by J. R. Ward
After an hour, she grew cold and curled on her side, pulling her blanket over her legs. As she stared across the shallow expanse of her room, she hoped the solution to her problems would come.
And that it wouldn’t involve Jack Walker.
It was sometime around four a.m. when she made up her mind to take the job. The deciding factor wasn’t money, although that did play a role. The Walker portrait was just too enticing, and if she turned down the opportunity because of a lack of faith in her abilities or a hyperbolic reaction to some man, she’d never forgive herself.
Having come to a decision, she had plans to make. First of all, she’d need help. Fortunately, she still had good relationships with her professors at NYU, and if she got into trouble with the conservation, she could always turn to them. She was also willing to bet she could ask for some work space and use one of their microscopes. Supplies would be covered in the cost of the project, so she wouldn’t have to worry about out-of-pocket expenses, and she was pretty damn sure none of Jack Walker’s checks would bounce.
As for him, she wasn’t going to see him much at all, hopefully no more than once when he dropped the painting off and then again when he came to pick it up after she was finished. Maybe he’d show up for a visit in between to monitor her progress.
Surely she could handle that amount of interaction.
In a flash, she pictured him as he’d leaned forward, in that crazy moment when she could have sworn he was going to kiss her.
Maybe she could handle seeing him that often.
Callie stayed awake until the sun came up, thinking about the things she needed to buy or borrow. After she’d finally formulated a way to make all the pieces fit together, she called his office number and was surprised when the phone was answered by a secretary, even though it was the weekend.
When she gave her name, the woman said, “Oh, good. He’s been waiting for you.”
Music came over the line, something classical and rather grand. Callie managed to swallow even though her mouth was dry.
“Good morning, Ms. Burke.” Walker’s smooth, gently mocking voice came through the phone and went right down her spine.
“I’ll do it.”
There was a soft laugh of satisfaction and then he was all business. “Fine. Let’s meet, ten o’clock, at the Plaza.”
She frowned, looking down at his card. “I thought you were in Boston.”
“No, still here. Ten o’clock? We’ll meet in my suite.” When she hesitated, he said drily, “If it makes you more comfortable, I’ll get a chaperone. And I’ll make sure the bondage masks and the handcuffs are put away.”
She gripped the phone. “Very funny.”
Callie wrote down the name of his suite and hung up the phone, her heart racing. When she put her hand on her chest and felt buttons, she looked down at herself. She’d slept in her clothes.
Well, not really slept.
Debating the wisdom of what she’d agreed to do, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. As she stripped, she considered critically the black pants, white button-down, and black sweater she’d inadvertently used for pajamas. They were modest, nondescript. There was only more of the same in the closet.
She wished she had something chic to wear when she met with him. A getup that would help give her some of the backbone she was going to need when she sat across from the man and tried to pretend she was every bit as sophisticated as he was.
She peered out at the Chanel suit and smiled, figuring Grace probably wouldn’t mind if she threw that puppy on one more time.
4
CALLIE WAS right on time when she walked into the Plaza Hotel. The first thing she did when she got inside was take off her coat and fold it so that the satin lining, and not the furry outside, showed. After she found the elevators, she took one high up into the building and stepped out into a lofty hallway. A series of brass signs on the wall helped her find her way.
As she was walking along, a blond woman in a sleek red suit and matching coat approached in a wave of perfume. The blonde’s hair was cropped short, emphasizing her carved cheekbones and tilted eyes, and her jewelry was discreet but expensive. The woman looked over and smiled with a nod.
Callie mimicked the cool upward tip of the chin, thinking she’d have to remember the gesture, and kept going. A little farther down, she stopped in front of a set of double doors marked “Greenough Suite.”
She raised her hand to knock, but a voice stopped her. “Are you looking for Mr. Walker?”
Callie turned around. A maid holding a set of towels was looking at her with pleasant inquiry.
“Yes, I am.”
“He went out about an hour ago. He should be back soon, but I can’t let you in.”
“That’s okay. I’m happy to wait out here.”
After the maid left, Callie leaned against the wall, cradling her coat in her hands. She was thinking about what she would say when she saw him and remembered the woman in the red suit. How would someone like her greet Jack Walker?
Whatever the words, they would undoubtedly strike the perfect note. Just like the woman’s clothes and hair had.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” As she jerked at the sound of Walker’s voice, she let out a squeak she could have done without. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
She opened her mouth, but any cogent thought stalled as she took a good look at him. The black T-shirt and running shorts were a surprise. And so was the sheen of sweat over his skin.
But his body was what really got her attention.
My God, she thought. He was an athlete under those expensive suits.
The man’s shoulders were wide and solid and his arms showed a heavy network of veins and muscle. She couldn’t help but glance farther down and noted that his stomach was as flat as the wall she was leaning against and his thighs were corded with strength. He looked like some kind of well-made machine, all superb working parts that had just passed a rigorous test down on the streets of New York.
Callie looked away, aware she was staring. “Would you like me to come back in a half hour?”
“Why?” He opened the door.
“So you can, er, get ready.”
“Don’t worry. I’m fast with a bar of soap.”
Now, there was an image she could do without.
“Are you coming in,” he prompted as she stalled in the doorway, “or are we going to do this in the hall?”
She kicked her chin up and brushed past him.
As she stepped into the suite, her feet slowed. It was a palace, room after room of cream and gold with mahogany furniture and thick swaths of brocade drapes. She could see a dining room, a sitting room, and a bar. In a far corner, there were a couple of other doors that probably led into bedrooms.
“I’ve ordered us breakfast,” he said as he sauntered across an Oriental rug that complemented both the pale walls and the dark furniture. “If they come, will you let them in?”
She nodded and put her coat down on a chair.
When she heard a door shut, she started to study the suite in earnest. She figured she might as well take a good long look because she didn’t know when she’d be in a hotel room like this again. A flash of color caught her eye. Lying on the glossy surface of a side table was a woman’s scarf and next to it were a pair of heavy gold earrings. Callie walked over for a better look. They were beautiful, expensive things and it was easy to imagine the kind of woman they belonged to.
She was willing to bet whoever it was didn’t have a hole in the pocket of her coat.
Were they his girlfriend’s? His lover’s?
Or was he married? No, that would have made it into the papers.
Once again, she thought about him reaching out and touching her hair the night before. Remembering the way she’d felt, she found the stories about all those women floating in and out of his bedroom totally believable. In that moment as he’d come toward her, his eyes hooded and fixed on her lips, his broad body throwing
off waves of heat even through his clothes, she’d had no interest in turning away. She’d been ready to put her hands on those shoulders and pull him to her.
Which proved that he was dangerously attractive and she was clearly out of her mind.
A soft bell chimed and she crossed the room to let in the waiter delivering their breakfast. She stood to the side and watched as he set up a spread on the dining room table. Silver, crystal, porcelain plates, and heavy linens were arranged with precise, efficient movements. The guy was in and out in less than ten minutes and he didn’t hover for a tip, which was a good thing; she had little to offer him.
Grateful for something to do, Callie sat down at the table and poured herself some coffee. She was lifting the china cup to her mouth when Walker came back into the room.
“Good. I’m starved.”
Her hand twitched and some coffee landed on her plate in a brown puddle. She muttered a curse and debated about whether to clean it up while he sat across the table from her.
“Do I make you that nervous?” Walker said in his deep voice.
She glanced up without meeting his eyes. His hair was damp and his crisp white business shirt was open at the collar, revealing the skin of his throat. She smelled his aftershave, something subtle and expensive.
Yes, she thought.
“No,” she said. “Does that disappoint you?”
He smiled. “Now, why would I want to make you uncomfortable?”
He poured himself some coffee and then picked up a basket of breads and pastries and offered it her. She hesitated.
“Not eating?” he prompted.
She snatched a cinnamon and raisin bagel before realizing what she’d picked. She hated raisins, but she wasn’t putting it back—that was for sure.
He put a muffin on his plate and ladled some cut fruit out of a silver bowl. “I’m glad you’re coming to work for me.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” she said from behind her coffee cup.
“Really?” he drawled, starting to eat. “You still seem conflicted.”
“How’s that?”
“You haven’t looked me in the eye yet.”
Callie frowned and forced herself to meet his steady gaze. She noticed flecks of green and yellow in the hazel depths staring back at her.
“There, now, that’s not so bad, is it?” he teased with a smile.
“Mr. Walker—”
“Jack.”
“Jack,” she repeated, “why don’t we talk about the job?”
“You don’t want us to get to know each other a little bit?”
“That’s not what I’m here for.”
He shrugged while spearing a strawberry with his fork. “So loosen up. Live a little. You might even like me if you got to know me.”
“I doubt that.” She shook her head, wondering if she was ever going to learn to think before she spoke to the man. “Listen, I—”
“I’m hurt, Ms. Burke,” he murmured. “Or may I call you Callie?”
She rolled her eyes. He didn’t seem hurt. In fact, he looked perfectly content as he munched on his breakfast.
If this guy has a tender ego, Callie thought, I’m the tooth fairy.
She gave it another shot. “No offense, but I’m really just interested in the painting.”
“Well, maybe I want to learn a little more about you.”
“You know my professional background. What else is there?”
He shot her a dry look. “You don’t like to talk about yourself?”
“Not to you, no.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I have a feeling that anything I say might be used against me.”
He laughed, a big, easy sound. “I’m not the police. You’re not a criminal. At least as far as I know.”
As he smiled at her, she made busywork by spreading cream cheese on the bagel. “So about Nathaniel—”
“You are bound and determined not to enjoy breakfast with me, aren’t you?” he said laconically.
“I can’t imagine I’d enjoy anything with—” She flushed as he sent her a sharp look. Waving her hand in the air, as if she could erase her words, she muttered, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He considered her for a moment. “You’re very honest. And you don’t let yourself get pushed around, do you?”
Callie’s mouth almost dropped open. Both because he seemed to approve of her candidness and because he was so off base.
How little he knew, she thought, putting the knife down. She’d had to absorb the fallout from her mother’s emotional theatrics for years. She’d accepted being relegated to a shameful footnote in her father’s life without ever challenging him or telling him how much it hurt. Hell, she’d taken the brunt of Stanley’s peevish nature day after day without sticking up for herself.
But Jack Walker didn’t need to know all that. And she was quite content to relish his misunderstanding in private.
“Why is it so important that I work for you?” she asked abruptly.
He picked up his cup and she saw his gold cuff links flash.
“We all need a start in life,” he said. “You’ve worked hard and you deserve a chance to make a name for yourself. You’ve interned with some of the best in the field, but you need to branch out and do something that’ll get you noticed. Make your mark.”
It was sound advice and a generous inclination on his part. But she didn’t know him and he didn’t owe her, and that meant the pat explanation didn’t hold water. She wondered if Grace had said something. Was he doing this as a favor to her?
“What did Grace tell you about me?” she asked.
He regarded her evenly. “That you’re a friend of hers. That you’re talented. That it was important to her for you to have a chance at this project. Why?”
“Nothing.” She tried to sort through the implications of Grace having a hand in her career. She appreciated the support, although she’d have preferred to get the job solely on her own merits. But maybe she had. Jack Walker didn’t seem the type who’d hire anyone on the basis of sentimentality.
And now she better understood why he’d tracked her down.
“Is there a problem?” he asked as she stayed silent.
“I just don’t want to be a charity case,” she blurted.
He frowned and then laughed.
“Then you’ll be pleased to know that my lack of philanthropic interest is legendary. You’ve got the credentials and you’re going to work for every penny. My money’s far too important to me to have it any other way.” He gestured at her clothes. “Besides, if you can afford to wear Chanel, you’re not exactly starving. Although I have to say, I’m surprised you have a workshop in such a worn-down building.”
“Workshop?”
He frowned. “The one in Chelsea.”
Callie almost laughed. He thought she worked where she lived? It was certainly conceivable. There were a lot of artists’ studios in her neighborhood.
She was about to disabuse him of the error when she decided to keep quiet. There was no reason to tell the man her life story, and if he thought she had money, it worked in her favor by putting them on more equal footing.
As she fell silent again, he let out a frustrated noise. “Fine, no more chitchat. When can you start?”
“As soon as you want me to.”
“Can you be in Boston the day after tomorrow?”
“Boston?” She stiffened.
“The painting is going to be shipped to my home on Tuesday.”
“Oh. I’d assumed it would stay here.”
“I don’t live here.”
“But you could have the portrait bonded and leave it with me,” she said hopefully.
“That’s not what I had in mind.”
And she could tell his mind was made up. “This changes everything.”
“Why?”
“All my contacts are here. My, ah, work space. My tools.”
“None of that will be a probl
em,” he said smoothly.
Maybe not for him, she thought.
“I’ll see to everything for you,” he continued. “And I’d like you to stay at Buona Fortuna while you work.”
“Where?”
“My house. Buona fortuna means good fortune in Italian. My great-great-grandmother had a fondness for the Renaissance period.” He took another croissant from the basket. “I’m going to dedicate studio space to you, get you whatever equipment you need. You can set up everything exactly as you want it.”
She pictured herself sleeping under the same roof as him and the pool of heat that set up shop in her stomach made her want to get away from the man, not move in with him.
“I don’t know whether that would be such a good idea. It could be at least six weeks. That’s a long time for a guest.”
“True. But it’s a big house.”
Yeah, well, the damn thing could be the size of a football field and it would still be too small, she thought.
“I don’t know.”
“I won’t charge you for the hospitality,” he said with disapproval. “If that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll still pay you the same.”
And then he named a price that almost made her fall out of the chair.
With that kind of money, she wouldn’t have to worry about rent for a year and then some. She’d be able to do a job search in comfort. She could start a nest egg.
Callie tried to keep her voice level. “That’s very generous.”
“It’s the going rate for a professional. And remember, I’ll get you anything you need for your work on the painting.”
She hesitated, finding it hard to imagine doing the job in a private home. It wasn’t impossible, but it would complicate things.
“Why is it so important that the work be performed at your house?”
“No museum is going to get the mistaken impression that my painting is hanging on any wall but my own. I’ve been burned a few times, having to wrestle pieces back once they’d been conserved, even if I’ve footed the bill for the restoration. The attachment can become personal for some conservationists and their museums, which is another reason why you’re attractive to me.” There was a slight pause. “You’re unaffiliated with an institution, so there’ll be no confusion.”