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His Seductive Revenge
Susan Crosby
LONE WOLVES GABRIEL a.k.a THE LOVER
He was out for revenge. Gabriel Marquez had a mission, and society princess Cristina Chandler was his pawn. Her engagement to a proper fiance would soon be announced, but Gabriel had every intention of seducing Cristina before she even received the proposal. The wolfish charmer would take her to his bed, ruining two families with the scandal .
But the hunter had never imagined that Cristina's laughter and sweetness would erase his tough loner shell. She made him want things he had no right to covet. For once his innocent beauty learned of his plot, he'd have no right to even ask for a future.
THE LONE WOLVES: Meet the sexiest, most stubborn males a woman could ever hope to tame!
“Are You Looking To Have An Affair?” He Asked. (#u256a8dcb-3b27-5a8f-ae53-9232e3a22f33)Letter to Reader (#u7b0675b6-87de-5602-ba2e-1c8ca2b23edc)Title Page (#u6c1d10ef-9bca-5a3f-bf65-85f19472c64a)About the Author (#u8876161e-8135-5597-82cd-388cc4ffc90c)Dedication (#u2b69643b-7688-5b23-9954-c57712c22745)Prologue (#u682093a7-4cbd-559f-afda-f35e463b9a80)Chapter One (#u560e0b24-f36a-53e4-930b-f635adfefcb8)Chapter Two (#u553338ae-e620-59dd-b405-ea3badb3c8e5)Chapter Three (#ueb2ee9fd-87c0-5e6b-8d60-63fb85e6d25a)Chapter Four (#ua0a9b627-e397-5ddd-a502-7f0f89f40d5e)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Are You Looking To Have An Affair?” He Asked.
Cristina shifted. “No.”
Her hesitation gave him a different answer, but Gabriel wouldn’t call her on it. Not yet. “All right.”
He found it endearing, the way surprise and disappointment washed across her face before she stepped back. What an innocent she was. If her father played his cards right—the emotional ones—she’d marry the man he’d chosen for her. For her father’s sake, of course, not hers. She believed in love—or the fantasy of love. But she also believed in family.
He, on the other hand, had never allowed family to dictate his life, except once. He had promised his mother he wouldn’t exact revenge against his father, even though the opportunity and means had been within Gabe’s reach many times. What was the purpose of having money and the power that came with it if he couldn’t use it as he wished?
Wasn’t that the reason he was seducing Cristina? He couldn’t allow himself to think of any other.
Dear Reader,
August predictably brings long steamy days...and hot sensuous nights. And this month Silhouette Desire spotlights the kind of pure passion that can erupt only in that sizzling summer climate.
Get ready to fall head over heels for August’s MAN OF THE MONTH, a sexy rancher who opens his home (and his heart?) to a lost beauty desperately hoping to recover her memory in A Montana Man by Jackie Merritt Bestselling author Cait London continues her hugely popular miniseries THE TALLCHIEFS with Rafe Palladin: Man of Secrets. Rafe is an irresistible takeover tycoon with a plan to acquire a Tallchief lady. Barbara McMahon brings readers the second story in her IDENTICAL TWINS! duo—in The Older Man an exuberant young woman is swept up by her love and desire for a tremendously gorgeous, much older man.
Plus, talented Susan Crosby unfolds a story of seduction, revenge and scandal in the continuation of THE LONE WOLVES with His Seductive Revenge. And TEXAS BRIDES are back with The Restless Virgin by Peggy Moreland, the story of an innocent Western lady tired of waiting around for marriage—so she lassos herself one unsuspecting cowboy! And you’ve never seen a hero like The Consummate Cowboy, by Sara Orwig. He’s all man, all-around ornery and all-out tempted...by his ex-wife’s sister!
I know you’ll enjoy reading all six of this sultry month’s brandnew Silhouette Desire novels by some of the most beloved and sexy authors of romance.
Regards,
Melissa Senate
Senior Editor
Silhouette Books
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
His Seductive Revenge
Susan Crosby
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SUSAN CROSBY
is fascinated by the special and complex communication of courtship, and so she burrows into her office to dream up warm, strong heroes and good-hearted, self-reliant heroines to satisfy her own love of happy endings.
She and her husband have two grown sons and live in the Central Valley of California. She spent a mere seven and a half years getting through college and finally earned a B.A. in English a few years ago. She has worked as a synchronized swimming instructor, a personnel interviewer at a toy factory, and a trucking company manager. Involved for many years behind the scenes in a local community theater, she has made only one stage appearance—as the rear end of a camel! Variety, she says, makes for more interesting novels.
Readers are welcome to write to her at P.O. Box 1836, Lodi, CA 95241.
For Elizabeth Bova, my guiding light.
Thanks for showing me the way.
I miss you, Mom.
Prologue
“He’s selling his daughter?” Gabriel Marquez leaned forward. His gaze drilled the man seated across his mahogany desk. “Cristina Chandler’s father made a deal to exchange her hand in marriage for cash?”
“Enough cash to keep him out of bankruptcy court, and then some,” the man called Doc replied. “And to avoid public humiliation, of course. A Chandler without money? It would be too embarrassing.”
“The Chandlers have lived on reputation, not real money, for a long time. Is she aware she’s being bartered?”
“I doubt it. She just moved out of the family mansion and into her own apartment.” Doc tossed a stack of papers on the desk. “Plus, the prenuptial agreement has been drawn up but not signed, as you can see. That second set of documents is a separate contract between the men, spelling out their own deal. It’s obvious they’re scrambling. Everything’s falling apart. They can’t prove what caused the accident, so all they can do at this point is damage control. You know the drill—act as if nothing’s wrong and people believe it. The longer your friend Sebastian is out of the picture, the more he seems responsible, not them.”
Gabe dragged the documents closer. He knew exactly where the responsibility—and the blame—fell. “Grimes’s son must be in on the deal. He’ll have to propose to the woman.”
“Who knows how much he’s been told? He’s not involved in the daily operations of the business, but he and Ms. Chandler have been seen together a lot lately. They’ve also known each other since childhood. Unfortunately, we may not know if the plan’s a success until an engagement announcement hits the newspapers.”
“Which I must prevent.” Gabe was buying time. Time for Sebastian to prove his innocence and reclaim his honor, as he’d demanded. Physically he couldn’t defend himself yet.
Gabe thumbed through the papers. The prenup seemed basic for anyone protecting millions, the deal between the fathers brutally specific. But former Senator Chandler was accustomed to using power, and Richard Grimes to abusing it. “How did you get these?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“No one can trace you to me?”
“Has anyone before?”
Gabe studied the man who moved in and out of the city shadows with quiet efficiency, a specialist at what he did, hence the nickname Doc. Little shocked Gabe anymore, but a man selling his own daughter—He shut down the thought.
He thanked Doc, dismissing him, then he linked his fingers behind his head, leaned back and closed his eyes, savoring the anticipation that coursed through him. Sebastian would have his day—and the guilt that walked, talked and slept with Gabe in ever-deepening darkness since the accident would fade. He had involved Sebastian in his need for revenge, a need handcuffed by a promise. Taking down Richard Grimes and Arthur Chandler would help to ease the guilt. It would definitely help. Sebastian would pound the final nails in their coffins, but Gabe would dig the graves.
Unable to sit still, he picked up a photograph that Doc had brought, then walked the generous confines of the office that took up half the second story of his home. Dispassionately he studied the black-and-white photo of the woman about to be sold into marriage. Cristina Chandler. Her hair was a medium tone, and long enough to be banded in a ponytail while she played tennis at the country club. Her eyes were light—blue, probably. Her body was...unremarkable. The typical welltoned, angular body of a well-bred debutante—former debutante. She was twenty-seven years old, according to the fact sheet stapled to the photo. Graduated with respectable grades from a local state college, majored in computer graphics. Mother died two years ago. No siblings. No job. Recently leased an apartment in the city.
Just another woman of privilege, as cool as she was sleek. He knew her type, had avoided her type all his life.
He stopped pacing in front of the large De La Hoya portrait, of his mother. He’d regretted the promise he’d made to her seventeen years ago, regretted it so much he hadn’t made a promise to anyone except Sebastian since then. Circumstances change with time. At fifteen, he hadn’t known that yet. Now, at thirty-two, he knew better. And he knew he had to break that early promise..
The time had come. As if preordained, everything was falling into place. Nothing could stop what would happen now. Preventing this merger that the families were calling a marriage was the first step.
Gabe moved to look out a window. The city skyline was shrouded with morning fog, the kind that would burn off soon, revealing a crisp San Francisco autumn day. It suited his mood, for a fog was surely lifting from his own life. Richard Grimes and Arthur Chandler would pay for what they’d done.
The sins of the fathers are to be laid upon the children.
The quotation rang in Gabe’s head. A price would be exacted between the generations, a price long overdue, in Gabe’s book. Yet there would be other costs. His mother may never forgive him, even though he also sought justice for her. And Miss Cristina Chandler may find herself an inadvertent victim of convenience—Gabe’s. and the other men’s. But the world needed to hear the truth, and perhaps the cool, sophisticated woman was due to have her eyes opened, as well. Perhaps he was even saving her from a worse fate.
He could not fail. He’d waited a long time for this moment, and indeed, there would be a price to pay. But reward justified risk. That was his motto.
One
“There’s something wonderfully visceral about his work, don’t you think?” Cristina Chandler pressed her wineglass to her lips as she tried to understand her intense reaction to the painting in front of her. The Galeria Secreto teemed with people, but the voices were hushed and the laughter low, almost seductive, as if the tone had been established by the display they were all there to see—the newest De La Hoya creations.
What incredible work it was. Big canvas, broad strokes, bold colors, seething with passion. She couldn’t recall ever viewing a nude painted with such fire, such blatant sexuality, and yet it was tasteful enough to hang in a living room, although it certainly belonged in the privacy of someone’s bedroom.
“Makes you wonder if the artist fooled around with her,” Jen Wilding said under her breath. “I mean, look at her face. If that isn’t a well-satisfied woman, I don’t know what is.”
Cristina slid her glass across her lips again. “I don’t know that she’s satisfied. Not yet. I think she’s been thoroughly aroused, and satisfaction is just moments away.”
“And your father has commissioned your portrait from this De La Hoya person? Has he ever seen this guy’s work? Does he know you’d have to spend time alone with him?”
A picture started to form in Cristina’s mind as she imagined what Alejandro De La Hoya looked like. Dark, undoubtedly. Latin. With intense eyes that looked deep inside a person and drew out their fantasies. A man who would see through lies and insecurities to what was real. A man for whom a woman would gladly strip herself bare and not feel the least bit shy. Or hesitant. Or humiliated.
Jen whimpered. Cristina smiled at her friend.
“God, Cris, I’m getting hot just thinking about taking that woman’s place.” Jen drained her wineglass and set it on the tray of a passing waiter, grabbing a full one with the other hand in a practiced move. “It’s been weeks since I tangled under the sheets with anyone.”
Weeks? Cristina thought as they moved on. I should be so lucky. “What if De La Hoya is eighty years old and has a wart on his nose?”
“I’d shut my eyes. Any man who could make me feel like that woman obviously does—But if he looked like that I’d be ecstatic,” Jen said as she stopped at the next painting.
Cristina glanced at the program in her hand, looking for the title of the portrait Jen was panting over. Sebastian. The name teased her memory, the reason just beyond her grasp, but perhaps only because it was an old-fashioned name for such a modern man. And yet it suited him. His long, black hair framed a solid face with fine, dark eyes and a hard mouth, the image of a lord from another land, another century—who wore jeans, a lumberjack shirt and boots. Definitely twentieth century stuff.
Jen sighed. “I’ll bet he’d have me shouting timber more than once a night.”
Cristina laughed. She was glad she’d come, after all. She’d almost ignored the out-of-the-blue, engraved invitation, probably would have, except that Jen refused to let her. Too many strange things had happened lately, and she needed an evening of pure fun.
“So, what’s the deal with this portrait your dad is arranging?” Jen asked. “I know that De La Hoya is all the rage, but isn’t he, like, superexpensive?”
“Not only expensive, but incredibly mysterious. No one ever sees him.”
“How is that possible?”
“The rumor is that he works behind some sort of curtain or two-way mirror. I don’t know the specifics. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Even if De La Hoya agrees, I’m not going to allow it. I don’t think Father can afford to spend that kind of money, even if it does complete the family gallery. Besides which, it just seems so pretentious.”
“That is often the point, I believe,” said a man from behind them, his voice as hushed and seductive as the environment demanded.
Cristina and Jen turned. He’d obviously been eavesdropping on their conversation.
“Pretension is the point?” Cristina asked. His eyes mesmerized her, their dark, glittering depths pulling her in, stopping her breath. Not quite civilized. The thought flashed in her mind, fizzled, then flared again even brighter when he moved a little closer. She watched his mouth as he spoke.
“Don’t you believe we buy art not only for how it makes us feel, but for how our friends will react?” he asked.
“No.” His lips looked soft and firm. She almost touched them. “Art is very personal to me,” she added.
He made the slightest shift in his stance, as if a soldier at attention had been ordered at ease. “Gabriel Marquez,” he said, extending his hand.
“Cristina Chandler.”
“And I’m Jen, the ignored one. I’m here, too. Although you two sure couldn’t tell it the last couple of minutes,” she grumbled. “I’m going to feed my noisy and empty stomach, Cris. Do you want anything?”
Cristina shook her head, taking an unobtrusive step back at the same time. He was crowding her space, and she needed breathing room. “I’m to assume that you have a collection of art you’ve bought merely to shock or pacify your friends?” she asked, then sipped her wine, giving herself a moment to admire him, from his almost black hair, on down his lean, broad-shouldered body. He wore a tuxedo comfortably, not looking as if he wished he were at home in sweats.
“Like you, art is personal to me, Miss Chandler. Although certainly some pieces have shocked my friends.” They wandered to the next painting. “This one, for example. What do you think of it?”
Unlike the other portraits, this piece had an almost photographic feel to it, the sepia tones warm but the image stark. A bridal gown lay jumbled on the floor beside the woman portrayed. Tulle from her veil wound around her feet. Otherwise she was nude, her arms drawn across her body in a classic pose to hide her womanliness, the bouquet she carried startling against her pale abdomen. Her eyes were downcast. A lone tear trailed her cheek.
The untitled painting bothered Cristina in ways she’d have to think about later. Her initial reaction was simple, however, and she offered it to the still, silent man beside her. “I think a bride should look more like the woman in the first portrait. This woman’s not in love.”
“My impression as well. It is De La Hoya’s newest work, I understand.”
“I wonder why he didn’t title it. It seems obvious to me... Sacrifice,” she said.
He angled his head toward her. She felt a heat from his gaze that seared her all the way through.
“Why do you call it that?” he asked.
“There’s something old-worldly about it. About all of De La Hoya’s work. In this one I see a woman of another century, one who didn’t choose her groom, but was chosen.”
“An obedient woman.”
“But only to a degree.” Cristina gestured at the painting with her wineglass. “It’s there, in her posture—that little bit of defiance. She may not have choices, but she still has freedom of thought.”
“And what will that gain her?”
The hushed intensity of his voice made her hesitate. Something about the man hypnotized. Enticed. Lured.
“Self-satisfaction, Mr. Marquez. No one can take her soul.”
“Unless she weakens.”
Cristina didn’t know what to make of him. He was a cool one. And intelligent. And still she sensed he was not quite civilized. Dangerous. Yes, the word suited him. Temptingly dangerous, unlike any other man she’d known.
“What a strange conversation,” she said, forcing a smile. “How did we even start it?”
“Because I watched you—”
Sparks ignited in her body as she waited for him to finish the sentence. Why in the world was a man like him interested in her? She couldn’t fathom why he had picked her out of the crowd.
“I watched the way you studied the work,” he said finally. “You have a critical eye. A discerning one. Your friend, for example, reacted emotionally to the paintings.”
“So did I.”
“Yes. But you study why it affects you. You have an artist’s heart.”
It wasn’t a line. She didn’t know why she knew that, but she was sure of it. Another man might have used the same words, and she would have scoffed at them—and walked away. This wasn’t a man given to idle flattery.
Still, why had he singled her out? She usually attracted the intellectual types, or the needy ones. Not intense, attractive, dangerous men who made her wish she was a different kind of woman altogether. A prettier woman. A sexier woman.
No, men weren’t drawn to her because their hormones jumped when they were around her. They were drawn to her because—
“Look who I found!”
Jen’s cheerful announcement seemed an abomination in the rarefied air of the Galeria Secreto. To make matters worse, Jen had Jason Grimes in tow. Jason, who had become her shadow. Jason, who had suddenly become her father’s favorite topic of conversation. She suspected she knew the reason why, but she intended to ignore it for as long as possible.
“If you’d told me you were coming tonight, Cris, I would have escorted you,” Jason said.
If I’d wanted to be escorted, I would have called you, Cristina thought, too polite to say the words in public. Especially not with him standing there, listening, watching. “I didn’t think you cared much about art,” she said before introducing the men.
“If you will excuse me.” Gabriel Marquez nodded his apologies, then left.
Cristina tried not to watch him go. Genuinely tried. But the pull was magnetic, and she didn’t seem to have any control over it.
“Who was that?” Jason asked.
“I’ve never met him before. We were discussing the portraits.”
Jason looked around. “Some good stuff here. Sexy.”
There was a difference between sexy and sexual, but she knew Jason wouldn’t be interested in discussing nuance and subtlety when all he saw was a nude female body. She looked past him. Mr. Marquez stopped to talk with an elegant middle-aged woman. He held her hand; his thumb brushed her skin. Goose bumps rose on Cristina’s flesh. Warmth spiraled in her hand.
The woman smiled at him, then pouted, then flirted, using her eyes like invitations. Oh, please don’t let me have looked at him like that, Cristina prayed.
Gabe watched her with Jason Grimes. He’d detected no sign of recognition from Grimes at their introduction, had seen nothing in the younger man’s aristocratic features except jealousy, then dismissal. If Grimes happened to mention meeting Gabe to his father, the repercussions could be fascinating, indeed. He almost wished for it to happen.
Sipping a scotch and water, he shifted his gaze to observe the woman, not particularly pleased with her familiarity with Grimes, who angled close to her as they discussed a painting.
She was much different from what he’d anticipated from the photo, which obviously hadn’t been taken recently. For one thing, she’d gained weight. And not just a few pounds. She looked softer, more approachable, less brittle, not the cool, sleek woman of privilege he’d expected. More than that, there was a lushness to her that made him think of rumpled sheets and a morning sun—which made his task not only easier but something he looked forward to.
Her generous curves were clothed in a sapphire blue dress that was simple and elegant, and perfect for her—high-necked and sleeveless, fitted at the waist, hugging her hips. Her hair shimmered like fire, a shade somewhere between gold and red, and had the slightest curl to the thick fullness that fell over her shoulders. Her eyes were blue, as he’d guessed, but flecked with gold and...innocence.
Innocence held no appeal for him, either in body or spirit.
He would have the gallery manager, Raymond, photograph her tonight, unobtrusively, from several angles.
He started to take another sip, then stopped, the glass an inch from his lips as he considered everything he knew about her. The irony didn’t escape him—Cristina Chandler would be perfect for Sebastian.
Gabe toasted the air. Sorry, old friend. He swallowed the contents of the glass and grimaced, diverting his thoughts.
The secret to knowing who this woman was and how useful she might be was somehow connected to why she’d gained weight. Or perhaps when the earlier photo was taken she’d lost weight. Whichever had occurred, there was a reason, as well as a reason for why she’d moved out of the family home and into her own apartment in San Francisco. And why she could afford to do so when her father was in debt to his earlobes. All these issues should be addressed before he took the next step.
He focused on her once more as she examined another canvas, the most traditional portrait of the showing, and yet she seemed to see something beneath the surface, something that held her attention much longer than it had her friends’, who had both moved on. She pressed her wineglass to her lips, dragged it across them, touched the tip of her tongue just below the rim, like a lover’s caress.
She turned then and caught him staring. He didn’t look away. He knew how to court a woman, how to flatter, how to seduce. The only women he respected were the ones who turned him down. If that said something deplorable about him, so be it. Respect wasn’t necessary for a satisfactory liaison, not for the routinely brief duration of his relationships, anyway.
She looked away first. He went in search of Raymond.
Two
Two days later Gabe watched from his vantage point inside the Galena Secreto as Cristina walked up the street. For the unusually warm fall weather, she wore a simple long skirt and low-necked T-shirt in the same shade of lavender, but relieved by a flashy necklace of multicolored, sparkly glass beads.
A tinkling bell announced her as she breezed through the front door and headed for Raymond’s desk. Gabe scarcely breathed, not wanting to alert her to his presence.
He didn’t have answers to all of his questions yet—and he shouldn’t proceed until he did—but he didn’t have the luxury of unlimited time, either. Although there could be a certain satisfaction in disrupting their engagement after the fact, too, he didn’t want to wait that long.
The answers would have to come from the source, not from Doc’s skill with people and computers.
“Miss Chandler,” Raymond said effusively, hurrying into the room. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“You said it was important.”
“Yes. Please be seated.” He also sat and folded his bands on the desk. “I regret to tell you that Mr. De La Hoya has chosen not to accept your father’s commission.”
“I appreciate your letting me know,” she said, “but shouldn’t you be calling my father? He’s the one who made the inquiry.”
“That would be my doing,” Gabe said, moving into range. “I asked Raymond to arrange this meeting.”
Cristina looked up at Gabriel Marquez, wondering how long he’d been within earshot. Since she arrived? Probably. He moved like a panther stalking its prey. She should be angry. She knew she should. But excitement tipped the scale of should and shouldn’t. Her stomach filled with a huge quantity of tiny butterflies, flitting and landing, flitting and landing.
Raymond removed himself quietly from the room.
“Miss Chandler,” Gabe said, his gaze direct.
“Mr. Marquez.”
“Forgive me for resorting to subterfuge. I didn’t know if you would be open to my calling you on this matter. I thought perhaps a neutral meeting place...”
“To discuss what?” She watched him half sit on the corner of Raymond’s desk. He wore light linen slacks and a burgundy polo shirt, but nothing else about him seemed casual.
“I overheard your conversation the other night when you and your friend were discussing the portrait your father wants. It was rude of me, of course. I apologize.”
“Do you? A genuine apology or one you think is required?”
He smiled. “Ah, a cynic. I’m surprised.”
“A skeptic,” she corrected. “I do recognize a man with an agenda.”
His smile deepened. “One that coincides with yours, I believe. I have a solution to your dilemma.”
Cristina forced herself to relax. She settled into the chair and crossed her legs. “I’m not the least upset about De La Hoya’s decision not to paint me,” she said, although it wasn’t entirely true. She wondered why, all right, even as a quilt of relief had settled over her at the news. “I really don’t have a dilemma to solve.”
“You would like to pacify your father, wouldn’t you?”
She looked away from him. Damn it. Of course she would. How had he figured that out in such a short time? “My father will survive the slap to his ego.”
“How old is he, Miss Chandler?”
“Call me Cristina,” she said, stalling, comprehending his point at once but irritated that he used the ammunition. “Eighty-two.”
“In good health?”
“As healthy as eighty-two can be, Mr. Marquez.”
“Gabe.” He smiled slightly. “What if there were a way to provide your father with a portrait he believes is De La Hoya but at a cost much less than he charges?”
“I’d be interested in hearing the details.”
He lifted a leather binder from atop the desk and passed it to her. “I think you’ll agree that the paintings photographed there are of a style resembling De La Hoya’s.”
Cristina examined them critically. “These are landscapes, not people, which are two entirely different skills artistically. But I’ll grant that otherwise there are similarities in style. Certainly the artist has captured the same general mood and texture and tone.”
“What if that artist were to do your portrait—and do it well? Do you think your father would know the difference?”
“It wouldn’t matter, because I would. Surely the artist couldn’t sign his own name. My father would know by the signature, if nothing else.”
“If we somehow found a way around that problem?”
“That’s a big if.” Cristina closed the folder. She flattened her hands on the cover, curved her fingers over the edge. “Why does it matter to you?”
“Because I want very much to paint you.”
Cristina sucked in a breath. Oh, my. She was flattered, and appalled, and far too tempted. And she had a very hard time believing—
“You doubt me.” he said, taking her hand in his, watching her.
She glanced at the album again. Knowing now that he was the artist, she was tempted to take a second look. Composure. She had to dig deep for it.
“We have a kinship, don’t you agree? You’ve felt it, as have I,” he said, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “A connection between artist and subject improves the finished product.”
She was reminded of how he’d rubbed his thumb along the woman’s hand the other night. So, the gesture probably meant nothing to him but a means of turning off a woman’s brain while she pondered his incredible physique, his utter maleness, and his you-are-the-only-woman-for-me eyes.
“I’ll amend the offer, then,” he said as she remained silent. “I will charge you nothing, and you may do with the painting what you will. You can’t lose, Cristina.”
Oh, Lord, she loved the way he said her name. No one had ever said her name like that before. Not with an accent, but with a sultry edge, a tempting—
She stood and walked away from him, trying to find a way to elevate the discussion, trying to leave attraction—no, lust—out of it. She wasn’t a teenager. She wasn’t even frustrated. Well, not that frustrated. So, she hadn’t had sex since—She didn’t want to think about how long it had been, and it hadn’t been wonderful, then, anyway. With this man, however—
Stop, stop, stop. You don’t know anything about him.
Except that he had her hormones dancing pirouettes on every cell of her body, charging her with energy, as if she could light up the Golden Gate Bridge just by touching the steel.
“Say yes,” he said quietly.
He’d come up behind her, was standing so close she could feel his body heat all the way to her ankles. She wanted to lean against him. She wanted him to put his arms around her, nuzzle her neck, tell her she was beautiful. What was happening to her? She didn’t know the man.
Gabe lifted a hand toward her shoulder, then let it fall. He knew he affected her. Her breath came short and shallow. Her perfume became more potent as her body temperature rose.
“Do you need recommendations of my character?” he asked, backing away.
“That would help.” She turned to face him.
“Inspector Leslie O’Keefe with the San Francisco P.D. would vouch for me. Raymond, of course. Plenty of others, if necessary.”
“Are you a professional artist?”
“Do I make my living from it? No. But I’m serious about it.”
“What kind of business are you in?”
“More businesses than I can count. All of them legitimate,” he added, one corner of his mouth curving upward. “I’m a venture capitalist.”
“You make money from investments?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I lose money. It’s the challenge that appeals to me, and the work fills up most of my life. Painting relaxes me.”
“What’s your connection to this gallery?”
“I own it.”
He waited as she sifted the information. “Say yes,” he urged again when the silence dragged on.
Cristina considered all the angles. It was exhausting pretending to be so sophisticated for this urbane, mysterious man. She felt like a mouse trapped in his maze. And she had the feeling that he could drop mirrors along the path anytime he chose.
He couldn’t be much more than five years older than she, yet he seemed to have lived a lifetime longer. Being alone with him for hours at a time would be a challenge. He tempted her in ways she’d never been tempted before, was unwillingly flattered by his intense and direct gaze.
But temptation and flattery aside, she knew she could also use the time to her advantage, helping to cool Jason’s recent, bewildering attention and her father’s sudden preoccupation with her getting married.
Oh, she knew what was expected of her. Father thought he’d been subtle, but she read him well. He wanted her to marry Jason. He was in dire need of money, and the marriage would somehow help. He would be angry with her if she ignored her responsibilities for long.
It was a risk she was willing to take, because she’d never felt this pull toward anyone or anything in her life. And she wanted to experience it to the fullest. The problem with Jason would be there when Gabe was part of her past—if it mattered by then.
She finally looked at him, admiring his ability to wait her out. His patience appealed to her, showing her a level of maturity she was unused to from the men of her acquaintance.
“When would you like to start?” she asked.
“As soon as possible. I can adjust my schedule to yours.”
“I work at home, therefore I set my own hours. I imagine you want daylight, natural light.” At his nod, she picked up her purse from the chair and tugged the strap over her shoulder. “Name the time.”
He extracted a business card from a slim gold case and passed it to her. “I also work at home. Eleven tomorrow morning?”
“Fine.” She glanced at the card. His address put him smack in the middle of Pacific Heights, an area filled with wonderful Victorian-design houses that were huge, old and expensive. It was a world she came from, but had never felt comfortable in. “Please tell Raymond that if my father contacts him about the portrait, he should just stall for a while. Father won’t like it, but he thinks he understands the artistic temperament.”
“Why does he?”
She smiled “Because of me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’m fine,” Cristina said into the phone, wandering around her apartment as she spoke to her father. She hadn’t accomplished anything since she’d left the gallery, and three projects awaited her attention. She’d gotten in the last word with Gabe, which pleased her, but the anticipation had rendered her useless otherwise. “And, no, I haven’t seen a single hoodlum, Father. It’s very quiet.”
“There was no reason to move out. You had your own wing, for heaven’s sake.”
“It’s not the same as having a place of my own. It was time for me to spread my wings. We’ve discussed this again and again.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve been smothering you since your mother died. You’ll have a place of your own when you marry.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll have my husband’s place.”
He sighed. “I don’t understand the modern woman. Your mother was content to join me in my life and make it her own.”
“I’m not her, Father.”
“As you remind me so often. I must go now, my dear. Oh, by the way, I gave Jason your new address and phone number. I expect he’ll check in.”
He hung up before she could utter a word of protest. Logically she knew she couldn’t keep her location a secret from Jason, but she resented her father being the one to tell him.
When someone knocked on her door, she knew without question who would be there. He’d probably been sitting in his car with his cellular phone, waiting for her father to call him, so she couldn’t pretend to be gone.
She didn’t want him in her apartment, in her space. She’d divorced herself from that life, and Jason would bring it back with him.
With a sigh, she opened the door and invited him in, unwillingly comparing Jason to Gabriel Marquez. They were close to the same height and weight, although their builds were entirely different, Gabe appearing more powerful, in physique and sheer presence. Where Gabe was dark, Jason was light. Most significantly, Jason wasn’t the slightest bit exciting or intriguing or...dangerous. She watched him glance around the room that combined a living room, bedroom and kitchen. The furnishings were few, but they were hers.
“You like it here, Cris?”
She counted to five. “I love it. Why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s so small.”
“It suits me. So, what’s going on?”
“I have tickets to the opera. Friday night.”
“You hate the opera.”
“Yeah.” He jammed his hands in his front pockets. “But you don’t. I want to take you.”
She studied him for a moment. “Have a seat.”
They sat on the sofa, the only piece of furniture she owned other than her bed and computer desk. “What’s this all about, Jason? We’ve known each other almost forever. This is totally unlike you, asking me for a date.”
“I’ve been through a lot lately. You know. My life is different now.”
“Because of the scandal? But that’s your father’s problem. It’s his building that collapsed. His name was all over the headlines, not yours. And it’s his reputation that’s in question.”
“You don’t think I’m affected by the fallout? Don’t be naive, Cris. Until we find that guy who was paralyzed in the accident and prove he’s the one who caused it, I’m invisible. People don’t return my calls. I get the cold shoulder at the club. I have become persona non grata. You are the only one who didn’t turn away.”
If he only knew how little thought she’d given the whole mess. She’d been too wrapped up with planning her move to her own apartment to think about anyone else. Maybe she did owe him something. He’d always been nice to her, even when their parents weren’t around. His family had bought a house near hers when she was five, but Richard Grimes’s wealth was too new, and it had taken years for him to earn minimal acceptance in local society. The scandal had become a convenient excuse to ignore him.
Cristina swallowed a sigh, remembering how Jason had volunteered to escort her to her senior prom—her only invitation for the event. She’d been painfully shy then. Even now, she had to force herself to be more outgoing when she’d rather stand back and observe.
She looked at him. They were both going through changes that had taken them out of the social hub they’d always known—although hers was by choice. She didn’t want to encourage him, not when something new and exciting awaited her, but she couldn’t find it in her heart to turn away from him, either.
She touched the back of his hand. “Of course I’ll go with you. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“Really? I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty. We’ll have a late supper after.”
“Fine.” She followed him to the front door, startled by how fast he was leaving. Apparently he’d gotten what he came for, and that was that. No idle chitchat for this man. If he really thought that just being seen with her would help, well, she could make that sacrifice.
He clasped her hand and shook it, then he leaned back through the doorway and kissed her, right on the lips. On a scale from one to ten, she gave him a one in both technique and excitement level. She resisted wiping the back of her hand across her mouth when he pulled away.
“Bye,” he called as he hurried out to the street.
Cristina shut the door, then went into the kitchen to get something to wash away the experience. She drank half a glass of iced tea before she came up for air.
The planets must be out of alignment or something, she decided. All of a sudden she’d become some sort of femme fatale, a whole new role for her. Two men had taken a more-than-average interest in her. One might as well be her brother—she’d certainly never looked at him as anything other than a platonic friend. The second man she couldn’t even begin to define. But she had a hard time believing that she was the kind of woman who normally drew Gabriel Marquez’s attention.
So, it appeared that both men had agendas and neither of them were sharing the itemized list with her, leaving her in a quandary. The biggest adventure of her life was about to begin, and she wasn’t sure what to pack for the journey.
Three
Right on time. From his office window, Gabe watched Cristina exit the taxicab. Not surprised at her punctuality, he left the room, then waited on the landing as his part-time housekeeper directed her up the stairs.
He watched her trail her hand along the mahogany banister, her fingertips caressing the polished wood. He saw her focus on the individual paintings hung at precise intervals on the wall along the staircase, the same scene but depicted at different times of year and in different weather. Light and shadows changed with the seasons, creating individual moods.
“Good morning,” she said as she reached the landing and accepted his outstretched hand. “What a beautiful home, and what incredible work you do.”
“We have to go up one more flight to the studio.” He curved his fingers around hers. “And you don’t have to flatter me, but I thank you.”
“Now, you strike me as a man with a firm grip on his ego.” She smiled, casting him a sideways glance as they climbed the next staircase. “My opinion of your work probably doesn’t even matter to you.”
He noted the teasing light in her eyes. “Even a secure ego needs feeding.”
She made a sound of agreement. “Have you lived here long?”
“A few years.”
“So your risks pay off more often than not.”
He released her hand as they stepped into the garret room he’d turned into a studio. “I don’t seem to run out of beer and pretzels.”
“I’ll bet. Oh! Oh, Gabe, this is wonderful!”
His time in the studio was limited, but he enjoyed every second. Skylights allowed the sun to flood the space. Windows replaced the front and back walls. Although called a garret, it was really too large and airy for the title, thanks to the changes he’d made. He’d spent the morning straightening up the room. Usually he didn’t bother. It was the only area of his life he didn’t keep filed, sorted, computerized or pigeonholed.
He watched her move to the back window, which overlooked his garden, her teal-colored skirt undulating around her calves as she walked, a contrast to her demure sleeveless blouse printed with tiny flowers and buttoned to her throat. On her feet lilac-painted toenails drew attention to her strappy sandals. Gold bracelets danced along her left wrist, tinkling sweetly. She didn’t wear a watch, which pleased him. She wasn’t in a hurry.
“Beautiful,” she said, turning to him.
“I can’t take credit for it. I only enjoy someone else’s hard work.”
“But beauty and color are important to you. You surround yourself with it. That’s obvious in your work.”
“And my subject.” He waited to see if she blushed. She didn’t, but her posture changed, as if she didn’t believe him. “I’ll just be sketching you today, Cristina, and conversing. I need to know more about you before we talk about clothing and tone.”
“My father will want something appropriate to hang with the other generations in the family gallery.” She paused. “That sounds really pretentious, doesn’t it? Again.”
“Traditions die hard. Please, come sit here and let me study you.”
Cristina moved to the appointed chair he’d placed directly under a skylight. Her heart hadn’t stopped thumping since she’d stepped into his house. Her body was warm and her temperature still climbing. She’d intentionally worn something nondescript because...because—She didn’t know why, for sure. Only that she needed some kind of armor for now.
If De La Hoya had actually taken the commission, she would have allowed him—because he undoubtedly would have demanded—artistic control. Except that she certainly wouldn’t have posed nude.
Maybe he’d turned down the commission because he’d deduced that what her father wanted would be too traditional for his interest She’d never know, of course, since his reclusive life meant that they would never cross paths.
“What are you thinking about?” Gabe asked.
Startled out of her thoughts, she fidgeted. “Alejandro De La Hoya.”
“Well. I’m flattered.”
She smiled. “I was uncomfortable having you study me. I had to think about something else. Have you ever met him?”
He made a noncommittal sound as be pulled up a rolling stool beside her and hefted a sketch pad into his lap. “What kind of music do you like?”
“Classical. Opera, in particular. Most especially Verdi. I’m going to see Rigoletto tomorrow night with Jason Grimes. He’s the man you met the other night.”
“Yes, I remember him.”
She listened to the sound of his pencil as he sketched—short, quick strokes detailing her face in profile. She was glad she didn’t have to see him eye her inch by inch. “How about you? What’s your music of choice?”
“Wagner. Miles Davis. Segovia.”
“Eclectic taste,” she commented, tempted to look in his direction. There was tension in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Why don’t you put on some music now?”
“Because I don’t like it to influence me in the early stages. I figure out what suits the subject, then I choose the music to accompany me while I work. Your hair needs to be pulled back from your face.”
He set down his pad and pencil, then walked to a nearby chest of drawers. In a minute he returned, a length of black ribbon in his hand. He moved behind her.
“I’ll do it,” he said as she started to gather her hair into a ponytail
She closed her eyes. He combed her hair with his fingers as he pulled it back. The cool satin of the ribbon glided across her neck. His fingertips grazed her skin. She shivered. She wasn’t used to familiarity, especially from a stranger.
A man.
She’d grown up in a house where people seldom touched. Oh, she’d felt loved, but physical warmth was missing. Sometimes when she’d stayed overnight with friends, she’d seen how different families could be. On the other hand, no one argued at her house, which was also good. She froze during arguments. Logic slipped away, leaving only the emotion she was feeling, and she could never convey her emotions clearly while under duress.
“One of the first things I noticed about you,” Gabe said from behind her, “was your hair. More beautiful than fire.”
“I was born in the wrong century.” She tried to shrug off the mesmerizing lure of his voice. “I figured Titian would have hired me to model,” she said, referring to the Renaissance painter whose use of color brought him acclaim, particularly his redheaded subjects.
“Your hair is more gold than red.” Gabe moved then, coming to a stop in front of her, staring at her long enough to make her squirm. “Had Rubens gotten a look at you, however—Ah, I’ve made you uncomfortable. Forgive me. I tend to analyze too much.”
Cristina didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. One of Rubens’s claims to fame was his paintings of voluptuous women. How many times in her adult life had she wished she’d lived in Rubens’s time instead of now?
“I used to be a lot thinner,” she said, then clamped her mouth shut.
“Oh?” Gabe settled in the seat beside her again and started sketching, pleased to be pulling information from her so easily. “Was thinner better, Cristina? Did you like yourself more?”
“No.” She blew out a breath, relaxing. “No. If anything, I hated it.”
He wanted tension back in her face. It would make for a much more interesting portrait than soft and sweet. He could tell her that she was beautiful. That would surely bring back the tension. Some women thrived on flattery, whether true or false. But not this woman. Even her posture had indicated it earlier. “Why did you hate it?”
“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t real.”
“Had you been ill?”
“No.”
She looked at her lap, and he stopped sketching to wait.
“I was a surprise, mid-life baby,” she said finally. “I came along twenty-five years into my parents’ marriage, when my mother was forty-six and my father fifty-five, long after they’d given up hope of ever having a child. They didn’t quite know what to do with me.”
Again, he waited. After a minute he rolled his stool directly in front of her and set his sketch pad aside. He clasped her hands. She looked up. His gaze never strayed from hers. “Tell me.”
She swallowed. “They had certain expectations.”
“Unrealistic ones.”
Cristina nodded. “My father was a state senator, so we lived in a fishbowl. I was to be well mannered, and studious, and a dainty little lady. The well-mannered part I could manage. And when my mother became terminally ill, I tried to make myself into what she wanted—a dainty woman. It was the hardest thing I’d done, but before she died two years ago, I’d made her proud, and I’m glad I did. I learned a lot about myself because of it.” She squeezed his hands. “Why am I telling you this?”
“Because you want me to paint the real Cristina.”
God. He was right! He was absolutely right. “Weight and all,” she said.
“You. As you. You’re lovely.”
She shook her head.
“Yes.” He lifted a hand to her face, stroked the flesh along her cheekbone with his thumb. “You weren’t born in the wrong century, either. I will paint you not only as you want the future Chandler generations to see you, but as I see you. Then you’ll know how beautiful you are.”
Oh, he tempted her with his words. He wanted to paint some exotic, erotic woman that wasn’t the least like her, maybe even a second, more-personal portrait in the De La Hoya style. And the allure of giving in to the flattery was strong, even as she knew it wasn’t something she would ever feel comfortable doing. What if the painting ended up in some gallery where someone she knew saw it? What if someone told her father? She’d disappointed him enough lately.
And the biggest “what if” of all—what if when Gabe saw her unclothed, he was repulsed. His imagination had undoubtedly painted a better picture than reality.
“I think we should focus on the portrait that will please my father,” she said, aware of changes in her body. Her nipples had drawn taut the moment he’d touched her face and now pulsed with a gentle ache.
She wondered whether he kissed hard or soft, whether he enticed or attacked, whether he would know how inexperienced she was. Jason’s kiss had been one hard, closed mouth pressed to another. She’d bet her trust fund that Gabriel Marquez never kissed with a closed mouth, nor hurried out the door the next second.
Cold seeped into her when he moved back, then she warmed as his gaze dropped to her breasts and he took note of her reaction to him. Confused, she stood and walked to the front window. “I’m not too sure that this is a good idea.”
“On the contrary, Cristina. This is the best idea I’ve ever had. I hope I can convince you of the same thing.”
“Let’s change the subject.”
A few seconds of silence filled the room. From outside she heard a bird trill, a car drive past, a child shriek with laughter. Uncomfortable with the quiet inside, she started to turn.
“Don’t move.”
The sound of pencil on paper held her suspended. She could see him in her peripheral vision, could feel the intensity of his focus.
“Put your right hand on the window, level with your shoulder. Spread your fingers open,” he instructed her. “Tip your head back a little. Look as far into the horizon as you can. Shoulders back. Good.”
He worked in silence for several minutes. “Put your left hand to your chest, over your heart. A bit lower. No—”
Gabe moved closer, then placed her hand where he wanted, spreading her fingers apart like her other hand, not letting his fingers brush her breasts.
A wistful pose, Gabe thought. “Angle toward me a little.” He flipped a page. “Now, turn only your head and look directly at me.” The pencil glided. “Who are you right now?”
A long pause, then, “Someone from a previous life.”
“Tell me.”
“A...a New England sea captain’s wife, I think, watching for my husband’s ship to return after a long journey.”
“A woman who waits.”
“A woman who worries. And pines.”
“Do you love your husband?” he asked.
“Oh, yes”
“How long have you been married?”
A faraway look settled in her eyes.
“Ten years. He’s home only half the year. I worry about him.”
“Do you have children?”
“No. It’s my one sorrow.”
“How do you feel when you see his ship come into port?”
She smiled. “Thrilled. Grateful. Relieved.”
“Do you wait at home for him or go to the ship?”
“He’s too busy to see me for a while. I take a bath, dress in something feminine, make sure there’s something to eat. For afterward,” she added. “He’s hungry for me first.”
“When he comes through your front door, what happens?” He flipped another page. The clean sheet would capture a new impression.
“I fly into his arms. He whirls me around and around. I press my nose against his neck and he smells wonderful. Like him. Like no one else in the world. Then he kisses me, and the long, lonely months melt away. He carries me upstairs.”
Gabe watched the changes in her expressions. She had become the fictitious captain’s wife. Her imagination had taken her away and planted her firmly in the scene. Her muscles were tense, her body taut Her nipples pressed at the fabric covering them.
He tamped down his own reaction, one that shocked the hell out of him. He’d thought himself immune to innocence, to purity, to sweetness. He much preferred an equal partner, one who led, who took, who demanded. He didn’t think that defined Cristina.
Seeing her start to relax, he began sketching and questioning again. “Are you faithful while he’s gone?”
“Absolutely.”
“He’s a good lover.” A statement, not a question.
“Beyond good,” Cristina said, a smile forming.
“Why? What makes him special?”
“It’s not what he does. It’s why he does it.”
“Why?”
“He loves me.”
Dead silence. His pencil skidded, seemed to dig a hole in the paper. Cristina watched his focus shift as he absorbed her words. She was enjoying his game, which tempted her, dared her, excited her—more than any man had done with actions. Part of his allure was the danger, she knew.
“What he does is also important,” he said.
She moved a shoulder. “Maybe. More important is how I feel afterward.”
He continued to sketch, his thoughts well hidden.
“You want to comment,” she said. “What’s stopping you?”
He hesitated. “You might change your mind about posing.”
“You’ve demanded honesty from me. You’ve managed to pry some of my secrets loose from moorings I didn’t think anyone could. Don’t deny me the same insight into what drives you.”
“Men view sex differently. Women like to fantasize that it’s different when she’s the right woman for him. It’s not true. It still comes down to physical satisfaction for men, not emotional.”
“Always?”
“I suppose I can’t speak for all men. We don’t discuss the point as women do. But I believe it’s so.”
She rolled her head, easing kinks settling in her neck, feeling sorry for him because he was so disillusioned about love.
“Tired?” he asked.
“A little.”
“Let’s stop for now. I’ll order lunch.”
He watched her shift her shoulders as he asked his housekeeper to serve lunch on the screened porch facing the garden. He hung up the phone just as Cristina put her hand on a stack of paintings leaning against a wall.
“May I?” she asked.
He had a decision to make, quickly. After a minute, he nodded. Then he waited.
At first she simply seemed caught up in the images she was examining, then something changed. She slowed down. Concentrated. Focused. She turned toward him, accusation in her eyes.
“These paintings are signed Marquez. But the style... It’s so distinctive. I couldn’t see it in the photographs. You’re—You’re not—”
“I am Gabriel Alejandro De La Hoya y Marquez.” And I am descended from kings.
The tag came automatically to mind, an old game he and his mother had played. She’d always made him say the whole thing together. He’d stopped when he was fifteen and knew better.
“I don’t understand,” she said, looking around. “There’s no curtain. No two-way mirror. There’s just—”
“Me and you. The ridiculous rumor is just that, Cristina, started by someone who thought it would be diverting to say that is the way De La Hoya works. It’s part of the mystique.”
“Why?”
“Why the secrecy? Because it places a higher value on the work.”
“And you’re only interested in making money.”
He watched her expression close up. He’d disappointed her. “I make a very comfortable living. I don’t need what I get from my art, but I enjoy the game, one I have to play out now because I’m too far into it to stop. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love it. I do. I also love the challenge of taking a losing company and making it successful. Or helping a determined immigrant start a business. Or endowing an artist. Painting feeds my soul. It also puts food on the plate of some starving artist, giving him or her the freedom to pursue their dreams full-time.”
They faced each other like duelists in the streets of the Old West. Cristina intentionally moved toward him, needing some kind of action, some forward momentum. The shock had immobilized her. “And you’ve already decided that I’m worthy of your trust. You don’t think I’d tell anyone the truth,” she said, studying his expression.
“I know it for a fact. We have a connection. That connection is only going to get stronger by your knowing the truth. Alejandro De La Hoya is a known quantity. Gabriel Marquez is not. Not as an artist, anyway. I want you to have confidence in me to do what’s right for you in this portraits. I think you would trust De La Hoya more than Marquez.”
“Well, you’re wrong.” She stopped in front of him. “I don’t think it will make a difference, except that I like knowing the truth. Your secret is safe with me.”
“I know.”
She smiled. “You were the tiniest bit worried, though, weren’t you? I could see it in your eyes.”
“It’s always a leap of faith.”
“I knew there was something you were keeping hidden.”
“Did you?”
She liked the arrogant lift of his brow. He was a complicated man who had just made himself more so, therefore more intriguing, and more dangerous. She would have to open up to him now in ways she hadn’t anticipated.
“Tell me, Gabe—Is that what I call you?”
He nodded.
“Tell me. Do you have affairs with your subjects? Jen was sure by looking at the paintings that you do.”
“Is that what you’re looking for?”
“I asked you first.”
He hesitated. “I choose my subjects carefully. Sometimes I’ve chosen to paint someone I’m involved with. Usually, it isn’t the case. Certainly the older I’ve gotten, the less the two mesh.”
“Thank you for your honesty.”
Gabe reached behind her and loosened the ribbon, pulling it slowly across her neck. “Now you must answer my question.”
She pressed a shaky hand to his chest. “If my father had his way, I’d be engaged to Jason Grimes today and married to him next week.”
“Which tells me nothing. Certainly it doesn’t answer my question. Are you looking to have an affair?”
She shifted her weight. “No.”
Her hesitation gave him a different answer, but he wouldn’t call her on it. Not yet. “All right.”
He found it endearing, the way surprise and disappointment washed across her face before she stepped back. What an innocent she was. If her father played the right cards—the emotional ones—she’d marry Jason Grimes. For her father’s sake, of course, not hers. She believed in love—or the fantasy of love. But she also believed in family. Losing weight to please her dying mother said it all.
Gabe loved his mother. She’d been the only constant in his life. But he had never allowed her to tell him how to live his life—
Except once. He had promised her he wouldn’t exact revenge against his father, worthless bastard that he was, even though the opportunity and means had been within Gabe’s reach many times. What was the purpose of having money and the power that came with it if he couldn’t use it as he wished?
In that sense he supposed he was like Arthur Chandler or Richard Grimes. Grimes would use his wealth to buy back lost power. Gabe would do the same thing, if necessary. The difference was that he would never get in the same kind of trouble—and expect his son to bail him out.
But the ultimate sacrificial lamb was Cristina Chandler. And lamb she was, one in need of protection. Her powerful but desperate father had turned her into a commodity, her value set according to how well she could get him out of a jam.
Then again, Gabe seemed to be doing the same thing.
“You’ve drifted to another time zone,” she commented.
“I was thinking I should paint you beneath a bower of ivy.”
“With flowers?”
“You are colorful enough on your own. Your dress should be white, even. Something outwardly virtuous.”
She raised her brows. “Outwardly?”
“At first glance you would seem the very essence of innocence, then when the viewer focuses on your face, there’ll be something different. The hidden depths, not so hidden.”
“My father won’t see it.”
“It doesn’t matter. You and I will see. And understand” He watched her pluck a purple mum from an arrangement on the chest. She snapped the stem a little shorter and tucked the bloom into her hair, over her ear.
“Do you have a dress that would be right?” he asked.
“Nothing remotely close.”
He nodded. “We will go shopping.”
Cristina sent an army of control to quell her rioting nerves. She’d been edgy when she arrived, had gotten edgier since then. Now, pinpricks of panic stabbed at her. “I’m capable of choosing a dress myself.”
“If you’re worried about me seeing what size dress you wear...”
She stiffened. What was he, psychic? A mind reader? She couldn’t go through with this, after all. He was burrowing deep inside her, this man who saw beyond what anyone else had ever seen. It scared her, excited her, baffled her. And it made her acknowledge feelings she’d never had before. She hadn’t lied to him, not consciously. She didn’t want an affair. She just didn’t know what she was going to do with these physical cravings and sexual yearnings, however.
“You’re not going to have any secrets from me when we’re done,” he finished.
“None?”
He shook his head. “In designer clothes, you wear a fourteen. Off the rack, a sixteen. I don’t give a damn. Neither should you. You told me yourself that you hated being thinner.”
How did he do that? He knew way too much about women. Yellow warning flags went up all around her. She ignored them. “But I also hate having you know what size I wear. I may have come to some acceptance of myself along the way, but you’re a man, after all. An attractive man.”
“A man who’s telling you this truth, Cristina. I think you’re beautiful just as you are. And this is the last time we are discussing this.” He touched the flower in her hair. “Relax with me. Be yourself. Be playful when you feel like it. Sensual when you feel like it Angry, even. Be you. You know that’s what you want more than anything. Trust me.”
“My mother told me never to trust a man who said, �Trust me.’”
“She sounds like a wise woman.”
“I miss her.”
The simplicity of her words made his gut clench. There were many levels of loneliness. He’d known a lot of them himself. But he’d chosen his life, chosen to be alone most of the time, to stay out of the limelight. The only person he’d ever missed was Sebastian, who’d done nothing to harm anyone in his entire life. Sebastian, who’d insisted on forging a friendship between four completely opposite boys and one girl. A friendship that had endured for eighteen years but was floundering now without the bond that Sebastian provided.
Sebastian had watched Gabe track Richard Grimes’s every move through the years and understood Gabe’s deep hatred of the man. More important, Sebastian had taken it upon himself to try to expose Grimes’s unscrupulous business dealings, Gabe should have trusted his instincts and not allowed Sebastian to make himself the bait. Now he was struggling to walk again—and fighting for his reputation as well.
“Gabe?”
He breathed again. “Yes?”
“You keep disappearing on me.”
He lifted her hand to his lips, felt her retreat at first, then relax. “After lunch we’ll do a little shopping, shall we, Miss Chandler?”
Cristina held her breath. Inhibitions fled her body faster than she could count to ten. He was offering her a freedom she’d never known. Suddenly, she felt safe. Very, very safe. He was going to demand a lot of her, but he wouldn’t hurt her. If she got hurt, it would be her own fault. This wasn’t a man looking for commitment. She understood that.
She wished he would kiss her mouth. She waited a few seconds, hoping he’d take the hint, or read her mind, or whatever he did to figure her out so well. But he just waited, the patience she’d seen in him from the beginning settling around them.
Plus, she’d said no, after all. She supposed she should respect him for taking her seriously.
“You can’t act like my lord and master while we shop.”
He smiled. “I promise.”
“No leaning back in a chair and scrutinizing each dress. No twirling your finger indicating I should turn around like some model.”
“Agreed.”
“Do you have any idea how hard it’s going to be to find a white dress this time of year?”
“Not if you know the right places to shop.”
Four
The air of the War Memorial Opera House was redolent with perfume. The auditorium echoed with low murmurs, cool laughter and rustling fabric, sounds suited to the exquisite setting. And Lady Luck smiled on Gabriel Marquez.
From his usual box seat he spotted Cristina’s brilliant hair as she walked down the aisle ten minutes prior to curtain, Jason’s hand resting against the small of her back. Her floor-length emerald green dress was simplicity itself. No glitter for this woman, not even on opening night Just a classic design that flattered her figure and complemented her coloring.
And he was irritatingly pleased the gown offered little view of her cleavage to the tall, blond man hovering nearby—unlike the gown she would wear for her De La Hoya portrait.
After a great deal of debate the afternoon before, she’d agreed to a champagne-colored silk with skinny straps and a scooped bodice.
Oh, she’d argued against the cut of the gown, believing that a portrait destined to be hung in a family gallery for generations should be tasteful. From behind her, he’d caught and held her gaze in the mirror.
“Who do you look like, Cristina? Your mother?”
“No. Her maternal grandmother.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because her portrait—Oh. I see your point.”
“Your great-granddaughter will like knowing how she comes by her looks.”
“I yield to your expertise, Gabe. However, I don’t believe we need to show quite so much �looks.’”
His body had grazed hers as he moved a little closer. He fingered her dress strap where it touched her shoulder blade. Her flesh tightened under his knuckles. “It will be tasteful enough to hang in the White House.”
Gabe recalled the breath she’d held for a long time, then her silent assent. She was pitifully easy to read, and far too open with him for her own good. Plus, she was ripe for an affair, hungry to experience sexual freedom, which was part of the reason she’d embarked on a life independent of her father—even if she hadn’t acknowledged it to herself yet.
He understood the risk she was taking—be thrived on risks, after all—but he had to prevent the marriage-merger of Cristina and Jason. Could he do that without sleeping with her? His original plan had included intimacy—the graphically imagined rumpled sheets and morning sun. How else could he entice her away, not only from Jason’s persistent pursuit, but from her father’s influence?
It was a test of his own character, Gabe decided. Ethics weren’t foreign to him, after all. But he had to be very, very careful this time. A seduction—and yet, not. A little heartbreak would be unavoidable, perhaps. Something bearable. Something memorable. Even educational. She wouldn’t be so gullible again.
“If you hurt someone for your own gain, the victory is hollow, hijo.” He ignored his mother’s voice that seemed to speak directly into his conscience, disappointment weighing heavily in the words. However, it wouldn’t be his victory alone, but Sebastian’s. The reward justified the risk.
Gabe focused on Cristina again as Jason, seated now, pointed to something in the program. She nodded, her shimmering hair bouncing softly.
“This place reeks of money,” the woman seated beside Gabe announced.
He took his eyes off Cristina to smile at his companion as he eyed her concession to getting dressed up—a black silk tunic and palazzo pants that she’d probably borrowed. She hated dressing up. In fact, he hadn’t seen her wear a dress since her wedding gown years ago. “You look beautiful, Les.”
“Save your slick charm for someone who’s susceptible, Gabriel.”
He smiled leisurely as he stretched an arm across the back of her chair. “I thought you’d be feeling pretty mellow after all the wine you had with dinner.”
“Well, I’m not.”
He studied her for a minute, then dragged his chair closer and covered her hands, clenched tightly in her lap, with his. “You want to talk about it, Les?”
“No.” She blew out a breath. “No, thanks,” she said, more gently. “I know you’ll listen, Gabe. I just need to work some things out by myself.”
“Ben?”
She looked away. “Who else?”
The lights faded. Anticipation built into an anxious silence. Then music washed over them, transporting the audience to another world.
“It’s not his fault, you know,” Leslie whispered, leaning closer. “It’s no one’s fault.”
Gabe didn’t agree, but this wasn’t the time or place. “Let the music take you away for a while,” he said. He should be heeding his own advice, he supposed, but he watched Cristina instead—and wondered if she was holding hands with Jason Grimes.
Cristina hated her—the woman she spotted with Gabe during intermission. She was tall and model slender. Her short auburn hair framed a face so perfect she didn’t seem to need makeup. And she had enough nerve to wear pants to opening night.
Hate wasn’t a strong enough word, not when envy and resignation got tossed into the mix, as well. And they looked so...comfortable together, her arm looped through his, her head pressing his shoulder as they laughed together.
Cristina sipped the wine Jason had brought her, before he excused himself, heading in the direction of the men’s room. And she waited for Gabe to notice her across the crowded lobby.
Why hadn’t he told her he was coming tonight when she’d said she was? Perhaps he was hoping they wouldn’t run into each other. Their relationship couldn’t be public knowledge because Alejandro De La Hoya was a secret. A dark, magnificent secret.
She shivered and looked away, recalling their shopping expedition yesterday—his interest in each new dress she tried on, his sudden intensity when she’d finally slipped into the champagne silk. His silent and complete approval, communicated by the way his posture turned military, his eyes narrowed and lips compressed. He’d moved behind her, looking in the mirror as she turned side to side.
“Not exactly the stuff of grand portraits,” she’d said.
“It’s perfect.”
His gaze had drifted down her, made a slow return trip, then locked with hers. “Perfect.”
Again she’d hoped he would kiss her. Again he ignored her unspoken wish. There was just that feathery touch where her strap grazed her skin. At first she’d thought she imagined it, then heat spread from that one spot. Tentacles of fire flashed down her veins.
“Ready to go back in, Cris?”
Reality yanked her out of the memory. Jason blocked her view of Gabe, who either had not seen her—or didn’t want to be seen with her. What did he think, that she would fawn over him in front of his date? He was probably used to that, but—
“I’m ready, Jason,” she said, but the enjoyment of the evening evaporated like the fading sizzle of a summer rain hitting a scorched sidewalk.
Gabe watched Cristina until the lights faded again. She’d spent the minute or so before intermission ended looking around the auditorium, something she hadn’t done before the first act. He knew the moment she’d spotted him. He pretended not to notice.
Leslie leaned in his direction. “So, who’s the gorgeous redhead you’ve been eyeing all night and pretending not to?”
“You’re observant”
“Observing’ what I do for a living, Gabe. She’s your kind of woman, I think. Do you know her?”
“Her name is Cristina Chandler.”
Leslie’s gasp was audible above the music.
“Chandler? Are you crazy?”
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