Chapter 6
Jack pulled his Aston Martin into the garage and got out. He'd expected to get home much earlier, but the negotiations he'd begun with the blood brothers weren't going as well as he'd hoped. There were some issues with their debt financing structure that were going to make securing a large, unfettered interest in the company close to impossible. The McKays had borrowed money from a legion of family members during their research and development phase and had given away a substantial amount of their shares in return.
Hell, he'd be lucky to get a quarter ownership of the thing, which would hardly justify the nine-digit investment they needed.
He'd learned long ago not to put his money into anything he couldn't get it back out of. His father had taught him that lesson. The first hundred thousand the man had "borrowed" from him had been lost into the ether. After that, Jack had required that some transfer of property, either real estate, jewelry, or art, occur in his favor before he wrote a check to Nathaniel Six.
God, his father had hated him for that. But the elder Nathaniel had been more horrified at the thought of going to a bank and begging for money from people he wouldn't have sit at his dinner table. Jack owned everything by the time Nathaniel Six died. The cars, the houses in Wellesley, Palm Beach, and the Adirondacks, the art collection, his mother's big jewels. His father, after starting with millions of dollars in the 1950s, had just under a hundred thousand dollars to his name when he was buried.
Jack activated the automatic door and heard it shut with a rumbling sound as he walked over to the porte cochere.
Having the Copley portrait in his possession meant everything to him. As soon as the painting was conserved, it was going back over the mantelpiece in the living room where it hung when he and his brother were growing up. In reclaiming the first Nathaniel, he felt like he'd closed the circle and all of the financial chaos his father had caused was over. Finally.
As he let himself in the house, he called out, "Callie? Hello?"
When there was no answer, he put his briefcase down and walked through the living room to the library, then through the den and the solarium. Lights were on in all the rooms, but she was nowhere to be found. When he got back to the front hall, he looked up the stairs and wondered if he should go hunting for her among the guestrooms.
A picture of her in one of his beds brought up images he was determined not to dwell on and he was debating the merits of going upstairs to find her when
he realized something was missing. Where was Arthur? The dog was usually waiting at the door for him.
Jack headed to the kitchen. Next to the sink, a bowl, plate, and fork had been carefully washed and left to dry, so he knew for sure she was in the house. No one else would have left dishes out like that. His mother rarely set foot in the kitchen and certainly never cleaned up after herself. The staff had the day off and Elsie would have gone home to have dinner with her own family.
He was resigning himself to a search of the guestrooms when Arthur came down the back stairs.
"What are you doing up there?" He bent down as the dog ambled over in his heavy way.
"He was with me."
Jack's head shot up.
Callie was standing at the foot of the stairs, wearing jeans and a navy blue fleece pullover. Her hair was all around her shoulders and he stared into her eyes, testing once again whether he had the color right, whether they really were that beautiful blue.
They were.
Before the silence continued for too long, he said, "I'm sorry I'm so damn late."
She shrugged. "Artie and I have had a fine evening, although I suspect he'd have preferred my dinner be a little less leafy. He doesn't seem to be a big fan of salad."
Jack's eyes narrowed as he assessed her mood. She really didn't seem perturbed. She'd been perfectly happy in an unfamiliar house all by herself, with just his dog as company.
So all that independence wasn't just an act, he thought.
"Are you already setting up your workshop?" he asked, nodding at the stairs. "I thought being over the garage would suit you better, but if you'd rather be in the house, that's fine, too."
Her brows lifted. "Actually, I've been reading about Copley and trying not to fall asleep before you got home."
He gave Arthur a sound pat on the ribs and straightened.
"So what are you doing in the staff quarters?"
"That's where my room is."
Jack frowned. ""What the hell—” He stopped himself. He didn't have to ask who'd put her up there. "You are not staying in the staff wing."
And he and his mother were going to have a little talk in the morning.
Callie pushed her hands into her pockets. "I'm quite comfortable up there."
"Don't be absurd." He started toward the stairs. "Let's move your things."
She raised her hands. "Look, I really don't care. All I need is a place to sleep."
"How can you say that? I'll bet the last time you stayed in a room like that was back in prep school."
"I didn't go to prep school," she countered softly.
Jack stopped, frowned again, and then kept going. "Whatever. Come on, let's go."
He strode past her, thinking his mother's ability to stick her nose into things was unparalleled.
When he got to the head of the narrow stairs, he headed for the open door. "Where are your clothes?"
As she came into the room, she gave him a steady look. "In the drawers."
He glanced over at the small dresser. "Where else?"
"Nowhere else." She went and opened a drawer, gesturing over the shirts and sweaters that were neatly folded. "Just here."
Well, this was a new one, Jack thought.
He was used to women who needed a moving van to go away for the weekend. She was staying for a month and a half and her things fit in three drawers.
"You're a light packer."
She shrugged. "I don't need much."
"What about your tools?"
"In the closet."
"So let's pack you up," he said impatiently.
She regarded him evenly, as if weighing the inconvenience of moving against having to deal with him, and then she went over to the closet and took out a battered Samsonite suitcase that surprised the hell out of him. He'd have expected a Louis Vuitton matched set or even a bunch of Coach bags. Instead, her piece of luggage was ancient, orange, and looked as if it had seen a lot of cargo holds.
As he watched her move her clothes around, he realized something.
Whatever her relationship was with Grace, wherever that Chanel suit had come from, Callie didn't have much money. The things being taken out of the dresser were clean and serviceable, but inexpensive. There wasn't a lick of couture in sight.
When she was finished, he couldn't keep his voice from becoming gentle. "Do you have everything?"
Her eyes rose to his and narrowed, as if she'd caught the change in tone and would have preferred if he'd stayed impatient. After nodding with a strong chin, she picked up the suitcase and a wooden box covered with paint smudges, and headed out the door.
"Let me take something for you," he said as she banged her way down the narrow staircase.
"I've got it."
"At least let me take the suitcase."
"If I can get this load from Penn Station to your house, I can move it to another bedroom."
Penn Station? Jack frowned, picturing her with the heavy burden, transferring trains and walking through Back Bay Station. He had a feeling she'd probably skipped the taxi and taken the commuter train out to Wellesley, too. Which meant she'd also dragged the weight all the way up from the base of Cliff Road.
Damn it all, he thought, as he led her through the kitchen and up the main stairs. He assumed she would have flown in and taken a limo out from Logan Airport.
He felt like a heel.
"You should have told me if you needed transportation," he said. "I would have sent my plane for you."
He heard her stop moving and looked over his shoulder.
"I don't need any handouts," she told him. "I got here just fine on my own."
"But that's not the point. I could have made it easier on you."
"I'm not interested in easy."
He thought that was obvious, going by the luggage dangling from her hands. As she stared back in silence, her determination not to rely on him in any way irked the hell out of him.
"Struggling needlessly isn't the only way to become a martyr," he said dryly. "You could strap on a hair shirt and live on top of a pillar for a month or two."
She shored up the load, reminding him of how much she was carrying. "Tell you what. When I need to be rescued, I'll let you know."
He scowled and kept going, knowing it would be a cold day in the devil's living room before she would ask him for anything. And why that defiance bothered him so much, he couldn't fathom. Maybe it was just a tremendous change from what women usually expected of him.
Hell, even Blair, who was hardly a lightweight when it came to taking care of herself, relied on his jet, his contacts with Fortune 500 companies, and his connections in the art world. And he didn't mind that at all. In fact, he liked it.
When he got to the top of the landing, he took a right and led her down to the best guestroom in the house. As he opened the door and flipped on the light, he heard her gasp.
The Red Room was a real showstopper, he thought, which was precisely why he gave it to her. If she wouldn't let him help her overtly, he was determined to take care of her through back channels.
Callie stepped inside and slowly dropped her load. The delight on her face made his chest swell with pleasure because he'd finally done something that made her happy.
The room was decorated in deep red and burnished gold. In the center, there was a mammoth canopy bed in the Jacobean style, a little something that his great-great-grandmother had imported from an English castle. A fireplace, made of rich russet marble, was set with logs and above its mantel was a painting of the Madonna and Child dating to the sixteenth century. The best detail, though, was the stained-glass window that faced the front lawn. Framed in swaths of thick red silk, the built-in seat under it had pillows of every size and shape to lounge on.
"Goodness," Callie breathed, going over to the fireplace and then the window. Her next stop was the bed. She ran her fingers up the teak supports and over the acres of tasseled velvet that hung from the top. "This is magnificent."
As her hands stroked the rich cloth, Jack found himself wanting to remember exactly how she looked in his favorite room in the house.
"Red suits you," he murmured.
She went back to the fireplace and her eyes widened as they took in the painting. "Is this a Caravaggio?"
He nodded. "What do you think of it?"
She was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was commanding and he smiled, thinking it was how he sounded when he talked about mezzanine debt and interest rates.
"It's magnificent, clearly from the height of his prominence. But I'm shocked at its location. Is this fireplace ever used?"
"No. I've had it sealed."
"Good. Repeated, radical changes in temperature are death to an oil painting." She flashed her eyes over at him. "You should have this conserved. When was the last time it was cleaned?"
"My great-grandmother bought it in Italy in the nineteen-twenties. I don't know that anything's been done to it since."
She made a disapproving noise in the back of her throat as she studied the work more. Her absorption was total, her breathing shallow. He figured a stink bomb could go off in the room and she probably wouldn't notice.
This woman was pretty close to fantastic, he thought.
"So, Callie, maybe we should go through the whole house together and you can tell me what else needs attention."
"Be happy to." She went over to the window seat and looked through the small clear windows on either side of the stained-glass panels. Arthur went with her as if to supervise, putting two paws on the cushions and arching forward, almost as tall as she was on his hind legs. Callie's arm stole around his scruffy neck and she patted his shoulder absently.
As Jack stared at the two of them, he knew he should go. There was something altogether too appealing in the picture they made.
"The painting's arrival was delayed," he said. "It's supposed to come tomorrow. But I can show you the space over the garage first thing in the morning."
She looked over her shoulder. "Great."
"The bathroom's through there." He pointed over to a paneled door. "And I'm across the hall if you want anything."
Her eyes skipped away from his as she straightened. Once again, he had the impression she'd wait until the house was burning down and she'd run out of water before she'd knock on his door.
What would it take for her to open up, he wondered.
"Do you need anything?" When she shook her head, he undid his jacket and started to loosen his tie. "Listen, I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived."
She shrugged. "It really wasn't a problem."
"My mother—”
"Is a lovely lady." She cocked an eyebrow at him, daring him to call her on the bluff. It was obvious she was going to take the high road and he respected her for it.
But he wasn't going to stand for her being disrespected while under his roof.
"If you have any problems with her, let me know."
"Now why would I have to do that?" she returned softly.
Whether she was talking about his mother's bad behavior or coming to him, it wasn't clear. Probably both.
There was a long pause. When Callie's eyes shifted to the bed, becoming wide and pleased again, he thought it was highly probable that she lived in the building in Chelsea.
The very place he'd told her he was surprised she'd even have a work studio in.
Christ, he wished he could take that little zinger back.
"Come on, Arthur," he said, going to the door.
The dog looked over at Callie and then back at him with a discerning eye.
"Here, boy," Jack said, patting his thigh.
The dog lowered his butt to the floor and Jack measured the defection with a grin. "He likes you."
"I like him."
Callie looked down at the dog with nothing but warmth in her face. There was no not-so-subtle caution. No closure. Just a small, secret smile meant only for Arthur.
No wonder the beast had fallen in love with her, Jack thought. Man or dog would be enchanted with such a look.
"Good night, then," he said.
"Good night." She was still smiling at Arthur as he shut the door.
Standing in the hallway, he hung his head and looked down at his wing tips. He should not be interested in another woman's smile.
Hell, he shouldn't even be noticing another woman's smile.
He shook his head. At least he hadn't had any more of those dreams. Since Callie had agreed to come to Boston, his subconscious had stopped running the Playboy Channel.
But it was a damn shame his memory was so good.
The sound of the front door being shut brought his head up. It had to be his mother, home from the symphony. As he headed downstairs, his mouth was set in a grim line.
She was just taking off her coat when she saw him.
"Jackson, darling, how was your day? I saw the Carradines—”
"Why the hell did you put her in the staff quarters?"
His mother's eyes rounded in surprise. "You mean the conservationist? Darling, she's here to work, isn't she? She's not a guest."
"She's here at my invitation. She's staying in the Red Room."
Mercedes paused as she measured him and then resumed putting her coat away. "As you wish. It was never my intention to upset you."
"You didn't upset me, you insulted my guest and pissed me off."
Jack turned to go back upstairs, thinking it was better for them both that he get away from her. He really didn't appreciate her games and he was feeling particularly protective of Callie.
Probably because she'd handled his mother's affront with such grace.
"Jackson, don't be angry," Mercedes called up after him. "How was I to know? I mean, she doesn't exactly look like a guest of ours, does she?"
Jack paused and glanced over his shoulder. "She is a guest of mine. Staying in my house. So she's going to be treated properly."
His mother lost a bit of her bravado. "Jack, I had no idea she was so important."
He turned and kept going, not trusting himself to respond.
After his father died, it had seemed a little much to kick her out of the house she'd lived in for some forty years. At the time he'd also figured keeping her at Buona Fortuna would save him the cost of funding yet another household. With no money of her own, and no skills to offer in the workplace, she couldn't support herself and it wasn't as if she could sponge off her other son. Nate wasn't making the kind of income that could maintain the lifestyle she'd become accustomed to. Jack was her meal ticket and all three of them knew it.
He shook his head. She was a perfect example of where beauty and brains could take a person. Unlike Nathaniel Six, she hadn't come from wealth. For all her haughty airs, his mother had started her life in the fishing town of Gloucester, the fourth child out of six in a family of Portuguese fishermen. Her one goal was to get out into the big world so at fifteen, she'd changed her name from Myrna to Mercedes and vowed to find her destiny somewhere far away from her roots. When she was accepted to Smith College on a scholarship, she'd been ready to make her mark.
Or put her mark on an eligible man, as was the case.
Jack's father had fit the bill nicely, coming from much wealth and being of the Walker name and legacy. They'd met through friends when Nathaniel Six came over from Harvard one fine, spring weekend of his senior year. Her beauty caught his eye and her aggressive nature had ensured he didn't have the opportunity to stray. Three months later, she dropped out of college and they were married discreetly at the Episcopal church in Osterville on Cape Cod.
It had proven to be a good match, Jack supposed. His father hadn't been bothered in the slightest by her background. In fact, he'd been more than happy to have her on his arm while he taught her what she didn't know. And, like the outstanding student she was, Mercedes soaked up the lessons in better living and then exceeded all expectations. By her thirties, she'd firmly established herself in Boston's social set. In her forties and fifties, she joined the right nonprofit boards and became respected for her civic contributions. Now, in her early seventies, she was held in esteem by the WASP establishment, courted by climbers, and generally regarded as the arbiter of taste when it came to judging which holiday parties were worth going to.
Her ascent was something she was no doubt proud of, but it was only a victory of appearances. Though her determination had carried her to heights of wealth and social power she hadn't dared dream of as a child, nothing could change the fact that she'd been born into the working class. Jack had always thought it was a truth she despaired of even though no one else seemed to think twice about her modest beginnings, at least not in her immediate family. In fact, Nathaniel Six had regarded the wife he'd transformed into the toast of Boston society as a badge of honor.
Frankly, Jack didn't know how she'd withstood all those years of condescending affection.
The trade-off, though, was one hell of a lifestyle.
As he went down to his bedroom, he was convinced that Mercedes and Callie had a humble start in common. It made him wonder why, assuming Callie could have used the money, she'd turned him down twice before accepting his generous job offer.
He paused outside of her door. While he was trying to see through the wood, his mother's voice drifted down the hall.
"What are you doing?"
He wanted to snap at her to leave him the hell alone. Instead, he went over to his own door and said smoothly, "I thought we already said good night."
"Jackson."
"What?"
"She's not your kind, Jackson."
He shot a glare down the hall. Mercedes was standing under the light at the head of the stairs, her face drawn in dramatic shadows, her cheeks hollow, her lips painted red with the lipstick she always wore.
When he didn't reply, she spoke with urgency. "You must always remember. You carry the Walker legacy."
"You don't need to remind me of that. Not when I'm cutting all the checks to keep it alive."
He was opening his door as she came down the hall at him. "I heard about Blair tonight. Why didn't you tell me yourself?"
Jack crossed his arms over his chest, trying to think who she could have heard it from. They hadn't kept the engagement a secret, but there had been no wide announcement, either.
"It really isn't relevant," he said.
"You're getting married. Of course it's relevant." Her eyes started to light up with an enthusiasm that exhausted him. "When is the date?"
Ah, yes, the precise question he wanted to avoid. He told himself this was because he didn't want his mother meddling in his and Blair's affairs, but the image of Callie flashed in his mind and wouldn't leave.
"We haven't decided."
Mercedes frowned. "Have you made announcement arrangements yet? What about the papers?"
"I haven't contacted them."
She smiled. "Well, no worry. I'll call tomorrow—”
"No, you won't."
"Jackson, this is—”
"None of your business, Mother."
She rolled her shoulders back and arched her elegant brows. "Well."
Jack smiled grimly while the silence stretched between them.
If she wanted to wait for him to give her free rein with the planning, she'd be sleeping out in the hall, he thought.
Mercedes's chin rose. "No announcement, no date. Why did you bother to ask her to marry you?"
As he refused to entertain the question, he watched a subtle triumph flare in his mother's eyes and thought her accuracy for finding vulnerable points was a gift. For her, at any rate. He supposed that everyone needed a hobby and his mother's favorite one was exposing people's weaknesses.
Though why the hell she couldn't take up knitting like every other seventy-year-old was a crying shame. After all, she'd still get to use needles.
"Sleep well, Mother," he said, stepping into his room.
"Please, Jack." The aggression drained from her face, revealing an impotency she must have despised feeling. "I only want to help."
"Then let us handle it. We'll let you know if we need you." He shut the door firmly.