Sinful Temptation (6 page)

“I’m assuming she’s qualified for a project this size…?” Marcus continued.

Tony shot her a questioning glance. “Are you qualified?”

Was she qualified? Screw him! “I have an MFA from Columbia.”

“She’s qualified,” Tony informed them. “Coop?”

Cooper stood a couple of paintings down from his brother, studying a canvas so hard she was tempted to offer him a magnifying glass. He waved a hand. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“I think that’s everything,” Tony said. “Do we have a deal?”

No. No, they did not have a deal. Things were moving much too quickly for her. What had happened to the quiet life she’d had a mere fifteen minutes ago? Why couldn’t she shake the feeling that nothing would ever be the same after this?

“I’m not sure I should trust you,” she blurted.

Tony stilled. “Let me make sure I understand what you’re saying. You think that I’m so wild about you that I manufactured a reason to work with you, coughed up a ridiculous amount of money and dragged my cousins down here to meet you, all with less than twenty-four hours’ notice? Is that right?”

This, naturally, made her feel like a narcissistic peacock, and her face flushed accordingly as she began the painful process of backtracking.

“Of course not. But I’m just not sure—”

“You know what?” Tony wheeled around and headed for the door, snapping his fingers and signaling for his cousins to follow. They did without a word, falling in line behind him. “This isn’t going to work out. Sorry we wasted your time. Have a nice day.”

Tony’s hand was on the knob when something came over her.

Screw it. Fear already owned far too big a chunk of her life. She wasn’t going to let it rob her of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, as well.

“Wait!” she called, the check pressed to her chest.

Tony paused but didn’t deign to face her again.

“When do I start?” she asked.

“Today’s Friday, so I think Monday is a good time. Have a bag packed so my driver can bring you out to the house tomorrow night. He’ll pick you up at three. Oh, and he’ll pick you up this afternoon for a visit to the auction house. You can get a feel for that mural, as well, but I want you to do the one at the house first.”

“Wait,
what?
” Her brain slipped and slid, having so much trouble keeping up that she felt like a three-year-old struggling to ice skate for the first time. “A bag—?”

Tony’s head came around, and the unmistakable gleam of triumph in his eyes made a hard lump of dread solidify in her stomach.

Another shoe was about to drop on her head—a big one.

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” he asked. “You’ll have to live on the estate for the duration of the project. Naturally.”

“Wait a minute,” she cried. “I didn’t agree to—”

Tony wasn’t listening. His attention had been irrevocably snagged by the new noise of nails clicking on the floor and jangling tags. Talia’s belly dropped as though an elevator had fallen out from beneath her.

Not now, God,
she prayed.
Not now.

But God was apparently working on bigger projects at the moment, and didn’t answer.

They all watched as a furry black-and-white paw batted open the door from the back room and Talia’s border collie appeared, although she should’ve been asleep in her crate and therefore invisible, at least until Tony and his entourage left.

Damn canine.

Tony stared, riveted, as the dog trotted over to Talia and sat. After a long moment, Tony’s gaze swung back to Talia, but it was sharper now. His gaze was knowing, as though he’d discovered that there was nothing she could hide from him that he wouldn’t root out and discover.

“Border collie, eh?” he murmured casually.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“What’s her name?”

Talia hesitated, feeling her carefully crafted life and lies beginning to crumble. “Chesley,” she told him.

Chapter 4

T
he Madison Avenue offices of Davies & Sons were, Talia discovered that afternoon, spectacular. The building was sleek and modern, a shimmering slab of gray glass rising above the surrounding buildings and pointing toward the sky. The minimalist atrium had a splashing fountain running down one wall, a huge spiral staircase that seemed to float up into the atmosphere, and boxy black furniture, each piece probably costing more that that check Tony had given her earlier.

The second she walked in and saw the bare wall beyond the receptionist’s desk, she knew that Tony was right. This office and her work were MFEA—made for each other.

The ideas began to spark, making her manic with excitement and slowing down her steps as she walked through the double glass doors and up to the desk.

Luckily, the receptionist was on her game. “Talia Adams?”

Talia tore her gaze from her wall—yes, it was her wall now, and she was going to make it spectacular—and smiled. “Yes. I’m here to see—”

“Mr. Davies. I’ll call him for you.” The woman pushed a button on her phone and spoke to Tony through her headset. “He’ll be right down,” she told Talia.

“Thanks.” Talia felt hot color rise up through her cheeks and wished she could tamp it down. Jeez. She was like a walking thermometer, shooting into the red zone every time Tony, or even the possibility of Tony, came up. How pathetic was that?

No wonder Tony accused her of sending mixed messages.

Hell, she was surprised he was hearing
Leave me alone
from her when her body was so full of
Take me, I’m yours.

Get a grip, girl,
she told herself sternly.
Focus on the mural.

Easier said than done, but she did try.

The space was so stark and open. She liked that. Uncluttered, with only the bare necessities. So the mural would have to be equally spare, but vivid, which meant yellows and oranges. They weren’t her favorite but maybe something like
Sol Splendor,
which she had, after all, painted for Tony, would be a good place to start. But she was also feeling a lot of green here, and that meant there was a lot of potential for—

“Talia,” said a male voice behind her. “You’re right on time.”

Wait a minute,
she thought, some of her excitement slipping.
That was the wrong voice.

Turning, she discovered that it was the wrong Mr. Davies striding toward her with his hand extended—Marcus, not Tony.

Disappointment gave her a strong kick in the gut, but she ignored it and glued her smile in place as they shook hands. Since there was no possibility of she and Tony getting together, she refused to entertain the idea that she was disappointed to miss him.

Tony wasn’t there to greet her? Good. So much the better.

“Good to see you again, Marcus. So this is the space, eh?”

“This is the space. What do you think?”

“I think I have a lot of ideas for this wall.”

He grinned. “I figured you would. So has anyone given you the nickel history lesson yet?”

She already knew a bit—well, a lot—about the family’s history, having checked Google before she came here, but she played dumb anyway in the hope of learning more.

“Nope. Hit me.”

“Well, my father and his brother, Tony’s father, founded the place fifty years ago. It wasn’t on Madison Avenue back then, though. It was just a small house that did a good job with estate sales and jewelry collections and the like. We got our big break when a couple of big movie stars sold off their art collections. The rest is history.”

He was being modest. “A couple of movie stars,” she knew from her research, meant the 1960s equivalent of Brad and Angelina. Still, she appreciated a little humility.

“And now you handle pretty much everything, right? Vintage cars, art, jewelry, wine, antiquities—”

“We hate to turn down a challenge. We’ve got departments and specialists who handle the auction end.”

“And you’re the president—”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to mislead you. It takes the three of us to keep this ship running. I oversee day-to-day operations, Coop is in development and public relations, and Tony’s going to replace our finance guy who retired last— Speak of the devil.”

The elevator doors slid open and Tony stepped out, briefcase in hand and a harried frown across his forehead. He’d been heading for the glass doors to the street, but upon seeing them, he veered and strode over.

There was no time to prepare. Talia’s skin experienced that slow sizzle of awareness that only Tony could cause.

The whole suit thing didn’t help. There was something about seeing him—again—in that charcoal suit with white shirt and red tie that really did a number on her equilibrium. Good thing she’d never seen him in his army dress uniform. She’d probably crash to the floor in a dead faint.

“Where are you off to?” Marcus asked him.

“Meeting.” He swung that brown crystal gaze around to her, kicking her heart rate up a couple of dizzying notches. “Do you like your wall, Talia?”

“I love it.” Typically, her enthusiasm for an exciting new project came through in her voice, making her sound like a cheerleader in the middle of a round of rah-rah-rahs. “I can’t wait to get started with the—”

Tony checked his watch.

Wow. Way to slash a woman’s ego down to size. Talia’s smile wobbled, but she somehow hung on to it. “I don’t mean to keep you.”

“Not at all,” Tony replied, but he was already on the move again, slipping through the glass doors without a backward glance at her and only a quick wave for Marcus. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Yeah,” she said lamely, fighting a ridiculous feeling of disappointment. “I’ll see you—”

Too late. At the curb now, Tony raised a hand, hailed a yellow taxi and zoomed down the street, out of her line of sight.

“Why don’t I give you a quick tour?” Marcus asked, gesturing her toward the elevator.

Talia stared after Tony.

“Talia?” The elevator dinged, and Marcus held it open for her. “Tour?”

“Sure,” she said, her face burning with something she didn’t want to identify.

The mansion was, in a word, unbelievable.

Really, Talia thought the following night, as the chauffeured town car rolled to a stop in front of Tony’s Hamptons estate, she should have been prepared for it. Having consulted Google for everything she could discover about the Davies family and seen several online pictures, she knew that the house was in the English country style, with a shingled roof, lots of dormer windows and a couple football fields’ worth of manicured land fronting the beach. She got all that. But getting it while seated in her own comfy home office in front of her computer screen, and getting it right here, right now, were two different things.

Part of the issue was that she’d never spent time in the Hamptons, that playground of the rich and famous, so she had little experience with this kind of property and wealth.

The bigger part of the issue was that she was still reeling from the unexpected turns her life had taken since Tony had shown up yesterday.

And of course, she’d be seeing him again in a minute.

A shiver of anticipation started deep inside her body and radiated out, skating across her skin.

Foolish,
she told herself. She was being foolish with a capital
F.

Not that there was anything she could do about it except ride it out.

A couple of deep breaths helped. By the time she’d gathered her purse and her courage, the driver was opening the door and holding out a hand for her, as though she’d be forever stuck in the car otherwise. Right. Because this was how rich folks rolled. So she accepted his silent help and climbed out, trying not to gape and stare.

She gaped and stared anyway.

The house had a circular drive, explosions of black-eyed Susans and manicured grass so green that it could have been ripped from a park in the Emerald City. There were also cobblestone paths, potted plants and mature trees providing shade at strategic intervals.

Talia had, in short, wandered into the pages of
Architectural Digest
magazine. If anything, she belonged in
Better Homes and Gardens.

So, yeah. She’d have to fake it for a while. She could do that.

Resisting the urge to help the driver retrieve her luggage from the trunk, she strode to the front door, infusing her steps with a confidence that she did not remotely feel. Her efforts to look graceful were further damaged when her heel caught on one of the cobblestones, making her stumble. Arms pinwheeling, she recovered just in time to see a wheelchair-bound man emerge from the shadows inside the front door.

A young guy, he had a short and dark buzz cut, a bulky chest, immense and tattooed arms, and legs that were missing below the knee.

He was stifling a grin at her expense.

There was nothing she could do except laugh at herself. “Yeah. My nickname is Grace.”

The guy’s grin widened, and she decided that she liked him. “It’ll be our little secret, sweet cakes,” he assured her.

“I appreciate that.” She extended her hand and it was immediately swallowed in his firm grip. “And I’m Talia Adams. Not sweet cakes.”

“Oh, I know who you are, sweet cakes. Never you fear. I’m Michael Bianchi. Call me Mickey. I know everything around here. Just don’t tell the boss that.”

She laughed again. “Well, since you know everything around here, you probably know that I’m here to repaint the mural.”

“Are you any good?”

“I’m the best,” she said, with a rare burst of bravado.

“Modest, too. Hey, what’s with that hair? Am I gonna need my sunglasses with you or what?”

She shrugged, smoothing the edges around her temple. “I like colors. I’m an artist. What’s with the tats?”

Mickey, who was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, had so many tattoos of varying colors running up and down his heavy arms that they might have been inked by Jackson Pollock. He didn’t seem to mind the teasing. “Touché. I hope I’m not going to have any problems with you.”

“I hope I don’t have to give you an attitude adjustment. By the way, where’s the accent from?”

“Where do you think?”

“I’m thinking somewhere in Jersey,” she told him. “Probably near the shore.”

“Ten points for the artist. Let’s get you inside. Show you around a little bit.”

With strong and efficient movements, he spun his chair around and led her through a foyer that was only slightly smaller than the lobby in Carnegie Hall. She saw a stately staircase, exquisite antiques and expensive rugs in every direction. It was, in short, one of those houses where an accidental twitch of the arm became thousands of dollars’ worth of damage.

Given her occasional clumsiness, this was going to be quite the challenge.

Mickey gestured down one half of the hallway. “The kitchen is through there. We’ve also got a study, a den—”

“Hang on. What’s the difference between a study and a den?”

“Lady, I’ve been trying to figure that out for years. The rich are different. Let’s just leave it at that. Out back is the pool and then beyond that is the beach—”

All very lovely and interesting, but there was only one thing on her mind right now. “Where’s the mural?”

“Upstairs. This way.”

He led her to an alcove under the stairs, where a tiny elevator was hidden. A minute later, they were up on the second level, and the doors were sliding open to reveal the most beautiful mural she’d ever seen.

She stepped out, gasping.

The mural stretched along the hallway opposite several enormous windows that let in every possible beam of sunlight. The view included a stretch of lawn leading to the pool, which, in turn, led to a path through the dunes and to the beach on the other side. She could only imagine how powerful the storm’s fury must have been to break these windows (they’d since been replaced) and damage the wall with water.

Even pockmarked and water stained, the mural was breathtaking, with vivid colors, meticulous strokes, and scenes that seemed to leap off the wall: Odysseus and the cyclops; Odysseus and the Sirens; Odysseus caught between Scylla and Charybdis.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed.

“You got your work cut out for you, don’t you?” Mickey asked cheerfully. “I hope you’re up for the job.”

More bravado kicked in, which was good because she had the feeling Mickey would eat her alive if she showed any signs of weakness. “Of course I’m up for the job.”

He raised one brow. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m sure about that. So you can stop busting my chops.”

He chuckled. “Well, what can I do you for? Do you want to get settled? Unpack?”

“I want to get started.”

“Yeah, but—”

She stepped up to the wall, smoothing her hand over Odysseus’s face, ideas flowing through her the way they always did at the beginning of a project.