by Clare London
Copyright
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
True Colors
Copyright © 2009 by Clare London
Cover Design by Mara McKennen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
ISBN: 978-1-935192-94-7
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
May, 2009
eBook edition available
eBook ISBN: 978-1-935192-95-4
To Sara for her very generous help,
to Chrissy for her continuing love and care,
to the ‘acorns’ who helped me through at the end,
and of course, to my beloved family who supports me all the time!
Chapter 1
“SO… what do you think it is?” Jo leaned her head to one side and peered at the giant canvas on the wall in front of her. She couldn’t find an explanation of this one in the catalog. “Funny title—4:0045. There’s all that blue, and the green spots. Can’t see anything properly.”
“It’s a metaphor, yeah?” replied her friend. He pushed his thin wire glasses up his nose and squeezed at her arm.
She bit back a protest. He probably thought he was showing sympathy for her ignorance. She risked a look at her watch; only an hour before they had to be back for classes. And luckily, she thought wryly, they didn’t take the same ones. “What do you mean?”
“Metaphor—a symbol for something else.”
She rolled her eyes. Like she didn’t know the word. “So, it’s not a thing then?” She doubted he’d recognize humor if it bit him. “Like a pet? Like his house?”
She was right about the humor, of course. His eyes narrowed with irritation. “Christ, Jo, you are so not in tune with modern art. This ain’t paint-by-numbers. This guy is angry, you know? He’s yelling at us; he’s demanding we stand up and be counted! It’s a comment on the complexity of modern socialism, on the diversity of political versus domestic issues in the context of failing economic standards and the ravages of aimless, devastating war….”
Jo felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she turned to find a guy standing right beside her. His bright blue eyes flickered to her companion, then back to her. She noticed his cute nose crinkling in amused distaste; his dark auburn hair brushed away from a wide brow. He was very handsome. Very sweet. Her gaze ran quickly down his tall body, dressed in a wickedly sheer, vivid blue sleeveless shirt and skin-tight leather pants. He looked like one of the more mature art students, perhaps an adventurous young tutor, escorting his class to the gallery. Who cares? She felt a rush of excitement that went straight to her head. The leather pants on the long, lean thighs were fabulous. Totally.
He spoke to her in a low, easy voice. “It’s a picture of my last hangover, actually… uh… Jo, isn’t it? Named after the time I got thrown out of the bar. The main thing is, though, do you like it?”
“It’s cool.” She nodded, feeling a flush start high up on her cheeks. His…? “Bright. Bold. Makes me feel sort of tingly.”
Her companion made a snorting sound.
But the blue-eyed guy didn’t seem annoyed at her impulsive response. He nodded back, and his eyes widened with pleasure. He glanced again at her friend, and then turned his back on him deliberately. “Sooo, Jo,” he drawled. “I don’t know who this patronizing moron is beside you, but I think we’re both going to have to suffer more pretentious crap today than either of us deserves. Wouldn’t you agree?”
There was a brief moment of shocked silence.
The mystery guy grinned and tightened his hand on Jo’s shoulder. “You want to talk feeling tingly, just call me, okay? Number’s with the blond girl at the front desk.”
“Now wait up a minute, aren’t you…?” stuttered Jo’s friend. His glasses bounced awkwardly on his nose, and he waved the catalog in his hand toward the other guy’s face. It was folded open at the publicity photo of someone.
“Yeah.” The guy smiled. “I am. So get over it. Enjoy the exhibition.”
And then, swiftly, he turned away and dodged back into the crowd.
“He’s….” came another splutter from Jo’s young man. “Didn’t you see, for God’s sake? He’s…!”
Jo wasn’t really listening. She stared at her friend instead and wondered exactly why she’d agreed to accompany him in the first place. He never listened to her, he talked too much himself, and when he did talk, he really was a pretentious moron. It wasn’t as if he had much going for him in the romantic department either, having the charisma of a clothespin….
And then a call for quiet came from a woman wearing a badge identifying her as the promotions director. The chattering around the room slowly ceased.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please? Today is the opening of the gallery, as I’m sure you all know.” There was polite laughter from around her. “I think we can already see that this will be the first event of many, that this thrilling venture will have a glorious future ahead of it! It is supported, of course, by the brilliant family whose name it bears: the two incandescently talented Roswell brothers, whose own work is on show for us here tonight, to hang among some pretty prestigious company.” The visitors gazed around the room, and murmurs of appreciation followed.
“Unfortunately, the older brother is unable to join us tonight. Meeting an agent, I believe. There are talks of a European tour.” More murmurs, heads nodding. “But let’s just make a toast to the younger of these two inspired young men, who is already making quite a mark in the art world and is sure to become as famous and as respected as his brother. And who is—most luckily—here with us tonight. Indeed, he has favored us with the best pieces of his recent work, and one of the main aims of this gallery is to become a showplace for his own collection.”
There was some light applause. Jo listened to the buzz of comments around her.
“They say he’s hardly more than a kid, but extraordinarily charming….”
“…exciting talent, exciting ideas….”
“He designed this whole show himself, you know.”
The promotions director’s speech resumed. “So we formally welcome the latest addition to the world of commercial modern art and wish him more of the success and praise that he is already attracting. And, of course, we look forward to his forthcoming season of new work. Here’s to many more!”
More applause, with much more enthusiasm now. There were a couple of whistles from the less inhibited guests.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Zeke Roswell!”
At the back of the room, Jo stared, entranced, at the tall, handsome, young man who moved quickly to stand beside the director. His tousled curls brushed his shoulders, a bold contrast to the vivid blue of his shirt. His movements were athletic, his arms swinging and his legs encased in leather pants. Those same leather pants that Jo had admired earlier.
He stood with the same swaggering confidence that he’d shown before, waving the hand that had settled firmly on her shoulde
r as he spoke to her. And he gazed around the room with the same bright blue eyes that had teased her earlier, full of the same amusement. As she stared, open-mouthed, he caught her eye.
And he winked at her.
Twelve months later
MALIA Trent brushed a small mote of dust from the lapel of her designer suit jacket and cleared her throat. She didn’t think the current view needed more comment than that. Her gaze flickered over the two young men beside her, looking for their confirmation.
The three of them stood outside the entrance of the building that had just been sold, staring up at it. It was a visually striking façade with wide, high windows and pale brick walls. The upper story had a single picture window spanning the whole front of the building, embracing the sunlight like a welcome lover. But downstairs, things were less striking. The windows were dusty; there was graffiti on those same pale walls. Inside were the remnants of shop fittings and demonstration materials, suggesting it had once been busy with visitors of one kind or another. Now there were only a couple of broken chairs remaining. A single bulb hung down from the ceiling, naked of any shade. A wooden display board spanned the whole of one wall, though its fixings had obviously broken. One of the corners sagged downward, giving it a lopsided look.
There was another door at the back of the room, leading presumably to the upstairs apartment. The door was ajar.
Malia peered distastefully through the nearest window. “It’s in an appalling state.” She shifted uncomfortably. They’d left the limo back at the office and walked across town to view the property. Not for the first time, she wished she hadn’t worn her highest heels. “I can’t see what use it’s going to be to the corporation.”
The taller of the other two men turned to her. “Malia, you’ve read the documents as well as I. As, indeed, have three sets of lawyers. Please don’t imply I’m a fool. We want the access, and we need the opportunity to expand the current operations. That means we need this side of the street as well. The whole block is perfect for our purposes. This particular unit has obviously been neglected, but it can be redecorated. It’s basically sound.”
“But the corporation’s never considered a gallery, Miles. Why don’t we convert it into another set of offices? Legal Services needs some new space—”
The man beside her cleared his throat. He didn’t need to do any more. Malia felt herself flush heavily. He was the only man she’d ever known who could do that to her, outside of orgasm, and for far less pleasant reasons. She pursed her lips, biting back a sharp response.
He continued. “It was converted as an art gallery; it’s perfect for that purpose. I’m not one to pass up such an opportunity. You know my opinions on waste. I have an art collection, and this can be a promotional showroom for it. It will be a frontispiece for Media Services. We’ll use it for the entertainment of clients and for presentation events. That, of course, is your particular department.”
It wasn’t that he was asking her opinion. The decision had already been made.
Malia sneaked a look through her false lashes at her boss. He was young, in his late twenties, but no one would ever have accused him of being immature. Handsome…. That was a given. Private. Frighteningly smart. Single. She sighed to herself, knowing how far out of her league he was. Miles Winter’s name and reputation were known to anyone who followed the financial papers. He was the only son of wealthy parents, a father who’d made a fortune from property development and a mother who brought hereditary wealth as her dowry. In Miles’ early teens, they died in a plane crash, and he became sole heir to a large trust fund. The tabloid press cracked their journalistic knuckles and waited with glee to see how this rich young child would fritter it away. He proved them all wrong.
His lawyers appointed him an eminently sensible financial advisor, and he finished his education with a master’s in business administration. Doors opened in the city for him with alarming eagerness. Over the next few years, he was promoted as the youngest ever board director of the firm where he trained; he became one of the most innovative traders on Wall Street; the youngest man to make a million-dollar fortune from his personal portfolio. It was an astonishing progression. His trust fund remained substantial and well-invested. Business rivals underestimated him at their peril. In negotiations, they knew that the compensation they’d receive would be commercially fair but very aggressively priced.
And as an employer? Malia pursed her lips even more tightly. Miles was civil but extremely cool, sometimes hard to the point of harshness. Again, he was not to be underestimated. He paid extremely well, but he expected twenty-four/seven commitment, though he gave the same himself. He’d listen to staff feedback and reasonable suggestions, but the decisions were always his. His business instincts had been proven to be accurate time and again, so his people stayed with him. As a result, most of them had the time of their lives.
And Miles Winter was as self-controlled in his personal life as he was at work. There was no outrageous scandal in his young life, no controversy. Malia could confirm that, because she spent a lot of her time searching speculatively for evidence, hoping to find some chink in that corporate armor. Just for the hell of it, of course.
And he was so goddamned hot! Wore his designer clothes like they’d been tailored solely for him, which of course they usually had. A tall, tight body, toned and athletic limbs. Dusky skin with the shine of excellent health. His dark hair was cut beautifully, but somehow also managed to be a shaggy, sexy mass, falling over his forehead. And he had such incredible eyes. A mixture of deep blue and purple, dark pupils that reflected the subject but never exposed the watcher. They were fabulous even when they were like flints, as they were now. Malia felt the familiar, hopeless clench in her groin. She wondered—as she often did—why she never saw him with the same girl for more than a month or so. Wasn’t he dating that supermodel at the moment? Internationally famous; supernaturally thin. Malia sighed to herself. Half of her was damned glad that Miles Winter had never made a pass at her. The other half lay awake nights, tempting her with erotic dreams of what she might have expected if he had.
“The Roswell Gallery,” murmured the third member of their group, hovering behind her.
Miles Winter turned to the blond young man, focusing on him. “Do you see a sign there, Tony?”
“N—no,” Tony stammered. “Sorry, Mr. Winter. That’s just what everyone knows it as.” He hopped from one foot to another, paler than ever, and obviously wishing he could lie down and melt into the pavement to escape that glare. Malia hid her smile. Only that week Tony had confessed to her he wished he’d made a different choice at college age, staying at home to run the modest family pet food business, rather than joining the Winter Corporation and putting himself in Miles Winter’s direct line of fire.
But his boss’s anger never materialized. A thoughtful twist appeared at the corners of his mouth. “You knew Jacky Roswell?”
“Knew of him, sir. The story was all over the city at the time, when he died, you know? He was a hell of a character, always at an event, always in the public eye. Brilliant artist. Presented works to the president himself, they said. He bought this building for his family, for his younger brother.”
“The brother.” Miles nodded, but didn’t elaborate.
Tony gabbled on nervously. “I thought the kid still lived here, though he doesn’t exhibit, doesn’t even paint anymore. Just hides out here, since… well, you know. They said he—the younger brother—had a brilliant talent of his own. Very different from Jacky Roswell; much bolder. They both painted, both sketched. But the kid’s style was a different thing altogether.”
“It was,” said Miles.
Malia was startled that Mr. Winter offered any comment at all, let alone one that implied he knew of the background. “Zeke Roswell, he’s called. A black sheep. A very black sheep,” she murmured. “I met him once.”
“Yeah, more than a little wild, according to the press at the time,” said Tony, more confidently now. Malia
knew if there was one thing her assistant was good at, it was garnering gossip. “This gallery was going to be his launch into the art world, his ticket to success.”
“But that didn’t happen, did it?” said Miles, his voice suddenly sharp. Malia turned, staring at him, trying to judge his mood. “And that was well over a year ago.”
“Yeah.” Tony sighed. “These things happen, I guess.”
Miles tugged gently at the cuffs of his elegant, understated jacket. “They do indeed. It’s never mattered to me why it’s on the market, Tony. I just needed to know that it was and that my price was accepted.” He stared once more at the grimy windows, and his voice grew more thoughtful.
“I have no interest in buying ghosts.”
CARTER Davison slipped quietly into the downtown bar. It was long past midnight, and there were only a few patrons left, nursing their last drinks for the night. None of them looked up as the paneled door to the outside world creaked closed behind him. But the barman did. He half-raised a hand to Carter and nodded him toward the booths at the far side of the room.
“Asleep again, I guess. He’s not asked for more since eleven. I was gonna call you….”
“It’s okay, Marty,” Carter murmured. It said something when his local bartender had his cell number. “I went around to his place, and he wasn’t there, so I guessed he’d be here. Anyone else?” He knew Marty would understand.
“Nah. There was a kid with him earlier. They were… you know… kinda interested in each other. Fact is, I had to ask him to keep his hands on the table for the sake of the other customers getting irate. But the two of ’em had words, and the kid left hours ago.”
“Fine.” Carter sighed. He knew his tone showed it was anything but. “I’ll take him now.” He was in his comfortable jeans and a loose T-shirt, but his whole body felt weary and tense. He rummaged in his jeans pocket, pulled out a few bills, and placed them on the counter to settle the tab. Marty nodded to him, closing the agreement they had between them.
