Watercolor Love series
WATERCOLOR HEARTS
(Book One)
By
Sutton Shields
Copyright © 2018 Sutton Shields
All Rights Reserved
Further Information: http://suttonshields.blogspot.com/
http://twitter.com/SuttonShields
Cover Art by The Incomparable Claudia McKinney at phatpuppyart.com
Cover Design by the Amazing Font Diva
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons—living, dead, cat burglar, art collector—business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanned, recording, or otherwise, without written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s rights. Please only purchase authorized editions.
Kindle Edition.
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For mysterious & limitless hearts
Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter One
For some, life was a puzzle of mismatched pieces. These pieces would likely never fit together, for none had a true match. If my childhood was any indication, I was one such piece. Fortunately, I wasn’t exactly yearning for a match in the traditional sense; had I been stupid enough to desire a neat fit for my taped-together heart, I would’ve needed to hit the cookie dough and wine. Hard. Nightly. Instead, my own ragged little puzzle piece sought to slip into an open slot within an exclusive realm of society—a realm I never thought I’d be able to roam.
Traverz Hall, an English-style manor, spanned across nearly two-hundred acres of land and housed sixty-seven rooms, including two ballrooms, five studies, multiple libraries, three art galleries, a statue room, an indoor pool, a gift-wrapping room, countless bathrooms, a ping-pong room, racquetball court, and a bowling alley, to name a few. There was an outdoor pool, a solarium, two tennis courts—because one was never enough—and a putting green. But the epicenter of this estate was the main garden. It was known for its elaborate parties, attracting only the upper echelon of New York’s elite.
On this warm July night, the sweeping garden was full of tinkling champagne flutes, flowing gowns, tuxedos, and blinding baubles; the fancy footwear alone could probably pay off half the national debt. Empty eyes engaged in haughty conversation, where cunning smiles spoke far louder than any words uttered. Welcome to the land of the obscenely rich, and I, Maggie Harred, walked among them.
I wasn’t old money. I wasn’t new money. I had nothing and no one. With a damning past permanently shadowing my eyes and my questionable present and hazy future hovering over me like the Grim Reaper, I certainly emitted the stink of an interloper. I didn’t belong, and they knew as much. The rich could sniff out an imposter quicker than they could turn their nose up to cheap caviar. I was a weed daring to grow in their bed of perfect plastic flowers. I suppose it didn’t help that I had the audacity to snub the boutiques of proper pastel dresses, choosing instead to wear a sexy red gown for this evening’s gala. What could I say? I’d never been a fan of conforming.
I made my way to the bar, slinking through the impolitely polite whispers and disapproving glares. If ever there was a time for a drink, it was now.
I set my ridiculously small black purse on the counter and perused the drink selection. “You’d think this would be an easy decision, particularly when your sole objective is to get buzzed.”
The bartender, with his model good looks, chuckled. “Most of these folks have the champagne. Seven-hundred a bottle.”
“Oh, really? Well, in that case…give me a beer,” I said, smirking.
“No beer allowed, unfortunately.”
“Surprise, surprise. White wine, then. Go heavy-handed with the pouring.”
After pouring a generous amount of wine, the hunky bartender handed me the glass and said, “You’re definitely not what I’m used to seeing at one of these parties.”
I took the glass and immediately downed a sizable sip. “That, my friend, may very well be the best compliment I’ve ever gotten.” Raising my glass to him, I turned to face the crowd. Leaning seductively against the bar, I took in the scene.
White lights adorned perfectly manicured trees and bushes; waiters weaved in and out carrying trays of caviar and shrimp; striped awnings covered display tables holding various paintings and sculptures for tonight’s charity auction; a sea of pastel-clad women danced rigidly with their dates along a black and white dance floor as a swing band belted timeless tunes. Apart from the band, I couldn’t stand this atmosphere. Memories of my parents flashed like lightning across my inner eye. I squeezed my eyes shut and gently shook my head. When I opened them, nearly every nearby eye had narrowed on me.
In those eyes, I saw each thought that passed through their minds. It wasn’t hard; plastic people were about as easy to read as the Sunday comics, only not nearly as comical. While the men imagined my gown adorning some cheap motel floor, their female counterparts glared at me like I was some temptress there to steal their husbands or boyfriends. I smiled at the thought. I was the furthest thing from a temptress. And, really, who were they kidding? They could wear cleavage-covering dresses and slick their hair into tidy buns all they liked, but at the end of the night, they were nothing more than money-grubbing gold-diggers or parasites living off daddy’s money. Regardless, they all took great pleasure in rubbing their wealth in the faces of girls like me.
Watching the tuxedos and the gowns conversing and cajoling, I couldn’t help but be absolutely amazed at just how many people lived with their heads up their asses…or their noses up someone else’s ass.
Smiling, I turned and set my wine glass down. Opening my purse, I retrieved a black card from within. On the front was an abstract picture of a silver tailless cat. Flipping it open, I read the words once again.
The Mission: find and retrieve the 1888 Royal Geoloda Jeweled Egg.
Where: Traverz Estate, statue room. Present enclosed invitation upon arriving at the annual Traverz Charity Auction.
If you successfully complete the mission, instructions for the next step will be awaiting you at your residence.
Remember, there are four of you planted at the Traverz party—four of you will be trying to find and retrieve the Geoloda Egg. Only one wins. This is a competition. What for, you ask? Ah, not for you to know. For now, let me say this:
You’ll want to win.
> ~Manx
For five years, since the age of nineteen, I’d been working as a research specialist in the arts and antiques department of Sakfalla Appraisals, the holy grail of positions to gaining the attention of the mysterious Manx. No one knew what he was, who he was, or where he was. Frankly, no one knew for sure if the Manx was a he or a she, although the consensus was ‘team man.’ Simply put, the Manx has been the world’s most renowned cat burglar for over thirty years, only he was so much more than a mere cat burglar; he had reached the status of legend in the art world. Museums and auction houses feared him; the wealthy adored him; and law enforcement both hated and, in some small way, marveled over him.
By some twist of screwed up fate, this mysterious creature plucked me out of obscurity, affording me the chance to escape the hell that was the memory of my childhood. And tonight, I had the opportunity to impress the person who quite literally saved my sanity. Of course, his entire operation goes against the very laws our nation was built upon, but I didn’t care. Neither our laws, nor our justice system did right by my family. Working for the Manx was my way in…my way to right the horrific wrongs done to my parents…to do what the law couldn’t.
Everything the Manx did was like a brushstroke across canvas. It was beautiful, dangerous, and even sad, like a watercolor painting left outside on a rainy day. His life was a dance I wanted to join, needed to join. Perhaps I was a fool, seduced by the art, the danger, and the chance to avenge the deaths of my parents. Whatever it was, the feeling alone kept me going, functioning…breathing.
I was so busy fantasizing about meeting the elusive Manx—hoping he was a deliciously older gentleman with knowledge he could embed in my mind—that I failed to notice the band had stopped playing and the crowd had been applauding, their attention turned to a man on the stage. His appearance took me off guard. I wasn’t prepared to see someone so damn hot existing within this pretentious pack, particularly when he bore the last name ‘Traverz.’ I’d spotted his pictures in the papers and local magazines now and again, but they didn’t do this man justice. Not. At. All. I finished off my wine in an attempt to silence my ever-active hormones.
Blake Traverz was the only child of Lydia and Chester Traverz. They were old money—the best kind in this world. The patriarch of the Traverz family passed away six years ago. Blake had taken over his father’s multi-million dollar investment firm. Lydia Traverz was a bit of an unknown. She was never in the papers and never showed her face at these events; in fact, no one had seen her publicly since her husband’s funeral. No matter what she did—or wore—Lydia wasn’t exactly accepted in Gold Coast circles. Chester Traverz, English royalty, born into one of England’s most affluent families, did the unthinkable: he met and fell in love with a small town country girl from Kentucky.
“Settle down, settle down,” said Blake, holding his large hands up to his guests. His accent was distinctly transatlantic, falling somewhere between British and American. In other words, he sounded suave as hell. “The auction will begin in fifteen minutes. Let’s not be stingy, ya hear me? I won’t have any scrooges on my turf. Every penny raised tonight goes to cancer research. Let’s find that cure!”
I released an ill-timed giggle that was basically code for ‘yeah, right.’
Blake shot me a curious glance before carrying on. “We have paintings, jewels, and sculptures that you can’t even imagine! As always, highest bidder wins. Winners will head just inside the doors of the manor—there you’ll find a table of suits ready to finalize the sales. Fifteen minutes until the start!”
I sighed loudly and turned back to the bartender. “I’ll take another glass of wine.”
“I’m glad you find cancer research so amusing.” Blake Traverz towered over me, his deep brown eyes dancing playfully over my face. Seeing him up close and personal, I certainly wouldn’t have pegged him as a blueblood. Oh, sure, on paper, Blake Traverz was every bit a member of the well-to-do club, but there was something inherently rebellious about him. Perhaps it was the mischievous glimmer in his eyes, or the fact that his pine-brown hair was unruly and slightly longer than one would expect for the son of royalty. Yeah, he was rugged and smoldering…and I liked it. Too bad I was here to pilfer from the guy.
“I don’t find anything about cancer remotely amusing,” I retorted. “I do, however, find a bunch of deep pockets feigning to care about finding a cure terribly entertaining, but only in the saddest sense, especially considering how many of them are probably mentally taking that sizeable charitable deduction on their taxes as we speak.”
The smirk on his face grew. “That’s a cynical viewpoint.”
I shrugged. “What you see as cynical, I see as truth. Come on, you mean to tell me half of these guys don’t have their hands in the back pockets of pharmaceutical companies? With money being what they live for, a cure is the last thing they’d want to find.”
“Would you believe that I’m sincere in my desire to find a cure?”
“No, not in the least,” I said, returning his playful grin.
Leaning in closer, he whispered, “Maybe I need to be a little clearer about my desires in life. I may just surprise you, Miss…”
Oh, this guy knew how to stir the hormones. Then again, when you had a body made solely for kitchen counter, against-the-wall, shower bench, on-the-beach, under-the-sheets fun, why wouldn’t you?
“That’s a big ‘maybe’, since I don’t surprise easily,” I said coolly, omitting my name.
He stared at me, his eyes full of curiosity. “You are a feisty one, aren’t you? You always have your undies in a twist, sweetheart?”
“Rarely wear 'em.”
“That makes two of us.” Man, this guy was good. Really good. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”
I laughed. “That’s because you haven’t. This is my first garden party in the infamous Traverz garden.”
“Infamous, eh? Suppose we’ll need to better impress you next time.”
“Pending there’ll be a next time, that is.” I took a sip of my wine, enjoying the interested look on his face far more than I should.
“Just so happens I specialize in ‘next times.’” Dear God. He challenged my ability to stay focused—not a good thing. “You know, you don’t exactly fit in around here.”
“Thanks.”
“Didn’t mean it to be cruel.”
“Believe me, I didn’t take it that way. It’s a huge compliment.”
“Meaning you’d rather jump in haystacks or make mud pies than ever fit in with this crowd.”
“Well, get the man a prize!” I said, holding my glass up to him. “I asked for a beer earlier. There weren’t any offered. You really should cater to the preferences of all of your guests.”
“Beer, eh? Woman after my own heart.”
“That so? Why then don’t you have beer here?”
“Unfortunately, most of these folks have champagne tongues. Beer might cause this lot to shrivel up and slip out of their skin.”
“That would be an improvement on them. Still, most isn’t all.”
“No, it certainly isn’t. Something tells me you aren’t like most.”
Nor are you, I thought. Smirking, I cleared my throat and said, “Speaking of most…which one’s yours?”
“Which one what, sweetheart?”
“Oh, you know, your cookie-cutter gal,” I said. “I mean, you have to be expected to marry one of them…which one is it? They all fit the perfect mold: they tell you what you want to hear to get near and dear to—not your heart, no, no—your bank account. And then you marry 'em and sit back in horror as they turn into spiked-skinned, cold queens, armed with icicles to shove up your buttocks.”
Blake—and the bartender—chuckled loudly. “And how do you know all these ‘cookie-cutter gals’ harbor icicle ass sticks?”
“Because I knew…” Divulging my past to this man would be a colossal mistake. More disturbing was the fact that some part of my well-guarded filter faltered
and nearly started taking him on a walk down a nightmarish memory lane. “So, spill it. Which one is she? Come on!”
“She’s in the peach gown,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of, oh, about a dozen peach-wearing women.
“Aw, now you’re gonna have to be more specific than that. Peach seems to be the color of choice for tonight. And we all know when one says ‘peach’, they all follow the leader. Would this be the one with the high collar or the one with long, lace sleeves…ooh, maybe she’s the one with the librarian bun?”
Blake unleashed a hearty chortle. Even his laugh oozed seduction. “Short sleeves, long blond hair.”
“Oh, yes, she’d have to be blond,” I said, flipping my equally long, yet wavy dark brown hair. I focused on his intended. “Ah. I spotted her earlier. She was one of a rather large group staring daggers through my skull because I had the guts to not play follow the damn leader. The rest of them are too busy putting on airs. They really are like giant gas bags. I’m surprised none of them have alienated their peers with a giant fart by now.”
Blake actually doubled over laughing, drawing the attention of his peachy wife-wannabe. “You’re a character.”
“Thought I was feisty.”
“You’re a feisty character.”
“Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that you have to face life with as much humor as you can muster, even if no one else finds it funny. If you can make yourself laugh, you’re way ahead of the curve.”
“Who are you?”
“Definitely not the girl you bring home to mama, unlike your wife-to-be, over there.”
“Whoa, pump the brakes…no marriage talk has taken place with Blair, not on my end, anyway. We’re not even a couple—more like acquaintances who accompany one another to events.”
“Blair? Her name is Blair? As in…Blake and Blair?” It wasn’t often I fell into a bout of giggles—giggling reeked of vulnerability, a weakness I couldn’t really afford to unmask. But, come on, I couldn’t help it!
Watercolor Hearts (Watercolor Love Book 1) Page 1