Chapter 8
As Jack walked back to the house, he looked up at the dull, cloud-covered sky and knew that getting Callie to stay solved only part of the problem he'd created.
What the hell was he going to tell Blair? The only explanation he could think of was that his self-control had slipped.
Which was no explanation at all.
Staying faithful to Blair had never been a problem before. When she'd asked him for monogamy a year ago, he'd agreed to the request and been faithful ever since. He'd wanted her to be happy and besides, he'd begun to think about settling down with her anyway.
Since he'd made the commitment, he'd had plenty of opportunity to fall back into old habits with the ladies. Just last week he'd had another offer, as a matter of fact. Down in New York, at the Hall Gala, Candace Hanson had cornered him and suggested they put an elevator to good use. Take a little trip up the building while she went down on him.
It was curious, he thought. Candace was beautiful in a very made-up, carefully tended kind of way. And she'd obviously been interested and willing. Able too, no doubt, considering all the men she'd been with. Yet he'd found turning her down ridiculously easy.
There had been a lot of Candaces. Lovely women with a variety of angles and agendas, all willing to give him whatever he wanted. The fact that he'd walked away from them had been a testament, he'd assumed, to his relationship with Blair. But maybe he just hadn't been truly tempted. Except he just couldn't understand it. After a year of saying no to obvious offers, he found it a little hard to believe that he'd blown his perfect record on a woman who was at best ambivalent about him.
No, ambivalent was the wrong word. Callie was quite clear about what she thought of him and absolutely right to be wary, he thought. Because he didn't feel all that honorable when he was around her.
As Jack stared at the clouds rolling by, he really wished he hadn't lived up to his reputation back there.
Maybe the whole engagement was a mistake. An exercise of good planning over emotions. He heard Blair telling him he didn't love her and thought he could have made a major miscalculation.
He had been rather laissez-faire about the engagement from the very beginning. He'd asked her in front of Grace and her bodyguard, for Christ's sake, which was neither private nor particularly romantic. And he hadn't been very enthusiastic when she'd asked him when they should have the ceremony. Or where.
When Blair had questioned him that night at the Plaza, he'd gotten defensive, presumably because he felt so sure of it all. But maybe he just didn't want to look at what was going on between them for fear of seeing everything that was not.
And Blair was right to be surprised that he'd asked at all. When they'd first gotten together, he'd given her his anti-marriage speech, the whole thing about the trip down the aisle being nothing more than the first step toward divorce, and therefore, a financially unattractive proposition for him. He'd had no interest in getting hosed by an ex-wife, not after working so hard for his money.
Had his fundamental opinion of married life changed? He supposed it really hadn't. But his father's death had made him start to think about the future. About children. For the sake of his unborn sons and daughters, he was willing to take a shot at the flawed institution and he knew no other woman who'd make him a better wife. Hell, maybe he and Blair could beat the odds and stay together for the long term.
Maybe he'd eventually fall in love with her.
The problem was, as he thought of Blair now, he could feel nothing but guilt in his chest. There was no spark, no wild passion, just deep fondness.
Although surely the remorse meant something, he thought.
But then again, you could feel like an absolute ass and regret something you've done without being m love with the person.
And what about Callie? Jack's conscience forced him to consider whether her elusiveness was her appeal. If it was, he hardly had a reason to make any big changes in his Me. Or hers. Or Blair's. If everything with Callie came down to his love of a good chase, there could be one and only one outcome. He was known for getting what he wanted and, once he reached his goal, it was only a matter of time before he moved on to the next target. The cycle had ended up making him a lot of money.
And getting him branded as a playboy.
Jack shook his head, knowing he needed to take a deep breath and calm the hell down. He was skidding out of control, which was a pretty reasonable response when someone's life had taken a sudden lurch from its plotted course. But he didn't need to throw out everything he'd planned just because of one kiss.
No matter how good it had been.
He was not breaking off his engagement. And he wasn't going to tell Blair a thing.
He didn't relish being a liar, but there was no reason to burden her with his mistake. She'd be hurt, and as long as he had no intention of doing it again, he didn't want to put her through the pain.
And it would never happen again. He wasn't going to blow everything he'd committed to just because he liked a good chase. Because that was all the kiss was about.
As for Callie?
His breath left him in a rush and he figured his self-control might need a little help. If only there was a way to make her less available—
Gray Bennett was in town, he thought. And handsome. Single.
Maybe his old friend was someone she'd like. If he could set the two of them up, that would mean he was covered on all fronts.
Totally committed to his fiancée. With Callie being otherwise occupied by a charmer.
Jack started walking toward the house with purpose in his stride.
Callie watched Jack stop and look up at the sky, his body pulled into an arc. He stared at the clouds for quite a while and then marched across the driveway as if he was prepared to go about his day.
She glanced back at the closet where the lid to the box she'd opened was lying on the floor. She went over and put it on tightly, trying to ignore the symbolism and wondering whether she was doing the right thing in staying. Replaying their conversation, she realized he never had promised her that he wouldn't kiss her again. And now she knew that he had a fiancée in addition to his god-awful reputation. Based on both of those two facts, she should probably be packing up and getting back on the train as soon as she could.
Because she had a funny feeling about Jack Walker.
Yeah, it's called dislike, she told herself.
"Oh, hell," she muttered.
Yes, she disliked the man, but that wasn't the only thing she felt. She might as well admit it. He was sexy as hell. And he was a great kisser.
But then practice makes perfect, she thought with a grimace.
She went back to the window and looked at the looming mansion. The idea that she'd end up a bit player in some terrible Gothic drama made her smile, especially as Arthur came over and leaned against her thigh.
Somehow, it just wouldn't be the same if he was a golden retriever, she thought.
As her hand went down to his rough fur, she tried to imagine the situation if Jack weren't involved with someone else. What would she have done then?
She was a grown woman. She was attracted to him. Putting aside her throwback ideas about romance, namely that sex without love was probably just pointless, mildly aerobic exercise, she had to wonder what would be so terrible if they followed a string of kisses like that into bed.
Not that she had anything to compare it with, but she knew he'd be a fantastic lover. He moved with a slow confidence she found incredibly erotic. Just remembering how he pushed back her hair and put his lips on her neck was enough to make her rethink whether she'd done the right thing in pulling away.
Okay, fine, she was pathetically attracted to him. But what if he knew the truth? What would he think if he found out she'd never had sex before? God knew that piece of news had put a damper on things before.
Ending up a virgin at the age of twenty-seven hadn't been a goal of hers; it had happened by default. Years of caring for her mother, going to school, and having a job all at the same time had pretty much shut down her social life. She'd also been trained since birth to keep a low profile so she never courted attention. And she knew her relationship with her father had something to do with it, too. She just didn't trust men.
Her one serious sexual experience had been an awkward straining in the dark with a guy she'd seen for a little bit in college. She'd decided to sleep with him because she liked him and she figured it was about time, but things had come to a screeching halt when she'd explained he was about to be her first. It wasn't fun to watch him throw his clothes back on like they were flame retardant and he was standing next to a Molotov cocktail.
Later, she learned that he'd only been dating her because he wanted to get back at the woman he was really interested in.
It would have been a mistake to have made love to that guy, but she'd always wished she'd had some experience. Previously, it had been because she felt isolated from what every other woman her age was doing. Now, she wished she had some perspective on what it had been like to be kissed by Jack Walker.
Maybe what happened in that closet was nothing special. No doubt it hadn't been extraordinary for him. He'd probably had as many erotic experiences as she'd had nights alone.
Bondage masks and handcuffs, indeed.
She frowned, wondering why she was wasting her time. Jack Walker had someone in his life. And he obviously felt something for the woman because he'd seemed genuinely sorry he'd taken things where he had. Maybe he was merely a good actor but she actually believed he regretted the fact that he'd cheated on his fiancée.
All they needed to do was keep things on a professional level. And once she got to work, the days would fly by and the project would be done before she knew it. He probably wasn't going to give the kiss another thought. So neither would she.
As for the friends idea? She had to wonder whether men like Jack Walker had friends, the kind you called when you were in trouble or when you needed a laugh; Even the super rich needed support, she supposed, but it was hard to imagine him ever turning to someone else for help or comfort. He was just too self-confident. Too in control.
Although it wasn't as if her own address book was full. She didn't have many people in her life, especially now that she'd left Stanley's gallery. There was ... Grace, she supposed. A distant cousin or two. But for Callie, friends were tricky because they got involved in a person's life and hers was hard to explain in a lot of places.
So no, even if she wasn't attracted to him, she and Jack Walker couldn't possibly be friends. He was already asking questions and those shrewd hazel eyes were way too observant for her comfort.
Callie frowned, seeing a delivery van come rambling up the drive and stop under the porte cochere. Leaping into motion, she took comfort in the surge of excitement because it had nothing to do with Jack.
"Let's go welcome Nathaniel," she said to Arthur. The dog pricked his ears, ever ready for an adventure, and happily raced for the stairs.
The delivery man was opening the van's rear doors as she came across the driveway. Jack emerged from the house at the same time and she noted that he'd
changed into a suit and tie. She tried to remain calm as their eyes met. Predictably, he seemed totally at ease.
The portrait had been shipped in a wooden crate and the cumbersome load was lowered to the ground on a mechanical pallet. After sliding the heavy weight onto a dolly, the delivery man followed Jack over to the garage. Together, they rolled the painting up the stairs and hefted the crate onto her worktable.
As soon as the other man had left, Jack offered her a hammer. "You want to do the honors?"
She took the tool from him and began to pull out the nails along the crate's edge. When she'd worked around the perimeter, they lifted off the top together and she pulled back the packing material.
Nathaniel Walker's beautiful, brooding face was revealed and she couldn't keep a small sound of pleasure from escaping her lips. She leaned in close to the canvas. With his wavy dark hair and his heavily lidded eyes, he and Jack looked very much alike.
"This is such a remarkable work," she murmured. "I can almost see him breathing."
The Revolutionary War leader was seated on a chair, head turned so he was staring out of the painting. He was dressed in a black suit coat and had on a frothy white shirt that came up high on his neck. The silver mirror in his left hand was also facing toward the viewer, a symbol of his work as a glassmaker. His other hand hung off the arm of the chair in an elegant drift of pale skin. The background was dark, practically black, although Callie knew that with proper cleaning it would become less dense.
She reached over to her box of tools and supplies.
Strapping on a headset that carried a magnifying glass and a light, she began to scan the surface of the painting, immediately identifying the pattern of craquelure, or small fissures, in the paint. This complex network of fine cracks was expected and confirmed the painting's age. As she continued her examination, she was able to see that the brushwork was masterly and the colors were blended with confidence. She couldn't wait to strip off the old layer of varnish that had yellowed and get a real sense of the hues and tones Copley had used.
"You're really in your element," Jack said softly.
She looked up, having forgotten for the moment he was even in the room. He had settled against the wall, one foot resting on the toe of a wing tip, arms crossed in front of his chest. A half smile stretched his lips and his eyelids were low, suggesting he'd been deep in thought as he'd watched her.
Feeling vulnerable, she reminded herself that reviewing the painting was part of the job, not a private moment for her. Still, she felt like he'd seen her without her guard up and it made her want to banish him from the garage.
She took the headset off, tossing it into the toolbox. "He looks great and he traveled well. I'd like to go to the MFA now."
"Sure thing."
They were heading to the stairs when he stopped. "I'm really happy you're the one doing this. I like the way you look at him."
When Jack started walking again, she followed more slowly, intrigued that a man whose world revolved around money had such sentimentality in him.
"Your father's name was Nathaniel, right?" she asked, taking the banister as she went down the stairs.
"Nathaniel the sixth, as a matter of fact." He opened a side door into the garage and lights came on automatically as they walked through. Parked inside were two Jaguars, a pickup truck, and some kind of sports car, the likes of which she'd never seen before.
"Why weren't you the seventh?"
Jack stopped in front of the sports car. "My brother was born before I was. He got the name."
"I didn't know you had a brother."
"He keeps a very low profile." Jack opened the door for her.
"Now you've got me curious."
She watched him go around to the driver's side, a smile on his face. "Nate's a great guy, but he's got a bad case of wanderlust. I don't get to see him half as much as I'd like."
She slid into the car and felt like the seat had been custom fit to her body. Impressive, she thought. "What does he do?"
"He's a chef." Jack got behind the wheel.
"You sound proud of him."
"I am."
The doors shut with a muted sound and she breathed deeply as she put on her seat belt.
"Hmmm. I love the way this car smells. All this leather... It's beautiful. What kind is it?"
"An Aston Martin DB9."
The engine came to life in a deep growl that faded to a soft pure As they headed down the drive, Mozart filled the air and she stroked the butter-soft hand rest.
One minute later she was gripping the damn thing for dear life.
After screaming down Cliff Road, Jack shot into traffic on Route 9 and proceeded to dodge around other cars like he was playing a video game. The man was a menace behind the wheel and Callie thought the only saving grace was that the sports car probably had top-of-the-line airbags and plenty of them.
As they swerved around a truck, she looked over at Jack in alarm. He was calm, whistling under his breath with the music.
He glanced over at her and frowned. "Are you cold? You look uncomfortable."
He reached for the climate controls.
"No! I'm fine." Anything to keep him looking forward, with both hands on the wheel.
"You don't look fine."
"Fear of imminent death does that to me," she said as she was pushed against the door when they jogged around a VW bug.
Jack nodded. "The traffic around Boston takes a while to get used to, but it's not much better in New York. Those cabbies can be heavy-handed."
This was being said while he cut off a bread truck and then threw on the brakes as they came up to a stoplight.
Callie jerked forward and thanked God for the seat belt running down her chest. Catching her breath, she looked at him. "You know, there's a middle ground
between the brake and the accelerator. You don't have to always pick one."
He seemed surprised. "I'm making you uncomfortable?"
"G-force wasn't something I expected to experience in a car."
He let out a short laugh as the light turned green. She braced herself, but he eased them forward.
"Sorry about that. I usually drive alone."
"Probably because people are afraid to ride with you," she said dryly.
He looked over at her. And then grinned.
She flushed, wishing she could be indifferent to him, wishing that his smile didn't make her feel as if they were sharing some kind of intimate secret. She looked out the window. They were passing neighborhoods and small shops, the road being an odd hybrid of a small highway and a regular municipal street. As she focused on the passing view, distraction was the landmark she was searching for.
"So how did you get into conservation?" he asked, as if he sensed her desire for a diversion.
"I started out studying art history. I loved the lectures. Sitting in a dark room, seeing beautiful works of art up on the screen, the professor's voice low in the background. I used to imagine that I might someday own paintings like the ones I studied. Pretty soon, I found out how much they cost and knew the only way I'd ever get close to them was if I worked on them." She paused. "You know, you have some very special art in your house."
"Thanks."
"I mean, the Canaletto in the front hall alone is... spectacular. The Titian and the El Greco in the dining room."
She felt him look at her. "Did you see the Rubens in my study?"
Her eyes widened. "Don't you ever worry someone is going to steal them?"
He shook his head as he pulled up to another light. "The man who wired the MFA did my house. The paintings are bolted into the walls with weight-sensitive alarms. They're going nowhere."
"Has your family always collected?"
"Yes. My great-great-grandmother was the first to focus in on the Renaissance period. She donated some of her collection to the MFA when she died, which was fine with my great-grandmother, who just filled up the wall space again. The thrill is the hunt, of course."
Callie shifted in the deep leather seat, wondering what it was like having so much. She had no intention of asking him, however, because she didn't want to seem like a rube. Dignity, after all, was one asset the rich and the poor could both have.
She frowned, thinking of the past. Maybe that was why her mother turned down so many gifts. Her father would show up at the door of their apartment bearing a small, foil-wrapped box or some huge package with a bow on it and her mother would just shake her head.
"Is that how you met Grace?" Jack asked. "Through the art world?"
Callie hesitated, wishing she was a more confident liar. "You could say we met through the Hall Foundation, yes."
"She speaks highly of you."
"She's been very kind to me."
"Grace is like that. Good person all around."
In a flash, Callie wondered whether Jack and her half sister had ever been together. They seemed perfectly suited.
"She's stunning, too," Callie murmured. "Certainly fits her title."
"I thought she was divorcing the count?"
"I mean about being one of the world's most beautiful women."
With no turn signal, Jack hung a U-turn and then pulled into a parking lot next to the pale, low-slung buildings of the Museum of Fine Arts. He shut the car off and released his seat belt while she stared ahead.
"Callie?"
"What? Oh—right, we're here."
He gave her an odd look as they got out. "You okay?"
"Yeah, sure. I'm fine."
She just wasn't one of the world's most beautiful women and wondered why she suddenly seemed to care one way or the other. God knew, she didn't pay a lot of attention to her looks, usually.
But then Jack was making her think about all kinds of unusual things.
As soon as they were inside the museum, people started coming up to him. He seemed to know everyone by name and the respect with which he was treated spoke volumes about what he and his family must have done for the place.
She and Jack had just emerged from the cloakroom when Mrs. Walker strode into the lobby. She was talking and gesticulating wildly while being trailed by a staff member who was taking notes. Jack's mother was dressed in a black suit and had an exquisite tangle of pearls around her neck. She looked fresh and elegant, as if she'd stepped out of the pages of Vanity Fair. The staff member just looked pooped.
When she came to a halt next to her son, Mrs. Walker waved the minion away with a flick of the wrist. "Have you come to talk with Gerard?"
Callie knew she was referring to Gerard Beauvais, the head of the MFA's conservation department. Callie had heard of the man but never met him. A legend in the art world, he was responsible for conserving the work of some of the most important masters: da Vinci, Rembrandt, Michelangelo.
Jack nodded. "I thought he and Callie should meet."
Mrs. Walker's brows lifted. "Perhaps Ms. Burke will consent to his assistance. Assuming she's open to collaboration."
Callie felt her stomach knot as Jack shot his mother a level stare. "Did I happen to mention that Callie worked with your friend Micheline Talbot on the conservation of the torn de Kooning?"
Mrs. Walker's eyes flickered just enough to show that she did indeed recall the project.
"You remember that painting, Mother. It's at MoMA," Jack prompted smoothly. "You told me that Micheline had gone on and on about how she couldn't have done the job without her assistant. That the young woman was talented as hell and a pleasure to work with, right?"
Callie held her breath, wishing he'd drop the subject.
"Remember. Mother."
"Yes, yes of course. It was an extraordinary result."
"So I think Callie and Gerard will get along just fine."
Mrs. Walker brought a hand up to her hair, smoothing back what was not out of place. "I'm sure you do. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going home. The executive committee meeting went on longer than it should have and I'm tired."
Callie flushed as Jack's mother walked away. The woman hadn't made eye contact with her at all, as if Mrs. Walker could make her disappear by ignoring her
But Jack had made sure she was noticed. Had stuck up for her.
She glanced at him. His eyes were narrowed as he watched his mother go into the cloakroom.
"That wasn't really necessary," Callie said softly.
"Yes, it was."
"I can take care of myself."
He looked at her. "I have no doubt of that, but my mother is not going to be your problem. Come on, let's go to Gerard's office."
Jack led them past the guard who checked tickets and through an exhibit of African art, to an elevator big enough to park cars in. The thing was huge, its ceiling some eighteen feet high. As they lurched upward, she could feel him staring at her.
"What?" she asked.
He put his hands into the pockets of his fine suit. "Why don't you want me to protect you?"
"Because I shouldn't get in the habit of relying on you when it comes to dealing with your mother." She paused. "Although it was a nice gesture on your part."
"I'm sorry—did I hear that right? You actually approve of something I've done?"
"Don't let it go to your head," she replied, hiding her smile.
He laughed. "With you around,! don't think either of us have to worry about that."
She lifted her eyes and was taken aback when he looked at her grimly.
"Tell me something, Callie, what's it going to take to get you to like me?"
"Why do you care if I do?" she asked, surprised by the question and his intensity.
"I like a challenge," he said, that grin of his returning.
"Then go climb a mountain."
He laughed again. "I think you're far more interesting and I'm not crazy about heights. Now answer my question."
"Why don't you take a shot at mine for real, first?" she tossed back.
"Okay." The smile stayed in place, but his eyes grew somber. "When I showed you to your new bedroom you were delighted, but I know you would have quite happily stayed in the back rooms. You haven't once asked me about paying you the money we discussed. And my dog loves you."
"So maybe I'm laid-back, fiscally irresponsible, and have kibbles in my pocket."
"Mostly, though, I'm fascinated by you."
The elevator came to a stop.
"You can't possibly be serious," she muttered, trying to ignore a sudden pounding in her chest.
As the doors opened, he held them at bay while she walked out.
"But I am," he said, falling into step beside her. "You are one very unusual lady."
She could feel the heat hit her face.
"Where's the office?" she asked pointedly.
It was a relief when he walked ahead and stayed quiet.
She wasn't in a big hurry to tell him that in order for her to like him he'd have to morph into something other than a devastatingly handsome and wealthy man who'd kissed her like she'd never been kissed before.
He'd have to go from being an Aston Martin DB-whatever to a Chevy Chevette.