AN IRRESISTIBLE BACHELOR

by Jessica Bird

  Callie shared the details and the two talked over various points.

  "The thing is," Callie hesitated, "there was a very intimate feeling to it. But he didn't marry until after the War of Independence, correct?"

  "That's right. He married Jane Hatte when he was in his late forties, which was ancient in those days. They had four children."

  "So perhaps Nathaniel didn't write the letter. Or maybe he was writing to Jane," she suggested.

  Grace laughed lightly. "I doubt it was to his wife. The Battle of Concord was in 1775. When the two of them married in 1793, she was twenty. He would have been writing to a two-year-old."

  "Well, I hope I find the rest of the letter."

  "So do I. This could be big news. Correspondence between Walker and any of his contemporaries would garner tremendous attention, especially if it shed light on a previously unknown relationship." Grace paused. "Tell me, what do you think of the portrait, now that you've had a chance to work on it?"

  "Copley is a genius. "With the old varnish coming off, his use of color, particularly in the darkest parts of the painting, is really coming out. It's extraordinary. He can make a black sleeve cast a shadow. And his brushwork is fantastic."

  "Any problems?"

  "No. Not really. The canvas support is sound. Paint's in really good shape for the most part. There's only one small area that I'm suspicious about but I don't think it's a big deal. There may have been some repainting."

  "Really?"

  "But I'm not sure. I'm cleaning around the edges first, so it's going to be a while before I get a clear view of the area. Right now, it's just my instinct talking."

  "Well, don't underestimate yourself," Grace said. "Fresh eyes can find surprising things."

  "Perhaps."

  "Guess what? I'm going to be coming to Boston after Thanksgiving. For the Walker party. Jack's invited me and Ross to stay with you all."

  "Oh. I mean, that's great!" It was the first Callie had heard about any such thing and it dawned on her that she should be making plans to go back to New York City over the holiday. If Jack was inviting people to stay over, he might want to use the room she was using.

  Callie frowned with concern. "Wait. Your bodyguard is coming with you? Do you still need protection?"

  "Actually, he's much more than that." Happiness suffused the words, giving them a lilt that spoke volumes.

  Callie smiled. "You sound like you're in love."

  "We are. It took us a while to figure things out and we're still working on it. But my life wouldn't be complete without him."

  "I’m so happy for you. Truly."

  After they hung up, Callie looked outside. It was late in the afternoon and the sky was a chalky white. She was surprised that Thanksgiving was so close and pictured herself back in Chelsea popping a Lean Cuisine in the oven and brooding about Jack.

  Not exactly a Norman Rockwell moment, she thought.

  Chapter 14

  By the time Jack got home that evening, he was tired. Nothing had gone as he'd expected. Or particularly well.

  Blair hadn't even been in New York.

  He'd called her in the morning while on the way to the airport, both at her hotel room and on her cell phone, to make sure she knew he was coming. When he'd gotten voice mail in both places, it hadn't seemed that unusual and the same was true when he'd received no calls from her in response. They'd been playing phone tag a lot lately and sometimes had gone a day or two without even leaving messages.

  Nonetheless, it had been a surprise when he'd been informed at the front desk of the Cosgrove that Ms. Stanford and Mr. Graves had flown off to London the night before. The manager had explained they'd gone to see Graves's new mansion in Belgravia and would be back soon. Just how soon, the man hadn't been able to say, and going by his anxious eyes, he clearly wished he had a better answer.

  Based on Blair's indeterminate travel plans, Jack had figured he'd just go back to Boston. There was no sense waiting around New York when he had business deals to watch over and planning to do with Gray. He was on the way back to the airport when his cell phone had rung. Clearly, Graves's man had called ahead. Blair was apologetic and anxious as hell about his unexpected visit. She knew unscheduled drop-ins were not a habit of his.

  While she'd pressured him for details, he'd just tried to pin down when she was returning. Though she'd be home the following day, she'd refused to get off the phone and kept demanding to know what was wrong. When it was clear she wouldn't wait until they could see each other in person, he had spelled out the truth as gently as he could. Shocked silence had been her first response and then she'd been characteristically stoic. The only question she'd asked was whether he'd met someone else and he'd been honest in his response.

  The awful truth was, she hadn't seemed all that surprised about any of it.

  When the call had ended, he'd gotten into his plane and told the pilot to take him to Chicago. There was a company there he'd been meaning to visit and he figured the trip would relieve his mind. It didn't work. He remained sorry that he'd hurt Blair, though he felt more sadness about losing the friendship than the intimate side of the relationship.

  Shutting Buona Fortuna's front door, Jack put down his briefcase and started to loosen his tie. He wanted a drink. He wanted something to eat.

  And he wanted to see Callie.

  He walked back to the kitchen and ran into Thomas, who was pulling on his leather biker's jacket. Thomas informed him his mother was out to dinner and the concern in the man's voice told Jack all was not well in Mercedes's world. Jack didn't ask for details. He had enough problems in his own life to worry about.

  Thomas paused by the door. "Oh, and Callie, she's out with Gray."

  Jack felt a tidal shift in his body. "Oh, really. Where did they go?"

  "Said something about Biba's." Thomas hesitated. "You going to be okay here on your own?"

  "Yeah." Hell, in his current mood, solitude was safer for everyone.

  As the door was shut, Jack headed not for the refrigerator but for his private bar. Hungry as he was, he wanted oblivion more than food.

  When he got to his study, he stripped off his suit jacket, hung it over the back of a chair, and went for the bourbon. On his way across the room, he eyed the broken glass that was still on the floor. He hated having his study disturbed, so it was cleaned only once a week and he made a mental note to take care of the mess himself.

  He wasn't going to do it now, though.

  Picking up a full decanter and a Tom Collins glass, he decided to get good and drunk.

  It was the perfect way to end an otherwise horrible day.

  He was halfway through his third glass, and just beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol, when it dawned on him it was the anniversary of his father's death.

  Which explained why Thomas was worried about his mother.

  Jack put the glass down and felt his pinkie ring make contact with the desk, a knocking sound rising up into the still air as the gold hit wood. He twisted his hand around and looked at the crest that had been pressed deeply into the metal. The ring was supposed to be worn by a Nathaniel, had always been worn by Nathaniels, his father included.

  But when Nathaniel Six had died, the seventh Nate had declared that, as Jack was head of the family for all intents and purposes, it should be worn by him. Jack had never been into jewelry before, except for his collection of cuff links, but the ring had felt right.

  As he looked at the scratches and the dents in the gold, thinking of how many men in his family had worn it, he remembered the last time he'd seen his father alive. It had been the night before his death. Not surprisingly, they'd argued because his father had been into the Scotch and Jack had been determined to hold a hard line when it came to money.

  After years of supporting his philanthropy habit by exchanging deeds and certificates of record for money with his son, Nate Six had nothing left to barter with. When the last interest in the house in Palm Beach had been signed over,
Jack had told his father that he'd be willing to support the man's reasonable expenses, but not any more of his gift commitments. And for a while, there had been no new ones made.

  On that night, however, the elder Nathaniel had announced that he'd promised half a million dollars to the MFA. He'd emphasized that he'd broken down the payment schedule into monthly sums, clearly thinking it would seem more like an expense that way. When Jack had refused to make good on the pledge, his father had been livid.

  The situation would have been tough to handle at any time, but it had been ten o'clock at night, five hours after his father had started in with the drinking. The man had been past the point of rational conversation. When Jack had started to walk out of the room, Nathaniel had accused his son of being a bloodthirsty capitalist who was turning his back on the needs of the unfortunate.

  Jack had reminded his father that those bloody battles in the financial world were what made Nathaniel's continued presence at Buona Fortuna possible. He'd also pointed out that there weren't many "unfortunates" hanging out at the MFA, and, if his father was truly concerned with social welfare, he should be volunteering at a soup kitchen or some worthy shelter.

  When the drunken insults had continued, Jack grew frustrated at having to have the same conversation over and over again and had really let one rip. The comment had been something about his father failing at everything he'd ever done except getting his ass kissed by people after Walker money.

  That had pretty much put a lid on the argument. His father had been stunned into silence, for a moment, but then struck back. Jack would never forget his words or tone of voice.

  My sons are a source of inestimable sadness to me, my biggest failure. At least your brother has the decency to stay away.

  And the next morning, he'd died.

  Hell of a way to leave things, Jack thought, bringing the glass back to his lips and draining the bourbon dry. It was difficult to understand how his father had been able to embrace so many strangers while holding his own sons in such disdain. But then the things people did sometimes made no sense. Which was something he was beginning to understand from his own choices.

  Pouring himself another glass, Jack put his legs up and crossed his feet at the ankles on his desk. He was contemplating the color of the liquor when, from down at the other end of the house, he heard the front door open and voices in the hall.

  Getting to his feet, he came around the corner and saw Gray and Callie standing in the doorway. Jack was about to say something when his friend put a hand on her shoulder and dipped his head down low.

  Jack shut his eyes, feeling a burn in his gut that had nothing to do with the bourbon. He went back to his study and waited, straining to hear the door shut.

  When it finally did, he hurried back out to the hall, bracing himself to see the two of them going upstairs together. Instead, Callie was taking off her coat.

  "Did you enjoy yourself?" he said, stepping forward into the light.

  Her head nipped around. As if she were collecting herself, she brushed a length of hair behind her ear. "You're back."

  Jessica Bird

  Her eyes brushed over him, lingering on the open collar of his shirt.

  "Miss me?" he asked. "Or were you otherwise occupied?"

  She frowned, eyeing the glass in his hand. "How long have you been drinking?"

  He looked at the bourbon. "Awhile."

  She put her coat on the balustrade and stepped forward, holding out her hand. "I think maybe you've had enough."

  "I'm not so sure about that."

  "What do you think you're going to accomplish by drinking yourself into a stupor?"

  His eyes traveled from the crown of her head all the way down her body. He went back to her lips and then her breasts. "Maybe I'll forget about you for a little while."

  Then he tilted back his head and took a healthy swig.

  Her voice was soft. "Give me the glass, Jack."

  When she continued to stare at him with level eyes, he did what she asked. She was right. Getting liquored up wasn't going to solve anything. Hell, it only reminded him of his father and increased the chances he would do something stupid.

  Like fall to his knees and beg her to pick him over his friend.

  She walked past him into the kitchen. As he followed, he tracked every move she made, her hips shifting gracefully, her legs so long in the black skirt she was wearing. As his blood began to heat up, he had a very clear thought that he should get away from her. Just go up to his bedroom and pass out.

  Because in the quiet darkness, all he could think about was making love to her. And if he wanted to make her see he was in some small way worthy of her, he needed to behave like a gentleman, not a caveman.

  She was rinsing his glass out in the sink when she said in a low voice, "Are you okay?"

  He barely heard the words over the running water.

  "I could be considerably more inebriated," he said matter of factly. "I'm shooting for rip-roaring, welcome to oblivion, blackout-city drunk. At this point, I'm not even seeing double yet. And I'm still upright."

  Callie pulled a dishtowel out of a drawer and looked at him from under her lashes as she dried off the glass. "I know this must be a hard night for you."

  He frowned, replaying the image of his friend kissing her. Jealousy spiked and made him answer more harshly than he would have otherwise.

  "How magnanimous of you. Most women wouldn't take pity an a man who traveled four hundred miles to do a hatchet job on her competition."

  Callie frowned, as if she hadn't heard him right, and then her eyes became direct, her voice even more so. "I'm going to let that go because you've had too much to drink. And I'm talking about the anniversary of your father's death; not whatever happened between you and Blair today."

  Jack leaned against the doorjamb, feeling like a jerk.

  The regret brought some sobriety back to him and he recognized how close he was to the edge of his self-control. She was sexy and beautiful and no more than a few feet away from him. All of which left him fighting a terrible urge to pull her into his arms and put his mouth against hers until she didn't remember what Gray's kiss had felt like.

  Hell, just the thought of touching her was enough to make him hard.

  "You know, I think you'd better leave," he said.

  "Why?"

  "You've just got to trust me on this one."

  Callie shrugged and put the glass on the counter.

  "You know, I lost my father recently," she said. "And my relationship wasn't all hearts and flowers by a long shot. But even if it was a while ago, and even if they played a complicated role in your life, it is still hard to get over the loss of a parent."

  Jack almost laughed. True, he was living with the aftermath of some seriously bad blood between him and his old man. But a far more immediate problem was standing in front of him, looking at him with concern and compassion.

  She cleared her throat. "There are a lot of things I wished I'd said to my father and a lot of answers I'll never have. That creates some serious anger and frustration. I know you feel something of the same because you're obviously upset and I've never seen you drink like this. It might help to talk about it."

  Jack moved before he was fully aware of what he was doing, crossing the kitchen in two strides. He took her by the back of the neck and the small of her back and brought her hard against his body. Making sure she felt every inch of his arousal, he looked her straight in the eye and did nothing to keep the lust out of his face or his voice.

  "I'm not in the mood to talk and this has nothing to do with my dead father." He deliberately looked down at her breasts. He pictured his mouth finding one of the tips which had started to strain against the thin fabric of her sweater. And then he imagined what it would be like to lick her skin until she moaned his name over and over again.

  Callie swallowed and her mouth parted. He could practically taste her.

  Jack pulled back, cursing. What he needed to do
was talk to her, not come on to her. How was she going to see him as anything other than a playboy if he couldn't keep his hands off of her?

  "Goddamn it. I'm trying to do the right thing here. I really am."

  Her face fell. "Because of Blair."

  "No. I ended the engagement today. I'm trying to do the right thing by you."

  Her eyes shot to his. "What did you say? "

  "I said I ended my engagement." He put some distance between them and pushed a hand through his hair. When three feet didn't feel far enough, he went back over to the doorway.

  There was a long, tight silence. "Is it really over? Between the two of you?"

  "Yeah. It's done."

  "Why." The word wasn't posed as a question. It was a quiet demand.

  Jack sensed his answer would in some way determine their future, so he spoke with care, wishing he could trust himself more. He was liable to be persuasive when she deserved unadulterated honesty.

  "I never loved her. I knew that going into it. I thought respect and friendship would be enough, but meeting you made me realize what I was missing."

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And what was that?"

  He laughed harshly, thinking he should shut his fucking mouth. He'd had too much to drink to have such a tricky conversation. God only knew what might come out of him. There was no way she'd take him seriously, for instance, if he told her he loved her.

  And those three words were right on the tip of his tongue.

  No, he needed to start slowly. Give her a chance to consider him as something other than a pendulum between extremes.

  "Don't ask me to explain anything right now. Especially how I feel," he said. "I'm not all that articulate tonight."

  "Maybe you should give it a try anyway." She leaned back against the countertop, as if she needed the support.

  When he stayed quiet, she said, "I can't believe I'm going to ask you this. But Jack, where are we headed?"

  He thought of his friend bending down and kissing her.