Portrait Of A Lover (9 page)

Sincerely,
Annabelle Lawson

Two days later Annabelle’s letter arrived at the Grand Hotel in London and was delivered up the stairs on a gold-trimmed salver—to the largest, most luxurious suite in the building.

Magnus Wallis answered the door and accepted the letter, then carried it toward the roaring fire in the marble hearth, where he stood for a moment, staring at the penmanship.

At last he tore it open, his heart pounding violently with curiosity and anticipation as his eyes scanned over it.

She was coming. Tomorrow.

Exhilaration flooded through his veins at the mere thought of seeing her again, after all these years. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, and labored to slow his breathing.

A moment later he set the letter on the red cushioned chair and crossed to the sideboard, where he poured himself a brandy. He swirled it around in his glass a few times before taking a sip, wondering what the hell he would say to her when she first walked into his gallery. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but he knew he would have to tread carefully.

He supposed, since she was coming to discuss the exhibition, he would have to address that particular issue first and convince her to let him show The Fisherman, because he knew it would garner a superb response. He’d been waiting a long time to show it to the public.

He was disappointed, however, that she wanted it back. What did she mean to do with it? he wondered uneasily. Did she have a plan for it, or did she simply not wish him to have it?

Sweeping that notion away—for it would do him no good tonight—Magnus continued to stand over the sideboard, staring at the wall. He took another sip of his drink. A log dropped in the grate, but he barely noticed because he was thinking only of one thing—Annabelle’s pain and anger outside the bank that horrific day thirteen years ago, and his own unbearable agony.

He had wronged her and he knew that, but he’d wronged himself as well, for he had not believed himself worthy of her.

Downing the rest of his drink, he reminded himself that everything was different now. He had made something of himself in America, and finally put the misery and indignity of his old life behind him.

But most importantly, he had crossed an ocean for Annabelle, and this time nothing was going to stand in his way.

She didn’t know it yet, but this time, no matter what it took, no matter how long, he was going to fight for her. And he would be relentless in that fight—forever—until the glorious, blessed day she was his.

W hen Tuesday finally came, Annabelle rode the train to London for her dreaded meeting with Magnus, and spent the entire trip rehearsing what she was going to say and how she would say it.

She had already decided she would speak of nothing but the exhibition, and she would be aloof, indifferent, somewhat cool—so he would know she did not trust him—but not to the point of rudeness, for he was a gallery owner, after all, and possibly her entrée to the exclusive London art world.

She hoped she could convey those things, and not let him see that she was nervous. Or tense. Or still affected by what had happened in the past.

Glancing down at the fashionable heeled boots she’d borrowed from Lily, which were unreasonably tight and uncomfortable, she wondered with a frown who she was trying to delude. She was beyond nervous or tense or affected. She was terrified. Terrified that she would take one look at Magnus and remember the inescapable attraction and the forbidden pleasures, and feel the heartbreaking, devastating loss of those wonders all over again.

Oh, she was dreading this. She took a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly, and promised herself that she would only remember that which was foul.

The train slowly chugged into the London station, and Annabelle got up and lugged her large case down the aisle. She stepped onto the noisy platform, where dozens of people were waving and shouting hello to other passengers, then she walked through the crowd and out onto the street, where she climbed into one of the hansom cabs lined up outside.

“
Two twelve Regent Street
, please,” she told the driver, who closed the door and returned to his seat. Soon they were on their way, clattering through the busy streets of London.

Annabelle glanced down at her black case and suddenly felt a pang of nervous butterflies. She wondered if she was being foolish, trying to get The Fisherman back. It was hardly the act of an indifferent woman…

A short time later the cab pulled up in front of the gallery, which on the outside looked like any other shop. It had a large paned window and a sign over the door that read, UMBRELLAS BY MAIL-LET, but the paint was faded and the space looked as if it had been empty for quite some time. Was this supposed to be the gallery?

Annabelle frowned. Perhaps she had been gullible to trust him even this much. Perhaps the gallery itself was another ruse, another deception.

She got out and paid the driver, then walked to the front door. Standing before it, she placed a gloved hand on her belly and took a few deep breaths to try and shoo those maddening butterflies away before she went inside.

Gathering her nerve at last, Annabelle entered and stopped just inside to look around the large, open space.

The walls were painted soft white. She could smell the fresh paint and sawdust, and the floors were newly polished oak. Supplies were littered on the floor in the far corner—a saw and sawhorse, a carpenter’s box full of tools, a few cans of paint, and brushes.

There was a large maple desk at the back, which looked like it had just been delivered, and when she looked up, she saw that the lights were yet to come, for there were a few holes in the ceiling with new wiring.

So it was going to be a gallery…

Annabelle could not deny that it would probably be marvelous when everything was finished. And the location—in the most exclusive shopping district of London—was simply inspired. It was perfect for an unknown artist just starting out.

Wondering if Magnus was there, perhaps beyond the door at the back, she cleared her throat. The sound echoed off the walls.

“Hello!” she called out. She took a few uncertain steps forward, and her heart began to pound fast and hard against her ribs.

There didn’t appear to be anyone there, so she paused to consider what to do. Perhaps she should just wait. Perhaps Magnus had stepped out for a moment.

Just then the door at the back clicked open. Annabelle sucked in a little breath and gave her bodice a quick tug at the bottom to make sure she was neat and tidy and confident. But the door stopped only halfway, as if the person behind it weren’t quite ready to come out.

Finding this more than a little disconcerting—she just wanted to get this dreaded meeting over with!—she took another step forward and spoke in a firm, assertive voice. “It’s Annabelle Lawson.”

At last the door opened all the way and a man stepped out from behind it. He wore a black suit and tie, his hair was thick and wavy, and he was striding slowly across the gallery toward her.

In the space of a single heartbeat Annabelle knew it was him—Magnus—and her breath caught in her throat.

Watching him approach, her gaze locked on his intense dark eyes and she immediately fell into a numb stupor, for he looked exactly the same—still strikingly handsome, still wielding a raw, charismatic power no other man in the world could rival.

All at once her heart boomed like thunder in her head, and she seemed to lose feeling in her arms and legs. All she could do was struggle to breathe, and fight to remember how he had once used, hurt, and deceived her.

He came to stand before her with his hands at his sides, and despite all her preconceived plans to act aloof and speak of nothing but business, something utterly inappropriate spewed out of her mouth.

“What are you doing in London, Magnus?” she asked, powerless to hide her antagonism. “You promised never to come back, and Whitby pays you to stay away.”

Oh, good God, Annabelle. She’d surely lost her mind.

He was speechless for a moment, and she thought she saw a loss of composure in his eyes. And no wonder. He probably hadn’t expected her to bring up the past, at least not in the first five seconds. She hadn’t expected it herself.

“I am aware I’m in breach of that contract,” he said firmly, recovering himself. “But I intend to terminate it while I’m here. I don’t want your brother’s money, and if I want to come to England, dammit, I’m going to come.”

Annabelle raised her chin, taking a moment to try and regain her own composure, which seemed to have drained down into her tight boots.

“Why did you come?” she asked. “To trick me again?To try for another jab at Whitby?”

She was beginning to think she should slap her hand over her mouth to prevent herself from talking. What was wrong with her? She’d intended to speak only of business matters.

Surprisingly, Magnus veered completely away from the argumentative tone of their exchange and shook his head, his voice low as he spoke with a deep, almost forceful sincerity. “No, Annabelle. I don’t give a damn about Whitby.”

His response shook her from the inside out. She felt the full power of his emotions, the potent pull of his resolve. He was determined to convince her she was wrong, and shockingly, every impulse in her body wanted to hear more.

All at once she felt as if her best intentions to remain “on guard” were no match for the strength of his will, or the power of his desires, whatever they were. Her heart was racing and she was perspiring, and she wanted only to flee.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” she said. “I think I should go.” She turned to leave, but he followed.

“Wait. Just hear me out.”

“Hear you out?” What in God’s name did he want to say?

“Please, Annabelle.”

She stopped with her back to him, her hand on the door handle, wondering uneasily why she was not already outside on the street, hailing a cab. Because she hated Magnus—now more than ever—for showing her how much of a hold he still had upon her. Just the sight of him had knocked all her best laid plans out of her mind and turned her into a blathering idiot, a pathetic woman, still pining away over a thirteen-year-old heartbreak.

He moved to the door and stood beside her. Blood pulsing through her veins, she could feel his eyes studying her face, and it took considerable effort to turn her gaze toward him. She managed it, however, and strove to maintain a steadfast glare that told him he could not take advantage of her in any way.

Eyes fixed on her, he slowly brought a hand up to place over hers on the doorknob, then gently lifted it off.

Annabelle snatched her hand back. She did not want him to touch her.

“Please, hear me out,” he said one more time.

Annabelle labored to quiet the mad workings of her body, but it wasn’t easy when she was so shaken by the fact that this meeting—which was supposed to be about an art exhibition—had spiraled so swiftly out of control.

“What is it you need to say?” she asked with impatience, noticing for the first time some differences in his appearance. He’d developed lines around his eyes, and he was dressed differently. Expensively.

His broad shoulders rose and fell with a deep intake of breath. “Will you come away from the door?”

She took a moment to consider it, then did not even try to hide her lack of enthusiasm as she turned around.

“Perhaps we could go into my office,” he said. “I have chairs, and I could make you a cup of tea.”

“I don’t want to go into your office,” she replied.

“Please,” he said again, holding up a hand to direct her toward the back.

For a long moment Annabelle stared at him, for she did not want to do anything he asked of her, but in the end she did move away from the door—albeit reluctantly—for no reason but one. She had come here to learn his intentions and his reasons for returning to London, and if she did not learn those things, she would leave here feeling very much in the dark. And she did not wish to be in the dark. That had been her downfall with him the last time. All summer long.

Not waiting for him to ask again, Annabelle set down her art case, crossed to the back and entered the office. It was a small room, but impeccably furnished, with a new sofa and two matching chairs on a Persian rug, and an empty space at the other end, presumably for the desk outside the door.

Magnus entered behind her and walked to the cabinet in the corner. He opened one of the doors and withdrew a kettle.

“How are you going to make tea?” Annabelle asked. “You have no stove.”

“It’s an electric kettle,” he replied. “I picked it up in Chicago last year.”

Annabelle watched him plug it into the newly wired outlet on the wall. An electric kettle. What a brilliant invention. In any other circumstances she would have asked questions about it, but at present she was in no mood to talk about kettles, even if they were electric.

While he bent forward to withdraw cups and saucers from the bottom of the cabinet, Annabelle took note of his finely made black suit and how it complimented his strong, muscled form. He was, and always would be, an attractive man who moved with a masculine grace all his own, and she hated the fact that she could still think so. Hence she decided it would be better not to look at all. She turned to face the window.

It was at that moment she saw it.

The painting.

It was hanging on the wall adjacent to the window.

Annabelle froze on the spot, her gaze moving slowly across the canvas as she took in the dramatic mix of color, the light and delicate shadows. She could almost hear the fishing line slicing through the air, the hook landing on the water. She could smell the lake, the worms in the bait box, and the smelly trout.

Barely aware of the teacups clinking on the saucers behind her, she moved closer to the painting, her emotions welling up inside her.

God in heaven. It was unlike anything she’d ever done before or since, she realized with a strange feeling of despair as she stared at it. She couldn’t believe she was the artist.

Suddenly Magnus was standing beside her, gazing down at her profile. She hadn’t even heard him approach.

“There it is,” he said, turning his eyes toward the painting as well. “I know you said you’d like to exchange it for another piece, but I’d really rather not.”

Suddenly she remembered that she had wanted to destroy it, and she could have wept at the thought. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t possibly, not after seeing it again.

“I’d forgotten what it looked like,” she said in a haze.

They both stood in silence, staring at the painting, while the clock ticked steadily on the opposite wall. Then Annabelle remembered where she was and with whom she was standing.

“I’m surprised you kept it,” she said with bite. “I thought you would have sold it by now.”

His tone was calm and disturbingly tender. “I could never sell it. Not in a thousand years, for any price.”

It was a flattering reply, but Annabelle didn’t trust it.

Saying nothing more, she went to sit on the sofa. Magnus took a seat in one of the chairs, facing her. They sat in awkward silence for a moment before Magnus spoke.

“You look well,” he said.

So they were going to engage in small talk, were they?

“Thank you,” she replied coolly. “I’ve been keeping busy.”

“Painting?”

As he sat back waiting for her answer, Annabelle wondered why they were doing this. They were surely beyond normal social graces, especially after all the angry words they’d already spoken. Well, the angry words she had spoken.

Perhaps he was seeking to bring some normalcy to this conversation, which might not be such a bad thing. She did not wish to be unnerved. She wanted to be as calm and indifferent as he appeared to be.