An Irresistible Bachelor (12 page)

Jack started walking toward the house with purpose in his stride.

 

Callie watched Jack stop and look up at the sky, his body pulled into an arc. He stared at the clouds for quite a while and then marched across the driveway as if he was prepared to go about his day.

She glanced back at the closet where the lid to the box she'd opened was lying on the floor. She went over and put it on tightly, trying to ignore the symbolism and wondering whether she was doing the right thing in staying. Replaying their conversation, she realized he never had promised her that he wouldn't kiss her again. And now she knew that he had a fiancée in addition to his god-awful reputation. Based on both of those two facts, she should probably be packing up and getting back on the train as soon as she could.

Because she had a funny feeling about Jack Walker.

Yeah, it's called dislike, she told herself.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered.

Yes, she disliked the man, but that wasn't the only thing she felt. She might as well admit it. He was sexy as hell. And he was a great kisser.

But then, practice makes perfect, she thought with a grimace.

She went back to the window and looked at the looming mansion. The idea that she'd end up a bit player in some terrible Gothic drama made her smile, especially as Arthur came over and leaned against her thigh.

Somehow, it just wouldn't be the same if the dog was a golden retriever, she thought.

As her hand went down to his rough fur, she tried to imagine the situation if Jack weren't involved with someone else. What would she have done then?

She was a grown woman. She was attracted to him. Putting aside her throwback ideas about romance, namely that sex without love was probably just pointless, mildly aerobic exercise, she had to wonder what would be so terrible if they followed a string of kisses like that into bed.

Not that she had anything to compare it with, but she knew he'd be a fantastic lover. He moved with a slow confidence she found incredibly erotic. Just remembering how he pushed back her hair and put his lips on her neck was enough to make her rethink whether she'd done the right thing in pulling away.

Okay, fine, she was pathetically attracted to him. But what if he knew the truth? What would he think if he found out she'd never had sex before? God knew that piece of news had put a damper on things before.

Ending up a virgin at the age of twenty-seven hadn't been a goal of hers; it had happened by default. Years of caring for her mother, going to school, and having a job all at the same time had pretty much shut down her social life. She'd also been trained since birth to keep a low profile so she never courted attention. And she knew her relationship with her father had something to do with it, too. She just didn't trust men.

Her one serious sexual experience had been an awkward straining in the dark with a guy she'd seen for a little bit in college. She'd decided to sleep with him because she liked him and she figured it was about time, but things had come to a screeching halt when she'd explained he was about to be her first. It wasn't fun to watch him throw his clothes back on like they were flame retardant and he was standing next to a Molotov cocktail.

Later, she learned that he'd been dating her only because he wanted to get back at the woman he was really interested in.

It would have been a mistake to have made love to that guy, but she'd always wished she'd had some experience. Previously, it had been because she felt isolated from what every other woman her age was doing. Now she wished she had some perspective on what it had been like to be kissed by Jack Walker.

Maybe what happened in that closet was nothing special. No doubt it hadn't been extraordinary for him. He'd probably had as many erotic experiences as she'd had nights alone.

Bondage masks and handcuffs, indeed.

She frowned, wondering why she was wasting her time. Jack Walker
had
someone in his life. And he obviously felt something for the woman because he'd seemed genuinely sorry he'd taken things where he had. Maybe he was merely a good actor but she actually believed he regretted the fact that he'd cheated on his fiancée.

All they needed to do was keep things on a professional level. And once she got to work, the days would fly by and the project would be done before she knew it. He probably wasn't going to give the kiss another thought. So neither would she.

As for the friends idea? She had to wonder whether men like Jack Walker had friends, the kind you called when you were in trouble or when you needed a laugh. Even the super rich needed support, she supposed, but it was hard to imagine him ever turning to someone else for help or comfort. He was just too self-confident. Too in control.

Although it wasn't as if her own address book was full. She didn't have many people in her life, especially now that she'd left Stanley's gallery. There was . . . Grace, she supposed. A distant cousin or two. But for Callie, friends were tricky because they got involved in a person's life, and hers was hard to explain in a lot of places.

So no, even if she wasn't attracted to him, she and Jack Walker couldn't possibly be friends. He was already asking questions and those shrewd hazel eyes were way too observant for her comfort.

Callie frowned, seeing a delivery van come rambling up the drive and stop under the porte cochere. Leaping into motion, she took comfort in the surge of excitement because it had nothing to do with Jack.

“Let's go welcome Nathaniel,” she said to Arthur. The dog pricked his ears, ever ready for an adventure, and happily raced for the stairs.

The deliveryman was opening the van's rear doors as she came across the driveway. Jack emerged from the house at the same time and she noted that he'd changed into a suit and tie. She tried to remain calm as their eyes met. Predictably, he seemed totally at ease.

The portrait had been shipped in a wooden crate and the cumbersome load was lowered to the ground on a mechanical pallet. After sliding the heavy weight onto a dolly, the deliveryman followed Jack over to the garage. Together, they rolled the painting up the stairs and hefted the crate onto her worktable.

As soon as the other man had left, Jack offered her a hammer. “You want to do the honors?”

She took the tool from him and began to pull out the nails along the crate's edge. When she'd worked around the perimeter, they lifted off the top together and she pulled back the packing material.

Nathaniel Walker's beautiful, brooding face was revealed and she couldn't keep a small sound of pleasure from escaping her lips. She leaned in close to the canvas. With his wavy dark hair and his heavily lidded eyes, he and Jack looked very much alike.

“This is such a remarkable work,” she murmured. “I can almost see him breathing.”

The Revolutionary War leader was seated on a chair, head turned so he was staring out of the painting. He was dressed in a black suit coat and had on a frothy white shirt that came up high on his neck. The silver mirror in his left hand was also facing toward the viewer, a symbol of his work as a glassmaker. His other hand hung off the arm of the chair in an elegant drift of pale skin. The background was dark, practically black, although Callie knew that with proper cleaning it would become less dense.

She reached over to her box of tools and supplies. Strapping on a headset that carried a magnifying glass and a light, she began to scan the surface of the painting, immediately identifying the pattern of craquelure, or small fissures, in the paint. This complex network of fine cracks was expected and confirmed the painting's age. As she continued her examination, she was able to see that the brushwork was masterly and the colors were blended with confidence. She couldn't wait to strip off the old layer of varnish that had yellowed and get a real sense of the hues and tones Copley had used.

“You're really in your element,” Jack said softly.

She looked up, having forgotten for the moment he was even in the room. He had settled against the wall, one foot resting on the toe of a wing tip, arms crossed in front of his chest. A half smile stretched his lips and his eyelids were low, suggesting he'd been deep in thought as he'd watched her.

Feeling vulnerable, she reminded herself that reviewing the painting was part of the job, not a private moment for her. Still, she felt like he'd seen her without her guard up and it made her want to banish him from the garage.

She took the headset off, tossing it into the toolbox. “He looks great and he traveled well. I'd like to go to the MFA now.”

“Sure thing.”

They were heading to the stairs when he stopped. “I'm really happy you're the one doing this. I like the way you look at him.”

When Jack started walking again, she followed more slowly, intrigued that a man whose world revolved around money had such sentimentality in him.

“Your father's name was Nathaniel, right?” she asked, taking the banister as she went down the stairs.

“Nathaniel the sixth, as a matter of fact.” He opened a side door into the garage and lights came on automatically as they walked through. Parked inside were two Jaguars, a pickup truck, and some kind of sports car, the likes of which she'd never seen before.

“Why weren't you the seventh?”

Jack stopped in front of the sports car. “My brother was born before I was. He got the name.”

“I didn't know you had a brother.”

“He keeps a very low profile.” Jack opened the door for her.

“Now you've got me curious.”

She watched him go around to the driver's side, a smile on his face. “Nate's a great guy, but he's got a bad case of wanderlust. I don't get to see him half as much as I'd like.”

She slid into the car and felt like the seat had been custom fit to her body. Impressive, she thought. “What does he do?”

“He's a chef.” Jack got behind the wheel.

“You sound proud of him.”

“I am.”

The doors shut with a muted sound and she breathed deeply as she put on her seat belt.

“Hmmm. I love the way this car smells. All this leather . . . It's beautiful. What kind is it?”

“An Aston Martin DB9.”

The engine came to life in a deep growl that faded to a soft purr. As they headed down the drive, Mozart filled the air and she stroked the butter-soft hand rest.

One minute later she was gripping the damn thing for dear life.

After screaming down Cliff Road, Jack shot into traffic on Route 9 and proceeded to dodge around other cars like he was playing a video game. The man was a menace behind the wheel and Callie thought the only saving grace was that the sports car probably had top-of-the-line air bags and plenty of them.

As they swerved around a truck, she looked over at Jack in alarm. He was calm, whistling under his breath with the music.

He glanced over at her and frowned. “Are you cold? You look uncomfortable.”

He reached for the climate controls.

“No! I'm fine.” Anything to keep him looking forward, with both hands on the wheel.

“You don't look fine.”

“Fear of imminent death does that to me,” she said as she was pushed against the door when they jogged around a VW Bug.

Jack nodded. “The traffic around Boston takes a while to get used to, but it's not much better in New York. Those cabbies can be heavy-handed.”

This was being said while he cut off a bread truck and then threw on the brakes as they came up to a stoplight.

Callie jerked forward and thanked God for the seat belt running down her chest. Catching her breath, she looked at him. “You know, there's a middle ground between the brake and the accelerator. You don't have to always pick one.”

He seemed surprised. “I'm making you uncomfortable?”

“G-force wasn't something I expected to experience in a car.”

He let out a short laugh as the light turned green. She braced herself, but he eased them forward.

“Sorry about that. I usually drive alone.”

“Probably because people are afraid to ride with you,” she said drily.

He looked over at her. And then grinned.

She flushed, wishing she could be indifferent to him, wishing that his smile didn't make her feel as if they were sharing some kind of intimate secret. She looked out the window. They were passing neighborhoods and small shops, the road being an odd hybrid of a small highway and a regular municipal street. As she focused on the passing view, distraction was the landmark she was searching for.

“So how did you get into conservation?” he asked, as if he sensed her desire for a diversion.

“I started out studying art history. I loved the lectures. Sitting in a dark room, seeing beautiful works of art up on the screen, the professor's voice low in the background. I used to imagine that I might someday own paintings like the ones I studied. Pretty soon, I found out how much they cost and knew the only way I'd ever get close to them was if I worked on them.” She paused. “You know, you have some very special art in your house.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean, the Canaletto in the front hall alone is . . . spectacular. The Titian and the El Greco in the dining room.”

She felt him look at her. “Did you see the Rubens in my study?”

Her eyes widened. “Don't you ever worry someone is going to steal them?”

He shook his head as he pulled up to another light. “The man who wired the MFA did my house. The paintings are bolted into the walls with weight-sensitive alarms. They're going nowhere.”

“Has your family always collected?”