How Sweet It Is (15 page)

“Yes.”

“Where your ladylove lives.”

Finn arched a brow. “You aren’t very subtle.”

“Maybe no, but I’m definitely smarter than you.” His friend pointed the trombone at him. “It doesn’t take a genius to know that if you do what’s good for your reputation you’d have more time with the lady who has captured your spirit.”

True, and a part of himself that he didn’t recognize urged him to go.

Marcel folded his arms. “So why do you not go?”

“I hate London.” The last thing he wanted was to see his father.

“But you like recognition, and you say this job would give you much. And then there’s the beautiful creature who loves you.”

“Viola doesn’t love me.” She loved his art.

“How is this a debate?” Marcel raised his arms in the air. “You’re going.”

“I never said I would.”

Marcel lifted his trombone and began to play “A Love Supreme.” Coltrane usually relaxed Finn, but he didn’t think even a Valium would calm him today.

His friend stopped playing and faced Finn. “Have I ever told you about Geneviève?”

The rawness of Marcel’s voice made Finn really look at him, otherwise he might have missed the stark grief in the man’s expression. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you have.”

Marcel nodded. “Her laugh cured the deepest of melancholies, and the gift of her smile was priceless. She looked at me like I’d created the sun and moon especially for her, and when she came to hear me play, my music suited the gods. With her, I was invincible.” His chest deflated, and he seemed to shrivel before Finn’s eyes. “Too bad I didn’t realize this before I left.”

“You left her?”

“Of course.” Marcel sank onto his couch, caressing his trombone with trembling fingers. “My passion was my music. I was offered to tour with Dizzy Gillespie, and I went. I had to go,
n’est-ce pas
? Dizzy changed the way I viewed and approached music. It changed how I played forever.”

“And Geneviève?” Finn asked, despite the bad feeling.

Marcel shrugged like the Frenchman he was. “Someone realized her worth and married her as fast as he could get her to the church. I saw her in the street once. She was round with child, and her eyes still held secrets of love and life.”

Lowering his head, Marcel stared at his trombone. “My trombone is my soul, but what is a soul without love?”

Finn blinked, hearing Henry tell him art was his soul, but that a soul needed to be supplied with food, and that food was passion and experience.

He’d forgotten Henry had said that.

But he shook his head. “No one said anything about love.”

“No one had to. I heard the melody of it in both your voices.” He pointed at Finn. “Have you been painting?”

He pictured the half-finished portrait of Viola in his studio, still on his easel because he couldn’t bear to work on it. The thing was, he also couldn’t put it away. “No,” he said reluctantly to Marcel, only because he was waiting.

“What does this say?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to know.
Mon Dieu
.” Marcel threw his hands in the air. “Just admit it, Finn. London holds the key to your success and happiness. Prestige and passion await you there. You can’t deny that.”

He stuck his hands deep in his pockets. “I don’t.”

“Then you must go.” Marcel lifted his horn and blew a sexy bit. Holding it out, he brandished his instrument at Finn. “
Il faut chercher la femme
.”

***

Jasmine leaned in the doorway of her flat, arms folded and a sassy look on her face. As Finn approached, she stepped aside.

“No wise comments?” he asked as he entered.

“Maybe after you get settled in.” She closed the door and motioned to him. “Your room’s this way.”

He followed her through her home. It was small—Jasmine lived alone and Finn had the impression that she wasn’t going to change that anytime soon. The rooms were eclectic, colorful, and a little fussy just like she was.

“Here you go.” She ushered him into the room and stood to the side, her back to the wall. “There are sheets on the bed, and the dresser is empty if you want to put your clothes away. You have your own bathroom down the hall.”

Nodding, he set his bag next to the dresser and opened it. “I appreciate you letting me stay, Jas.”

“It’s not the Ritz, but you should be comfortable enough.” She fidgeted with the collar of her shirt, watching him put away his clothing. “How long do you plan on staying?” she asked finally.

Brow arched, he glanced over his shoulder. “Already trying to get rid of me?”

“You do tend to wear out your welcome, but I wasn’t asking for me.”

“I’m not seeing my parents,” he said instantly.

“I didn’t think you would, but what about Viola?”

He turned around, arms crossed. “What do you know about Viola?”

“Not as much as you, apparently. How much did she factor into you coming to London?”

“I’m here for a job.” The last thing he needed was to give his best friend ammunition.

“Right.” Jasmine pursed her lips, as though she were in deep contemplation. “I’m sure she didn’t factor into your decision at all.”

“She didn’t.” Not entirely.

“And I’m sure Marcel would agree.”

“I’m impressed that you managed to say that without a smirk.” He finished unpacking his things, tucking his art supplies and tools to the side.

“When are you going to see her?” Jasmine asked.

“I don’t know.” He wasn’t sure she’d want to see him. He frowned, not liking that possibility.

“You should go right away,” she said. “Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. Absence makes the heart forget.”

He put his luggage under the bed. “If you’re implying that she’s going to forget me in the span of a week, you must not think highly of her.”

“It’s you that’s questionable.” She grinned at him. Then she rushed up to him and threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered, squeezing him tight. Letting go, she strode out of the room.

What was that about? He stared after, wondering if he was in some sort of elaborate chess game, which seemed more comfortable than thinking Jasmine was depending on him.

Chapter Seventeen

It’d been a week since she’d returned from Paris.

It’d been the best and worst week of her life. She was tired, but she was happy.

Mostly.

Viola parked the car near the South Street house. It’d started pouring, so she reached for her umbrella in the back seat.

Of course it wasn’t there. Typical. She pressed a hand to her forehead. Her mind had been so scattered lately.

She looked at the rain and pushed the door open. She’d make a dash for the house.

By the time she arrived on the doorstep, she was soaked. Shaking the wetness off her head, she let herself in. “Anybody home?”

Her mother emerged from the study. Lately, her mother was even more beautiful than she’d always been. Vi attributed it to Declan. Truthfully, she’d been jealous that her mother had found such a fierce love, not to mention realizing her passion of becoming an author, but Vi had followed her footsteps. In realizing a career for herself, at least.

She pictured Finn’s half-lidded gaze, looking at her like he never wanted to stop touching her.

She shook her head again, trying to dislodge the image. Drops of cold water ran down her neck and splattered on the floor.

“Where’s your umbrella, Viola?” her mother asked as she approached. She opened a closet and withdrew an armful of linens.

She sighed. She was almost thirty-six years old, but sometimes around her mother she still felt five. “I must have left it at the gallery.”

“When you were a child, you were always losing your umbrella.” Jacqueline handed her a couple linens and then bent to wipe the water on the floor. “Fran and I couldn’t figure out what you did with them. One time, I even pinned one to you, but you even lost that.”

She stopped blotting the water from her hair and looked at her mother, the memory of it springing into her head suddenly. “I came home and you two looked at me like I was hopeless, and I started to feel bad, but then you laughed and said that the umbrella obviously didn’t have any sense to stay with me, because I would have been its best owner.”

Jacqueline smiled sadly. “I had moments where I wasn’t such a bad mother. I just wish they were more often.”

Her heart broke for her mother, and she hugged her impulsively. She completely understood feeling like a failure as a mother—she swore she’d failed Chloe in so many ways.

Jacqueline laughed a little as she sniffled. “Now we’re both damp.”

Vi let go of her abruptly, her eyes widening with horror as she saw the wet spots she’d left on her mother’s designer silk. “I’m so sorry.”

Her mother waved her hand. “It’ll dry. We should get you some hot coffee to warm up. Have you eaten?”

She murmured something noncommittal as she took her coat off and hung it to dry. She hadn’t been hungry lately. She was too busy with the gallery and everything.

Speaking of the gallery … “Is Sebastian here?” she asked as they headed to the kitchen.

“He usually works from the kitchen. I think it’s because Fran told him she doesn’t trust him. He’s poking at her.” Jacqueline shook her head, but there was a hint of a smile at her lips.

“Well, he
did
show up without agenda and decide to stay.” None of them had trusted him—except Portia, which was so bizarre because she didn’t used to trust anyone, especially someone who had a claim to their heritage, like Sebastian, as the tenth Earl of Amberlin did.

“And yet you’ve agreed to let him work with you.” Jacqueline glanced at her. “Was that to keep your enemies close, as Bea would advise?”

“He hasn’t done anything to my family, so he’s not an enemy.” Yet.

Her mother shook her head, as if she heard the unspoken word. “Sebastian is a good man. He’s lost and alone and looking for a place where he belongs.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” She frowned. “Does he think that place is here?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” her mother asked blithely and she glided into the kitchen.

Sebastian was there, just like her mother had supposed. In front of him, there was a carafe of coffee, an opened laptop, and stacks of papers. He looked up as they entered, his face falling in disappointment. “I thought it was Fran coming back. I was going to tell her I ate all her trifle.”

“Have you?” Jacqueline took out a cup from the cabinet and handed it to Viola.

“I’m not in the bathroom puking, am I?” His eyes widened in horror. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant that it’s so rich that if I ate the vast quantities she makes I’d be sick. Do
not
tell Fran I said that.”

“Said what?” Fran asked as she entered the kitchen.

Viola gave her former nanny a kiss. “Sebastian accused you of trying to fatten him up.”

“Humph.” Fran gave Sebastian a narrowed glare as she handed Viola the carafe. “He certainly eats enough.”

“Which is amazing, given that I’m not convinced she won’t try to poison me.”

She glanced at the older woman who’d been part of their household forever. Vi could tell Fran was happy that Sebastian thought she was capable of such treachery.

Sebastian winked at Viola, then he became all business, pointing to a stack of papers. “Those are the approved and signed contracts for the works you’ve consigned for the first show. I still have two contracts pending, but they should be in by the end of the week.”

“This is happening.” She sat on a chair next to him and began looking through the contracts. “Is this the contract I pulled together?”

“With a few modifications I made.” He shrugged when she frowned at him. “There were a couple loopholes that I closed, to benefit you. You can have a lawyer check it out, but it’s better now. I made a boilerplate that you can use for the future.”

“How do you know all this?” she asked, smiling in thanks at Fran who set a plate of shortbread in front of her.

“I used to be in advertising. I’m used to contracts.” He took out a list. “These are the artists who’ve agreed to be part of the show, as well as the art they’re contributing.”

She surveyed the list, picturing the artwork as she read the titles. “Do you have a pen?”

He handed it to her.

Nodding her thanks, she noted where she thought the pieces would go as she went down the list. She placed question marks by a couple of them because she wasn’t sure they’d fit exactly where she’d first envisioned. She tried not to think about Finn or that she wished he had a painting on this list.

She shook her head. As much as she wanted that, it wasn’t happening. She had to let go of the dream.

“What?” Sebastian asked. “Is something wrong?”

Yes. She wanted Finn—in more ways than one—but he was unavailable. She smiled at him and handed the page back. “No, this is fabulous. When I hired you to be my helper, I had no idea what I was getting. I should be paying you.”

He made a face. “I don’t want pay. I have money, despite general consensus.”

“Then what do you want?” she asked bluntly.

He looked at her. “I just want you to find your place, and if I can help in any way with that, I’ll be happy.”

“But why?” She leaned closer to him. “I’m someone you met a few months ago. Why would I be important to you? I haven’t even been terribly friendly to you.”

“You really haven’t.” He grinned. Then his smile faded and he looked at her straight, no guile, no charm—just pure honesty. “Because I hope you’re family, and I think this is what family does.”

Vi’s heart bled for him. “You think?”

“I didn’t have much experience with family until recently. It was only me and my parents, and they died a long time ago. I didn’t know how important it was to have people who were tied to you no matter what until somewhat recently.” He smiled ruefully. “That’s a story for another day.”

“I’d like to hear it,” she said softly, meaning it.

“I’d like to tell you,” he replied just as seriously. He smiled. “Today, though, we need to discuss your opening. I set up an interview with
Art Monthly
. It’s pushing their deadline, but someone owed me a favor so they’re rushing to include an interview with you in this month’s issue. The columnist will call you tomorrow, and then she’ll send you questions to answer. I’ll include the complete list of participating artists with your responses.”