“So you’ve just…given up. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“No means no, Talia,” he said lightly. “You stood right there, looked me in the eye and told me you don’t have romantic feelings for me. Remember that?”
As if she could forget. Even now, the lie clogged her throat, threatening to choke her. “I remember.”
Though his expression was still unfathomably blank, his voice was the purest spun silk. “You’re not a liar, are you?”
The funny thing was, she wasn’t normally a liar, and the whopper she’d told yesterday felt as if it was scraping years off her life.
Could he see it on her face? The longing she felt for him, locked in a death match with her fear of being hurt, her fear of being left, and all the other terrors that stalked her in the night? Could he feel the way her frustrated desire for him radiated off her skin like steam? Did he know that the thought of him was a relentless ache inside her, never giving her a moment’s peace?
Did he know that she reread his letters all the time and kept them in a treasure box that held no other treasures?
“I never lie,” she lied.
He hit her again with that lopsided smile, but this time there was something hard about it, almost cynical. Her belly responded by tightening into sickening knots.
“That’s what I thought.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shrugged. “So don’t worry. I’ll never mention it again.”
The promise did nothing to improve her mood. “You won’t?”
“Absolutely not. So are you interested?”
Having run through all her lies and accusations, she had precious few weapons left, so she tried bravado. “You couldn’t afford me.”
His eyes agleam with quiet satisfaction, he reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a folded check, which he held between his first two fingers the way he might hold a tip for a bellman.
Arrogant jackass.
Irritated beyond words, she snatched it away and—
Oh, my God.
She stared down at the check, stalling for time and making sure she hadn’t miscounted the number of zeroes.
She hadn’t.
How the hell was she supposed to walk away from this kind of a deal? she wondered with growing desperation.
She was a successful artist, true, but right here, in her hot little hands, she was holding more money—and opportunities—than she’d made on her last three commissions combined. Here she’d thought travel was her heart’s desire. Hah. It turned out that she was, at the core, a ruthlessly ambitious artist who couldn’t turn her back on the almighty dollar, the same as every other person in the universe. Besides, with this kind of money, she could buy her own small island in the Caribbean and spend winters there.
Even so, she didn’t have to make it easy for him.
“Tony, I—”
He checked his watch, as though he was tired of her wasting his time and wanted to wrap up this whole annoying negotiation so he could get to the important part of his day.
“I’ll give you the other half when you’ve finished both murals.”
Dumbstruck, she stammered like an idiot. “The—the other half?”
“I assume that’s okay?” he asked mildly.
Was it hot in here all of the sudden? Why did it feel like there was a tightening noose around her neck? What the hell had her greed led her into?
Increasing desperation made her fling out the only remaining excuse she could find. “Maybe your cousins don’t think I’m the right artist for the lobby mural.”
“Good point.” Twisting at the waist, Tony looked to Marcus and Cooper, both of whom were bent over one of her paintings, murmuring and pointing. “So what do we think?” Tony called.
Marcus backed up a step, cocking his head to look at the painting from another angle. “She’s got potential, but the work is still immature.”
Ouch.
“So we don’t want her for the lobby mural?” Tony asked.
Marcus moved closer to the painting again, squinting at her brushstrokes. “I didn’t say that. In a couple of years, I expect she’ll be getting six figures a pop. I’m seeing flashes of brilliance here.”
Talia stilled, her queasiness fading as her insides launched into a happy dance. Brilliance? Did he say brilliance?
“I’m assuming she’s qualified for a project this size…?” Marcus continued.
Tony shot her a questioning glance. “Are you qualified?”
Was she qualified? Screw him! “I have an MFA from Columbia.”
“She’s qualified,” Tony informed them. “Coop?”
Cooper stood a couple of paintings down from his brother, studying a canvas so hard she was tempted to offer him a magnifying glass. He waved a hand. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
“I think that’s everything,” Tony said. “Do we have a deal?”
No. No, they did not have a deal. Things were moving much too quickly for her. What had happened to the quiet life she’d had a mere fifteen minutes ago? Why couldn’t she shake the feeling that nothing would ever be the same after this?
“I’m not sure I should trust you,” she blurted.
Tony stilled. “Let me make sure I understand what you’re saying. You think that I’m so wild about you that I manufactured a reason to work with you, coughed up a ridiculous amount of money and dragged my cousins down here to meet you, all with less than twenty-four hours’ notice? Is that right?”
This, naturally, made her feel like a narcissistic peacock, and her face flushed accordingly as she began the painful process of backtracking.
“Of course not. But I’m just not sure—”
“You know what?” Tony wheeled around and headed for the door, snapping his fingers and signaling for his cousins to follow. They did without a word, falling in line behind him. “This isn’t going to work out. Sorry we wasted your time. Have a nice day.”
Tony’s hand was on the knob when something came over her.
Screw it. Fear already owned far too big a chunk of her life. She wasn’t going to let it rob her of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, as well.
“Wait!” she called, the check pressed to her chest.
Tony paused but didn’t deign to face her again.
“When do I start?” she asked.
“Today’s Friday, so I think Monday is a good time. Have a bag packed so my driver can bring you out to the house tomorrow night. He’ll pick you up at three. Oh, and he’ll pick you up this afternoon for a visit to the auction house. You can get a feel for that mural, as well, but I want you to do the one at the house first.”
“Wait, what?” Her brain slipped and slid, having so much trouble keeping up that she felt like a three-year-old struggling to ice skate for the first time. “A bag—?”
Tony’s head came around, and the unmistakable gleam of triumph in his eyes made a hard lump of dread solidify in her stomach.
Another shoe was about to drop on her head—a big one.
“Oh, didn’t I mention?” he asked. “You’ll have to live on the estate for the duration of the project. Naturally.”
“Wait a minute,” she cried. “I didn’t agree to—”
Tony wasn’t listening. His attention had been irrevocably snagged by the new noise of nails clicking on the floor and jangling tags. Talia’s belly dropped as though an elevator had fallen out from beneath her.
Not now, God, she prayed. Not now.
But God was apparently working on bigger projects at the moment, and didn’t answer.
They all watched as a furry black-and-white paw batted open the door from the back room and Talia’s border collie appeared, although she should’ve been asleep in her crate and therefore invisible, at least until Tony and his entourage left.
Damn canine.
Tony stared, riveted, as the dog trotted over to Talia and sat. After a long moment, Tony’s gaze swung back to Talia, but it was sharper now. His gaze was knowing, as though he’d discovered that t
here was nothing she could hide from him that he wouldn’t root out and discover.
“Border collie, eh?” he murmured casually.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“What’s her name?”
Talia hesitated, feeling her carefully crafted life and lies beginning to crumble. “Chesley,” she told him.
Chapter 4
The Madison Avenue offices of Davies & Sons were, Talia discovered that afternoon, spectacular. The building was sleek and modern, a shimmering slab of gray glass rising above the surrounding buildings and pointing toward the sky. The minimalist atrium had a splashing fountain running down one wall, a huge spiral staircase that seemed to float up into the atmosphere, and boxy black furniture, each piece probably costing more that that check Tony had given her earlier.
The second she walked in and saw the bare wall beyond the receptionist’s desk, she knew that Tony was right. This office and her work were MFEA—made for each other.
The ideas began to spark, making her manic with excitement and slowing down her steps as she walked through the double glass doors and up to the desk.
Luckily, the receptionist was on her game. “Talia Adams?”
Talia tore her gaze from her wall—yes, it was her wall now, and she was going to make it spectacular—and smiled. “Yes. I’m here to see—”
“Mr. Davies. I’ll call him for you.” The woman pushed a button on her phone and spoke to Tony through her headset. “He’ll be right down,” she told Talia.
“Thanks.” Talia felt hot color rise up through her cheeks and wished she could tamp it down. Jeez. She was like a walking thermometer, shooting into the red zone every time Tony, or even the possibility of Tony, came up. How pathetic was that?
No wonder Tony accused her of sending mixed messages.
Hell, she was surprised he was hearing Leave me alone from her when her body was so full of Take me, I’m yours.
Get a grip, girl, she told herself sternly. Focus on the mural.
Easier said than done, but she did try.
The space was so stark and open. She liked that. Uncluttered, with only the bare necessities. So the mural would have to be equally spare, but vivid, which meant yellows and oranges. They weren’t her favorite but maybe something like Sol Splendor, which she had, after all, painted for Tony, would be a good place to start. But she was also feeling a lot of green here, and that meant there was a lot of potential for—
“Talia,” said a male voice behind her. “You’re right on time.”
Wait a minute, she thought, some of her excitement slipping. That was the wrong voice.
Turning, she discovered that it was the wrong Mr. Davies striding toward her with his hand extended—Marcus, not Tony.
Disappointment gave her a strong kick in the gut, but she ignored it and glued her smile in place as they shook hands. Since there was no possibility of she and Tony getting together, she refused to entertain the idea that she was disappointed to miss him.
Tony wasn’t there to greet her? Good. So much the better.
“Good to see you again, Marcus. So this is the space, eh?”
“This is the space. What do you think?”
“I think I have a lot of ideas for this wall.”
He grinned. “I figured you would. So has anyone given you the nickel history lesson yet?”
She already knew a bit—well, a lot—about the family’s history, having checked Google before she came here, but she played dumb anyway in the hope of learning more.
“Nope. Hit me.”
“Well, my father and his brother, Tony’s father, founded the place fifty years ago. It wasn’t on Madison Avenue back then, though. It was just a small house that did a good job with estate sales and jewelry collections and the like. We got our big break when a couple of big movie stars sold off their art collections. The rest is history.”
He was being modest. “A couple of movie stars,” she knew from her research, meant the 1960s equivalent of Brad and Angelina. Still, she appreciated a little humility.
“And now you handle pretty much everything, right? Vintage cars, art, jewelry, wine, antiquities—”
“We hate to turn down a challenge. We’ve got departments and specialists who handle the auction end.”
“And you’re the president—”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to mislead you. It takes the three of us to keep this ship running. I oversee day-to-day operations, Coop is in development and public relations, and Tony’s going to replace our finance guy who retired last— Speak of the devil.”
The elevator doors slid open and Tony stepped out, briefcase in hand and a harried frown across his forehead. He’d been heading for the glass doors to the street, but upon seeing them, he veered and strode over.
There was no time to prepare. Talia’s skin experienced that slow sizzle of awareness that only Tony could cause.
The whole suit thing didn’t help. There was something about seeing him—again—in that charcoal suit with white shirt and red tie that really did a number on her equilibrium. Good thing she’d never seen him in his army dress uniform. She’d probably crash to the floor in a dead faint.
“Where are you off to?” Marcus asked him.
“Meeting.” He swung that brown crystal gaze around to her, kicking her heart rate up a couple of dizzying notches. “Do you like your wall, Talia?”
“I love it.” Typically, her enthusiasm for an exciting new project came through in her voice, making her sound like a cheerleader in the middle of a round of rah-rah-rahs. “I can’t wait to get started with the—”
Tony checked his watch.
Wow. Way to slash a woman’s ego down to size. Talia’s smile wobbled, but she somehow hung on to it. “I don’t mean to keep you.”
“Not at all,” Tony replied, but he was already on the move again, slipping through the glass doors without a backward glance at her and only a quick wave for Marcus. “I’ll catch you later.”
“Yeah,” she said lamely, fighting a ridiculous feeling of disappointment. “I’ll see you—”
Too late. At the curb now, Tony raised a hand, hailed a yellow taxi and zoomed down the street, out of her line of sight.
“Why don’t I give you a quick tour?” Marcus asked, gesturing her toward the elevator.
Talia stared after Tony.
“Talia?” The elevator dinged, and Marcus held it open for her. “Tour?”
“Sure,” she said, her face burning with something she didn’t want to identify.
The mansion was, in a word, unbelievable.
Really, Talia thought the following night, as the chauffeured town car rolled to a stop in front of Tony’s Hamptons estate, she should have been prepared for it. Having consulted Google for everything she could discover about the Davies family and seen several online pictures, she knew that the house was in the English country style, with a shingled roof, lots of dormer windows and a couple football fields’ worth of manicured land fronting the beach. She got all that. But getting it while seated in her own comfy home office in front of her computer screen, and getting it right here, right now, were two different things.
Part of the issue was that she’d never spent time in the Hamptons, that playground of the rich and famous, so she had little experience with this kind of property and wealth.
The bigger part of the issue was that she was still reeling from the unexpected turns her life had taken since Tony had shown up yesterday.
And of course, she’d be seeing him again in a minute.
A shiver of anticipation started deep inside her body and radiated out, skating across her skin.
Foolish, she told herself. She was being foolish with a capital F.
Not that there was anything she could do about it except ride it out.
A couple of deep breaths helped. By the time she’d gathered her purse and her courage, the driver was opening the door and holding out a hand for her, as though she’d be forever stuck in the car otherwise. Right.
Because this was how rich folks rolled. So she accepted his silent help and climbed out, trying not to gape and stare.
She gaped and stared anyway.
The house had a circular drive, explosions of black-eyed Susans and manicured grass so green that it could have been ripped from a park in the Emerald City. There were also cobblestone paths, potted plants and mature trees providing shade at strategic intervals.
Talia had, in short, wandered into the pages of Architectural Digest magazine. If anything, she belonged in Better Homes and Gardens.
So, yeah. She’d have to fake it for a while. She could do that.
Resisting the urge to help the driver retrieve her luggage from the trunk, she strode to the front door, infusing her steps with a confidence that she did not remotely feel. Her efforts to look graceful were further damaged when her heel caught on one of the cobblestones, making her stumble. Arms pinwheeling, she recovered just in time to see a wheelchair-bound man emerge from the shadows inside the front door.
A young guy, he had a short and dark buzz cut, a bulky chest, immense and tattooed arms, and legs that were missing below the knee.
He was stifling a grin at her expense.
There was nothing she could do except laugh at herself. “Yeah. My nickname is Grace.”
The guy’s grin widened, and she decided that she liked him. “It’ll be our little secret, sweet cakes,” he assured her.
“I appreciate that.” She extended her hand and it was immediately swallowed in his firm grip. “And I’m Talia Adams. Not sweet cakes.”
“Oh, I know who you are, sweet cakes. Never you fear. I’m Michael Bianchi. Call me Mickey. I know everything around here. Just don’t tell the boss that.”
She laughed again. “Well, since you know everything around here, you probably know that I’m here to repaint the mural.”
“Are you any good?”
“I’m the best,” she said, with a rare burst of bravado.
“Modest, too. Hey, what’s with that hair? Am I gonna need my sunglasses with you or what?”
She shrugged, smoothing the edges around her temple. “I like colors. I’m an artist. What’s with the tats?”
Mickey, who was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, had so many tattoos of varying colors running up and down his heavy arms that they might have been inked by Jackson Pollock. He didn’t seem to mind the teasing. “Touché. I hope I’m not going to have any problems with you.”
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