by Kathryn Shay
I THINK I LOVE YOU!
The Gentileschi Sisters
Book 6
Kathryn Shay
I Think I Love You
Copyright © 2019 by Kathryn Shay
All Rights Reserved
Smashwords Edition
Published by Ocean View Books
Cover Design by Shelley Kay at Web Crafters
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Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Author's Note
The Gentileschi Sisters series
About the Author
Introduction
Once upon a time, in a faraway land called Casarina, lived King Alessio Gentileschi and Queen Renata. Their seven girls are the center of their lives. All grown up now, these women journeyed to the United States to train or educate themselves but the king and queen fear they will never return home.
Who are the princesses of Casarina?
Callandra (Calla) Gentileschi, 31, heroine in NO OTHER LOVE, in the To Serve and Protect series. Married, with one child, Razim, she resides in the U.S. for six months and in Casarina for the other half of the year.
Francesca (Frankie) Gentileschi, 29, cop in Baltimore City, just transferred to a new task force. She uses the queen’s surname, Marcello.
Gabriella (Brie) Gentileschi, 27, grade school teacher in a low income area, plans to open her own school in the U.S.
Ravenna (Raven) Gentileschi, 26, artist, art therapy practice, and has illustrated her sister’s children’s book. She uses the queen’s surname, Marcello.
Evangelina (Evvie) Gentileschi, 24, dedicated neonatal nurse, main hobby is watching major league baseball.
Mariela (Mari) Gentileschi, 23, widowed at 20, she’s now in Georgetown Law School and has a five-year-old daughter, Lilliana. She uses her married name Moretti.
Alexandra (Lexy} Gentileschi, 21, has just sold her children’s book to an American publisher. She uses the queen’s name, Marcello.
The men of The Gentileschi Sisters:
Connor Marino, husband of Callandra, hero of NO OTHER LOVE.
Tyrell Beauregard Collingsworth, cop in Baltimore, on the same task force as Francesca.
Dante Federico, new Physical Education teacher at Gabriella’s school.
Blake Parker, gallery owner, plans a show of Ravenna’s art.
Mike Jagielski, star player on the Baltimore Raiders major league baseball team, meets Evangelina at a game.
Jordan Dubois, professor at Georgetown Law School, has Mariela as a student.
Ryder Reynolds, vice president of Reynolds Publishing, buys Alexandra’s children’s book.
Chapter 1
Finally, Blake Parker had arrived! It was about time. Raven hopped out of her SUV as he swerved his silver Escalade into the parking space next to her. He exited and said, “Good morning.”
She bit her lip to force herself to be civil. “Good morning.” She glanced pointedly at her watch.
A bit of irritation sparked in those oddly-colored green eyes. “I apologize for being late.” She waited for more.
But no, that was all she was going to get. He was one of the most entitled men she’d ever met, and she was the daughter of a king!
Instead of focusing on him, she decided to let herself feel pleasure over the fact that, after construction was stalled for months, the new modern art wing at the prestigious Parker Gallery had been completed. And her work would be the debut exhibition.
When she noticed how he was dressed, her eyes widened.
“I’ve never once seen you out of a suit.”
“I’m comfortable in suits. And in dress-down attire.”
She smirked inwardly. Starched white shirt, sage green fleece jacket, which zipped partway down, pressed jeans and thousand-dollar boots were not dressing down.
He gestured to her black, full-size SUV. “Do you need help bringing the paintings in?”
“We’ll have to use a dolly. Their dimensions are bigger than either of us can manage.” As agreed, she’d brought in the four main paintings which would be the focal point of each section in the new wing and around which the others would be hung.
He slipped a set of keys out of his pocket. “I’ll get one.” Frowning, he looked at the sky. “We’d better hurry. Weather’s forecast for rain.”
He turned and walked away, pissing her off even more. But much of the success of the show depended on him, so she had to play nice. Like she’d been doing for months now since he chose her as the premier artist.
When he returned with a dolly, they set the canvases on the flat surface and he pushed it inside. The gallery steps had been replaced by ramps, and the entire exhibition area was one floor. The place had been renovated for accessibility. Originally, back in the early 1900s when Parker’s had been founded, thought had not been given to people unable to walk up steps. No matter how prestigious they were, Raven wouldn’t exhibit in places that weren’t friendly to wheelchairs and walkers. Once inside, they headed to the new wing and when they reached it, she sighed with awe.
“I like it too,” he said, staring at the wave of walls that constituted the new wing. They were built in a series of S curves; her paintings would hang in all of the recesses. “Every time I see it, I’m pleased.”
“Me, too.”
They were on the same aesthetic page. For most things. But she was expecting some fireworks about the paint swatches she’d chosen for wall colors. They deposited the four paintings, and when they finished, he gestured back the way they came. “Shall we start in gallery one?”
In her several meetings with him, she’d noticed that order and linear thinking was part of his DNA. Chaos occupied her genes.
“Fine by me.” They walked the length of the wing again, and this time, Raven took in the opposite wall of windows. Beyond them, gardens were beginning to bloom on this early March day. When they entered section one, she ripped off the padded foam wrapping on the painting she’d chosen to go first.
An intake of breath. Then he chuckled. “Your work startles me, no matter how many slides I’ve seen of it.”
“What a sweet thing to say.”
“I hope the public thinks so.”
A bit of insecurity seeped into her bones where the seeds of the nasty feeling were dormant. “Don’t you think they will?”
Jamming his hands in his jean pockets, he transferred his gaze to her. “Honestly, Ravenna, they’ll either love your work or hate it.” No hand-holding from him.
“Let’s hope most of them are the former.”
“So, which color do you want for Silenced?” Which would be the first painting exhibited.
Crossing to the table where she dropped the swatches, she picked up a dark red one and brought it over to him.
“I thought you’d pick something brighter.”
“Look at the painting.”
He perused it carefully. “Yes, I guess. The bright red in the work isn’t the most important part of it.”
“No?”
Glancing over at her, he rolled his eyes. “You know it isn’t.”
She smiled.
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“You’re surprised I can see the nuances.”
She’d been initially shocked at how well he got her work. “Not anymore.”
In the next section, the painting, Sadness, consisted of blues, but with muddy, darker tones. She’d picked the slate shade as the backdrop. He liked that, too.
For Rage, where she’d used of a variety of wild greens, she’d chosen muted sage. “I like the contrast,” was all he said. When he turned to her, the greens of the painting accented the color of his eyes, making them even more weird.
Section four was the last. She unveiled the dark painting, Patriarchy. And showed him a black swatch.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“I won’t have a black section in my gallery. It’s distasteful.”
Her clothing must slay him, then. She dressed in black with highlights of color, her signature being red. Red was also in the painting along with gray and specks of yellow.
“This one reminds me of Jackson Pollock,” he told her.
“I’m flattered. He’s one of my favorite artists.”
“I’m not surprised.” He gave her a small grin. “My great-grandfather knew him.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Grandpa was interested in all kinds of art, and took a real liking to his.”
“But built a gallery around the classics.”
“No appetite for nonrepresentational art then.”
“You know, Pollock used black as a backdrop for some of his shows.”
Blake’s gaze narrowed on her. “You aren’t Jackson Pollock.” He arched an insufferably cocky brow. “Yet.”
Her jaw dropped. “You think I might be some day?”
“Absolutely. Now pick something else out.”
Filled with almost absolute joy, Raven crossed to the swatches she’d laid on the table. But she couldn’t concentrate. A warmth spread through her at his comment. She didn’t like the man, and what he stood for, at all, but he knew art. And his accolades meant a lot to her.
* * *
Blake stared at the woman’s back. Ravenna Marcello, who signed all paintings Raven in bold script, was a complicated, prickly, female. But the gallery depended on her, and he needed to nurture his relationship with her. Basically, he’d risked his reputation on her, though in truth, he wasn’t worried. His instinct had never betrayed him since he walked into his first art history class at Georgetown Prep, then all through his studies at Yale for art history and his doctoral program at Harvard in the same.
She turned. “Why don’t you choose this color, Blake?”
“Seriously? You’re giving up a piece of control over your work?”
She tried to hide a smile. “I am.”
“Do you have the photos of the other paintings that go in this section?”
“I do.” She pulled colored pictures from her portfolio.
Seeing the paintings all together thrilled him. She was so talented. Reds, grays, and hints of yellow, teal and a bit of green swirled through these seven. “So, we have deep red, slate blue, sage green in the others. How about a dull yellow?”
“Ick. Dull yellow is mustard.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” He leafed through the swatches. Found one he liked. “This hue is pleasant.”
“Do you think it will go with Patriarchy?”
He crossed to the monstrous canvas that was so emotive he almost shrunk from it and held up the swatch. “The color brings out the nearly hidden bits of yellow and at the same time highlights the red.”
“All right. I told you to pick one. Besides, I like it.”
“I...” His phone buzzed.
Glancing at the ID, he frowned. “I have to get this.” Into the phone, he said, “Hello. Yes, how is he? ... Oh, Dad, I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll be right over.” He clicked off. “I know we planned to spend all morning on the collection, Ravenna, but this is an emergency. I have to get to the hospital right away.”
“The call sounded serious. Someone close to you?”
“A trustee on the board of directors and my fiancé’s father.”
Dark brows arched. “I didn’t know you were engaged.”
“You said you weren’t open to casual conversation or any kind of real connection.” Which had angered him. Obviously, he couldn’t bond with the artists of the rest of the collection housed in his gallery because they were all dead white men. He was hoping for more from the occupants of this wing.
“That I did.”
By tacit agreement, they walked out together. Parker allowed no one in the gallery when it was closed to the public without staff personnel to supervise them.
Once again, at their cars, they faced each other. She took out her keys. “Phone me when you have time to go over the catalogue descriptions.”
“Will do. Goodbye, Ravenna.”
“Goodbye, Blake.”
He left her, disconcerted. They’d worked well together this morning and he didn’t want to quit. She seemed...irritated, but he shoved aside his annoyance at having the time on the new wing cut off and headed to their family friend, Anderson Roth, and his daughter Audrey.
* * *
After a forty-five-minute drive from Parker’s, Raven walked into her house on the lake and lovingly stored her artwork in the studio space she’d had built to her specifications. She was irked about Blake Parker’s abrupt departure this morning, but she squelched the useless feeling. A long time ago, she’d learned not to get stirred up by situations out of her control. She grabbed coffee, treated herself to some biscotti her mother sent her and sat in a padded dining room chair which faced the lake. Grabbing her tablet from the table, she called up her email. Included were a group message from her sisters greeting each other, which they did every morning, a note from her mother, two from the school where she volunteered, another about the gallery brochure.
And one from the King of Casarina. She stared at it, unopened. Her father had taken to emailing her after the debacle with Callandra, her oldest sister, who’d caved to her father and married a man he’d arranged for her to wed. Calla had tolerated her new husband’s abuse until it got so bad, her mother smuggled her out of Casarina to the U.S., where she reunited with the man she’d fallen in love with in the years she’d been away. After a long time, everyone in the family had reconciled.
Except Raven. Though she listened to her father tearfully claim he was sorry about what he’d done with the arranged marriages, she hadn’t really forgiven him for his role in Calla’s abuse. Or for her own trial-filled childhood.
For some reason, though, she agreed to accept emails from him, with the understanding she might or might not answer. And she’d seen Papá of course, at weddings and holidays, but their relationship had not progressed.
My fault, she knew, so she’d begun emailing him back a year ago. Still, those were sterile responses, and she’d never longed for more. Until lately, when they’d been discussing her work—except for Patriarchy, which he’d never seen. Logically, she knew he’d found a way into her heart by connecting through her art, but she couldn’t stop herself from writing the communiqués.
She clicked into his missive.
Beloved Ravenna. He always started them the same way. I am sitting here staring out at the lushness of Casarina. Spring is beautiful here. I remember watching you girls outside this very window.
Her artist mind could picture him at home in his wood-paneled office overlooking the yard. He was a big man, a strapping one, with the bulk and fitness of an athlete. His dark-as-night hair had gone partially gray, but Mamá said it made him even more handsome. Objectively, Raven could understand that.
All of you were so different. You drew in the dirt. Alexandra fiddled with a garden. Francesca climbed trees. Brie played school with her stuffed toys. Evangelina enjoyed her dolls. And even as a child, Mariella often kept company with Arturo under the trees.
He went on to discuss the business of being king. He included a cute story about Mamá
. He used to bemoan his past mistakes until Raven asked him to stop because that became too much for to bear. Now, he seemed more upbeat. And he asked about her life. Her art.
She replied about her work.
I finished the last painting for the show. I wasn’t sure I would include it, but I loved how it came out. Attached is a copy.
The gallery owner is distant and professional, which is how I like it. She went on to tell him about his background. Pretty impressive pedigree, don’t you think? He’s not my favorite kind of person. Actually, he had some of Papá’s traits, but she didn’t say that.
She ended the missive with something she was feeling. She thought at least she could do that. I’m excited about the show. Blake Parker compared me to Jackson Pollock today, which filled me with utter joy.
Take care, Papá.
Raven
She pressed send and felt a streak of sadness go through her, like it always did when she responded to him. At one time, she’d wanted his approval so badly she ached with the longing. Now there was just a void there. Unfortunately, she knew that would be eternal.
Rising, she went back to the studio. Before she began to paint, and to quell some of the loneliness, she took out the two paintings that she’d never sent to Papá: Patriarchy and Sadness. She’d never allowed anyone to see them but Blake Parker.
But she’d promised herself if she ever got a major show, she’d display them. And so she would.
