An Irresistible Bachelor (18 page)

Which was a bit of a surprise considering how clear-cut the situation was. She knew it would be crazy to think Jack would end his engagement. So if she were to get involved with him, she was just going to end up exactly where her mother had. As second best to a rich man's better half.

She was going to have to make it her business not to get caught alone with him again.

Because she obviously couldn't trust herself. And if she let Jack kiss her again, if she let him touch her body, God forbid if she let him make love to her, she was bound to start confusing the intense physical sensations with emotions. Wasn't that what the naive always did and why first loves were so painful? If her heart got involved, she'd feel a hell of a lot worse than sexually frustrated.

Hell.
If.

She had a feeling it was too late for
if.
The man captivated her with all of his contradictions, with his hard shell and his soft touch. He was like no one she'd ever met and not because he was rich and powerful.

But he was never going to be hers.

With a deep breath, Callie set the watch back where he'd left it, trying desperately not to get lost in the thoughtful gesture.

Staring at the painting, she attempted to find the appropriate enthusiasm for the adventure she was about to embark on, but it was a while before she was ready to get started.

With the documentation finished, her next step was to strip off the dirt and the old varnish layer. First, she needed to determine what kind of varnish had been applied and choose a solvent that would be strong enough to remove the protective coat but not so intense as to take off any of the paint layer. She was going to use the lower left-hand corner to do the testing, in an area that would be covered by the frame.

When she'd finally gotten into bed the night before, she'd reviewed the painting's records one more time. The varnish had been applied in the early 1930s, at the time of the last cleaning, and this meant it was made of natural compounds. Nothing synthetic would have been used back then and she'd come prepared with chemicals that were appropriate to remove a tree-sap-based resin.

She had six different solvents of graduated strength and she picked out the weakest one, opening the lid and releasing the familiar sweet, chemical smell. Before she set to work, she opened two windows a couple of inches to make sure that Artie would have plenty of fresh air. Strapping on her breathing apparatus, which would filter the vapors as she worked so closely over the solvent, she plucked a wooden stick from the can and wrapped a small amount of cotton around one end. She dipped the bud, as it was known, into the solution and gently brushed over the canvas. She wasn't surprised when there was little effect and moved up a grade.

After considering the effect of the stronger solvent, she went back to her jars and readjusted the strength one more time to settle on the perfect composition to dissolve the varnish layer safely. She was careful to document the chemical compounds she tried out, noting when she had reached the right balance.

And when she had, she ventured out onto the painting proper. Whenever the bud became too dirty, she disposed of it in a sealed jar, wound another one on the stick and kept going. This was the part of her job that she loved the most. The quiet, the intense focus on such a small area, the delicate work, the solitude. It gave her peace, focusing her mind while she used her hands. The world and her problems faded into the distance, no longer crashing cymbals, not even a whisper.

It was just her and the painting.

While she worked, her eyes traveled over the portrait intermittently. She was learning the landscape of the masterpiece, the vast darkness around Nathaniel's head, the dense grays and deep blacks of his jacket, the frothy cream and white of his shirt. His tormented, handsome face was her favorite part. She was enchanted with the faint blush of pink across the cheekbones, the dark velvet of his pupils, the thick browns and blacks of his hair.

It was quite possible she'd be in love with him by the end of the project, she thought, looking into the eyes again.

They were so like Jack's.

 

A couple of hours later, the quiet of the studio was broken.

“Hello?” Thomas's voice barreled through the silence. “Mind if I come up?”

“Hi! You're always welcome.”

She got up, as did Arthur. The dog had been a patient observer throughout the morning, and as he put his front paws out and lowered his shoulders in a big stretch, he looked as if he had high hopes for the man's arrival.

“I've brought you lunch,” Thomas said as he clomped up the stairs. He was carrying a picnic basket and a phone jack.

Arthur loped over to him, ignoring the wire and sniffing the wicker. His wagging tail suggested he was touched by the gesture.

“That's awfully nice of you,” Callie said, accepting the food and frowning as Thomas got down on his hands and knees under her table. “But you didn't have to. Er—Is something wrong?”

“Just hooking up a phone for you.” His head popped up and he nodded at the basket. “Would you mind? It's in there.”

She laughed and took out a small cordless unit. “But I don't really need one.”

“Jack called this morning. He wants me to install one for you.”

“Oh.”

When Thomas was finished connecting the wires, he checked for a dial tone. “You're all set. Now, I've got a message from Jack for you. He wanted to know if you'd meet him in Little Italy for dinner tonight. At seven, at Nico's.”

Nico's. At seven. Her heart skipped a beat.

At least they wouldn't be alone. Restaurants had people in them. Lots of other people.

“Okay.”

“And don't worry about getting there. I'll drive you. Hey, can I look at what you're doing?”

“Sure.”

As Thomas studied the portrait, Callie set the basket down on a side table. Arthur put his snout right next to it, as if to remind everyone of the pivotal role he was going to play when it was opened.

She was stroking one of his ears when Thomas looked up. “How long did it take you to do those four square inches?”

“A couple of hours.”

“You've got some work ahead of you,” he said with a grin. “I better get out of your hair.”

“Thanks for the lunch. And the phone.”

“No problem.”

Thomas went over to the stairs and paused. When he looked back at her, his eyes seemed somber, as if he was debating the merits of saying something. Evidently he thought better of it, because he just lifted his hand in a wave and disappeared.

Callie stared into Artie's brown eyes, telling herself not to get worked up.

It was just dinner, she told herself. In a public place. Where they couldn't possibly get into trouble.

She tried not to think about what it would be like if Jack happened to be a free man and they were going to go out somewhere together.

It would be nice to go on a real date with someone, she thought. She'd enjoy getting dressed for a lover. And she wanted to walk into a crowded restaurant where a man would look up and take her into his arms with his eyes. She wanted to know what it was like to feel that she was beautiful to someone and had been eagerly waited for.

Callie cursed under her breath. Of course, as she spun the fantasy, Jack was sitting at the table, and the image made her think of her parents.

And all those nights her mother had made herself beautiful for someone else's husband.

Preparing for her father's arrival usually started in the late afternoon, and as her mother had prepped in front of the mirror, pleasure made her normally dull eyes shine. Callie would always help her decide what to wear and how her hair should be worn, but no matter how considered the choice, a change would always be made at the last minute. A different dress, another pair of shoes, hair back instead of down.

Unfortunately, more often than not, the nights had ended with a delay, an apology, a letdown. The disillusioned undressing had been terrible to watch.

And yet she'd spent decades waiting for the man.

Callie had often wondered why, at least until she'd met Jack.

The answer, she now knew, was passion. When her parents had been together, there had been magic and sparks and tenderness, even with the perennial conflict. Her father had been very tall and statuesque, a powerful man with a deep chest and a low voice that rumbled like thunder. Usually, he was very serious, but under the right circumstances, her mother could shake him out of his somber moods. Callie suspected that must have been part of the attraction for her mother. Transforming someone so great, so powerful, even if it was only for a short time, must have been meaningful.

And perhaps the passion, the emotion, the laughter, was what her father had lacked in his bigger life, but found in their tiny apartment.

Callie shook her head, thinking she would never know. Maybe he'd had those same things at Grace's house, too.

Arthur butted his head against her hand, but when she went to scratch the scruff under his chin, he looked pointedly at the picnic basket.

“Right.” She snapped to attention and opened the thing up. Tossing him a strip of chicken, she started in on the salad while deciding it was time to take a break. She was contemplating a walk when she remembered the documents that were in the closet.

When she was finished with lunch, she lifted the top container off the stack and muscled it over to the couch. As she removed the lid, there was no sense pretending she wasn't preoccupied with going out to dinner with Jack, and she figured she could handle sorting paper with a scattered brain.

It was safer than playing around with chemicals and the painting—that was for sure.

LATER THAT evening, Callie stared at her reflection in the bathroom and played with her hair. Up? Down?

She let it fall across her shoulders, knowing it shouldn't matter.

Two minutes later, her hands were propping it up on her head again. She couldn't help herself and a lot of it was pride. She didn't want to meet Jack looking anything less than composed. Refined. Elegant.

Although she was going to need a different wardrobe to really pull it off. She'd settled on a black skirt that fell below the knee, a white blouse that was pretty nondescript, and a black sweater to wrap around her shoulders. The black tights and shoes were also garden variety. Regarding herself in the bathroom mirror, she figured she was one step away from looking like a nun, saved only by the red fall of her hair.

Definitely down, she thought. And lose the old-lady tights.

She ran a razor over her calves, put on some nude stockings, and slipped into a pair of shoes with a modest heel.

Throwing on her coat and picking up her purse, she headed for the stairs quickly because Thomas was waiting for her. She was about to hit the top landing when Mrs. Walker's voice stopped her.

“Going out this evening?” The woman stepped into the hall and looked over what Callie was wearing.

“Yes. I am.”

“With my son?”

Callie lifted her chin. Rule number two when dealing with a bully: Show no fear.

“Yes.”

“Well. You've certainly made an impression on him. I imagine you must be quite pleased.”

As if Callie had set out all along to seduce her son.

“If you'll excuse me, I don't want to keep Jack waiting.” She turned and started down the stairs.

“Don't fool yourself, Ms. Burke. My son is very much in love with his fiancée. There is no hope for you.”

Rule number three for dealing with bullies: If you have to set them straight, do it firmly. Any weakness is perceived as an opening and will immediately be capitalized on.

Callie looked over her shoulder and spoke clearly. “Please don't take offense at this, but you are presuming a hell of a lot of things for no good reason. Good night, Mrs. Walker.”

She forced herself not to race down the stairs. The last thing she wanted to do was slip and fall, and her legs already felt like pipe cleaners.

It was a relief to find Thomas in the kitchen wearing a biker's jacket, all ready to go.

“You're going to like Nico's,” he said, holding the back door open. “The owner's a friend of mine. Best osso buco in Little Italy.”

Waiting outside, with the motor running, was the Pontiac GTO she'd seen in the driveway earlier.

“Nice car,” she said, getting in.

“You've got excellent taste.”

Twenty minutes later, he piloted them through a cramped network of streets and stopped in front of a bright red door.

“Thanks for the ride.” She got out and waved as he screeched off.

She went inside Nico's, and when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw a fleet of tiny tables and dozens of waiters dancing around with trays held high on their shoulders. The place was packed with people talking and laughing and there was some kind of fabulous opera playing in the background.

No, wait. That was one of the waiters singing.

“Welcome!” A man came up to her and smiled. “I am Nico! Come this way, Ms. Burke.”

“How did you—”

“He is right, of course. The red of your hair. Beautiful!”

Bemused, Callie followed the man past a bunch of people who were obviously waiting for tables and she looked for Jack in the crowd.

But he wasn't there and she wasn't led to a table. Nico went straight through the room and into the kitchen. There, at a linen-covered table in the back, Jack was sitting down and laughing at something one of the cooks had said.

“Mr. Walker is an old friend,” Nico explained with a smile. “So we always make a special place for him.”