The Art of Deception (Choc Lit)

by Liz Harris

  ‘So put it to the test,’ she said lightly, trying not to show how much she wanted him to agree. ‘Come along to some of my classes and see how you get on. Stephen’s going to join us; you could come over with him. There’s more than enough equipment for an extra artist.’

  She held her breath.

  ‘I might just do that,’ he said slowly. ‘You’ve got me thinking now. It could be fun, and after all, what have I got to lose? You know, you may just have got yourself another pupil.’

  She let her breath out slowly. If Max came to the classes, she’d see a lot more of him. It was a start, but no more than that, as the others would be there, too. She must keep on thinking. What she really needed was quality time alone with him, which meant she’d have to come up with a way of getting him by himself.

  She glanced at him, at the planes of his face, which gleamed like burnished gold in the rays thrown out by the dying sun.

  Her mind went into overdrive. Then, bingo – inspiration struck again. She had an idea, and if she got it right, Max might pick up the threads and make the suggestion she wanted …

  ‘You know you ignored all advice and chose art over cookery,’ she said, injecting a bouncing lilt into her voice, ‘for purely selfish reasons, I’m very glad you did.’

  ‘For selfish reasons? Now that’s intriguing.’ He looked amused, she was pleased to see.

  ‘Yes, definitely for selfish reasons. I wouldn’t be here if you’d plumped for cookery, would I? I make a mean omelette, but I’d be hard pushed to stretch that skill for a whole week. Day one, find bowl; day two, remove three eggs from beneath nearest chicken; day three, break said eggs into bowl. And so on.’

  He laughed. ‘You’ve got a point there. Yes, I think I might have expected a little more for my money, both as an employer and as a punter. Now, if you’d been able to make tagliatelle al tartufo, in addition to making an omelette, then we could have been in business.’

  A bolt of excitement shot through her. She could build on this. ‘That’s your favourite dish, is it?’

  ‘Indeed it is.’

  She sighed loudly. ‘Sadly, that’s not in my repertoire: truffles don’t abound in Cornwall and the family I was with in Florence never had them. At least, not the truffly kind: only the chocolate sort.’ She let a trace of innocent flirtation creep into her voice. ‘That means I’d have been handicapped from the start. I’d never be able to master something I’ve not even tasted. I wouldn’t know what I was aiming for.’

  He caught his breath in mock horror and raised his hand.

  ‘We need to fix that, and fast, just in case I ever decide to give in and replace art with cookery. We’ll look at the activities you’ve planned for the coming week, and pick a day when the class will be so worn out by the evening that they won’t notice if you sneak off and play hooky. Then you and I can go to a place I know in Bevagna that serves the best Umbrian food.’

  Success! She’d done it.

  But she must watch what she said, she thought quickly. Sounding too eager could be counterproductive with a man who was probably bored rigid by women throwing themselves at him, and she wouldn’t want him to think her interest in him was anything more than simple friendship.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Max, but you don’t have to, you know. I could order it when we go to Assisi. We’re there for the whole of Wednesday.’ Smiling, she glanced up at him, and caught him staring intently down at her. Their eyes met.

  ‘No, I prefer my plan,’ he said with a slight smile, and he turned back to the garden. ‘Tagliatelle al tartufo is something to be tasted for the first time when you’re with a connoisseur. And apart from that, after the amount of time I’ve spent with Stephen recently, I’d quite enjoy a change of company.’

  His final words were almost drowned out by the sound of Clare screaming with laughter. They turned at the same moment to see what was happening.

  Stephen had opened a new bottle of Prosecco and the sparkling wine had gone all over his hands. To Clare’s amusement, he was licking the wine off his skin.

  ‘I rest my case,’ Max said with a grin.

  Laughter lines crinkled the corners of his eyes whenever he smiled, she noticed. And that was often. And he had the deepest brown eyes she’d ever seen.

  Dragging her eyes away from Max, she caught sight of Nick, who was standing just behind Clare, watching Stephen with a supercilious air. She felt a momentary chill, and her eyes moved to Stephen. She smiled vaguely in his direction. ‘Stephen seems nice,’ she said, watching him pour the remaining Prosecco into Clare’s glass.

  Max glanced at his nephew. ‘Yes, he’s a really great kid and I’m very fond of him, but there are limits to how much one wants to hear about the million and one forms of social networking that he enjoys, and about his music and so on. Nope, I’m ready for a more adult sort of conversation. Having dinner with the group tonight will be a good start – at least, I hope it will be – and we can get to know each other even better if you’ll have dinner with me one evening this week.’

  A warm glow crept through her. She couldn’t have asked for a more successful outcome to their conversation. For a moment, she imagined them sitting opposite each other at a small table, a candle flickering between them …

  She kicked herself back into the present.

  ‘I hope you do enjoy this evening,’ she said quickly. ‘They’re a mixed bunch, and some are more adult than others. I’m sure there are also some bores you wouldn’t want to sit next to.’ She smiled at him. ‘For your sake, I hope the conversation this evening will be on the more adult side, rather than less.’

  ‘Adult or not, I’m grateful to you for letting me barge into what is, after all, your show.’

  ‘I prefer to think of it as our show.’

  He raised his hands in surrender. ‘OK. I’ll go along with it being a joint thing. And now, in the interests of adult conversation, I think I’d better try to inject some maturity into Stephen before we sit down for dinner. Excuse me, would you?’

  As he went across to Stephen, Paula and Howard came on to the terrace, arm in arm.

  ‘This is going to be the perfect end to what has been a simply perfect day,’ Paula trilled to no one in particular. She smoothed down the skirt of her dress – a profusion of brightly coloured flowers on a white background – adjusted the flower in her hair, pulled her shawl around her shoulders and gazed up at the leafy awning. ‘Oh, look, Howie. Aren’t those fairy lights adorable? So atmospheric. This really is the most wonderful honeymoon.’

  He slid his arm around her, pulled her to him and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Yuk,’ Jenny heard Nick mutter. ‘I think I’m going to throw up. And that dress – she looks like she should be in a vase.’

  Stephen glanced at Nick, and moved from Clare’s side to the Prosecco table. ‘We’re having Bellinis this evening,’ he called to Howard and Paula. ‘Can I make you one? It’s the real thing, peach purée and all that.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Howard said. ‘We’ll both have one, thanks. And Mr Rayburn’s on his way, too. We overtook him while he was looking at one of the paintings. You could pour one for him while you’re at it.’

  ‘No sooner said than done.’ Stephen arranged three glasses in a row, spooned a little peach purée into each and picked up the bottle of Prosecco.

  ‘Nice dress, Paula,’ Clare said politely.

  ‘I’m glad you like it. It’s Howie’s favourite,’ Paula said, visibly preening at the compliment.

  Stephen finished pouring the wine and was carrying two glasses over to the Andersons as George Rayburn wandered out on to the terrace. Jenny went over to him at once.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Rayburn. I hope you were able to get some rest after today’s exertions.’

  ‘Indeed, I was, thank you. I sat in the shade just outside my room, and before I knew it, it was way past the time that I should have been here. I do apologise.’

  ‘Don’t think twice about it. This is a holiday as wel
l as a class. Your sleep will have done you the world of good, and you’ll enjoy the evening all the more for it. Now, I think Stephen’s made you a drink. We’re having Bellinis, but if you’d prefer something else, you only have to say.’

  ‘No, I’m sure that it will be delicious.’ He took a glass from Stephen. ‘Thank you, dear boy. Don’t you worry about me, Jennifer. I shall go and talk to Paula and Howard. I’ve just been looking at the painting that I saw them studying earlier today. It really is a most interesting picture and I look forward to hearing what they thought of it.’

  As George walked across to the Andersons, Jenny turned and strolled back to Max, who was standing alone now. ‘Well, that’s all of us here now,’ she told him. ‘As I said, we’re a mixed bunch.’

  ‘Mixed or not, everyone seems to be very pleased with everything, with maybe one exception.’ He indicated Nick. ‘But I think that’s more to do with the girl than with anything else. She seems very pleasant, not to mention pretty, and it’s hardly surprising that both young men are smitten. No, you’ve obviously made everyone feel at ease, and very quickly, too. As I believe I’ve said before, I was lucky to find you.’

  ‘I’d say that I’m the one who’s lucky,’ she said, smiling up into his face. ‘I had to find a job for the summer, and this is way beyond my wildest dreams.’

  She was indeed the lucky one, she thought, being given the chance to finally discover what happened to her father.

  ‘I think we’ll have to agree that we’re both lucky,’ he said warmly, and she noticed that his eyes lingered on her face. ‘So, what did you do this morning after I left Stephen with you?’

  ‘I showed them how to do a quick watercolour sketch. By the way, I’m keeping all the drawings I do for you to see at the end of the week. Obviously, everyone will take the paintings home that they want to keep, but they might leave some of their work behind. Between what’s left here and what I do in the week, we should have plenty to use in the advertising.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ He looked across in Stephen’s direction and smiled. ‘I’m very keen to see how Stephen gets on. You’ve certainly got your work cut out with him.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘And with me, too, if I do decide to come to a few classes. I must confess I’m quite tempted.’

  She opened her mouth to urge him to yield to temptation, but Maria appeared at the patio doors.

  ‘La cena è pronta,’ she announced.

  ‘Dinner is ready,’ Jenny translated. She smiled round at the group. ‘Shall we go and see what’s waiting for us?’

  Chapter Six

  Jenny sat back in her chair, cupping her mug of coffee. She glanced round at the empty table, and felt very pleased with herself – she was the only person who’d stayed behind on the terrace after lunch. Everyone else, including Max, had gone back to the part of the house or garden that they were painting.

  She’d set them the task of practising how to mix watercolour with pastel and coloured pencil, something she’d demonstrated that morning. They’d had time to start practising before the end of the morning, and she was thrilled that they were all so keen to get going again.

  And she was also very relieved that she’d persuaded Maria to serve a lunch that was more in keeping with the eating habits of the British than the Italians. When Maria had come to her that morning and suggested an Italian-style lunch of antipasti followed by two pasta dishes, one after the other, and ending with tiramisù, she’d had a horrible vision of the whole class finishing their lunch and taking to their beds for a never-ending afternoon siesta.

  Using all of her tact, she’d got Maria to scale down the lunch to a comparatively modest prosciutto with melon, followed by a dish of farfalle pasta lightly tossed in a basil pesto, accompanied by a classic Orvieto white wine, and finally a large yellow peach, some pecarino cheese and coffee. It had proved to be ideal – delicious, but not so heavy that it dulled their enthusiasm for the afternoon’s activity.

  She glanced at her watch. They would have started on their work by now. She’d let them have a little longer, and then go and see how they were getting on. She’d leave Paula and Howard’s work till last as she’d seen their drawings that morning, and she’d give George’s work a miss for the same reason.

  Finding out what each of the group had chosen to paint was going to be one of the most interesting parts of the week. Their choice of location spoke volumes about their character and interests, and, to a certain extent, about their ability.

  She was particularly interested in seeing what Max had chosen to draw.

  It was so hard to know what to make of him.

  If it hadn’t been for what her mother had repeatedly told her about him and Peter, she would have taken him at face value. He came across as a man without guile, charming, easy-going, ready to be pleased – a man whose business success hadn’t gone to his head in any way. Under different circumstances, he was a man she could easily have fallen in love with.

  But her mother’s words were always there, burning away in the back of her mind, stopping her from being taken in by his attractive exterior, forcing her to keep an emotional distance.

  Unsurprisingly, she wasn’t the only person who found Max to be excellent company. Several of the group had initially been less than keen on him joining them for dinner – Nick for example, and even Clare, although she’d been less vocal about it. But George had seemed delighted at the prospect of Max’s company, and Howard and Paula even more so. In fact, she’d been amazed at how enthusiastic the Andersons had been about Max joining them, given that they always seemed so complete in themselves and had never appeared particularly eager to join the others.

  However, any reservations about him joining them, and any fears that conversation might be awkward in the presence of the man who owned the property, had clearly been swept away the night before. Even Nick had visibly been won over.

  Furthermore, if any doubts had lingered overnight and resurfaced in the morning, they would have been instantly wiped away at the sight of Max rolling up with Stephen after breakfast, carrying an easel and watercolours.

  ‘I thought I’d better not miss any more lessons,’ he’d told them, and she’d seen from their faces how pleased they were that he’d enjoyed their company so much that he’d come back for more.

  He’d placed his chair and easel next to George, sat down and smiled round at them all. As he’d completed his visual tour of the group, she couldn’t help being aware of his eyes on her. She’d felt hot under his gaze. Her stomach had fluttered, and for a moment or two she’d felt disorientated.

  But she’d pulled herself together – she’d had to – and, trying to avoid looking at him more than she needed to, she’d begun to demonstrate the art of painting landscapes. Gradually, she’d settled down, and she’d felt quite relaxed by the time it came to showing them the different ways of applying watercolour and how to mix it with other media. After that, they’d spread out in the garden and begun to work on their own sketches. She’d given them time to make a good start on their basic outline, and had then gone from one to the other, looking at each picture and making constructive suggestions.

  As soon as she’d reached Paula, she’d stopped and stared at her drawing in amazement.

  If she’d had to predict that one of the group would be flowery and superficial, that person would have been Paula. And she would have been completely wrong. Instead of a pretty little confection that bore no relationship at all to the object she was painting, Paula’s work revealed her to be a true artist.

  ‘If you decided to take art really seriously, Paula,’ she had told her, ‘you could be very good. You have real talent.’

  Paula had blushed and simpered. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t – could I, Howie?’

  She’d felt a sharp irritation with a woman who clearly had ability, but who couldn’t decide upon anything without first checking with her husband. Before she said anything rude, she’d swiftly moved on to Howard.

  Whatever he’d ea
rlier said about his work being rubbish, his picture, too, showed above average skill. But whilst it was technically good, it was more pedestrian than Paula’s and it lacked the indefinable quality that she’d glimpsed in Paula’s work.

  ‘Both of you are very good,’ she’d told them. ‘Is this the first art course that you’ve been on?’

  ‘We did art at school – that’s where we met,’ Howard had said. ‘We went our separate ways afterwards, but happily our paths crossed a few years later, and the rest is history,’ He’d smiled affectionately at Paula and turned back to his painting.

  ‘You must have had an excellent teacher,’ she remarked. ‘I look forward to seeing the rest of the painting you do this week.’ And she moved away to look at George’s work.

  If Paula and Howard’s technical ability was at one end of the spectrum, George’s was at the other. Despite clearly making a great effort, he couldn’t draw and he didn’t have a natural feeling for the medium.

  He’d glanced up at her as she’d been studying his work, trying hard to find something to praise.

  ‘Trouble yourself not, Jennifer,’ he’d said with a sigh. ‘Not even this comfortable chair, which you have been so kind as to find for me, can help. I’m under no illusions about my skill, or rather my lack of skill, so you may cease your mental strain and express an honest opinion.’

  She’d laughed. ‘You’re too hard on yourself, Mr Rayburn.’

  ‘And you are too kind, dear lady. Watercolours were my wife’s passion. Our home is full of them. Sadly, though, I doubt that I shall be adding to our collection with a creation of my own: the talent of the many artists who’ve captured life in watercolour seems to have quite passed me by.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Agnes. She passed away a few months ago. It had been her dream to come on a course like this. Indeed, we’d found the details of this course before she died and we’d already started to plan our trip. Unfortunately, it was not to be. I decided, however, to do the course for both of us. It’s what Agnes would have wished.’ He’d stared at his sketch and smiled ruefully. ‘But I’m not too sure what she’s making of my attempts so far.’