Love Unlocked (6 page)

Hudson felt her pull away from him, and he wanted to bare his teeth out of the familiar pang of frustration. Why was she so determined to deny what was going on between them? He ordered himself to take a deep breath. He wasn’t one for hurrying things up, whether it was a woman or a painting. He let the energy flow, let creations unfold at their own pace. With Eve, he wanted to rush, to say “to Hell” with whatever she wanted and throw her over his shoulder, march her up those stairs to that feminine, frilly bedroom of hers, and sink himself into her, possessing her, owning her. He’d never felt such sheer animal desire for a woman before.

That approach would likely land him even farther away from her than before, so he leaned back, giving her space to come in off the deck beam by herself. It seemed to work, because as long as he kept a fair amount of space between them, she relaxed, and continued to show him the improvements on the house. When they got to the hallway, she bit her lip and he tracked her gaze to a large packing crate. One side of the wooden box had been pried off. Its contents were hidden, but then he noticed a tender little portrait in the Rembrandt school leaning against the wall, its obviously old wooden frame resting on the floor. He bent forward to take a closer look. Even as a Rembrandt school original, the painting was in exceptional shape and of beautiful quality, but as he continued to study it, he knew, the way dowsers can find water by smell and a second sight, that he wasn’t looking at an imitation.

An actual Rembrandt. His first thought was that he wanted to see it in better light, to look at the colors, to see how time had altered the pigments. The second was, it must have been worth a small fortune. How was a former assistant curator in possession of a Rembrandt original?

The prickle on his skin no longer had to do with the nearness of the delectable Eve, but with the fact that there could easily be a dozen more paintings inside that crate, and something told him they were each going to be as astonishing, and as valuable, as that precious Rembrandt.

She’d meant to take him up to the second floor to see the fresh paint in the guest room, but they had to walk by the crate to get there. She was ready to tell him they were the light fixtures she’d ordered for the deck, but never got the chance.

Eve choked on her own stupidity as soon as she saw the Rembrandt propped against the wall where she’d left it. Why hadn’t she packed it away the moment she’d assured herself that the paintings had arrived in one piece? From the way Hudson was staring at it, then at her, she would not be able to sell him the “very good reproduction” line. He was a painter, and a genius one, to boot. He could tell fellow genius when he saw it. Damn.

Her brain kicked into overdrive to think of a way to deflect the situation, to con Hudson into believing the portrait of a man in a feathered hat was indeed a copy, when she became aware of an unsettling truth.

She didn’t want to.

A part of her wanted to tell Hudson exactly why a Rembrandt lay in the middle of her hallway, and why a dangerous thief named Deacon expected her to steal a priceless painting in a scant week. She could own up to why she’d come to this middle of nowhere town. She could confess that her air of sophistication and respectability masked an undeniable criminal past.

She craved telling him all of that, and more. How the way he looked at her made her feel treasured and his touch made her long for more. How she’d gladly bare her body for him to paint if only he’d use those clever hands on her once he was finished.

Her intuition, normally her greatest asset when negotiating a tricky job, was telling her that if she did tell him the truth, maybe not all of it, but some, he would listen and perhaps understand.

Eve was thus caught between hope and fear. How could she expect a creator of great art to understand someone who stole it?

She held his gaze for a long moment, waited for questions, demands.

Hudson reached out.

She didn’t understand what he was doing until he was holding her hand as if it were as fragile as a Limoges figurine.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly gentle.

For some reason, her eyes grew wet and she took a gulp of air. His gesture threw her off balance even more than her attraction to him.

“I—”

A crash from the kitchen made them both turn their heads. John let out a long, mostly unintelligible curse, then called cheerily, “Everything’s okay!”

She couldn’t help a small smile as she let out a long breath. Hudson relaxed his posture, but held onto her hand.

“Hudson—”

“You know what, Eve? I don’t want to be lied to. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but please, don’t lie to me.”

She nodded. Her silence was his answer.

“Do I want to see what else is in that crate?”

If she was going to hang some of its contents anyway, Hudson would see them. He’d be back. Hard to keep someone at a distance when you wanted them right by your side.

“I suppose you’re more interested in these than in the color I painted the guest room.”

“You can show me that later.”

She knelt down next to the crate, pulling him down with her instead of releasing his hand.

“I packed these a while ago,” she said, taking out the next carefully wrapped item. “I’m not sure exactly...oh, of course!”

She uncovered an oil of a stark gray farmhouse sitting in the middle of a field. “This will look perfect in the library!” Her unease had been replaced with delight at meeting her old friends again.

“Is that a Wyeth?” Hudson asked.

“Yes. Andrew.”

“Gorgeous,” he said. “His use of color matches the drama of the Maine landscape to perfection.”

He helped her pull out a larger piece. Together, they unwrapped it to find a mostly white canvas, with gray lines running in geometric patterns.

“Richard Tuttle?” he guessed.

“Agnes Martin.”

“You have exquisite, if eclectic, taste.”

Hudson seemed as excited as she to see what treasure would next emerge from the shipping container. His comments stoked her own enthusiasm and she eagerly brought out another to show him. Each painting revealed another aspect of her soul, whether he realized it or not, and bound them together tighter than all of the secrets left unsaid.

Hudson stared at the charming oil still life of flowers and fruit as Eve finished unwrapping it. “I can see why you wanted all that security.”

She shoved a pile of bubble wrap and newspaper back in the crate and held the painting away from her. “Yes.”

“That’s from his later work,” Hudson said, much more casually than he felt. The artist was Paul Cézanne, the painting worth millions.

“It’s my favorite,” she said quietly.

As she placed it carefully next to the others, he rose, surveying the fortune in artwork that was lined up against the wall, wondering about their owner. This house was beautiful, modern, but not flashy or in a particularly expensive location. She had to be loaded to own a collection like this. He’d never speculated about her arrival in Chelsea, her casual spending of thousands to furnish her home in record time, to outfit it with the best security money could buy. His brother had been smiling for weeks with the boost having her as a client had brought his small company. Will had been talking about moving further into the high-end market, servicing the reclusive wealthy who lived scattered around the coast.

Maybe she was a dot com investor, or inherited a wad of dough from an elderly millionaire she’d married for the money. Maybe she was a bank robber. Did it matter?

Her silence when he’d told her not to lie to him led him to believe she’d acquired these pieces in a less than up and up way. That her past was unknown to him both excited him and made him worried for her. Why should he be afraid for a woman he barely knew? She brought out a protective side in him that he’d thought reserved for his nieces and sister.

Though there wasn’t anything else that was brotherly about the way he felt about her.

John rang the proverbial dinner gong and ushered them to the table. Hudson was glad for the distraction both from Eve and the mesmerizing pull of those priceless paintings.

Dinner was surprisingly delicious, with the two bottles of crisp Chardonnay accompanying the meal helping conversation flow easily between the three of them.

Though he’d been initially reserved, and, if he was honest with himself, a little jealous, he warmed up to John. The man was witty and kept the tone of the evening light.

Hudson was surprised when he asked questions bordering on the personal that Eve and John answered as if they had nothing to hide. Perhaps he was imagining things, and they were simply two old friends, one passing through town, the other starting over in a fresh place.

“So, how did you two meet?” John asked, between bites of pesto linguine.

Eve glanced at Hudson, an amused look in her eyes. “You’ll never believe this, but I locked myself out the very first day I got here. Hudson came to let me in.”

“A man of many talents,” John said.

 “Rather.”

Hudson cleared his throat as a blush swept over Eve’s cheeks, reminding him of every wicked thing he wanted to do to her. “My brother’s a locksmith, I was covering for him,” he said. “So how far back do you two go?”

“Oh, donkey’s years,” John said.

“I don’t want to think about how long, it will make me feel old,” Eve said.

“School chums?” Hudson asked.

“No. I met John though his father. He introduced us and we hit it off as friends, did some traveling together.”

“Oh? Whereabouts?”

“Mostly southern Europe. There was one trip to Moscow,” John said.

“And Morocco.”

“Oh, yes, Casablanca. Believe me, it’s not as romantic as it sounds.”

“As I recall, you were dating that stuck up girl and she thought the perfectly nice hotel we were staying at was as bad as a backpacker’s hostel.”

“She left after one night, accusing me of forcing her to rough it,” John said, rolling his eyes. “We were at a three star hotel!”

Hudson and Eve laughed. “Sounds like fun,” he said. “I’ve never been to North Africa. I spent about a year traveling around Europe with a buddy of mine after my first big show. The sophomore slump loomed large in my mind, so I decided to get away for a while.”

John seemed eager to latch on to the topic of Hudson’s career. “Tell us more about yourself, Hudson. It’s not every day that one shares dinner with a world famous painter.”

Outside of his family and a handful of suppers at Rue’s place down the hill, he wasn’t accustomed to sharing dinner with anyone. In the past couple of years, he’d taken the reclusive artist bit to heart. Easier to pretend he was an eccentric than admit to grief, guilt, and being a has-been. It felt good to be among friends—well, he could stretch and call them that—eating something more interesting than diner food.

“I grew up in Chelsea, escaped as quickly as I could to San Francisco, spent some time in New York, and came back a couple of years ago when my sister passed away and my parents moved to Paso Robles.”

“I’m sorry,” Eve said softly. “She must have been young.”

Hudson hesitated. He’d surprised himself by mentioning Stephanie at all. Eve’s face showed sincere sympathy that made him wish he were alone with her. Maybe he could tell her the entire story. Maybe she’d understand. Or maybe she’d regret ever trying to get to know him better.

“She was thirty. She had a fast moving type of cancer. I had always planned to move back to Chelsea, and my brother and his wife live here with their three kids. I like to play the doting uncle.”

“You find you like the peace and quiet?” John asked, as if the concept left a bad taste in his mouth.

Hudson laughed. “I do.”

“You should try it sometime, John. It’s very refreshing,” Eve said.

“I give it six months, tops. Our Evie’s a city girl at heart.”

“I’m trying something new,” she said tightly. “And I like it. Really.”

The men burst out laughing at her protestations.

John hung back in the kitchen when Hudson made his move to go.

“A pleasure, Hudson,” he said formally. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.” Then he winked at Eve, making her roll her eyes.

Hudson laughed, and allowed Eve to lead him out of the room toward the front door. She stepped out with him onto the narrow front porch, shutting the door behind her. The night was black as pitch, but so clear they could see stars like so much confetti at Times Square on New Year’s. The salt-flavored air was chilly, and she rubbed her bare arms.

He reached out, to warm her, perhaps to give in to the desire he’d had all night to hold her, but she stepped back.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to get closer,” she said.

He had been looking at her face, smelling her, hearing her laugh all night, and he was at the end of his short leash of self-control. On some primitive level of his cognition, she was right. Touching her wasn’t a good idea at all. It would lead them both down a path they would rather not be on.

The war raging in him caused his frustration, his impatience, his sheer lust to rise to the surface, and he almost growled as he disregarded her words and crushed her to him, covering her mouth with his, increasing his grip with blatant satisfaction when she instantly melted into him, opening her mouth readily to his, belying all her careful protestations.

They fused together, time and place and words all falling away, blood and heat and unadulterated passion rising up. His hands were in that gorgeous mass of hair, his mouth wanted to be everywhere. She pressed herself to him as desperately, filling his male need to be wanted, to be needed.

If there hadn’t been a curious Englishman inside the house, Hudson would have pulled her back in, dragged her up those stairs, and taken everything he wanted. They might not even make it up the stairs. He’d have her anywhere, take her everywhere. As he pictured her delicate body naked under his, she stepped away. He couldn’t fulfill this promise to himself until she wanted it as much as he.