, he and Gray had shared the same view of marriage, namely that it was right for other people. But hell, if he could change his mind, so could Gray.
Just not when it came to Sophia, evidently.
The grandfather clock in the corner started to chime and Jack hurried up.
In a few minutes, he was going to meet with two brothers, one a physician and the other an engineer. Bryan and Kevin McKay had devised a new, faster, and cleaner way of processing blood products like plasma and platelets. They had the proper patents so the intellectual property rights were sewn up, and with some good contracts with a few hospitals, they had an income stream. Currently housed in a small shop on the West Coast, they wanted to expand and they needed some big money. If they had the right mix of debt to equity and some reasonable growth projections, Jack figured there was a potential to make some money.
He was looking forward to the meeting and there was no better way to spend a Sunday afternoon as far as he was concerned. One of the things he liked about the venture capital business was that it was twenty-four/seven. There was never any downtime, no wasted moments, always something that needed to be done. Sundays, holidays, birthdays, weddings. He worked through them all.
Hell, the day his father had been buried, he'd spent hah0 the wake in his study setting up the funding for a tech firm down in Atlanta. But that hadn't just been about business, he supposed. He'd found it difficult to mourn someone whose sustained disapproval had marked his life so indelibly, and getting some work done had seemed like a more productive use of time than faking sorrow.
Bad family dynamics aside, with every sunrise, there were places he had to be, things he needed to accomplish, people who wanted to get to him and his money. It was a nonstop, frenetic ride with no clear end in sight. In all that swirling chaos, he found purpose. He knew being governor of Massachusetts would be just as complicated and demanding. And if he ever made it to the Oval Office, the stakes would be astronomical.
Jack slid a silk tie around his neck and faced the mirror. He couldn't wait for the future.
Chapter 5
On Tuesday, Callie took a train up the coast of Connecticut to Boston's Back Bay Station and then transferred to a commuter rail line that took her out to the suburbs. As she stepped off in Wellesley with her old Samsonite suitcase and a toolbox full of supplies, site stared up a steep hill.
Now she knew why they called it Cliff Road.
By the time she walked up to a pair of stone pillars bearing the right number, her arms were going numb and she had pins and needles in her shoulders. She dropped her load and looked down the driveway. There wasn't much to see. The strip of asphalt disappeared into a thicket of underbrush and trees.
She picked up her things again and started down the last leg of her journey. She told herself, as she had innumerable times during the trip, that everything was going to be okay. She was going to do a good job and Jack Walker was going to be too busy running his business empire to bother with her.
And even if it was awful, nothing lasted forever.
When she rounded a corner, uneasiness came over her like a curse.
"Good fortune, my foot, she thought, looking at the mansion.
The house, which was painted a dark gray, was a towering mausoleum as it rose from its stone foundation. There were porches and cupolas and a tower at the top and the various eaves and corners threw off a host of shadows that made the place seem even gloomier. The grounds didn't help tighten the mood any. They were austere, with only clipped bushes and beds of pachysandra to soften the mansion's footprint. But at least there were several big trees on the property. The oaks and maples arched their limbs over a lawn that was big enough to play pro football on and the grass was just as well tended as any playing field's.
"She started walking again. The drive was a good hundred yards long and it split to wrap around the house. The left half went to the garage, which was two stories high and had four bays. The other led under a porte cochere that shielded the main entrance of the mansion. She went to the right.
When she got to the heavy front door, she dropped her suitcase and toolbox. Reminding herself she was an invited guest, not an interloper, she let the brass door knocker fall.
A woman in her forties answered it. As she looked Callie up and down, her eyes weren't unkind, but they weren't exactly warm, either.
"Yes?" The air of purpose about her suggested she worked at the house, though she wasn't wearing a uniform.
"I'm Callie Burke."
"The conservationist?" The woman's expression changed to one of surprise.
Callie nodded.
"Oh-ah, he told us you'd be coming." The woman frowned, taking in the orange suitcase and the furry coat. "Mrs. Walker was looking forward to your arrival."
Mrs. Walker?
"Actually, I was expecting to meet Mr. Walker."
"He's not home yet. She is here, though."
Surprise, surprise, Callie thought. She hadn't read that he'd been married, but then she hadn't been picking up the paper as much as she used to. The idea that he had a wife made her feel more at ease in a way.
Unless he really had been about to kiss her in front of her building, in which case she felt worse.
An awkward silence followed, until Callie said, "Is there something wrong?"
"I'm so sorry, I should be more ... Welcome to Buona Fortuna," the woman said, extending her hand. Her eyes began to warm up. "I'm Elsie, Mrs. Walker's personal secretary. We were expecting someone a little..."
"Older?" As the woman nodded, Callie smiled and shook hands before stepping inside. "I can understand that."
Once her eyes adjusted, she saw glowing mahogany walls carved with deep reliefs, a stone fireplace that ran from floor to ceiling, and a lot of heavy, European furniture. It was like walking into a Renaissance exhibit at a museum.
And just about as cozy.
"Mrs. Walker will be down in a moment. Why don't you wait in the solarium and I'll have your bags taken upstairs."
Callie nodded and shrugged out of her coat.
"You can give that to me. Do you need anything? "
She shook her head. "No, I'm fine."
"The solarium is through there, past the library, and out the other side."
When Callie finally found it, the bright, sunny room was a relief. The solarium, with its glass walls and pale slate flooring, looked as if it had been decorated by someone else entirely.
Someone who hadn't been born a Medici back in the fifteenth century.
There were chintz chairs and a comfortable sofa to sit on, and white wicker side tables supported lamps made out of Oriental vases. She took a deep breath. The warm, humid air smelled of the flowers that were growing around the room in perfectly maintained beds.
She was looking through the glass at the undulating lawn when she heard soft footsteps. She turned, very curious about who exactly Jack Walker had married, and found herself meeting the s
oulful eyes of an Irish wolfhound. The dog was about the size of a small pony and covered with a shaggy gray coat of fur. He wagged his tail in a tentative welcome.
"Well, hello," she said softly, getting down on her haunches.
The dog approached, moving in a slow, loping walk. His head was taller than hers as she kneeled in front of him, but though his size was daunting, his eyes gave him away. They were limpid pools of friendliness.
She was stroking his head when a voice cut through the room.
"I see you've met Arthur."
Callie looked over into an impeccably aged face. Her first impression was that the woman had once been incredibly beautiful. The next was that the proprietary glare coming out of her brown eyes was about as welcoming as a Taser gun.
My God, she thought, this wasn't his wife.
The great Jack Walker lived with his mother.
She wanted to laugh, but knew the outburst wouldn't have gone over well. Mrs. Walker looked as if she didn't find much humor in anything.
"So you are the conservationist my son has chosen," the woman said, stepping into the room. Her stark white hair was pulled back from her face and the severe style showed off her set of spectacular cheekbones. She was wearing a tweed pantsuit that had the clean lines of haute couture and there was a lot of heavy gold jewelry around her neck.
She was right out of central casting. The quintessential grande dame.
Callie got to her feet. "Yes, I'm Callie Burke."
"You're a little young for this, don't you think?" The comment was followed by a chilly little smile.
"I can do the work, Mrs. Walker. And your son is confident of this or he wouldn't have hired me."
The smile disappeared. "You do realize that Copley was the painter?"
As if Callie might have mistaken the thing for a LeRoy Neiman.
"Of course."
"Well, it's Jack's money wasted if you fail. Not to mention the loss to the art world, which would be significant. But I'm sure you'll perform to the best of your abilities."
Callie lifted her brows.
Well at least you didn't have to dig for her put-downs. Anything more obvious and Jack's mother would have to be burying a knife in her chest.
