“That’s why I couldn’t find so much as a crumb when I went looking for a late-night snack,” Ben grumbled.
Mack gave him an unrepentant smile. “I figured you owed me for not blabbing.”
Ben sighed. “You’re right. It’s a small enough price to pay for not getting Destiny’s hopes up. Who knows what she’d dream up, if she thought round one had gone her way.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re off the hook, little brother, not by any means. In fact, if I were you, I’d be looking over my shoulder from here on out. Something tells me you’ll be seeing Kathleen every time you turn around.”
Ben decided not to tell Mack that he was already seeing her everywhere. The blasted woman had crawled into his head and wouldn’t leave.
When it came to business, Kathleen wasn’t especially patient. The art world was competitive and she’d learned early to go after what she wanted before someone else snapped it up.
Though Destiny had suggested prudence where Ben was concerned, Kathleen decided not to take any chances. If, by some fluke, word about his talent leaked out, she could be competing with a crowd for the chance to mount his first show, maybe even to represent his work. The fact that he intended to play hard-to-get simply made the game more interesting.
She was back out in the rolling hills of Middleburg by 7:00 a.m. on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Leaves on the trees were falling fast, but there were still plenty of hints of the gold, red and burnished-bronze colors of fall. On this surprisingly warm, sunny morning, horses had been turned out to pasture behind white fences. It was little wonder that Ben painted nature, when he lived in a setting this spectacular.
Kathleen was armed for the occasion. She had two extralarge lattes from Starbucks with her, along with cranberry scones she’d baked the night before when she couldn’t get to sleep for thinking about Ben and that stash of paintings his aunt had alluded to. She told herself those scones were not bribery, that she hadn’t taken Destiny’s advice about Ben’s sweet tooth to heart. Rather they were simply a peace offering for intruding on his Sunday morning.
She was waiting in her car with the motor running when Ben emerged from the house, wearing yet another pair of disreputable jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Unshaven, his hair shining but disheveled, he looked sexy as hell. All dressed up, he would be devastating.
But she wasn’t here because Ben sent her hormones into high gear. She was here because his talent gave her goose bumps. Sometimes it was hard to separate the two reactions, but in general she steered clear of artists in her personal life. Most were too self-absorbed, the emotional ride too bumpy. If that was her basic philosophy, avoiding the dark, brooding types was her hard-and-fast rule, learned by bitter experience. Ben Carlton was off-limits to her heart. Period.
Seemingly, though, her heart hadn’t quite gotten the message. It was doing little hops, skips and jumps at the sight of him.
She expected a quick dismissal and was prepared to argue. She wasn’t prepared for the hopeful gleam in his eye the instant he spotted the coffee.
“If one of those is for me, I will forgive you for showing up here uninvited,” he said, already reaching for a cup.
“If the coffee gets me inside your studio, what will these freshly baked scones get me?” She waved the bag under his nose.
“I’ll call off the guard dogs,” he said generously.
“There are no guard dogs,” she said.
“You didn’t see the sign posted at the gate?”
“I saw it. Your aunt told me it was for show.”
“No wonder people come parading in here whenever they feel like it,” he grumbled. “I’ll have to talk to her about giving away my security secrets.”
“Either that or go out and buy a rottweiler,” Kathleen suggested, taking the fact that he hadn’t actually sent her packing as an invitation to follow him into the studio, which had been converted from a barn.
The exterior of the old barn wasn’t much, just faded red paint on weathered boards, but inside was an artist’s paradise of natural light and space. The smell of oil paint and turpentine was faint, thanks to windows that had been left cracked open overnight. Ben moved methodically around the room to close them, then switched on a thermostat. Soon warm air was taking away the chill.
Kathleen had to stop herself from dumping everything in her hands and racing straight to the built-in racks that held literally hundreds of canvases. Instead, she bit back her impatience and set the bag of scones on the counter directly in front of Ben.
“All yours,” she told him.
Apparently he was the kind of man who believed in savoring pleasure. He opened the bag slowly, sniffed deeply, then sighed. “You actually baked these?”
“With my own two hands,” she confirmed.
“Is this something you do every Sunday, get a sudden urge to bake?”
“Actually this urge hit last night,” she told him.
“Let’s see if you’re any good at it,” he said as he retrieved one of the scones and broke off a bite. He put it in his mouth, then closed his eyes.
“Not bad,” he said eventually, then gave her a sly look. “This will get you five minutes to look around. Promise to leave the bagful and you can stay for ten.”
“There are a half-dozen scones in that bag. That ought to buy me a half hour at least,” she bargained.
Ben regarded her suspiciously. “Are you here just to satisfy your curiosity?”
Kathleen hesitated on her way to the first stack of paintings that had caught her eye. She had a feeling if she told him the truth, he’d hustle her out the door before she got her first glimpse of those tantalizingly close canvases. If she lied, though, it would destroy whatever fragile trust she was going to need to get him to agree to do a show.
“Nope,” she said at last. “Though what art dealer wouldn’t be curious about a treasure trove of paintings?”
“Then you still have some crazy idea about getting me to do a showing at your gallery?”
Kathleen shrugged. “Perhaps, if your work is actually any good.”
He frowned. “I don’t care if you think I’m better than Monet, I’m not doing a show. And your ten minutes is ticking by while we argue.”
She smiled at his fierce expression. “We’ll see.”
“It’s not going to happen,” he repeated. “So if that’s your only interest, you’re wasting your time.”
“Discovering an incredible talent is never a waste of my time.”
“In this case it is, at least if you expect to make money by showing or selling my paintings.”
She walked back to the counter where he sat, now crumbling one of those scones into crumbs. “Why are you so vehemently opposed to letting others see your work, Ben?”
“Because I paint for the joy it brings me, period.”
She gave him a penetrating look. “In other words, it’s too personal, too revealing.”
Though he quickly turned away, Kathleen saw the startled look in his eyes and knew she’d hit on the truth. Ben put too much of himself into his paintings, he exposed raw emotions he didn’t want anyone else to guess at.
“Bottom line, it’s not for sale,” he said gruffly. “And your time has just run out. I can live without the scones. Take the rest and go.”
Kathleen cast a longing look in the direction of the paintings she had yet to glimpse, but she recognized a brick wall when she ran into it. Maybe Destiny had been right, after all, and she should have waited longer before coming back out here. Ben’s defenses were solid and impenetrable at the moment.
“Okay then,” she said, resigned. “I’ll go, but I’ll leave the scones.” She walked around until she could look him directly in the eyes. “And I’ll be back to claim that half hour tour you promised me.”
“It was ten minutes, but don’t bother. You’ll be wasting your time,” he said again.
“My choice,” she said pleasantly. “And fair warning, you have no idea how persuasive I can be when
I put my mind to it. This morning was just a little warm-up.”
Her gaze clashed with his and it gave her some satisfaction that he was the first to look away.
“I think maybe I’m getting the picture,” he muttered.
Kathleen had heard him perfectly clearly, but she feigned otherwise. “What was that?”
“Not a thing, Ms. Dugan. I didn’t say a thing.”
“It’s Kathleen,” she reminded him.
This time he caught her gaze and held it. “It’s Kathleen if this thing between us is personal,” he told her. “As long as you think it’s business, it’s Ms. Dugan.”
There was another hint of challenge in his low voice. Since she knew he wasn’t looking for a relationship any more than she was, it had to be deliberate. A scare tactic, basically. Just like that kiss on Thanksgiving.
She kept her own gaze steady and unblinking. “Then by all means, let’s make it Kathleen,” she taunted, throwing down her own gauntlet.
Surprise lit his eyes. “Obviously you’ve forgotten about that kiss we shared or you wouldn’t be quite so quick to tempt me.”
Kathleen trembled. Her blood turned hot. That kiss hadn’t been out of her mind for more than a minute at a time for the past couple of nights. What the hell had she been thinking by throwing out a dare of her own? She should be concentrating on getting those pictures of his, not on reminding him of the chemistry between them.
“You don’t scare me,” she said with sheer bravado.
“I should.”
“Why is that?”
“Because even though I’m sadly out of practice, when I want something—someone—I usually get exactly what I go after,” he told her, his gaze steady and unflinching.
He made it sound like fact, not arrogance, which should have terrified her, but instead merely made her knees weak.
“You still don’t scare me,” she repeated, half expecting—half hoping—for a wicked, dangerous kiss that would immediately prove her wrong.
As if he’d guessed what was in her head, he backed away a step and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Stay away, Kathleen.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Please.”
She should do as he asked. There was no question about that. It would be smart. It would be safe. If it weren’t for the art, maybe she could.
If it weren’t for the man with the torment burning in his eyes, maybe she would.
As it was, there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d do the smart, safe thing.
Chapter Five
“It’s Sunday. Where on earth have you been? Not at that little shop of yours, I hope,” Prudence Dugan said the minute Kathleen picked up her phone.
It was typical of her mother that she could manage to inject so much criticism, petulance and disdain into so few words. Kathleen wasn’t in the mood to be drawn into an argument. All she really wanted to do was take a long, hot bath and think about the quicksand she was playing in with Ben Carlton.
“Did you call for any particular reason, Mother?”
“Well, that’s a fine greeting,” her mother huffed, oblivious to the fact that her own greeting had been less than cheerful. “When I didn’t hear a word from you on Thanksgiving, I was worried.”
Kathleen bit back the impatient retort that was on the tip of her tongue. She knew perfectly well this wasn’t about any sudden burst of maternal concern. If it had been, her mother would have called on Friday or even Saturday.
No, the truth was that Prudence was incapable of thinking of anyone other than herself. She always had been. No matter how bad things had gotten with Kathleen’s father or the succession of stepfathers that had followed, Kathleen had always been told not to rock the boat. Silence was as ingrained in her as were proper table manners. Her mother had never seemed to notice the high price Kathleen had paid for living up to her mother’s expectations.
“Did you have a nice Thanksgiving, Mother?” she asked, because it was obviously what her mother expected.
“It would have been lovely if I hadn’t had to spend the entire meal making excuses for you.”
“You didn’t need to make excuses for me. I’m perfectly capable of making my own.”
“But that’s the point,” Prudence said irritably. “You weren’t here, were you? Your grandfather was not pleased about that.”
The only person in Kathleen’s life who was stiffer and more unyielding than her mother was Dexter Dugan, patriarch of the Dugan clan. Yet somehow he’d managed to turn a blind eye to his daughter’s foibles. He’d even encouraged Prudence and Kathleen to take back the prestigious Dugan name, no matter how many men had followed in Kathleen’s father’s footsteps. It was that blend of love and restraint that had confused her early on.
Once, Kathleen had tried to tell him about what was going on at home. She’d run to him crying, choking out the horror of watching her father hit her mother, but before the first words had left her mouth, her grandfather had shushed her and said she was never to speak of such things again. He’d told her she was far too young to understand what went on between adults.
“More important, what happens inside this family is never to be shared with outsiders,” he told her sharply. “Whatever you see or hear is not to be repeated.”
The comment had only confused her. He was family, not an outsider. She’d only been able to conclude that there was to be no help from him for the violence at home.
Despite her grandfather’s admonishment, though, her father had suddenly left a few days later. Kathleen had wanted desperately to believe that her grandfather had relented and dealt with the situation, but she’d never quite been sure, especially when the pattern between her mother and father had been repeated over and over with other men. Kathleen never spoke of it again, but the men always left eventually, usually after some particularly nasty scene, so perhaps her mother was the one who eventually stood up for herself.
Only as an adult had Kathleen recognized that her mother would always be a victim, that she saw herself that way and sought out men who would see that nothing changed in that self-perception. Perhaps it was the only way Prudence could justify turning to her parents for the financial stability that her marriages never provided.
Whatever the reason, the cycle had been devastating for Kathleen, giving her a jaundiced view of relationships. Her grandfather’s seemingly accepting attitude had reinforced that view. When her own marriage had crashed against the same rocks, she’d put an immediate end to it and vowed never to take another chance. Obviously, Dugan women were prone to making lousy, untrustworthy choices when it came to men. She, at least, was determined not to be a victim.
“I spoke to Grandfather and Grandmother myself Thanksgiving morning,” Kathleen told her mother now. “If he was hassling you about my absence, I’m sorry. I thought I’d taken care of that.”
Her mother sniffed. “Yes, well, you know how he can be.”
“Yes, I do,” Kathleen said dryly. They were two of a kind, grand masters of employing guilt as a weapon.
“What did you do on the holiday?” Prudence asked, now that she’d been somewhat mollified. “You didn’t work, I hope.”
“No. I was invited to have dinner with friends.”
“Anyone I might know?”
“I doubt it. Destiny Carlton invited me. She’s been a good friend to me and to my gallery.”
“Carlton? Carlton?” Her mother repeated the name as if she were scrolling through a mental Rolodex. “Is she part of the family that owns Carlton Industries?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Her nephew Richard is the CEO. I’m surprised you’ve heard of the company.”
“Your grandfather has some dealings with them,” her mother said, proving that she wasn’t entirely oblivious to the family’s business holdings even though she’d never worked a day in her life. “Richard would be quite a catch. He’s about your age, isn’t he?”
“He’s a bit older, but he’s also happily married and expecting his fir
st child,” Kathleen replied with a hint of amusement. “I think you can forget about that one, Mother.”
“Isn’t there another son?” Prudence asked hopefully. “He owns some sports franchise, a football team or something like that, perhaps.”
“That’s Mack. Also married.”
“Oh.” Her mother was clearly disappointed. “Why would Destiny Carlton invite you over if there are no available men in the family?”
Kathleen wasn’t surprised her mother didn’t know about Ben. Not only did he stay out of the public eye, but he was an artist, a career not worthy of note in her mother’s book. That was one reason she dismissed Kathleen’s gallery as little more than a ridiculous hobby. If she’d seen the profits, she might have taken a different attitude, but it was doubtful.
“I’m fairly certain Destiny invited me because she thought I’d enjoy spending the day with her family,” Kathleen responded, deciding not to mention Ben.
“And spending the day with strangers is preferable to being at home with your own family, I suppose,” her mother said, the petulance back in her voice.
Kathleen lost patience. “Mother, that was not the issue. I stayed here because I wanted to work Friday and Saturday. I’d already made that decision and spoken to you by the time Destiny said anything at all about joining them. When she found out I had no plans, she included me in hers. I think it was very generous of her.”
“Of course, your work was what actually kept you away,” her mother said scathingly, making it sound like a dirty word. “How could I have forgotten about that?”
Kathleen desperately wanted to tell her mother that perhaps if she’d had work she loved, she might not have fallen into so many awful relationships, but again she bit her tongue. Getting into an argument wouldn’t serve any purpose. They’d been over the same ground too many times to count, and it never changed anything.
“Mother, why don’t you come down to visit and see the gallery for yourself?” she asked, knowing even as she made the invitation that she was wasting her breath. Her mother hadn’t made the trip even once since Kathleen had opened the doors. Seeing her daughter happy and successful didn’t fit with her own view of a woman’s world. Kathleen had finally come to accept that, too, but she kept trying just the same. Maybe if her mother met someone like Destiny, it would enlighten her, as well. Heaven knew, Kathleen’s grandmother with her passive nature hadn’t been an especially good role model.
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