An Irresistible Bachelor (8 page)

Hell, he'd be lucky to get a quarter ownership of the thing, which would hardly justify the nine-digit investment they needed.

He'd learned long ago not to put his money into anything he couldn't get it back out of. His father had taught him that lesson. The first hundred thousand the man had “borrowed” from him had been lost into the ether. After that, Jack had required that some transfer of property, either real estate, jewelry, or art, occur in his favor before he wrote a check to Nathaniel Six.

God, his father had hated him for that. But the elder Nathaniel had been more horrified at the thought of going to a bank and begging for money from people he wouldn't have sit at his dinner table. Jack owned everything by the time Nathaniel Six died. The cars, the houses in Wellesley, Palm Beach, and the Adirondacks, the art collection, his mother's big jewels. His father, after starting with millions of dollars in the 1950s, had just under a hundred thousand dollars to his name when he was buried.

Jack activated the automatic door and heard it shut with a rumbling sound as he walked over to the porte cochere.

Having the Copley portrait in his possession meant everything to him. As soon as the painting was conserved, it was going back over the mantelpiece in the living room where it hung when he and his brother were growing up. In reclaiming the first Nathaniel, he felt like he'd closed the circle and all of the financial chaos his father had caused was over. Finally.

As he let himself in the house, he called out, “Callie? Hello?”

When there was no answer, he put his briefcase down and walked through the living room to the library, then through the den and the solarium. Lights were on in all the rooms, but she was nowhere to be found. When he got back to the front hall, he looked up the stairs and wondered if he should go hunting for her among the guest rooms.

A picture of her in one of his beds brought up images he was determined not to dwell on and he was debating the merits of going upstairs to find her when he realized something was missing. Where was Arthur? The dog was usually waiting at the door for him.

Jack headed to the kitchen. Next to the sink, a bowl, plate, and fork had been carefully washed and left to dry, so he knew for sure she was in the house. No one else would have left dishes out like that. His mother rarely set foot in the kitchen and certainly never cleaned up after herself. The staff had the day off and Elsie would have gone home to have dinner with her own family.

He was resigning himself to a search of the guest rooms when Arthur came down the back stairs.

“What are you doing up there?” He bent down as the dog ambled over in his heavy way.

“He was with me.”

Jack's head shot up.

Callie was standing at the foot of the stairs, wearing jeans and a navy blue fleece pullover. Her hair was all around her shoulders and he stared into her eyes, testing once again whether he had the color right, whether they really were that beautiful blue.

They were.

Before the silence continued for too long, he said, “I'm sorry I'm so damn late.”

She shrugged. “Artie and I have had a fine evening, although I suspect he'd have preferred my dinner be a little less leafy. He doesn't seem to be a big fan of salad.”

Jack's eyes narrowed as he assessed her mood. She really didn't seem perturbed. She'd been perfectly happy in an unfamiliar house all by herself, with just his dog as company.

So all that independence wasn't just an act, he thought.

“Are you already setting up your workshop?” he asked, nodding at the stairs. “I thought being over the garage would suit you better, but if you'd rather be in the house, that's fine, too.”

Her brows lifted. “Actually, I've been reading about Copley and trying not to fall asleep before you got home.”

He gave Arthur a sound pat on the ribs and straightened.

“So what are you doing in the staff quarters?”

“That's where my room is.”

Jack frowned. “What the hell—” He stopped himself. He didn't have to ask who'd put her up there. “You are not staying in the staff wing.”

And he and his mother were going to have a little talk in the morning.

Callie pushed her hands into her pockets. “I'm quite comfortable up there.”

“Don't be absurd.” He started toward the stairs. “Let's move your things.”

She raised her hands. “Look, I really don't care. All I need is a place to sleep.”

“How can you say that? I'll bet the last time you stayed in a room like that was back in prep school.”

“I didn't go to prep school,” she countered softly.

Jack stopped, frowned again, and then kept going. “Whatever. Come on, let's go.”

He strode past her, thinking his mother's ability to stick her nose into things was unparalleled.

When he got to the head of the narrow stairs, he headed for the open door. “Where are your clothes?”

As she came into the room, she gave him a steady look. “In the drawers.”

He glanced over at the small dresser. “Where else?”

“Nowhere else.” She went and opened a drawer, gesturing over the shirts and sweaters that were neatly folded. “Just here.”

Well, this was a new one, Jack thought.

He was used to women who needed a moving van to go away for the weekend. She was staying for a month and a half and her things fit in three drawers.

“You're a light packer.”

She shrugged. “I don't need much.”

“What about your tools?”

“In the closet.”

“So let's pack you up,” he said impatiently.

She regarded him evenly, as if weighing the inconvenience of moving against having to deal with him, and then she went over to the closet and took out a battered Samsonite suitcase that surprised the hell out of him. He'd have expected a Louis Vuitton matched set or even a bunch of Coach bags. Instead, her piece of luggage was ancient, orange, and looked as if it had seen a lot of cargo holds.

As he watched her move her clothes around, he realized something.

Whatever her relationship was with Grace, wherever that Chanel suit had come from, Callie didn't have much money. The things being taken out of the dresser were clean and serviceable, but inexpensive. There wasn't a lick of couture in sight.

When she was finished, he couldn't keep his voice from becoming gentle. “Do you have everything?”

Her eyes rose to his and narrowed, as if she'd caught the change in tone and would have preferred if he'd stayed impatient. After nodding with a strong chin, she picked up the suitcase and a wooden box covered with paint smudges, and headed out the door.

“Let me take something for you,” he said as she banged her way down the narrow staircase.

“I've got it.”

“At least let me take the suitcase.”

“If I can get this load from Penn Station to your house, I can move it to another bedroom.”

Penn Station? Jack frowned, picturing her with the heavy burden, transferring trains and walking through Back Bay Station. He had a feeling she'd probably skipped the taxi and taken the commuter train out to Wellesley, too. Which meant she'd also dragged the weight all the way up from the base of Cliff Road.

Damn it all, he thought, as he led her through the kitchen and up the main stairs. He assumed she would have flown in and taken a limo out from Logan Airport.

He felt like a heel.

“You should have told me if you needed transportation,” he said. “I would have sent my plane for you.”

He heard her stop moving and looked over his shoulder.

“I don't need any handouts,” she told him. “I got here just fine on my own.”

“But that's not the point. I could have made it easier on you.”

“I'm not interested in easy.”

He thought that was obvious, going by the luggage dangling from her hands. As she stared back in silence, her determination not to rely on him in any way irked the hell out of him.

“Struggling needlessly isn't the only way to become a martyr,” he said drily. “You could strap on a hair shirt and live on top of a pillar for a month or two.”

She shored up the load, reminding him of how much she was carrying. “Tell you what. When I need to be rescued, I'll let you know.”

He scowled and kept going, knowing it would be a cold day in the devil's living room before she would ask him for anything. And why that defiance bothered him so much, he couldn't fathom. Maybe it was just a tremendous change from what women usually expected of him.

Hell, even Blair, who was hardly a lightweight when it came to taking care of herself, relied on his jet, his contacts with Fortune 500 companies, and his connections in the art world. And he didn't mind that at all. In fact, he liked it.

When he got to the top of the landing, he took a right and led her down to the best guest room in the house. As he opened the door and flipped on the light, he heard her gasp.

The Red Room was a real showstopper, he thought, which was precisely why he gave it to her. If she wouldn't let him help her overtly, he was determined to take care of her through back channels.

Callie stepped inside and slowly dropped her load. The delight on her face made his chest swell with pleasure because he'd finally done something that made her happy.

The room was decorated in deep red and burnished gold. In the center, there was a mammoth canopy bed in the Jacobean style, a little something that his great-great-grandmother had imported from an English castle. A fireplace, made of rich russet marble, was set with logs and above its mantel was a painting of the Madonna and Child dating to the sixteenth century. The best detail, though, was the stained-glass window that faced the front lawn. Framed in swaths of thick red silk, the built-in seat under it had pillows of every size and shape to lounge on.

“Goodness,” Callie breathed, going over to the fireplace and then the window. Her next stop was the bed. She ran her fingers up the teak supports and over the acres of tasseled velvet that hung from the top. “This is magnificent.”

As her hands stroked the rich cloth, Jack found himself wanting to remember exactly how she looked in his favorite room in the house.

“Red suits you,” he murmured.

She went back to the fireplace and her eyes widened as they took in the painting. “Is this a Caravaggio?”

He nodded. “What do you think of it?”

She was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was commanding and he smiled, thinking it was how he sounded when he talked about mezzanine debt and interest rates.

“It's magnificent, clearly from the height of his prominence. But I'm shocked at its location. Is this fireplace ever used?”

“No. I've had it sealed.”

“Good. Repeated, radical changes in temperature are death to an oil painting.” She flashed her eyes over at him. “You should have this conserved. When was the last time it was cleaned?”

“My great-grandmother bought it in Italy in the nineteen twenties. I don't know that anything's been done to it since.”

She made a disapproving noise in the back of her throat as she studied the work more. Her absorption was total, her breathing shallow. He figured a stink bomb could go off in the room and she probably wouldn't notice.

This woman was pretty close to fantastic, he thought.

“So, Callie, maybe we should go through the whole house together and you can tell me what else needs attention.”

“Be happy to.” She went over to the window seat and looked through the small clear windows on either side of the stained-glass panels. Arthur went with her as if to supervise, putting two paws on the cushions and arching forward, almost as tall as she was on his hind legs. Callie's arm stole around his scruffy neck and she patted his shoulder absently.

As Jack stared at the two of them, he knew he should go. There was something altogether too appealing in the picture they made.

“The painting's arrival was delayed,” he said. “It's supposed to come tomorrow. But I can show you the space over the garage first thing in the morning.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Great.”

“The bathroom's through there.” He pointed over to a paneled door. “And I'm across the hall if you want anything.”

Her eyes skipped away from his as she straightened. Once again, he had the impression she'd wait until the house was burning down and she'd run out of water before she'd knock on his door.

What would it take for her to open up? he wondered.

“Do you need anything?” When she shook her head, he undid his jacket and started to loosen his tie. “Listen, I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived.”

She shrugged. “It really wasn't a problem.”

“My mother—”

“Is a lovely lady.” She cocked an eyebrow at him, daring him to call her on the bluff. It was obvious she was going to take the high road, and he respected her for it.

But he wasn't going to stand for her being disrespected while under his roof.

“If you have any problems with her, let me know.”

“Now, why would I have to do that?” she returned softly.

Whether she was talking about his mother's bad behavior or coming to him, it wasn't clear. Probably both.

There was a long pause. When Callie's eyes shifted to the bed, becoming wide and pleased again, he thought it was highly probable that she lived in the building in Chelsea.

The very place he'd told her he was surprised she'd even have a work studio in.