Billionaire on Her Doorstep (18 page)

She tried to think up ways to keep him a little longer. The cupboards in the spare bedrooms were a disgrace. And there was always that crazy wallpaper in the master bedroom. But she couldn’t pay him, and she could hardly offer to keep him on with the promise of more paintings for the walls of his caravan, or wherever he lived.

In the meantime, Maggie spent the day packing up the Blue Smudge Series in the bubble-wrap that had come with her new furniture. Then she called a courier to collect them for her delirious agent. If Nina could flog them off for a hundred bucks apiece, that would give her another week’s mortgage payment. Wo oho o!

One piece she was loathe to pack was the piece she had starte d less than four days be fore. It was finishe d and it was be au-tifUl. And where The B ig B lue was a contemplation of her face, this new painting was very definitely a reflection of her heart.

The greys and shadowy greens and slashing apricot sky were a snapshot, a moment in time. She’d mixed a little vinegar and wood stain into the paint to give it the same sensory texture she’d experienced when living the moment the first time around. A slice of white split the canvas - the railing of the Sorrento Pier - and resting large and strong and familiar over the edge were Tom’s beautiful hands.

It wasn’t, quite a landscape and wasn’t quite a portrait, but it was a true blue Maggie Bryce original. She packed it up all the same, as it had the biggest chance of making her any money. And that had become more important to her than anything - to stay rather than hang on to the past.

The man in question came up to say his goodbyes just on sunset. “I’m done.”

The way he said it, the finality in his words, had Maggie’s breath hitching in her thro at. “Done for the night? Or done done?”

“‘Done done. Finished. Contract fulfilled.” He was stiff. His eyes dark. His lazy smile nowhere in evidence. She could tell he was still upset about the ir discussion the day before. About Carl. And Tess. And about a lot of things she’d love to help him sort through, if only he gave her the chance.

“You still have another day, if you need it,’she said, trying to act cool, but the speed with which the words came negated her performance.

Tom’s cheek twitched. “There’s a little cleaning up to do, but for all intents and purposes the pathway is cleared. Though I didn’t do a dry run down to the beach, as I thought you might want that honour yourself. Do you want me to take you down there now?”

That would mean this whole thing coming to an end. Then and there. And Maggie was not even nearly ready for that. She’d thought she’d get at least another day. She needed at least another day. Hell, if she was honest with herself, she’d need at least another millennium before she was ready to see this guy leave for good.

“Not tonight. I think I’d rather leave it for morning, when we can enjoy it better. Smiley and me,” she added.

“Right. I’ll see you, then.” He made a move to leave.

“Do you want to take The Big Blue now, or tomorrow?’she asked, motioning to the one painting she hadn’t sent away.

His eyes darted over the empty comer. “Where are the others?”

“Gone,” she said with a shrug. “Off to market.”

“You’ve sold them?” he asked, a glimmer appearing in his dark hazel eyes for the first time in hours.

“Not yet. But here’s hoping my agent can work a miracle.”

“When Tom didn’t respond she picked up The B ig B lue and shoved it into his arms before he could demur.

“You may as well take this big guy now,” she said. She wasn’t all that sure she could give it to Tom tomorrow without bursting into tears or falling to her knees and begging him to love her back. She’d never been all that good about goodbyes, preferring instead to hold on for dear life.

“I can’t accept that,” Tom insisted, backing away.

“And why not?” she asked, flabbergasted. Oh, God, if he was going to ask for the money instead she was stuffed. She’d pretty much spent it all.

“Because it’s too personal,” he said.

Personal? Too personal Maggie felt steam rising up her neck. Tom knew more about her, about her feelings and her fears and her failures than even the Wednesday girls did, and he thought her giving him a stupid painting was too personal?

“You painted a picture of yourself for a reason, Maggie. Perhaps you ought to keep it.”

“Every painting I have ever sold has been a painting of somebody, Tom,” she explained. “That’s my schtick. Many of Rembrandt’s paintings were self-portraits. Would you not accept one of those as a gift because you didn’t know the guy in the picture personallyT

Tom paused. “And you’re really selling the rest?”

She nodded.

“Does your agent know what they are really about?”

She shrugged. “In the end it doesn’t matter what was going on in my head when they were painted. Whoever buys those paintings would probably rather not know. What matters is whatever pleasure the buyer gets from hanging them on their wall and imprinting their own stories upon them.”

“But I thought that maybe this series was…special. That night, when you saw your face, when you cried all over my shirt, I thought - “

Oh, for heaven’s sake!

“I’m broke, Tom!” Maggie all but shouted.

He flinched. But he had no right to make her feel guilty for selling her work. It was her job. He didn’t say a word, just watched her, giving her the dark, silent treatment. She felt like reaching out and grabbing him by his sweaty T-shirt and shaking him until he said something. Anything.

“If I don’t sell those paintings, then I can’t keep this house,” she explained instead, doing her all to keep her breathing under control as she admitted the scary words out loud. “It’s that simple.”

He seemed to be struggling to believe it, so she gave him the whole story. “You may not have figured this all out as yet, but I’m somewhat of a famous artist. I’ve made some money, but only in the last couple of years. And that’s when Carl looked elsewhere for some one to need him as he thought I no longer did.”

His cheek clenched but he still remained silent.

“I put down the deposit on Belvedere with my money,’she continued, “and paid for it out of my funds ever since, refusing to take a cent from Carl in the split. And, considering I haven’t sold anything new in close to a year, and considering the property prices out this way, let’s just say that I’ve been going backwards fast.”

Tom’s throat worked and even in the growing darkness she thought she saw a fire ignite in his gloomy eyes. He was fighting against something while he stood there glaring at her. She could see it. And some fight was better than none. Keep fighting, she willed.

“Will you earn enough to keep Belvedere if these paintings sell?”

Maggie shrugged. ““Who knows? But right now, sitting in this room, looking over all this gorgeous furniture, admiring my wondrous view,” she said, her eyes only for him, “I’m willing to do whatever it takes. Including for evermore damaging my reputation by letting those odds and sods out into the marketplace with my name on them. So stop glowering at me and wish me luck!”

Do it, she begged silently. Wish me luck at finding a way to stay. Show me some sign that that’s why you are so upset right now, because, despite all your hang-ups and history and determination to remain for evermore unaffected, you want me to stay too.

“Good luck,” Tom said, hooking The Big Blue under his arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’d like that.”

But the sun had set and his face was in shadow and Maggie had no idea what was going on behind those dark hazel eyes as he turned and walked out her door.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Not long after Tom had left that Thursday night, Maggie received the envelope she had be en waiting for. The reason she had kept her front door open day in and day out. The reason she had a telephone sitting on her work desk at all times.

As Maggie stared down at the registered post letter from her lawyer telling her that she was divorced, for the first time in her entire life she felt as if she was truly on her own. Single. Unattached. Free.

She felt as if she could be as spontaneous as she desired; she could run around the house naked, or stand on her head for a half an hour, or drink leftover pasta sauce from the saucepan while jumping up and down on her new couch and nobody could look at her sideways.

For the first time in her life she could truly do whatever she wanted. And she did. Twenty minutes later she was driving up the long driveway leading to Tom’s home.

She would have been there in ten minutes but it had taken her that long to finally find out where he lived. His ho me address wasn’t in the phone book, and his cousin A lex’s hardware store was already close d so she couldn’t grill him. In the end Sandra had provided. She knew a guy who knew a girl who knew a dude whose dad was good friends with the Campbell cousins.

So what now? What could be at the end of this driveway? A caravan on a windy bluff? Or a neat renovation project on which he’d spent the last few years tinkering at night while the town slept?

Maggie finally trundled out of the long, neatly trimmed brush box cave and what she found took her breath away. Immaculate double tennis courts stretche d to her right. To her left, an elegant rectangular room housed an indoor pool and from there a winding covered deck, with brilliant crimson bougainvillea dripping from its roof, led to a magnificent onenStorey home nestled within the inviting surroundings of delicate willows and towering ghost gums sprawled on the edge of the cliff.

As she pulled up on a square of pebbled ground at the side of the house and switched off her headlights, the full impact of his home came to light. A ground-level veranda wrapped around the structure, which then led towards the cliff to enclose a huge gazebo with a barbecue and what looked like an outdoor spa. And, barely twenty meters from the back of the house, the ground simply dropped away, leaving an unimpeded view of ocean beyond. She’d thought her tree-shrouded view pretty fabulous. But this? This was paradise. And likely worth triple what she’d paid for hers.

She’d thought Tom was too easygoing to run the rat race. Looking at his beautiful home, she wondered if the truth might be that he’d run the rat race, won, and retired on the spoils. Now the words “richer than Midas’ and “serial heartbreaker” in Freya’s tongue came seeping back into her subconscious. She’d thought Freya had been clutching at straws. But she’d been at least half spot on. Had she in fact been totally spot on?

Her breath sounded he avy and damp in the tight confines of her car He’snot like the others, she told herself. He’s not. The others had worn their money like a shell. They’d shown it off in their clothes, their cars, their friendships, their diction, and even the way they held their heads, as though looking down at the rest of the world. All Tom had ever shown off was his smile and his charm and his kindness and his sense of humour.

Feeling slightly mollified, Maggie grabbed the bottle of wine she had bought on the way, and alighted from the car. Discreet mot ion sensors perceived her and a string of elegant gas lamps lit up, surrounding the house in a golden glow.

Her only pair of high-heeled shoes crunched against the pale pebbles and her legs felt weak. She walked to the front door, which had a sign on it saying “Gone Fish in’. It made her smile, only if for the fact that the men she had looked up to in the past would have died rather than stick such a thing on their front door. Tom was different. That was what she liked about him.

She ran a hand over her loosely pinned hair, hitched the thin strap of her sky-blue tank top back on to her shoulder, and knocked.

A shuffle came from behind Tom’s front door. Maggie briefly considered running and hiding, but her big black Jeep was sitting right in front of the house.

The chain on the door rattled. Maggie wished she had studied science at school rather than arts and that she had discovered a way to turn back time, but unfortunately her wish didn’t come true.

The door bumped once on its hinges. Maggie took a deep breath and tried everything in her power to make herself invisible.

The door slowly opened. And all her doubts dropped away. For there was the Tom she knew and loved, standing before her in a soft grey T-shirt and red tartan cotton boxers that revealed a great pair of legs. His hair was a little mussed, as though he’d partaken in an afternoon nap, and he held a box of takeaway noodles in his hand.

Her breath slid from her lungs, thankful that he hadn’t opened the door in a tweed suit and carrying a pipe. Despite the elegant surroundings, he was still the same Tom.

“Maggie,’he said, swallowing down a mouthful of noodles. He put the box around the comer on a hidden table and wiped his hands on his shorts. ““What’s up?”

Maggie took a deep breath and waved the bottle of wine and wad of papers in her hand. “I’m divorced,” she said, her voice thick with fear and anticipation and nervous tension. “And I want to celebrate.”

She thought she saw a flare of something in his eyes but it might have been a trick of the light, because he was suddenly very still.

Maggie kept waving her bottle of red and divorce papers and feeling more and more like a fool with every passing second. If she’d thought him emotionally unavailable before, surely turning up on his doorstep a free woman would be the last thing to jolt him to his senses.