Shades of Trust

by Cristiane Serruya

  Sophia welcomed his weight, her arms holding him tight before he rolled onto his back, bringing her with him.

  “You were tense,” she murmured, and placed her head in the crook of his arm, resting her cheek against the warmth of his broad chest. He was all hard muscle covered with soft velvet skin and she wanted to crawl under it. Unable to move or even think, Sophia was utterly unaware when sleep claimed her again.

  Alistair lay there looking up at the patterns in blue-and-green on the canopy over her bed, a deep frown creasing his forehead as he wondered how she would react when she discovered that the press would abound at the gallery opening later that evening.

  Leibowitz Oil Building

  3:37 p.m.

  “I knew I would have to face the press one day.” Sophia sighed and slumped on the navy suede sofa.

  “But you hoped this day would never arrive, didn’t you?” Edward placed his ankle on his knee, settling comfortably beside her, and looked at Leibowitz Oil’s PR Director, who was seated in the other armchair. “Well, Sophia, you can’t go on hiding forever. What do you suggest, Ash?”

  Ashley Carruthers was an exotic thirty-seven year old Angolan. Discreet, well-connected, sophisticated and sharp-witted, she wasn’t afraid of voicing her opinions and was everything anyone could want in a PR person. Sophia had always compared her to a black panther, with her languorous walk and quiet ways, belying her quick brain, silver tongue, and sharp eyes.

  Ashley tapped a finger on her red lips as she consulted her laptop. “I’ve collated everything that’s been said about you since you moved here. I don’t know how, but you have managed to avoid both the gossip magazines and the specialized press. There were some rumors of your death and a few unidentified photos of you with Alistair MacCraig, but that’s all. However,” she drawled the word to emphasize it, “I’ve written a few words.” She handed the sheet over to Edward. “English journalists are quite malicious and as soon as they recognize you, they will write about you, no doubt about it. It’s better to be prepared because they will throw their mics in your face. Don’t snub them. Be forthcoming. If their questions become too nasty, just smile graciously and leave the room. I’ll be there with you. Seven o’clock, you said?”

  “Yes.” Sophia bit her lip as she read Ash’s statement. “This is it?”

  “Is there anything else you want me to add? You did come to London to rebuild your life and it has nothing to do with Leibowitz Oil, which is competently run by Edward here. Ethan Ashford is your dear partner in a charity project, and yes, you’re engaged to Alistair MacCraig, whom you’re marrying in August. Make this sound like it’s confidential information, just for them. Smile a lot and bat your lashes. If they ask your opinion about the exhibit, praise it. Praise everything and smile. If there’s a question you don’t want to answer, smile and thank them for their kind interest in you. Instruct your bodyguards to act discreetly and to stay outside. Nothing will happen in the gallery. You’re in London,” Ash said. “Apart from that, what I suggest is: let’s wait for their reaction and then we can respond.”

  “I see,” she whispered.

  “Is Gabriela going?” Edward asked.

  “No. Not today. We’ll take her another time, when it’s quieter.”

  “Look, Sophia, there’s not much we can do. You disappeared from the face of the earth two years ago, after a tragedy that was in the news all over the world. Now, you reappear. Mysteriously. Out of thin air. Using your maiden name. Even richer. Living at one of the most exclusive addresses in the world. Engaged to a powerful and handsome man. Tongues will wag.”

  “I…” she let out a long, shuddering breath. All right. Face it, Sophia. “You’ll be there, won’t you, Edward?”

  “Seven sharp, love. Me, Ash, and Zahira.” He scooted closer and squeezed her hand. “Don’t you worry. Everything will be fine.”

  Atwood House

  5:55 p.m.

  “Sophia?” Alistair knocked on the door and walked into her bedroom. “Sweetheart? Are you ready?”

  A heartbeat later she stepped out of her dressing room and smiled at him.

  Her welcome-back-I-missed-you smile struck him hard. It was one of the things he ached for on a daily basis. He longed to see her greeting him every evening with it as he entered their home, her sweet scent in the air, and laughing children calling him Daddy.

  As always, his gaze skimmed her, head to toe and back again, devouring her. After a few months with him, Sophia knew exactly what that scorching look meant.

  This time, however, when he reached her dark-red lacquered toenails peeking from her Rene Caovilla sandals, he stopped. His thin nostrils flared and all his blood rushed down. Fuck. She’s sex on legs.

  Excruciatingly slowly, his eyes traced his way back up, taking in her smooth bare legs and the short length of her flared asymmetrical skirt, flowing sensually around her toned thighs and hips in layers and layers of nude, caramel, and brown organza and tulle. His fingers itched to span her slim waist and torso encased in a strapless embroidered bodice in earth tones. Then his gaze rose higher, to caress her naked shoulders and face. Long earrings of Imperial Topaz in reddish and orange hues framed her face. Her long hair was pulled back and up in a simple bun and she had shadowed her eyes in brownish tones, highlighting her hazel eyes.

  Oh. My. Sophia’s breath stopped as his intense sensuous gaze blistered her body.

  Without a word, he made a circle in the air with his index finger.

  Dutifully, she twirled on one foot and her skirt drifted around her in a flurry of hues. As she completed her pirouette and faced him again, she saw his lips curve into a smirk.

  With long, prowling strides, he crossed the room, his gaze steady on hers. “Who made this dress?” His hoarse accent-laden question showed all the burning desire that coursed in his veins.

  His low, deep voice reverberated through her and she could feel the heat of his gaze as it roamed over her body again. “Victoria.”

  His brows rose high on his forehead and his forest-green eyes met hers. “She has my undying gratitude.”

  She let her gaze linger on him, before she arched an eyebrow. “Victoria? And what, pray tell, do I receive?”

  “My attention.” Alistair stepped closer. His gaze lowered, from her eyes to her full lips. “Undivided.”

  His lips took hers and his hands curved possessively over her back and buttocks, hauling her soft body against his hard frame.

  Sophia’s hands gripped Alistair’s lapels as their lips came together. Beneath his palms, her skin burned, a layer of fine silk organza no real barrier to his touch and her own flaring desire. Willingly, she sank into his arms, moaning as his tongue created havoc on her senses.

  He broke the kiss, breathing deep to restrain his uncontrollable desire. “Unfortunately, we have to go. But I’ll take a rain check.”

  She sighed and promised, “Later, Handsome. Later.” She picked up a golden silk shawl that she threw over her left arm, and a Valentino red clutch from her bed. “I’m ready.”

  With a deep bow, he pulled the door wide. “Marchioness.”

  “Not yet, my lord, but soon,” she whispered on his lips.

  His deep laughter drew a grin from her.

  Chapter 20

  Chelsea

  The Blue Dot Gallery

  6:30 p.m.

  She was unnerving him with her silence. Alistair shifted on the car seat, taking both her hands in his. His thumb toyed with the grayish-blue diamond on her finger. “Sweetheart. They will be blinded by your beauty. Everything is going to be just fine.”

  Easy for you to say. Sophia took a deep and steadying breath. “I…I have an idea. Why don’t you go in alone and I’ll slip in unnoticed after a few minutes?”

  Why so afraid? “That won’t fool them,” he warned in a low voice.

  “Indeed. But it will give me some room. I don’t like being smothered by flashes and mics. After I’m inside, I’ll take a photo and answer a question or two. But…”
She made a vague gesture with her hand.

  “I see.” It made no sense to him, but he would do anything she asked just to see a smile on her face. “I’ll get the journalists off Tavish Uilleam and he can meet you at the back entrance. Better?”

  She smiled, relieved, and kissed his lips. “Just perfect, Amor. Just perfect.”

  The cloudy sky mirrored Sophia’s confused feelings as she admired Alistair’s ease while he handled, along with the two gallery partners, the special tour for the press. She longed to be at his side, but at the same time, she was afraid of the exposure.

  The group of journalists, photographers and cameramen had surrounded him as soon as he got out of the car.

  He dominated the room and maneuvered the press into asking him what he wanted. Dressed in an expensive black suit, fitted to perfection to his body, with a striped green-and-blue tie over a white shirt, he was the embodiment of tradition and power. He could have looked intimidating, but his charming and seductive smile masked the straightforward business thoughts that she was sure he was having.

  “He has a hypnotizing way with them, hasn’t he?” Tavish approached Sophia quietly from behind, handing her a champagne flute.

  “Yes.” She smiled up at him, but his eyes were glued on his brother. Only with them? She clinked her glass on his. “Cheers. Congratulations on the opening. You handle them quite well too.”

  “Cheers. This is a part that I don’t like very much. I’m no’ photogenic.”

  She laughed and elbowed him on the ribs. “You’re fishing for compliments, Lieutenant-Colonel Doctor Lord Tavish Uilleam.”

  He grimaced at her, “You’ll never let me forget it, will you?”

  “Absolutely not!” she joked. “That was the most intimidating greeting I’ve ever received.”

  “And you’re the only woman who has ever slapped me,” he retorted.

  “You deserved it,” she volleyed back.

  “Aye, I did.” He sighed. “Do you like the gallery?”

  In the heart of Chelsea, set in a listed building, The Blue Dot Gallery was a stunning space over three floors, with five main high-ceilinged rooms, wooden floors and glass stairwells. The old and traditional façade on the outside concealed an amazing and fresh approach to contemporary art on the inside.

  “It’s spectacular,” she said. “Valentina would absolutely love it. She’s finishing her degree in fine arts in Florence.”

  “Florence? Too traditional. She should have come here or gone to UCLA,” he said.

  “That’s why she went there. Her ideas are already too daring.” Sophia rolled her neck and flexed her shoulders. “Shall we get more champagne? I need to relax.”

  “How are the preparations for the wedding coming along?” He offered his arm to her with a crooked smile. “Is Alistair Connor still driving you mad?”

  “Good God! How can you work with him? The man is so stubborn, unmanageable—”

  “And you are paranoid and a perfectionist,” Alistair’s voice interrupted her string of complaints.

  She turned, blushing at being caught red-handed.

  “But I love you anyway.” He reached out for her hand. “Come on, sweetheart, the journalists want to meet the mysterious woman that has tamed my heart.”

  Sophia saw that Zahira, Ashley, and Edward were at the door posing for photos. She breathed in deep.

  “Go on. They’ll love you,” Tavish assured her.

  Alistair put her hand on the crook of his arm and covered it with his.

  Sophia bit her lip and raised her eyes to his.

  He tsked and bit his lip, drawing a smile from her. “Good. No one is going to resist you now.”

  8:00 p.m.

  The five hundred select guests for the opening of the gallery had each paid five hundred pounds, to be donated to the Sophia Leibowitz Foundation. Among them, beautiful and elegant young men and women well versed in art history explained the concepts of each artist and endeavored to interest prospective clients and the directors of foundations and museums. The event was turning into a huge success.

  “Sophia!” Warm hands rested on her shoulders.

  She angled her neck back with a smile. “Hello, Ethan!”

  His hands ran over her back to circle her waist and turned her to face him. “You look ravishing, darling.”

  “You don’t look too bad yourself,” she teased as she returned his kisses. “You know Edward Davidoff and Zahira Chanda, don’t you? And this is LO’s PR director, Ashley Carruthers.”

  “A pleasure to see you again, Ashford.” Edward stretched out his hand.

  “Davidoff, Mrs. Chanda, Ms. Carruthers,” he greeted them and turned to Sophia. “I guess that after tonight you’re not afraid of the press anymore. So, Mrs. Chandra can set up a date and location for our event.”

  Zahira only smiled at Ethan, knowing full well that Sophia didn’t want the ball.

  Aren’t you insistent, Ethan? “Why do we need a gala ball?”

  “It’s free marketing, darling. If MacCraig can benefit from it,” he motioned to the crowd mingling around, “Ashford Steel and Leibowitz Oil can too.”

  What? “Come again?”

  “Everyone likes to have a good excuse to throw a party. Better if you can couple beauty and youth with wealth and charity. You personify every quality to make our project a huge success, Sophia.” And spend more time at my side.

  “I hadn’t looked at it that way,” muttered Edward.

  Ashley tapped her finger on her red mouth. “Mr. Ashford makes a fair point, Sophia.”

  As always. He smiled charmingly at Ashley. “Ethan, my dear, please.” His attention wandered back to Sophia. “See, darling,” his hands made their way back to her shoulders and his azure eyes glowed with excitement, “your CEO and PR director agree with me. Say, November? We’ll raise even more awareness for the new branches in Asia. And funds, of course.”

  “I’ll think about it, Ethan,” she replied with a smile. And my answer will probably be no. She looked at Ashley asking for help.

  Ash discreetly winked, understanding. “I’ll take a look at her schedule, Mr. Ashford, and get back to you.”

  “Ashford.” Fuck off. Alistair’s arm snaked around Sophia’s waist and pulled her to him, as his free hand stretched out to shake Ethan’s.

  “MacCraig. Congratulations on the exhibition.” Your best piece is in your arms right now. The moment you let go, I’ll have her back.

  Don’t you dare paw Sophia again. “The gallery’s guiding principle is to show what our most exciting artists are making nowadays. We aim to make art more accessible to the mainstream, without losing the exclusivity.” She is the one and only. Exclusively mine.

  Edward rolled his eyes at Sophia, who was struggling to control her laughter, as Ashley looked away with a huge smile on her lips.

  Exclusivity of Sophia, you mean. “Indeed. I heard you’ve created an art fund and that it’s already closed to new entrants. I’ll be interested if there’s a new one.” Interested in Sophia, I mean.

  You don’t fool me, Ashford. “Aye. It was a huge success. My brother,” he signaled to Tavish, who excused himself from a group of buyers and made his way to where they were, “is in charge of the gallery and the art fund. I’m sure he can explain it to you better.”

  Family business, huh? Ethan watched the younger and more handsome version of Alistair approach them and smile at Sophia before acknowledging the others. Your perdition is in your own home, MacCraig.

  “Ashford, my brother Tavish Uilleam.” He’ll be watching you too, Ashford.

  “Gentlemen, Ash, Zahira,” Sophia said to the group, “if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

  “Don’t wander too far, my love.” Alistair didn’t miss the chance and whirled her in his arms, planting a kiss on her mouth. She’s mine, see Ashford?

  She rolled her eyes at his smirk. “I’ll be right back.” Good God, Alistair Connor. What’s this show for?

  “Jesus!”

  T
avish’s murmur called Alistair’s attention away from Edward, Ashley, Zahira and Ethan as they talked of the LO and Ashford ball. His eyes were fixed on something Alistair couldn’t see. “What is it?” Alistair inquired.

  “Excuse us for a moment,” Tavish bit out and lugged Alistair by the arm to the stairs. They climbed up a few steps before he faced Alistair and hissed, “Are you crazy? What is she doing here?”

  What? “Who? Doing what?”

  Tavish grabbed Alistair by the upper arm pointing to the end of the center room where a blonde woman was draped on the arm of a member of the House of Lords. As she strolled through the room, heads turned in her direction.

  Fuck. “That bitch.” His eyes searched the three main rooms for Sophia. “Where is Sophia? I can’t see her.”

  “She’s probably gone to the toilet. Go look for her. I’ll take care of this.”

  Alistair’s hand stopped Tavish as cold sweat trickled down his back. “Diplomacy, Tavish Uilleam. The gallery is full and I don’t want a scandal.” And that’s all she wants.

  “Don’t worry, Brother. Of course, I’ll be discreet.”

  You are anything but diplomatic where my past is concerned. “Wait.”

  Tavish paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at his brother, who was calmly descending with a smile on his face and a nonchalant pose.

  If anyone had looked at Alistair, no one would have guessed the dread coursing through his veins. He knew what Emma was capable of. Since that day in the restaurant at Berkshire, she’d been hounding him to get him back. In her bank account. In her bed.

  This is not a coincidence. “Call Leo. Look for Sophia. I’ll handle Emma.”

  “Ma’am,” the waiter handed Sophia a crystal flute filled with freezing cold Cristal Louis Roederer.

  “Thank y—”

  Sophia saw disaster open its jaws to receive her, as someone roughly bumped into her back. Her hands shot forward to balance herself.

  Her glass flew away, exploding against a sculpture of twisted iron forming a macabre rainbow made of sharp shards and splashed champagne.