Portrait of a Lover

by Julianne MacLean

  Oh, it had felt so good to say all that.

  His eyes smoldered with resolve. “I am not heartless, Annabelle, and I mean to prove that to you.”

  She laughed. “How are you going to do that?”

  “Well, to start with, I can tell you that I’m sorry, that I never meant to hurt you.”

  Annabelle’s mouth fell open. Perhaps she was being a tad vindictive herself, but good God! Did he think he could just come here and say he didn’t mean it, and she would simply smile and say, How kind of you, and he would be absolved?

  “It took you thirteen years to realize that you’d been unscrupulous, and that I deserved an apology?” Her anger was rising up inside her again.

  He spoke with vehemence. “I was not unscrupulous, but merely stupid. And it did not take me until now to realize I’d wronged you. I knew it all along.”

  “So why come here and apologize now?”

  She stood up. This was absurd. She wanted to leave.

  He stood, too. “Sit down, Annabelle. Please. Let me finish.”

  She hesitated, fighting to subdue her temper, then reluctantly did as he asked.

  “How can you tell me you were not unscrupulous,” she asked, “after what you said to me that day outside the bank, when you told me that you’d been using me all along?”

  She frowned at him and leaned back on the sofa, remembering his brutal, merciless words.

  I was enjoying a very satisfying jab at Whitby…

  I didn’t love you…

  Just thinking of it made her breath come short. He had cut her so deeply. There had been no kindness in his manner. He had not even tried to be gentle about it.

  “I thought it was my only choice to say those things to you,” he said. “But none of it was true. I did care for you, and I was never using you for vengeance upon Whitby. I ended it because I was your family’s enemy, and I knew I could not provide for you. I said what I said because I knew you loved me, and I believed it was the only way to make you forget me.”

  She stared at him in astonishment. “So now you’re telling me you lied to me outside the bank?” She threw her arms up in the air. “I’m afraid I’m getting rather tangled up in all the different lies on different days.”

  She heard the kettle hissing on the side table.

  “Your water is boiling,” she said.

  He glanced up, then rose to pour the water into the silver teapot. He carried the small round tray to the coffee table between them and set it down.

  Annabelle leaned forward to pour her own tea. “Aren’t you going to have any?” she asked, sitting back.

  He blinked slowly. “No.”

  Exhausted and weary from this trying conversation, Annabelle brought the fine china cup to her lips, but the tea was too hot to drink, so she set it back down and contemplated what Magnus was saying to her.

  All her life she had been told certain things about him and his father—that they were both dangerous and conniving. Magnus had proven that sentiment to be true. He’d even admitted it that day in front of the bank, so how could she trust anything he said to her now?

  Suddenly in no mood to drink tea, Annabelle stood and walked to the window, which looked out onto a narrow lane. She focused not on what was outside, but on the window itself—the way the little bubbles in the glass held the light.

  Then she heard Magnus rising from his chair, too, and heard his quiet footfalls across the Persian carpet. Just the sound of his approach caused a fire to burn through her body, and she remembered all too well the excitement of being with him on the lake, and in the woods on the island, and how she had melted from the bliss of his presence alone.

  He still possessed that same power, that same magnetic pull, and she hated that she was affected by it all over again.

  Fighting hard to quench the memories—because she could not let him use his charm to trick her again—she squared her shoulders.

  He came to stand beside her, so immensely disturbing to her in every way, but she refused to look at him. She did not take her eyes off the glass.

  “Annabelle,” he said in a soft, tender whisper, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I must say it, I must.” He leaned closer, so she could feel the moist heat of the whisper in her ear. “I’ve missed you.”

  Her response to those words was devastating to her—devastating—for they uncovered a buried memory—of all the nights she had cried herself to sleep after their breakup, wishing it had all been a bad dream and her wonderful Mr. Edwards would come back and say those very words to her—that he was sorry and he’d missed her.

  But suddenly, as quickly as the memory flashed in her mind, it disappeared again, because she had the good sense to remember that what happened between them had not been a bad dream. It had been very real, and she had to protect herself.

  Annabelle raised her chin. “You’re right about one thing. I don’t want to hear it.”

  He leaned even closer. “But Annabelle, not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of you and wondered how you are. Sometimes I have dreams so real that I wake up in a sweat, thinking for days afterward that you were looking for me for some reason, or that you might even be in New York.”

  Annabelle closed her eyes, digging deep for the will to remember how cruel he really was. She would find it. She would.

  “I have not been looking for you,” she said, “and I was never in New York.”

  Though she could not deny that she had often looked for his face in a crowd over the past thirteen years.

  With the back of a finger, Magnus stroked her arm lightly. His voice was gentle and soothing. “I’ll say it a hundred times if I must. I am sorry, Annabelle, for hurting you. If I could go back, I would handle it all very differently.”

  Suddenly she couldn’t speak. Her chest was heaving with a desperate need for air. A lump had formed in her throat and she struggled to swallow over it and force it back down, for she could not let herself be fooled by this blatant seduction.

  She turned and faced him, imposing an iron will on herself. “But you can’t go back, Magnus. What’s done is done.”

  “Perhaps someday you will find it in yourself to forgive me.”

  “I highly doubt it.”

  His penetrating gaze did not waver. “I’m not the man I was thirteen years ago. I promise you that.”

  She frowned, wondering what was really going on in his mind. Was he truly sorry? Was he being sincere? And even if he was, would it make a difference? “You expect me to believe you, simply because you say it?”

  “No, I hope you will be able to see it for yourself.”

  She looked him over from head to toe, still working hard to hold onto her caution, to be skeptical. “Because you have money? Is that it? A gallery? An expensive suit? Is that how I’m supposed to see that you’ve changed?” She walked away from him and swung around in the center of the office. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that, Magnus, because I don’t trust you. You could be the richest man in the world, and nothing you could say or do would ever change that.”

  He drew his head back as he digested her reply.

  “I should go now,” she said, before he could say another word.

  He hesitated, as if he was not yet ready to let her go, then at last he escorted her through the office door.

  They crossed the empty gallery, and Annabelle realized with a start that they hadn’t even begun to talk about the art exhibition.

  Perhaps it was just as well, she thought, because she was not sure she could survive seeing him again. It was too painful and unsettling.

  She picked up her art case containing the three extra paintings she had brought.

  He glanced down at the case. “But wait…”

  Annabelle closed her eyes. He was not going to let her get away so easily after all.

  “I know this is probably too much to ask,” he said, “but I’m opening this gallery in a few weeks, and I would still like to include your painti
ng—the one in my office.” He glanced down at the case again. “But perhaps with your permission, I could look at those as well?”

  Annabelle was momentarily befuddled after all that had just happened, but then she glanced around at the cream-colored walls and the shiny oak floor in this superb location, and was not about to let Magnus feel that he was holding her back from this. She had wanted to be indifferent, didn’t she?

  So she forced herself to hand the case over to him. “One look.”

  He nodded and carried it to the desk. Not entirely sure she had done the right thing, Annabelle stood back while he removed the first piece, which she called Amber Grass.

  He held it at arm’s length before him, silently studying it while Annabelle tried to forget that he was Magnus. Right now he was a gallery owner making a judgment about her paintings.

  He set Amber Grass on the floor against the wall before withdrawing the next piece: Autumn Forest. Again he held it at arm’s length, studying it for a long time while Annabelle waited.

  “Do you have arrangements with any other artists to show their work?” she asked, glancing around suspiciously.

  He didn’t reply right away. He continued to look at Autumn Forest, then set it on the floor against the wall, next to the other one.

  “Yes, I brought a few works done by some American artists. Have you heard of George Wright?”

  He reached into the case for the last painting.

  Surprised, Annabelle took a step forward. “George Wright? You’re showing his work here?”

  He was one of her favorite painters. He had a style of brushstroke like no one else, and he rebelled openly against convention.

  “Yes,” Magnus said, holding up the last painting. This one was a seascape that she called Fierce Waters.

  Finally he turned to face her. “This one is the best.”

  “The seascape?”

  “Yes. You have a gift with water.”

  Annabelle didn’t know what to say. She was still staggered by the fact that Magnus had in his possession a painting by George Wright, and he was asking to include her work in the same exhibition.

  “My home in South Carolina is on the coast,” he said lightly, “and it has a spectacular view of the water.” He set the painting down beside the others. “You would like it.”

  “Would I indeed?” she replied, not wanting him to think he knew her personal tastes.

  But then she remembered telling him once that she wished she lived on the coast. Had he remembered that?

  He sat on the desk, his hands curling around the edge of it. “The paintings are excellent, Annabelle. Can I show them? All of them?”

  She took a moment to think about it. If she allowed him to show her paintings here, wouldn’t that require more meetings or correspondence with him? She did not wish to have any connection with him again after today because she did not trust him.

  But then she thought of George Wright. She imagined her work hanging on the same wall, then wondered if this was a ploy to lure her in…

  “How long do you plan to stay in London?” she asked, wanting to understand what this would entail.

  “I’m not certain. I’ve purchased two residences on Park Lane, so it depends how long the improvements take and how quickly I can turn them around.”

  She narrowed her gaze at him. “You came back to conquer London, I see.”

  “I suppose you could say that,” he replied, his dark eyes gleaming with determination.

  She experienced a spontaneous vision of Magnus buying the houses on either side of Whitby’s London residence and turning them into brothels. Then she chided herself for entertaining such an outlandish thought. Surely he would never be so blatantly ruthless with his vengeance. Would he?

  “Regarding the gallery, however,” he said, changing his tone, “I might only be involved with it for a few more weeks. I’m looking for someone to manage it, and once it’s established, I’ll likely do what I do best.”

  “Sell it for a profit, too,” she said.

  He inclined his head somewhat apologetically. “It’s what I do. And though I consider my galleries labors of love, I don’t intend to stay in London forever, so it would be difficult to administer.”

  She was very glad to hear he didn’t intend to stay in London.

  “Well, I can see you’ve put a lot of work into this place,” she said, glancing around.

  “What can I say? I’m a worker.”

  She suspected he was trying to tell her he no longer coveted Whitby’s position in society, that he had no respect for it and preferred his own. But she wasn’t sure she believed that.

  “It’s probably futile to ask,” he said, “but I don’t suppose you’d be interested in managing the gallery for me?”

  Yes, it was certainly futile.

  “I have no experience,” she replied.

  “But you know art.”

  But she could not work for Magnus. “I’m sorry, I don’t think so.”

  He grinned at her, and it was the first time today that she’d seen even the smallest hint of a smile. It was familiar and stirred those memories again, so she swept the recognition away.

  “I just had to ask,” he said.

  “I’m flattered you thought I could do it,” she replied, striving to sound businesslike.

  “I have no doubt that you could.”

  The temperature of the room seemed to escalate suddenly as Annabelle stood before Magnus, who was still sitting on the desk, now paying her compliments.

  He had paid her compliments once before, though, hadn’t he? To seduce her and get what he wanted.

  “But you haven’t answered me about the paintings yet,” he said. “Can I show them?”

  Annabelle thought about it. Despite her hostility toward Magnus and her desire never to see him again, she knew this was an opportunity she could not refuse—to be shown in the same gallery as George Wright, when it was next to impossible to break into the London art world, especially for a woman.

  She could not let her personal feelings keep her from a dream such as that, could she? If she did, she would surely live to regret it.

  Besides, Magnus had said he planned to hand the gallery over to someone else, so she would likely be dealing with that person after he returned to America.

  After another moment’s consideration, she finally gave him an answer. “Yes, you can show them.”

  Magnus slapped both his hands on the desk before he hopped off it, looking exceedingly pleased, while Annabelle wasn’t so sure. “This is wonderful,” he said. “I know your work will attract attention.”

  “No, George Wright will attract the attention.”

  “Not for long.”

  She wished she could take the compliment at face value, but alas she could not. Not coming from him.

  “I’ll escort you out,” he said, walking past her.

  When they reached the door, Annabelle stopped, feeling a sudden onslaught of anxiety over what she had just agreed to. She turned to face him. “Perhaps if there are any details to be discussed regarding the exhibition, we could correspond through letters, as I don’t come to London very often.”

  It was a lie. She came all the time, and she suspected he knew it. She could see it in his eyes.

  “Of course,” he said nonetheless. “And I’ll let you know as soon as I find a manager. When I do, he will take over from there.”

  She stood in front of the door, waiting for him to open it.

  “Thank you, Annabelle,” he said again, and she wondered what he was thanking her for, exactly. The paintings? No, it was more than that, she suspected, but she did not wish to contemplate it further.

  She simply nodded and walked out.

  Chapter 10

  A fter Annabelle left the gallery, Magnus closed the door and stood for a moment with his hand still resting on the knob.

  Well. That had not gone quite as swimmingly as he had hoped, but at least he’d broken the ice.

  Lean
ing back against the door, he closed his eyes, feeling grateful for one thing at least—he finally knew what she looked like, after wondering for years how she might have changed.

  Not surprisingly, she was just as beautiful as she had always been. Perhaps even more beautiful, for the years had given her a certain indefinable vigor, for lack of a better word. She seemed self-assured and more sophisticated than before.

  But her eyes were still the same—wild and luminous, her figure still voluptuously attractive. The only difference was that her manner of dress was more conservative. She’d been wearing a sensible hat, and gone were the clumsy boys’ boots.

  He wondered if she still wore them in the country, when she was lugging her easel up and down steep hills, with her cow, Helen, plodding behind. Did she still have that cow? he wondered. He smiled affectionately at the thought of it, then his smile faded as he reminded himself he still had a steep mountain of his own to scale and conquer.

  Pushing away from the door, he crossed the gallery to where her paintings leaned against the wall and crouched down to look at them again. By God, they were magnificent. He especially admired the creative mix of color—the blues and grays of the seascape, with hints of…Was it mauve?

  He also had to marvel at how the water seemed to surge and swell before his eyes. How in God’s name did she create such movement?

  Then he found himself wondering why she had never shown her paintings to the public before now. What was she afraid of?

  Rejection, most likely, which caused him some regret.

  All that aside, she was without question miraculously gifted, and it only added to her allure. He was in awe of her, and he wanted her back in his arms, and eventually, someday, in his bed. For although there had been other women over the years, she was the only one he had ever loved.

  But was it even possible? he wondered with a twinge of concern, striving to be realistic as he rose to his feet and returned to his office.

  He glanced at the sofa cushion where she’d been sitting—she hadn’t touched her tea—and recalled their conversation, how she had spoken to him with such hostility.