On one hand, it was exhilarating to be free of the protective cocoon her uncle had built around her. A cocoon she no longer needed, according to her doctors. On the other, she was ignorant of the way the art world worked. Her instincts told her to trust Claire, but then, she had trusted Carlos too. The thought of making what Claire termed “a big splash” held as much terror as excitement.
She looked at the man across the table from her, his gray eyes sharp with intelligence. Maybe she should stay here and hire him in all seriousness to help her through the situation. God knew, she was having a hard time thinking clearly for herself.
“I’m starting to feel like a bug pinned to a board,” Paul said, lifting an eyebrow.
“I guess you’ve never had your portrait painted.” She stalled as she considered her crazy idea. “That’s how an artist looks at a subject.”
“The town budget doesn’t run to portraits of past mayors.”
She chuckled halfheartedly as Mrs. Bostic returned with their drinks in tall glasses sweating with moisture. “You’d make a good subject, you know. You have a strong bone structure.”
“Tall, dark, and handsome. That’s me.” He said it as though it was a line he’d used before but didn’t really believe. She began to grasp his smooth patter covered a withdrawal from the conversation.
“Better than that. Tall, dark, and intriguing.” She spoke without thinking because she was still focused on her inner debate.
But she had snagged his attention again. His gaze settled on her and sharpened. “So you want to know me better?”
“It’s professional,” she sidestepped lamely. “As a painter, I find you interesting.”
It was true as far as it went.
He laughed and shook his head. “That’s a first.”
The white flash of his teeth against his olive skin and the husky maleness of his laugh tipped the scales of her decision. She would stay here for a few days. Since she would have to tell Carlos she had been here, she no longer needed to cover her tracks and could use her credit card. A change of scene might be good for her. And it would allow her to postpone the painful confrontation with her uncle a little longer.
“Let me guess. You’re wondering what to say to your uncle when you get home,” Paul said.
“How did you know?”
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t put you on the witness stand if you were guilty.”
She frowned. “I’ve never needed to hide anything before.” Most of her life, she had let her parents and then her uncle enfold her in their protective care while she focused on exploring her ability to create art. Except for her stint at art school in Greensboro, she’d never lived more than five miles from the house she grew up in, nestled in the mountains of western North Carolina. Even at school, she’d been so focused on excelling and so embarrassed by her public seizure that she’d isolated herself from her fellow students for the two years she stayed there.
She glanced back at the view. Sanctuary wasn’t exactly a bustling metropolis, but it was filled with places and people she’d never seen before. And Paul Taggart lived in it.
“Talk to me, Julia. I’m your lawyer, so you can tell me what’s going on behind those big green eyes.” His long fingers circled his glass and he took a sip of the cola in it.
“I’ve decided to stay here for a couple of days, but not at Claire’s. I can pay for my own hotel. And I want you to give me some legal advice about the problem with my uncle. For real this time, not pro bono.”
His eyebrows rose. “So you’re taking the advance?”
“I have a credit card. I just didn’t want to use it.”
“You didn’t want your uncle to know where you had gone.”
She nodded.
“Here you go. The best chicken salad in West by gosh Virginia.” Mrs. Bostic slid their plates onto the woven placemats. “You know, Paul got this library built when he was mayor. You wouldn’t be sitting here enjoying the view without a whole lot of time, effort, and persuasion on his part.”
Julia swiveled to take in the large brick building behind her. It was gracefully designed to hug its hilltop setting, yet it had the presence a repository of knowledge should. “That’s quite an accomplishment.”
“All I did was organize a lot of good, hardworking folks,” Paul said, his fingers drumming on the tabletop. She liked the fact he didn’t want to take the credit.
“So you’re new in town?” the hostess asked Julia.
“I just arrived today.” She took a deep breath before holding out her hand and saying, “I’m Julia Castillo.”
“She’s one of Claire’s artists,” Paul said.
“Well, I’ll be. You painted that pretty picture of the horses over to the gallery. My daughter likes it so much, she goes to see it at least once a week.” The woman pumped Julia’s hand.
“Really? That’s nice to hear.” She meant it. She realized the isolation she lived in had protected her from the worry of criticism, but it had also deprived her of the pleasure of people’s appreciation.
“Yup. She says it’s so peaceful she just wants to lay down on the grass with the horses and forget all her troubles,” Mrs. Bostic continued.
Fear clenched a fist around Julia’s throat. Mrs. Bostic’s daughter would hate her new work; there was nothing peaceful about it. Julia forced herself to take a deep breath and rolled her shoulders, trying to work the tension out.
The older lady leaned down to murmur something in Paul’s ear. Smiling, he shifted his gaze to Julia, saying, “I don’t think she’d mind at all.”
“Would you autograph my order pad for my daughter? She’d be mighty pleased. Her name’s Sherry.”
Julia felt a nip of surprise. “Wow, this is the first time I’ve ever been asked for my autograph.” She took the pad Mrs. Bostic held out, trying to think of something to say. Just writing her name seemed sort of arrogant, but her mind was blank about what to add to it. Evidently, she wasn’t good at this kind of interaction. She tapped the pen against her cheek for several seconds before she gave up and did a quick sketch of a horse’s head, signing her name under it. “I hope that’s okay.”
The woman flipped the pad around and crowed with delight. “Her very own horse picture by a famous artist. She’ll be chuffed.”
“You may have set a dangerous precedent,” Paul said, as the hostess showed the pad to another diner. “Your fans will be demanding sketches with every autograph.”
Julia had to look away quickly as Mrs. Bostic’s audience turned around to stare at her. The warmth of gratification warred with a flutter of nerves as she found herself an object of attention. “That’s fine with me. I’m better at drawing than writing.”
To ward off her self-consciousness, she bit into the sandwich. The burst of flavor on her hunger-sensitized palate made her close her eyes to savor the taste. She opened them to find Paul lounging back in his chair, a slight smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.
“It’s more fun to watch you enjoy the experience.”
She took another bite, trying to ignore the weight of his gaze. “It’s rude to watch someone else chew.”
He chuckled and picked up his own sandwich, sinking those dazzling white teeth into it. She couldn’t help watching the strong column of his throat as he swallowed. An image of herself pressing her lips against the skin of his neck bloomed in her mind and she choked.
“Slow down,” he said, pushing her iced tea toward her. “You don’t need to devour it all in one bite.”
She coughed even harder as a flush climbed up from her chest to her cheeks. She hated having a redhead’s complexion.
Concern banished the smile from his face, and he shoved his chair back and started to stand. She waved her hand and croaked, “I’ll be okay. Just swallowed wrong.” Seizing her glass, she doused the flare of heat with several gulps of iced tea. Composing herself, she went back to their previous topic. “Do you have a recommendation on where
I could stay in Sanctuary?”
Paul polished off the last of his drink and pulled out his cell phone. “You could probably afford to stay at the Laurels, but since you don’t have a car right now, how about someplace closer? There’s a nice country inn at the other end of town.”
“If you recommend it, I’m sure I’ll like it.” She hated to admit it, but making so many decisions had exhausted her.
“You’re very trusting all of a sudden.”
“Well, you haven’t murdered me yet.”
He laughed and tapped at his phone’s screen. She listened as he bantered with whoever answered. Her fingers itched for a pencil to sketch the sharp edge of his cheekbones and the slash of his brows over those luminous eyes. She hadn’t lied about his bone structure: his face was a study in angles. She thought about carving it out of stone, but there was such a fierce intelligence animating it, she decided stone was too heavy a medium.
“You’ve got the Robert E. Lee suite,” he said.
“Didn’t West Virginia fight on the Union side?”
“Yes, but his horse was born near here, which is why it’s called the Traveller Inn. They even have his training saddle on display.”
Mrs. Bostic appeared with two whopping slices of pecan pie. “Dessert’s on me. I still can’t believe I have a picture by a famous artist on my order pad.” She shook her head as she walked away.
Julia picked up her fork and gave him a cocky grin. “I think I could get used to being a celebrity.”
Chapter 5
IT’S VERY…QUAINT,” Julia said, turning slowly as she took in the Robert E. Lee suite.
The wavy glass of the Civil War–era windowpanes gave soft edges to the blocks of sunlight on the faded Oriental rug. An overstuffed sofa with rolled arms upholstered in indigo brocade stood in front of a fireplace ornamented with fluted columns painted robin’s-egg blue. Through the connecting door she could see a four-poster bed covered by a handmade quilt splashed with yellow, peach, and green. She knew most people would find the suite inviting, but the fussy details and haphazard colors made her long for the streamlined modernity of her studio.
“I’ll put this in the bedroom,” Paul said, hefting her battered duffel bag, which they’d collected from the gallery. “The bathroom is a little old-fashioned but it’s functional.”
“Does it have a shower? That’s all I care about right now.” She felt like she’d been on a four-day camping trip in a desert. Following Paul, she stuck her head into the bathroom to see if the innkeepers provided toiletries and sighed with blissful anticipation when she saw the L’Occitane labels on the little bottles sitting by the antique marble sink. Her duffel hadn’t been intended for an overnight stay; she had planned to change her clothes in a restroom before going to the gallery to meet Claire.
As something pinged, she turned to find Paul frowning down at his cell phone. “Do you need to call someone back?” she asked. “I feel bad about taking up so much of your time today.”
“No, it’ll just take me a couple of seconds to answer this.” His fingers flew over the touch screen before he looked up at her. “Claire texted too. She says to bring you to her house for dinner, and she won’t take no for an answer.”
“I’d love to, but I can’t ask you to drive me any more places.” A certain tension in his stance made her add the last caveat. The recent text seemed to have disturbed him.
His shoulders relaxed. “I wouldn’t miss it for all the barbecue sauce in Texas. They’re getting takeout from the Aerie.”
“Wait! I read about the Aerie before I came here. Doesn’t it have its own helipad so people can fly in to eat there? A place like that does takeout?”
“Only for Claire’s husband. Tim’s the local vet, and he saved Adam Bosch’s German shepherd after the dog was attacked by a bear. Adam owns the Aerie, and he’s very attached to his pet.”
Julia wanted to laugh out loud at the whimsy of it. She couldn’t wait to explore this brand-new place with its quirky residents, like the restaurateur who loved his dog to the point of cooking gourmet takeout for his vet. Carlos didn’t understand how much she needed fresh experiences. “God, I should have done this years ago.”
“Done what?”
“Run away from home.” A realization speared through her and jerked her gaze up to Paul. “I need to tell my uncle where I am before he sends out a search party.”
Paul held out his phone. She just looked at it as she chewed on her lip. She had no idea how to explain her abrupt flight without stirring up a hornet’s nest of recriminations. However misguided her uncle’s actions might have been, he had acted out of concern. She knew she was going to upset him no matter what she said, but she wanted to deliver the bad news as tactfully as possible. Tact was not her long suit.
“Tell him you needed a change of scene,” Paul said. “You can blame it on your artistic temperament.”
Anger flared. She was tired of people assuming her creativity made her flaky. Her health issue had nothing to do with her work; it was a physiological malfunction of her brain, nothing more or less. She glared at him. “I don’t have an artistic temperament. I’m very easy to get along with.” She snatched the cell out of his hand.
“So I see.”
“I used to be easy to get along with. Until I met you.”
“Yeah, I bring out the worst in people.”
“Not according to Mrs. Bostic.” She grimaced down at the phone in her hand before she punched in her uncle’s number. Taking a deep breath and putting the phone to her ear, she walked into the living room and stood at a window looking out over the inn’s garden. As the phone rang, she traced the curving brick walkway through the brightly hued blossoms, hoping the peaceful beauty of the scene would relax the tightness in her neck.
“Who is this?” Her uncle’s voice with its faint accent boomed through the phone.
Julia winced. “It’s Julia, Tío.”
“Julia!” A string of rapid-fire Spanish bombarded her. She could follow the gist of what he said, which was that he was frantic with worry, was about to call the police, why hadn’t she told him she was leaving, was she losing her mind, and where was she anyway?
“I’m in Sanctuary, West Virginia,” she said when he paused for breath. That was the easiest question to answer.
“Where?”
“Sanctuary, West Virginia,” she repeated. “I brought my paintings to show Claire Parker.”
“You did what? I was trying to protect you from people seeing those…dios mío, Julia, how did you get there? You did not drive!”
“Yes, I did. I bought a car.” She squared her shoulders. “I needed to come, to find out what someone else thought of my Night Mares.”
Silence. Then in a heavy voice he said, “You did not trust my judgment.”
“It was important to me,” she said, hating the note of pleading she heard in her own voice. “If I don’t have my art, what do I have?”
“Your life, Julia! Which you will not have if you go careening around in a car all alone. You know what could happen.”
“Yes, I know, but I’ve been fine for two years since I stopped taking the medicine.” She hunched her shoulders and murmured into the phone, not wanting Paul to hear.
“Do you have your medication with you?”
“No.” She was practically whispering. “I threw it all away.”
Her uncle exploded into Spanish again, ending with the demand that she fly home immediately.
“I thought I’d stay here a few days.”
“Julia, mi querida, you have the courage of a lioness, but you are taking great chances. I will come tomorrow to get you.”
As she tried to find a kind way to tell him not to come, she felt herself being herded back into the loving cage her family had built around her.
Paul leaned his shoulder against the doorframe and studied the woman bathed in the sunshine slanting through the glass. Her waving hair glinted with brilliant golds and reds while the light turned the t
hin fabric of her blouse almost transparent. She was silhouetted against the window so he could see the slope of her shoulders, the defined slimness of her arms, and the sensual curve of her waist and hip.
Pure lust slugged him in the gut, and he straightened away from the door. This was a complication he hadn’t expected, especially considering he could see the tension holding her back ramrod straight and squeezing her free hand in and out of a fist. Julia was obviously drawing on every ounce of her strength to get through a difficult discussion, and all he could think about was working his hands up under her blouse to touch the creamy skin tantalizing him through the gauze.
That would give new meaning to the attorney-client relationship. In his opinion she didn’t really need a lawyer, she just needed some clearheaded perspective on dealing with a family member. He could offer her that without crossing any ethical boundaries.
He considered retreating into the hallway to put some distance between them, but figured she might need moral support. He also wanted to get a better idea of what the situation between her and her uncle was like.
So he forced himself to concentrate on her voice rather than her body as she justified her absence to Carlos, her tone becoming more and more tentative and apologetic. Her shoulders began to slump inward, and he could tell her resolve was weakening. She stammered out something before turning to look at him. Paul gave her the calm, supportive smile he used to encourage faltering witnesses in court, and he saw her spine straighten as she turned back to the window.
“No, Tío,” she said, her voice clear and firm. “I’ll call you in a couple of days to let you know when I’m coming home. Good-bye. Te quiero.”
She stood staring ahead for a long moment before she turned away from the window and gave him a wavering smile.
“It went pretty well,” she said, her voice hitching midsentence. “He was giving me another half an hour before he called the police.”
Paul tried to project humorous sympathy. “So he bought into the artistic well needing to be refilled?”
Country Roads Page 4
