The Art of Love: Origins of Sinner's Grove (27 page)

“Of course.” She turned to Gus. “Are you sure? Maybe—”

“He’s sure,” Sandy said as he headed out the door.

With that, Lia found herself alone with the man she was rapidly coming to find irresistible, like a flame that draws you to its warmth until you’re close enough to get singed. If ever there was a time to keep her wits about her, this was it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

L
ia looked around and clasped her hands. “Well, I—”

“Come with me,” Gus said, taking her hand. “I just got a revised set of plans from my architect and I want to see what you think.”

Over the next half hour Lia watched and listened in amazement as Gus spread out the vision of the estate he planned to build on the mountain above Little Eden. “See,” he said, pointing to one of the schematics, “the Great House will be three stories tall so it can take advantage of both the ocean and the ridge views. The master suite will take up a corner with wraparound views, and there’ll be a large balcony off the bedroom.”

Lia could feel a slight flush and cursed herself for her overactive imagination. Fortunately Gus was looking at the plans and not at her. She leaned over and read the signature at the bottom of the plans. “Green and Green?”

“Yeah. A pair of brothers down in the southern part of the state, in Pasadena. I wanted something substantial and I like their work. It’s real natural. Solid. They call it Arts and Crafts style.” He winked at Lia. “I figured you’d like that.”

Lia grinned and gestured to the ornate dining room. “Well, it’s certainly nothing like this house.”

“No, and that’s what I like about it. Still, this place has its up sides…or will once your mural is finished.”

Lia looked at him seriously. “Are you sure you want to leave the subject matter totally up to me? I mean, it is a commission and you’re paying for it.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I trust you.”

Gus continued to gaze at Lia. To break the spell he was weaving she looked back down at the plans and pointed to many small structures. “What are these?”

“Remember I told you I wanted people to experience the area without destroying it in the process? I’m thinking of building several bungalows in and around the redwoods so the guests can do that.”

“Guests with money, right?”

Gus reacted to her crisp tone. “You seem to have a burr in your saddle about people with money. Why is that?”

Lia bit her lip. When would she learn to keep her mouth shut? “Nothing…I was just thinking about the people without money. What happens to them?”

Gus looked at her intently. “I’ve been one of those people, remember?” He raised his eyebrows to remind her of the painting of hers that he’d bought. “I’ve slept on riverbanks and wondered where my next meal was coming from. I’ve been there. And now I have more money than I’ll ever need. And you know what? It’s a hell of a lot better having money than not having it. So I would tell you, those who go through a spate of bad luck through no fault of their own ought to be helped, and those who can help themselves ought to get off their butts and do it.”

“But what about those people—take artists, for example—who really have something to contribute, but who can’t because they have to spend their lives supporting themselves? That seems unfair.”

Gus shrugged. “Life is unfair. Or maybe in the end it all evens out. I had a run of good luck in the Klondike and I’ve kept that streak going through a lot of hard work. But in other ways I haven’t been so lucky. I leave it to the Almighty to sort it all out.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Lia said.

He looked down at the drawing for a moment, rubbing his chin. “Of course, maybe we could help fate a bit, give some of those artists of yours a chance to strut their stuff rent free for a while.”

Lia caught her breath. “What do you mean?”

Gus grinned and playfully chucked her on her chin. “Nothing. Just blue skyin’ is all. Now, how about I take you to dinner on our way to dropping you off at your place?”

Was it just a friendly invitation or was there more to it? Did she want there to be more? “I…are you sure?”

Gus turned serious. “As sure as I am the sun’s going to rise tomorrow morning. Let’s get our…collaboration…off to a good start.”

“All right, then.” Lia politely refused Gus’s offer to wait upstairs in his private sitting room while he changed. She stayed in the foyer until he came down barely ten minutes later looking unbelievably handsome in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. He grabbed his overcoat and they were about to leave when Mrs. Coats came up to them.

“Here’s the key you were wantin’, sir,” she said, handing it over to Gus. He in turn gave it to Lia.

“Think of this place as your own,” he said. “Just holler to Mrs. Coats when you come and go so she doesn’t think there’s a scallywag in the house.” He winked at the housekeeper as he said it. “I don’t care what hours you keep, just as long as you keep making progress.”

“Oh. That’s very trusting of you. I appreciate that. And about the progress—I was wondering if it would be possible to create some sort of covering that I could easily raise and lower to protect the painting when I’m not working on it. I worry about dust and temperature changes, things like that.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll rig something up for you tomorrow. Mrs. Coats, don’t wait up.” Both Lia and Mrs. Coats’s eyebrows shot up at his implication, causing him to chuckle. “I meant that I’m going to the gym after I drop Miss Starling off.” He tsked. “Shame on you ladies for your wicked thoughts.” When Lia and Mrs. Coats realized he was joking they both laughed in relief.

The evening passed in a dream. Gus took Lia to a very fancy restaurant called Henry’s, where he apparently had a standing reservation—or at least the maître d’ knew him well enough to give him a table despite the line of well-dressed patrons waiting to be seated. They dined on lobster, which Gus ordered, washed down with a very expensive bottle of wine. Gus told her stories about growing up on the farm and described his brother Jonas (a “hard-working man”) and sister-in-law Sally (“She makes the world’s best fried chicken, bar none”) and their kids. Lia told Gus all about her sister Em, leaving out the whole sordid mess their lives had become before Lia left New York. Before they knew it, the restaurant had nearly emptied and the staff was patiently waiting for them to finish their coffee and leave.

True to his word, Gus walked Lia to her door and politely said good night.

“I’m not going to ask you in,” she warned him.

He smiled. “I don’t expect you to. Besides, you need to rest up for your big day tomorrow. You’re going to begin the biggest painting you’ve ever done, am I right?”

She smiled. “Yes, you are, and yes, I’d better get some sleep.” They both paused. “Well, good night,” she finally said.

Lia watched as Gus walked down the path leading to his car. Halfway there he stopped and turned around. “Lia?”

“Yes?”

He said nothing, but jogged back and abruptly took her in his arms, capturing her lips in his. His kiss was unlike the others—not deferential, not overpowering, just…exuding happiness. Pure and simple happiness. She sighed into the joining, which felt natural and right.

After a moment he broke the kiss and smiled ruefully. “Couldn’t help myself.” He then turned and jogged back to his car, waving over his shoulder. “Get some sleep,” he said.

Lia did sleep that night, but her dreams were filled with images of a dark angel who swept down upon her and engulfed her in his powerful embrace. She willingly gave him her body and boldly explored his. He had magnificent wings but strangely they didn’t bother her; in truth they only fueled his complete sensual domination over her. The sadness came afterward, when he used those wings to fly into the sky, away from her and their love. Lia woke up, damp with perspiration, and had to shake her head to rid herself of the disturbing feelings. Still the image remained and she could only assume she understood what it all meant. Beware, her mind told her. But her heart wouldn’t obey.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

W
eeks went by and Lia settled into a productive routine of working on Gus’s mural for the part of each day when the light best suited her needs. Gus rarely interrupted her, although she was keenly aware of his presence when he was home.

As promised, he had rigged up an ingenious system to raise and lower what looked like a large bedspread over the work. Out of shyness, or perhaps insecurity, she had taken to dropping the cover over the painting whenever she thought he might appear. That was silly, of course; he could view it whenever he wanted to when she wasn’t there. But somehow she knew he respected her desire to keep it hers alone until it was finished; it was just one of many ways in which she felt instinctively in tune with her patron.

By early March she had made significant progress on the mural and took a morning off to scout for more pieces to add to Gus’s collection. He’d been so pleased with the selections she’d brought him so far that now he told her to simply put whatever purchases she deemed worthwhile on his account. It was thrilling to know he had such confidence in her.

Lia’s last stop of the morning was the Worth Gallery on Maiden Lane. Her good friend Gottardo Piazzoni was exhibiting several paintings in advance of the California Society of Artists’s annual fall exhibition. Like many other painters, Gottardo often previewed his work to gauge the public’s response to a new direction he was taking. No sense producing a lot of paintings that nobody wanted to buy! Personally, Lia felt that art should lead rather than follow, but she happened to love her colleague’s style. The painter took tonalism to an extreme; rather than realistically depict a particular location, his landscapes of various locales in northern California conveyed a given mood strictly through dramatic color and brush stroke. Gus, she knew, would understand what the painter was trying to say.

She was examining a promising piece entitled
Putah Creek
when a round, middle-aged woman wearing a fur coat and significant jewelry tapped her on the shoulder.

“Why, Miss Starling, I thought it was you!”

Lia recognized the woman immediately as Mrs. Hunter P. Mason, of the Fort Mason Masons. She’d been one of the half-dozen guests at the Firestones’ New Year gathering who’d told Lia she’d be contacting her regarding a commission. The society matron probably didn’t even remember she’d promised Lia a job. The memory of those first few weeks waiting for calls that never came swept over Lia like a shroud. It was New York City post-George all over again. She could feel the blush of humiliation creep over her skin, but she pursed her lips and willed it to stop. Why should she be embarrassed, anyway? If people thought it was amusing to lead someone on when they never intended to follow through, why, that was their problem, not hers.

No point in burning bridges, however. Lia’s practical side won over. She raised her chin and pasted on a smile. “Mrs. Mason. How are you?”

“Why I’m just fine, my dear. But it’s been over two months and I’m getting impatient. How is your mural for Wolfstone Enterprises coming along?”

Wolfstone? She’d been working for Gus, not his company. It dawned on Lia that maybe he ran the expense of her services through his business. She was a practical woman, but somehow that seemed too impersonal. “Ah, you mean Mr. Wolff? It’s…I’m making progress. How did you know about that?”

Mrs. Mason let out a hearty chuckle. “Well, I’m sure all of us who wanted to snatch you up are well aware of it. But I told Jim Caldwell that I was next in line and he’d just have to get behind me—that is if he could wrestle the spot from Letty MacIntire.”