by Adrian, Lara
I set down my padded portfolio and unzip it as Kathryn slides her feet into Chanel logo scuffs, then walks gingerly to the windows to open the drapes. I’ve unpacked all three paintings and leaned them against the wall, waiting in silence as she returns to me.
I can’t read her pensive expression. The long moments of silence seem endless as she looks from one piece to the next, then, finally, to the next.
“How long have you been painting?”
“Ever since I can remember. I started painting with my fingers when I was a kid. Once I picked up a brush, I never looked back.”
“Hm.”
That wordless response is neither a comment nor a critique, yet I see her shrewd gaze narrowing slightly as she studies each of my pieces. She tilts her head as if looking for meaning in the dark, abstract compositions. Does she see their sensual nature, the eroticism that inspired them? Maybe she does, and the images are offensive to her more conventional tastes.
I clear my throat, feeling the need to fill the lengthening quiet. “Until recently, I painted mostly architecture and still life. Portraiture here and there. I’m trying new things now.”
“I have no doubt about that, dear.” Kathryn’s slender brows quirk almost imperceptibly, the first crack her implacable veneer has allowed. “Has Dominic ever given you his opinion of your art before?”
“Yes. He has.” I swallow, glancing away from her. As much as I hope she’ll like my art enough to offer for one of my paintings, I can’t stand here and pretend I’m better than I truly am. “Some of my earlier work was on display at Dominion a few months ago. Nick didn’t think I was a good fit for his gallery.”
“Is that right?” There’s no masking her curiosity. She doesn’t even pretend that she’s anything but avidly intrigued. “What, precisely, did he say about your work?”
“That it was self-conscious.” There was a time when I might have recited Nick’s criticism with embarrassment, even shame. But the sting is gone as I recount his words now. “He said my art was dishonest, fearful. He said I wasn’t letting the truth take shape on the canvas, that I was hiding from it.”
Kathryn exhales a slow, thoughtful sigh. “Harsh judgment. And so classically him.”
“He was right,” I admit. “He made me better by telling me that. He’s made me a braver artist, a better one.”
She considers me for a moment, something cryptic flickering in her weary eyes. Something that looks very much like sorrow, like unbearable regret. “Dominic has unerring instincts when it comes to art,” she murmurs quietly. “The only thing more extraordinary than his eye was the depth of his own gift.”
“His—wait. Are you saying,” I stammer, mentally tripping over what I just heard. “Are you saying Nick is an artist too?”
“Was,” she replies. “One of the most talented painters I’ve ever seen. His work was breathtaking, raw and unrestrained. Heartbreakingly sensitive. It was astonishing.”
I realize I’m gaping at her, but I can’t help it. Nick, a painter? I’m not surprised to hear that he possesses this other talent among all of the other things he seems to have mastered so expertly, but why has he never mentioned it to me? Am I the only one who doesn’t know this?
“Even to this day, I’ve seen few who compare to him,” Kathryn adds. “But that was before, of course.”
“Before?” The word hits me even harder than her first revelation. It hits me like a body blow, knocking the wind from my breast. “You mean, before the accident that ruined his hand.”
“Accident.” She slowly shakes her head. “Is that what he told you?”
“He told me he got into a fight with a drunk when he was eighteen. Things escalated, and the man sent him through a plate glass window.”
I recall how Nick told me about the incident over dinner on our first getaway together. I remember how he had relayed the details—scant as they were—in that nonchalant way of his, which neither invites questions nor offers any answers beyond what he is willing to share.
“What really happened to him, Kathryn?”
“Yes, there was a fight,” she says, “but it wasn’t an accident that stole his ability to paint. Dominic was nearly killed that night. And the drunk who pushed him through the glass was his father.”
All of the breath in my lungs seems to evaporate as I absorb the truth of what really happened. Nick’s pain must have been tremendous. Dear God, how he must have suffered, not only through the healing of his injuries, but with the realization of what he’d lost.
And by whom.
“I . . . I wasn’t aware.” I shake my head lamely, hoping I don’t look as wounded as I feel by all of these unexpected discoveries. “Apparently, he didn’t think it was important to mention any of this to me.”
“My dear,” Kathryn says gently. “That part of him died years ago. Unfortunately, I am also to blame for that.”
She turns away from my paintings and walks back to one of the velvet sofas.
“Please tell me.” I follow her over and take a seat beside her. “Please tell me what happened between you and him. Please tell me everything, Kathryn.”
At first, I don’t think she’ll comply. She has no reason to divulge details about her past personal life with Nick, after all. I’m prying, and there is no excuse for it. Nothing except my love for him and the ache I have for everything he’s been through.
“His hand was already destroyed when I met him,” she murmurs, toying with the lace edge on the sleeve of her silk pajama tunic. Her fingers look frail and aged against the collection of diamonds and gleaming platinum rings on them. Only her beautiful, cosmetically preserved face belies the true state of her physical health.
“Dominic was young—barely twenty, as I would later find out—and he’d only been in New York for a few months. He was earning his living parking cars at the Four Seasons when I first noticed him.” She shakes her head faintly, a faraway look coming into her gaze. “I was attending an art auction event and there he was, the handsome, dark-haired young man who’d parked my companion’s Jaguar, standing at the back of the room utterly absorbed in one of the auction house programs.”
My mind conjures the scene as she describes it, my heart squeezing at the notion of twenty-year-old Nick, freshly arrived in the city and completely unaware of the golden future and staggering fortune that awaits him.
It breaks a little, too, realizing only now that his success in business was born out of the ashes of his forfeited art ability.
“I’ve always enjoyed the company of beautiful younger men,” Kathryn confesses, glancing at me now, her expression utterly lacking in remorse. “They make me feel younger too. They make me forget that I’m mortal.” She shrugs. “I struck up a conversation with Dominic. His intensity was magnetic, even then. And he impressed me when I realized there was something more to him than just that remarkable face and those blue eyes that could drown a woman if she’s not careful.”
I nod, because I know exactly what she means. I’ve swam in his fathomless gaze often enough to feel the tidal pull that comes with being the focus of Nick’s stare. I succumbed to his powerful allure from the start, never able to resist him.
If he had been simply a gorgeous face and a body to match, maybe I could have walked away after having that first taste. But Kathryn is right. There is far more to Dominic Baine than just his amazing good looks and seductive persona.
It was his contradictions that did me in. The paradox of the cold, intensely private loner and the complicated, sensual man who stripped away all of my defenses.
It is these secret layers that I’m peeling back only now that make me love him even more.
Kathryn presses her fingers to her brow. “I’m feeling a bit flushed. Would you mind fetching those pills from the side table and pouring me some water?”
“I don’t mind at all.” I get up and bring her what she asked for, waiting as she takes a couple of fever reducers and washes them down with a cut-crystal glass of water. When she�
�s finished, I return the pill bottle and glass to the table, then rejoin her on the sofa.
She closes her eyes for a moment, then continues where she left off. “When I saw that he seemed to have more than a passing appreciation for art, on a lark I asked Dominic to accompany me to another event the following week. I was shocked when he agreed. And thrilled. Things between us . . . progressed from there.”
I try not to hear the wistfulness in her voice when she talks about her time with my man. Except he wasn’t mine then. As much as I want to think he is now, I can’t pretend it doesn’t wound me to realize how little I truly know about him, his past.
And maybe it serves me right, considering all of the secrets I hope I never have to share with him.
I swallow past the guilt that seems ever-present in my throat. “How long were you and he together?”
“A few months, perhaps close to a year.” She shrugs vaguely, but by the regretful look in her eyes, I’m certain she could tell me the precise dates if I pressed her. She chases the expression away with a light wave of her hand. “I brought Dominic to parties with me and social events. He didn’t seem to mind so much. Aside from being ridiculously good looking, he was also intelligent. Shrewdly so. I’m sure there were many who disregarded him as just another pretty, dull-headed piece of arm candy, but Dominic wasn’t like that. He paid close attention to the conversations going on around him. Powerful, wealthy men discussing investments and business ventures. He made no secret of the fact that he wanted something more out of life, and I could see that he was capable of accomplishing anything he put his mind to.”
I recall that Nick made his first million in real estate investments by the time he was twenty-two. And he’s told me that in three more years’ time, his net worth had reached a half a billion dollars. But what I didn’t know is where he got the initial nest egg to make that first purchase. Now, I think I do.
“One day, Dominic came to me with a painting he’d done a few years before—the only piece of his work he said he had left. He asked if I would be interested in buying it. I was amazed at his talent. The piece was exquisite, one of the finest modern expressionist works I’d ever seen. Of course, I had to have it. After I bought it, he then invested that money into some real estate stocks he’d had his eye on. The rest, as you know, is history.”
“Do you still have his painting?”
“Sadly, no. I don’t.”
“He told you it was the only one he had left. If he painted others, where are they?”
She blinks and looks away from me for a moment. “None of his work exists anymore. There were four others—pieces he brought with him to New York, along with the one he sold to me. I’d discovered he had sold the earlier ones to another collector. I made it my private mission to try to track each one down and buy it back.”
From her somber tone, I realize this story does not end well. “Were you able to recover any of them?”
“Oh, yes. I found them all.” She smiles sadly. “Each one was more stunning than the next. I was so proud of him. I believed in him so much, I wanted the world to recognize how gifted he was. I decided to host a party at my summer house in the Hamptons. Everyone I knew from the art world was there—critics, curators, collectors, other important artists. They’d all come with the promise of meeting this undiscovered new talent I had found. I hadn’t told Dominic what I was planning. He had no idea that the party was intended to be anything more than one of my seasonal soirées.”
“Did he know you’d found his other paintings?”
She shakes her head. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I thought he would be thrilled to see that I’d bought them all back for him. On the day of the party, only moments before anyone arrived, Dominic figured out that I was keeping a secret from him. He found the paintings. When he realized I intended to show them publicly, he flew into a rage. He took them all down . . . then he destroyed every one.”
I gasp, horrified. “Oh, Kathryn. He didn’t.”
“I’d never seen him so furious. He saw it as a betrayal. I hadn’t realized how deeply it had wounded him to lose his ability to paint until that moment. Of course, by then it was much too late. He accused me of using him—of wanting to destroy him—when in fact harming him was the very last thing I ever wanted to do.” She releases a deep, rattling sigh. “God . . . I loved him so hopelessly I would’ve done anything to make him happy. I truly thought I was. Instead, everything blew up in my face. He left, and we’ve hardly spoken since.”
I feel for her, and for the pain she’s reliving by sharing this memory with me. We were strangers when I walked into her house, but not now. I reach over and cover her hand with mine. Instead of pulling away, she glances at me in mild surprise before nodding silently, understanding the unlikely bond we’ll share after today.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “For you, and for him.”
I’m sorry for the tragic, irreplaceable loss of Nick’s art, something I’ll never see for myself.
No one will, which was apparently his intent when he destroyed it all.
She begins to cough and I let go of her hand. She’s tired from her medical treatments, and talking with me isn’t helping. I don’t want to add to her burdens, especially when I’ve come here today for admittedly selfish reasons.
I get up and pour her another glass of water. She takes it from me with a weak smile and dark, shadowed eyes. As she drinks, I walk over to my paintings and begin to replace them back into my portfolio. I doubt she has any interest in them, aside from the curiosity that spurred her to invite me to come in the first place.
“Do you despise me now too?” Her voice drifts across the room, thin and quiet. “Is that why you’re running away so quickly?”
“What? No.” I shake my head, frowning. “Of course, I don’t despise you. Not at all. I just thought . . . You’re obviously not interested in buying my paintings, and I’ve stayed too long already. I don’t want to bother you—”
“You’re wrong, Avery. I am very interested in your art.” When I pause, she goes on. “These three pieces are very good. Better than good. But what I really want to know is why you want to sell them to me.”
Her blunt question takes me aback, but I realize directness is just her way. I appreciate that about her here today, and I feel that I owe her some of the same respect now.
“To be honest, Kathryn, I need the money. I’m . . . I’m in some trouble and I need to find a way out.”
She regards me in silence for a moment. “Trouble that Dominic can’t help you with?”
I shake my head. “I can’t ask him to. I won’t. I have to find a way through this on my own.”
“I see.” She sets the glass down on the side table next to the sofa. “How much money will it take to make your trouble go away?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
One fine brow lifts above her fatigued, but erudite gaze. “Your paintings will be worth much more than that one day, my dear. But I will be glad to have them for the price you need.” She stands up and smooths her black silk robe. “I trust a personal check will suffice?”
“Yes. Of course.” My breath rushes out of me on a heavy sigh, gratitude nearly overwhelming me. “Kathryn, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Yes, you do. Be good to him, my dear. Love him for me, even if he doesn’t make it easy for you.” Her smile is beautiful, if broken. “Love him especially then.”
Chapter 19
I call for Patrick to pick me up a while later, knowing Nick always prefers that I use his driver instead of taking the subway. Today I feel safer in the limo too. I cashed Kathryn’s check after leaving her apartment, and the knowledge that I’m walking around the city with ten grand in large bills tucked into my purse has left me nervous as hell.
Even more so than the reason I need the money in the first place.
Once I’m in the backseat of the sleek black car, I send Nick a quick text. Would you be disappointed if we stay in for dinner tonight?
His reply comes back almost instantly. Staying in with you is never a disappointment. Shall I bring dinner home with me?
I stare at his message—at the mention of home, and the implication that the word belongs to both of us. On any other day, with anyone else, that word might mean nothing. Just a casual reference chosen for convenience more than anything else.
But Nick does nothing without deliberation. He is as careful with his words as he is with his feelings. And right now, he is telling me that I belong with him.
I’m already emotional from my meeting with Kathryn. Now, tears prick the backs of my eyes and it’s all I can do to hold them at bay as I type my response to his text. Just come home when you’re ready. I’ll take care of dinner.
His answer is immediate. A surprise, then? I can hardly wait.
Me too, I reply, then slip my phone back into my purse and lean back against the soft leather seat with my eyes closed so Patrick won’t see that I’m on the verge of breaking down.
As the car rolls through the midafternoon traffic, I try to reassure myself that everything will be better once I’ve given Rodney what he wants and he’s out of my life again. I can only pray the money will be enough to get rid of him for good.
After he’s gone, I’ll find some way to make things right with Nick.
I’m terrified of what he’ll think of me if he knows the truth. I’m even more afraid to let my secrets fester between us indefinitely. But I won’t let Rodney control how Nick finds out. And I damn sure won’t let him hurt Nick or the life he’s worked so hard to build.
I can barely contain my relief to see no sign of my stepbrother anywhere near the Park Place building as we approach. I’ll have to see Rodney soon enough as it is. He gave me only seven days to get in touch to arrange for him to collect his money. That means tomorrow.
The bundle of a hundred one-hundred dollar bills feels like a stone in the bottom of my purse. As glad as I’ll be to get rid of it, I can’t stomach even the thought of Rodney while my head and heart are still reeling from the time I spent with Kathryn.
