by J. R. Ward
And Gerard Beauvais had seen something, she thought.
She recalled what he’d said about where the painting had been placed in the Blankenbakers’ home, over a working fireplace. Such temperature fluctuations could have been the catalyst that revealed the retouching. Which would explain why the last conservationists didn’t mention anything.
Maybe it was something as innocent as a repaint by Copley himself. Painters, even great masters, did that frequently. Not liking a shape or a tone, they would paint over what work they had done. Over time, as the paint layer aged, these changes could become more obvious, appearing as shadows in pale backgrounds or as pockets of disruption in the craquelure just like the one over the surface of the mirror.
Thinking perhaps the explanation was as simple as that, she recalled one of the things Professor Melzer had drilled into her. When you see hoofprints, don’t think zebras.
It was good advice, she told herself. But damned if she wasn’t skeptical anyway.
She spent the rest of the day on her preliminary review of the painting, going over every square inch of the canvas, searching out areas of chipping or flaking, discoloration or fading, changes in brushstroke. Her notes were as copious and objective as she could make them.
When she finally had to stop because her back ached from stooping over the microscope, she stood up feeling pleased. The painting was in good shape and she’d confirmed that there was no extensive work that had to be done. A removal of the old varnish and a cleaning, followed by an application of a new coat of varnish to protect the surface would be all Nathaniel would need.
She felt better able to complete the project and figured she’d probably need only another day to finish the documentation. And then the real fun would begin.
As she left the garage, she decided not to tell Jack about her suspicions. The chances of her making a neophyte mistake and jumping to a wrong conclusion were very real. And you didn’t tell a man who’s just spent five million dollars on a painting that it might have a flaw, based on a single inspection done before the thing was even cleaned. You waited until you were 100 percent sure and backed up by half a dozen other professionals in the field.
Wearing hockey pads was probably a good idea, too.
On Saturday, Jack hung up the phone on his desk and stretched in his chair. He was doing a deal with Nick Farrell, the renowned corporate raider. The guy was off-loading his interest in an international conglomerate and Jack was happy to take the shares off his hands. The company owned various European wireless and fiber-optic networks and would fit in perfectly with Jack’s private portfolio of international broadcasting and TV stations. Farrell was going to realize a hefty profit and Jack was positioning himself to be one of the largest providers of electronic media and Internet service on the European continent. It was a good deal for them both.
Except at the moment, Jack was feeling nothing of the triumph he usually did when an acquisition came together. He leaned back and listened as the grandfather clock across the room began to chime.
Five o’clock. Which meant he could have a bourbon.
He walked over to the wet bar, poured himself a good portion of Bradford’s best, and sat back down behind the desk. The liquor burned his throat as it went to his gut.
In spite of his success, he was feeling unsettled and vaguely aggressive and he knew precisely the cause.
When his phone had rung an hour ago and his caller ID had spelled out Blair’s cell phone number, he’d let it go into voice mail. He’d done that a lot lately and he’d gotten into the habit of calling her back at her hotel when he knew she wouldn’t be there. The decision not to tell her what had happened with Callie was harder to stomach than he’d thought and he knew he couldn’t put off talking to her indefinitely.
After another hit of bourbon, Jack lifted the phone and his fingers punched out a familiar pattern.
Blair’s voice was sharp when she answered. “Hello?”
“Sorry I missed your call.”
“Finally, it’s you! Hold on—Listen, Joey, I need those light fixtures now. Karl wants me to show him this suite at the end of the week. I don’t care if you have to gold leaf them yourself. It can’t wait.” She let out a laugh. “Sorry about that, Jack. Things are pretty crazy here.”
“So Graves is as demanding as I’ve heard.” He brought up his glass again.
“But not impossible. He has high standards, but if you meet them, he lets you know it.”
Jack moved his chair around and looked out the window behind his desk. The light was just beginning to fade from the sky. “So how’re you holding up?”
“Other than the not sleeping? I’ll get through it somehow—Here, wait a second. No! No, I want the dark green in velvet. The gold is the brocade,” she yelled to someone in the background.
“You sound busy.”
“I am,” she said, sounding tired. “I knew going in that redecorating the Cosgrove Hotel was going to be a big project, but Graves has moved up the date of when he wants to reopen. I’ve only got a couple of months to do what would normally take a year.”
“If he drives you too hard, let me know and I’ll take a hunk out of him. Me and a couple of my buddies could do a hostile takeover of his company and bounce him out on his ass in a heartbeat.”
She laughed. “Thanks.”
“When are you coming home?”
There was a hesitation. “Actually, I was thinking I would stay in the city for the next couple weeks, even through Thanksgiving. We’re picking colors and fabrics and I’ve got to get to Karl whenever I can. His schedule’s ridiculous, but he insists on being the decision maker about everything. He’s offered me an old suite in the hotel.”
Jack told himself that the feeling in the pit of his stomach was from the bourbon. It was not relief because she was staying in New York.
“Sounds reasonable.”
A flash of movement outside caught his eye. He watched Arthur go bounding after something and he wondered how the dog had gotten out.
When Callie came across the lawn, Jack sat upright and leaned toward the window.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Blair said. “It will be a while until we see each other.”
“No, that’s fine. Really.”
Arthur ran back to Callie, dropped a stick at her feet and backed up, poised to run. She picked the hunk of wood up and extended her arm behind her. With one strong, fluid motion, she let the branch rip, flinging it a tremendous distance. The dog surged forward, his head tilted to the sky.
While Callie watched Arthur go, a gust of wind swept some of her long hair into her face, and with a laugh, she pulled the red waves back and tucked them into the collar of the fleece she was wearing. She got down on her haunches as the dog raced back toward her.
“Jack?”
He came to attention. “Yeah?”
“I’ll definitely come for the holiday party, though. You’re still having your usual blowout this year, right?”
“Yes.” He shifted the phone to his other ear and tried to think of something to say to her. Usually it wasn’t tough.
“Jack? Are you sure you’re okay with me staying down here? I could just take the shuttle back and forth if it really bothers you.” As he tried to reassure her, his voice must have tipped her off. “Jack, is everything all right? Did the painting arrive safely?”
“Nathaniel’s back in Boston and in one piece.”
“And did the conservationist come?”
“Yes, she did.”
“I can’t wait to meet her. I saw Grace yesterday and she told me Callie’s quite lovely. Hey, did you know that Grace is seeing someone? She didn’t have time to give me a lot of details, but she looks very happy. We met him. At Newport.”
Jack frowned. “The bodyguard? Jesus. He was a tough character.”
“Well, Grace is certainly in love with him. She just couldn’t stop smiling and I was so happy for her.” The phone was muffled as Blair yelled out another set of comm
ands. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Why don’t we talk later on tonight?”
“That’d be great.”
“I love you,” she said before she hung up.
Jack put the phone down and stared at it. The conversation was typical of the ones they shared. Easygoing, warm.
Placid.
He turned back to the window, watching Callie and Arthur play.
Nothing was easy with Callie. He felt as though he had to work to earn her smiles, her laughs, her respect. But when she’d send one of those rare, wide grins his way, he felt like he’d been blessed.
As soon as he finished his drink, he headed back to the bar.
This was wrong, he thought. This was all wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about another woman and having Blair look unexciting by comparison.
With his glass full again, he went to the window and watched Callie pick up the stick and throw it toward the house. As Arthur sprinted across the grass, she caught Jack’s eyes through the window and froze. He lifted his hand.
She waved back and then moved out of sight.
With studied effort, Jack tried to think of all of the things he liked about Blair: the shape of her eyes; the way she dressed; her sense of style. He heard the rhythmic inflection of her voice and the slight lisp that marked her ths.
He couldn’t remember either of them raising their voices at each other, and considering all of the tension in his household and all the conflict in his business life, that calmness had been a welcomed change. With Blair, it had always been smooth sailing. Smooth as glass.
And maybe a little flat.
“Jackson,” his mother said crisply from the doorway. He looked around. She was wearing her mink and pulling on slim leather gloves. “I’m going out for the evening. Thomas has prepared a buffet for you.”
“I’m sure Callie and I will enjoy it,” he said, swirling the bourbon in his hand.
His mother’s lips tightened. “I had Elsie mail the invitations to the holiday party today. I used the standard list.”
He nodded even though he didn’t care and she knew it.
“You know, I really wish you’d take more of an interest,” she said, easing one of the gloves down the back of her hand. “Your father was so very helpful. With the guests, the choice of food. He was such a master at these things.”
Jack shot her a dry smile. “So paying for it isn’t enough?”
Her eyes lifted from the glove. “Really, Jackson, that’s uncalled for.”
“Sorry.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sat down in his chair. “Long day.”
He heard her come farther into the room, her high heels clipping across the marble floor until they were silenced by the rug behind his desk. When he felt her hand on his shoulder, he looked up.
“You know, Jack, I do appreciate all your hard work.” Her eyes were as soft as they ever got. “Your father may have been blind to everything you have done for this family, but he never knew what it was like not to have money. I, on the other hand, have never forgotten.”
So she remembered after all, he thought. His mother, the well-composed illusionist, had kept a little of her past with her.
Jack reached up and put his hand over hers. The bond of work, of industry, of pressing the limits because they were there to push against, was something they would always share. His drive and ambition had been his inheritance from her and they sure as hell had proven more lucrative than what had been left to him in his father’s will.
From the doorway, Elsie cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to bother you both, but I’m going home now. Unless you need anything else.”
Mercedes snatched her hand back, and before she turned around, her face settled into the elegant mask she showed the world. “No, we’re fine. Have a good evening.”
Elsie bowed a little and then left.
His mother walked back across the marble.
“By the way, you’ll never believe who I’m having dinner with,” she said as she went to the door. “Senator McBride.”
Mercedes waved one of her gloved hands and disappeared down the hall.
Jack frowned, wishing his mother was eating with just about anyone else in town. Jim McBride was on the short list of people who were being approached to serve on the exploratory committee. The invitation was supposed to have been extended sometime this week.
Which meant if his mother asked the right kinds of questions, she would find out Jack was thinking of running in the next election.
She wouldn’t be totally surprised. He had a feeling she might have guessed he wanted to try his hand in politics. He’d deliberately cultivated connections in the Massachusetts statehouse in recent years and had hosted many dinners with powerful legislators and lobbyists at Buona Fortuna. But that wasn’t the same as her knowing his plans outright.
In order for him to declare his intentions in a strategic way, he and Gray needed to first assess his chances of getting on the ballot and then the odds of him winning. The exploratory committee would be responsible for rating him against the competition and for doing their work in confidence and with discretion.
His candidacy’s groundwork needed to be established quietly, something his mother knew little if nothing about. Jack was going to tell her he was running only right before he publicly announced it, and he hoped like hell McBride wouldn’t let the cat out of the bag, assuming the guy knew anything.
After Jack heard the big door close, he picked up the phone and called Gray. When he hung up, he went to look for Callie, feeling relieved and pleased with himself.
McBride hadn’t been asked yet, so he knew nothing. And Gray was more than willing to meet an attractive redhead.
10
“OKAY, ARTIE, my arm’s about to fall off.” Callie bent down and gave the dog a hug. He was panting heavily, his breath coming out in bursts of steam. “Besides, we’re about five minutes away from pitch dark. You’ll never find it.”
She heard a car and looked up as a Jaguar with Mrs. Walker behind the wheel went down the drive. She hadn’t seen much of the woman in the past couple days and was hoping it was the beginning of a trend.
She was walking toward the house when the door opened. Jack was on the other side, the light from overhead illuminating his face. He was smiling at her, a drink in his hand, as she came up to the doorstep.
“I talked to Gray. He thinks he can get free for dinner tonight and should be here in a half hour,” he said as he shut the door behind her.
For some reason, the fact that Jack had followed through on the setup bothered her.
Having just finished the documentation portion of the project, and being cross-eyed from so much concentrated work with the microscope, the last thing she felt like doing was meeting one of his friends. Or maybe the idea of being charming in front of Jack and his college roommate was what exhausted her. Pretending to be interested in one man’s conversation while ignoring her attraction to another was going to require more coordination than she felt like she had.
She told herself that none of it had to do with the fact that she’d been looking forward to having dinner with Jack alone, which was what they’d been doing the last few evenings. He tended to stay at the office rather late and she’d been putting in long hours with the portrait. When he’d come home, he’d check on her progress with the painting and then they’d eat in the kitchen while trading stories about their days.
She’d pointed out just last night that his skills with the microwave were showing improvement and his obvious pride had made her smile. Apparently, his incompetence was from lack of practice. He’d told her that he usually didn’t get home until ten o’clock at night and ate at the office, but now he had a reason to leave earlier. He evidently liked their talks as much as she did.
In those quiet moments, she felt as if she was truly getting to know him, and what she was discovering was a surprise. Yes, he was a tough-as-nails businessman, but people mattered to him. One of his senior management team, the Walker Fun
d’s general counsel, had a daughter who was dying of a neuroblastoma at the age of six. Jack was beside himself with grief for the family and she’d never forget the expression on his face as he’d described how helpless everyone felt. All the money and the power in the world were not going to save the little girl. Connections had gotten her treatment at the Dana Farber Cancer Center and had ensured that she’d been seen by the best Harvard-trained specialists in oncology and pediatrics. But she was still going to die.
Callie could have sworn Jack’s eyes had watered briefly while he’d talked about the situation, and it had taken every bit of her self-control not to reach across the table and take his hand.
Arthur was another one of Jack’s soft spots. The other night the dog had come inside with a limp. Jack had gotten down on his hands and knees, in his suit, to look at the injured foot. As he’d gently probed the area, Artie had capitulated to the examination with total trust, even as he winced while a thorn was taken out. When it was all over, Jack had put some bacitracin in between the pads, wrapped some gauze around the wound, and then fed Artie some filet mignon from his own plate. That night, the dog had wanted to sleep with him.
“Hello?” Jack prompted.
She shook her head. “Sorry. Hey, what’s that fantastic smell?”
“Thomas’s marinara sauce, I believe.”
“Thomas?”
“Our erstwhile cook.” He frowned. “You haven’t seen him during the day?”
“No, I stay up in the garage.”
“All day long? Until I come home? Don’t you eat?”
She shrugged. “I lose track of time and forget.”
“Where’s your watch?”
“I don’t have one.”
He grumbled something under his breath while taking her elbow and urging her ahead. The contact burned and she closed her eyes briefly, letting him lead her into the kitchen.
