Treasured (9 page)

“They weren’t half-bad, given they were done by a kid,” Ben said thoughtfully.

Kathleen wished she’d had a chance to see his early work. She couldn’t help wondering if the promise had been there even back then. “I suppose they’re long since painted over.”

Destiny gave her a smug look. “Not exactly.”

Clearly startled, Ben stared at her. “What on earth do you mean? Those paintings are long gone. I slept in that room last night and the walls are plain white.”

“
Those
walls are,” Destiny agreed.

Ben’s gaze narrowed. “Meaning?”

“Oh, stop scowling at me like that. It’s nothing dire. Rather than painting, I had a contractor come in and replace the wallboard. The original panels are stored in the basement.”

“You’re kidding me,” Ben said. “Why would you do something like that?”

“Because I’ve always known you’d be famous someday, and I know how early paintings can add to a gallery’s retrospective of an artist’s work,” she said without apology.

“Could I see them?” Kathleen pleaded.

Destiny glanced at Ben. “It’s up to you.”

He feigned shock. “Really?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Destiny scolded. “It is your work.”

Ben faced Kathleen. “I’ll make you a deal. When
we take Destiny home, I’ll go down and have a look. If they’re not too awful, you can see them.”

Kathleen was beginning to lose track of all the bets and deals they’d made, but this one was definitely too good to pass up.

“Deal,” she said eagerly. “Who gets to decide if they’re awful?”

“I do,” he said at once.

“I want an independent appraisal,” she countered. “Destiny, will you do it?”

“Happily,” Destiny said at once. “Though I can already tell you the outcome. The paintings are quite wonderful. If they hadn’t been, I would have destroyed them to protect his reputation.”

“Oh, yes, you’re definitely independent,” Ben retorted. “I don’t think so. If it were up to you, I might as well just let Kathleen head over there now.”

Kathleen held out her hand. “That’s okay by me. Let me borrow the key.”

“You can wait a couple of hours,” he told her, his gaze clashing with hers, then filling with sparks of genuine amusement.

“Besides,” he added lightly. “The anticipation will be good for you.”

Kathleen had a hunch he was no longer talking just about the wait to see those wall panels. The sexual tension simmering between them was its own sweet torment. She had a feeling once that was unleashed, neither of their lives would ever be the same.

Ben was still shocked that Destiny had gone to such lengths to save the murals he’d done years ago in his bedroom. He considered it a crazy, sentimental act, even if she thought she was merely showing amazing
foresight. He couldn’t help feeling a certain amount of pride and anticipation, though. It had been years since he’d even thought of those early paintings. Getting the chance to see them again was an unexpected treat.

Still, he hesitated at the top of the steps to the basement. Kathleen was right on his heels, since they’d all conceded that Destiny was going to overrule any objections he might formulate to letting Kathleen see the wall panels.

“If you’re not going to walk down those stairs, get out of my way,” she told him impatiently.

“Don’t rush me.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid,” he retorted sharply.

“Then why are we still up here?”

“Because there’s this nagging art expert dogging every step I take. These paintings could be awful,” he said. “I’m not sure I want to expose them to your critical eye.”

“You agreed,” she reminded him.

“In a moment of weakness.”

Kathleen tucked a hand under his elbow and dragged him back into the kitchen. She gazed at him with disconcerting intensity.

“Are you really worried that I’ll criticize them? Or are you more worried about your own reaction? Believe me, I know what it’s like to realize that your own art doesn’t measure up.”

He regarded her with surprise. “You do?”

“Why do you think I’m running a gallery rather than painting myself? Once I realized that nothing I put on canvas would ever be good enough, it was either choose another field of work entirely or choose to live on the fringes of the one I loved.”

Ben wasn’t sure which part of that to tackle first. “Sweetheart, you’re not on the fringes. You’re right in the thick of things. Your gallery has quite a reputation for discovering new artists.”

Astonishment lit her eyes. “How do you know that? Did Destiny tell you?”

He laughed. “I can use the Internet. I’ve poked around a bit to look at the articles that have been written about your shows.”

“Why?”

“Call it curiosity.”

“About me? Or about whether I could be trusted to adequately represent your work?”

“About you,” he admitted. “The other is a non-issue.”

“It won’t be forever,” she retorted, then tilted her head and studied him. “So, did you discover anything about me reading those articles?”

“That you have an excellent eye for talent, that you’re a savvy businesswoman and that you’re very mysterious about your personal life.”

She laughed. “That’s because I don’t have one.”

Ben wondered if that was the opening he’d been waiting for. He decided to seize it. “You did, though.”

She frowned at him. “Nothing worth talking about,” she said tightly. “Are we going downstairs or not?”

“In a minute,” he said. “As soon as you tell me why you don’t like to talk about your marriage.”

“I don’t talk about it because it’s over and it no longer matters.”

The words were smooth enough, but the turmoil in her eyes was unmistakable.

“You don’t want it to matter,” he corrected. “But it obviously shapes the way you live your life.”

“Just the way your past shapes yours?” she replied heatedly.

“I’ll admit that,” he said at once. “Losing my parents and then Graciela had an impact on me, no question about it. I don’t want to go through that kind of pain again, so I don’t let anyone get too close.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Until you. You’re sneaking past all my defenses, Kathleen. I’m not sure yet what the hell to do about that.”

She looked shaken by that, so he pressed on. “Now’s the time to speak up, if you’re going to keep the door locked tight against anything more happening between us. I don’t intend to be hanging out here on this limb all alone.”

“I don’t know,” she admitted shakily. “I don’t know if I can open that door again or not.”

“Because your ex-husband hurt you so badly?”

“He never hurt me,” she said just a little too fiercely. “Not like that.”

Ben stared at her, stunned. He doubted she realized that her reaction suggested exactly the opposite of her words.

“Kathleen?” he said gently, feeling an impotent rage stirring inside him. “Did he abuse you?”

Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “Not the way you mean,” she said eventually. “He never hit me.”

“But he did abuse you?”

“With words,” she said as if that were somehow less demeaning, less hurtful. “He had this nasty temper and when it got out of hand, he could be cruel.”

“Is he the one who told you your art was worthless?” Ben asked.

She hesitated for so long that Ben knew he was right.
The son of a bitch had destroyed her confidence in her own talent, probably because his own ego was incapable of handling the competition. Only an artist would know how easy it would be to shatter another artist’s confidence, would know precisely how a cutting criticism could destroy any enjoyment.

“He did, didn’t he? He’s the one who told you that you weren’t any good, and you gave up painting because of that.”

“No,” she said miserably. “I gave it up because I was no good.”

He studied her with compassion. “Maybe instead of you pestering me to see my work, I should be insisting on seeing yours.”

She laughed, the sound tinged with bitterness. “No chance of that. I destroyed it all.”

“Oh, sweetheart, why would you do that?”

“I told you,” she said impatiently. “I recognize talent when I see it. I had none.”

“But you enjoyed painting?”

“Yes.”

“Then isn’t that alone reason enough to do it?” he asked. “Isn’t the pleasure of putting paint on canvas all that really matters?”

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?”

He laughed at her. “Okay, it’s a convenient response from my point of view, but it’s true. Not everything has to be about making money or doing shows or garnering critical acclaim.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re rich. You can afford to indulge in something that might not be profitable. I can’t.”

“And you don’t regret for one single second that you no longer paint?” he challenged. “There’s not a
part of you that gets a little crazy at the sight of a blank canvas and a tube of paint? Some secret part of you that looks at another artist’s canvas and thinks that you could have done it better?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, not denying that she had regrets.

“Of course it does.”

She brushed impatiently at the tears on her cheeks. “How on earth did we get off on this tangent?” she demanded, standing up. “I want to see those panels downstairs and then I need to be going.”

Ben knew that anything he said now would be a waste of breath, but his determination to give Kathleen back her love of painting grew. He would find some way to accomplish that, no matter what else happened—or didn’t happen—between them.

T
he wall panels in the basement were remarkable. Kathleen stood staring at them, astonished by the brilliance of the colors and the extraordinary detail. As the painting in Ben’s dining room had done, these drew the viewer right into the scene, an especially astonishing feat given that the artist was so young at the time he’d painted them.

Oh, sure, the work wasn’t as expert as that which had come later, but the signs of promise were unmistakable. In the kind of retrospective Destiny had envisioned when she’d saved them, they would be a treasure.

“Tell me again,” Kathleen said. “How old were you when you painted these?”

“Twelve, I guess,” he said with an embarrassed shrug. “Maybe thirteen. I did them when it became evident that I wasn’t going to be the athletic superstar
that Mack was. That made all the sports equipment Destiny had painted on the walls seem somewhat misplaced. Besides I loved the zoo and all the animal shows on TV. I wanted nothing more than to go on a safari.”

“Have you ever gone?”

He nodded. “Destiny took me when I got straight A’s in eighth grade.”

“Was it everything you’d imagined?”

“Even better,” he said at once. “But I like the tamer setting where I live now even more. One is exciting and vibrant, the colors vivid, but I like the pastel serenity of the world around me. It’s more soothing to the soul. No fear of getting gobbled up by a lion where I live.”

Kathleen gazed into his eyes and detected the hint of humor. “It shows in your work, you know. These are quite amazing, especially given the age you were when you painted them, but your more recent work has soul. There’s an obvious connection between artist and subject.”

“You know that from seeing one painting?”

She laughed at his skepticism. “I am an expert, remember?”

“How could I forget?”

He surveyed her intently, warming her. A part of her wanted desperately to respond to that heat, to the promise of the kind of intimacy she’d never really known, not even in her marriage, but fear held her back. Ben had already cut through so many of her defenses. She intended to cling ferociously to those that were left. She finally blinked and looked away from that penetrating gaze.

“I should go now,” she said, unhappy with the way her voice shook when she said it.

“Seen what you came to see, so now you’re ready to run?” he taunted. “Or are you running scared?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she insisted. “It’s time to go.”

For an instant she thought he might argue, but he finally nodded. “I’ll take you, then.”

Kathleen was silent on the brief trip home. She was grateful to Ben for not pushing. It had been an emotional day for her, not just with the probing questions about her marriage, but with the tantalizing intimacy she’d experienced decorating the nursery. She wanted to get home and sort through all of the emotions. She couldn’t help wondering if that would help or hurt. Were there any that she could trust?

At her door, Ben gazed into her eyes. “It was a good day, wasn’t it?”

Unable to deny it, she nodded. “A very good day.”

“We’ll have to do it again.”

“You have more nurseries that need decorating?” she asked, deliberately flippant because the prospect held so much appeal.

He stroked her cheek, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “No, but I think we can find other things to do.”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should get this back on a more professional footing.”

“Meaning you chase after my art and I keep saying no?”

She smiled sadly. “Something like that.”

His fingers still warm against her face, he traced a line along her jaw. Her pulse jerked and raced at the tender touch. His gaze held hers.

“I think we’re past that, don’t you?” he asked.

“We can’t be,” she said emphatically.

He covered her mouth with his, ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. Her pulse scrambled, proving that she was a liar, or at the very least denying the truth. To her relief, though, there was no satisfaction in his expression when he pulled back, just acceptance, which was something she wished she could attain. It would be so much easier if she could go with the flow, if all that past history hadn’t made her jumpy about all relationships, much less one with an artist who had his own demons to fight.

“Ben,” she began, then fell silent, uncertain what she could say that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. Denying the attraction certainly wouldn’t be believable. They both knew it was there, simmering and on the way to a boil.

And if she were being totally honest, it was also inevitable that they would do something about it. The only real question was when…and maybe how much risk it would be and how much pride it would cost her.

“Never mind,” he said, apparently reading her confusion. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. I can wait till you catch up to where I am.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You will,” he said confidently.

“Arrogance is not an attractive trait.”

“Don’t all artists have to have a little arrogance just to survive?” he taunted.

“But you say you’re not an artist,” she reminded him, regaining her equilibrium. “And for the moment, I have no real proof to the contrary.”

He laughed. “But you seem so certain, Ms. Expert.”

She shrugged. “I’ve been known to be wrong.”

“When?”

“That’s not something I like to spread around.” She
gave him a thoughtful look. “Perhaps if I were to see a few more paintings, I could be sure.”

“Nice try,” he told her, laughter dancing in his eyes. “You’ll have to be a bit more persuasive than that, though. I still don’t know what’s in it for me.”

Kathleen fell in with his lighthearted mood, because it got her out of the far more dangerous territory they’d been in only moments before. “I’ll give that some thought,” she promised. “Since money and fame don’t seem to matter to you, I’m sure I can come up with something else.”

“I can think of one thing,” he said.

He made the claim in a suggestive way that threw them right back into the same dangerous fires she was so sure they’d just escaped.

“Something other than that,” she said, ignoring the eager racing of her heart.

He laughed. “Too bad. If you come up with something—I doubt it could be better—keep me posted.”

“You’ll know the minute I do,” she assured him, an idea already taking shape in her mind, something that would render him incapable of forgetting about her for a single second without putting her own flagging defenses to the test.

Already lost in her planning, she gave him a distracted kiss. “Good night, Ben.”

Before he could recover from his apparent surprise, she stepped inside and shut the door in his face.

The doorbell rang almost immediately. Fighting a smile, she opened it.

“Forget anything?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Sure you did,” he said, stepping into the house and dragging her into his arms.

He kissed her till her head spun, then walked back outside and closed the door behind him.

Kathleen stared at the door and touched a finger to her still-burning lips. There was no escaping the fact that this latest round had gone to him. She wasn’t sure whether to start plotting a way to get even or to run for her life.

Ben was getting far too much enjoyment out of rattling Kathleen. He was forgetting all about protecting himself. He needed to lock himself in his studio and get back to work. It was the most effective way he knew to block out the world.

And up until a few days ago, it had been more than enough for him. He hadn’t craved anyone’s company, hadn’t yearned for any woman’s kisses. Maybe he could get that back again.

Not likely, he concluded a few hours later when Kathleen breezed in with a bag of freshly baked banana nut muffins and a large latte. She was like a little whirlwind that touched down, left a bit of collateral damage and was gone an instant later. He stared out the door of his studio after she’d gone, fighting the oddest sensation that he’d imagined the entire visit.

But the coffee and muffins were real enough. So was the edgy state of arousal in which he found himself.

“Well, hell,” he muttered and tried to go back to work.

Inspiration eluded him. All he could think about was the faint scent of Kathleen that lingered in the air.

She did the same thing the next day, this time leaving him with an entire blueberry pie and a container of whipped cream. His vivid imagination came up with a
lot of very provocative uses for that whipped cream that had nothing at all to do with the pie.

By the weekend he was the one who was rattled, which was exactly what she’d obviously intended. He was also vaguely bemused by the fact that not once had she lingered in his studio or attempted to sneak a peek at his paintings. She’d come and gone in a heartbeat. In fact, one day she’d paid her mysterious visit even before he got to the studio. He found raspberry tarts and another latte on the doorstep, as if to prove that she hadn’t even attempted to take advantage of his absence to slip inside the unlocked studio for a look around.

Ben sat in front of his easel, munching on a tart and considered not the painting he was working on, but Kathleen and these little sneak attacks designed to get under his skin without putting her own very delectable skin at risk. He couldn’t help wondering if the baked goods were meant as bribes or simply as taunting reminders of her. He suspected she intended the former, while the effect was most definitely the latter.

Since he wasn’t accomplishing a blasted thing, he stalked back inside, picked up the phone and punched in a familiar number. Two could play at this game.

“Studio Supplies,” Mitchell Gaylord said.

“Mitch, it’s Ben Carlton.”

“How are you? You can’t possibly be out of supplies. I just sent a shipment out there a few weeks ago.”

“This isn’t for me,” Ben said. “Here’s what I need.”

Ten minutes later he hung up and sat back, satisfied. “That ought to get her attention.”

Kathleen was feeling very smug about her little forays to the country. Maybe it was ridiculous to drive all that way just to torment Ben with coffee and a few pastries, but she had a feeling it would pay off eventually. He’d feel so guilty—or get so annoyed—he’d have to let her poke around among his paintings just to get rid of her and restore his much-desired serenity.

She was in the back of her shop planning the Christmas decorations, which needed to be up by the first of the week, when the bell over the front door rang. She went out expecting to find some browser who’d come inside primarily to get out of the cold. She rarely got serious customers this early in the day.

Instead, she found a delivery man.

“You Kathleen Dugan?” he asked, looking from her to his clipboard and back again.

“Yes, but I’m not expecting anything.”

“Hey, Christmas is coming. ’Tis the season of surprises.” He handed her the clipboard. “Sign here and I’ll be right back.”

Kathleen signed the page and waited for his return, feeling an odd sense of anticipation, the kind she vaguely recalled feeling as a very small child at Christmas, before things with her mother and father had gone so terribly wrong.

When the deliveryman walked back inside, her mouth gaped. He was pushing a cart laden with what looked like an entire art store. There was an easel there, a stack of canvases, a huge wooden box that could only contain paints, a ceramic holder filled with brushes. Everything was premium quality, meant for the professional artist.

“This can’t possibly be for me,” she said, but she knew it was. She also knew who had sent it. This was
Ben’s retaliation for her little hit-and-run visits to the farm.

The delivery man stood patiently waiting.

“What?” she asked, half-frozen by a mix of anticipation, annoyance and something she could only identify as fear.

“Do you want this in the middle of the floor or somewhere else?” he asked patiently.

In the basement, she thought, locked away where it couldn’t torment her. Aloud, she said, “In the back room, I suppose. Just pile it up anywhere.”

When he emerged a moment later, he had a card in his hand. “This came with it. Happy holidays, Ms. Dugan.”

She accepted the card, then dropped it, her nerves jittery. She managed to get a tip for the man from the cash register, then continued to stare at the card long after he’d gone.

Just then the phone rang.

“Yes,” she said, distracted.

“Is it there yet?” Ben asked bluntly.

“You!” she said, every one of her very raw emotions in her voice.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Have you read the card?”

“No.”

“Call me back when you have,” he said, then hung up in her ear.

She stared at the phone, not sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Instead of doing either one, she dutifully opened the card.

“For every canvas you complete and show me, I’ll show you one of mine,” he’d written.

Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. She
hadn’t thought it possible, but Ben had managed to find the one thing on earth that could get her to back off.

When Ben still hadn’t heard back from Kathleen by late afternoon, he heaved a resigned sigh, climbed into his car and faced the daunting rush-hour traffic to head to Alexandria. Apparently his gift hadn’t gone over the way he’d anticipated.

Or maybe it had. He’d meant to shake her up, though, not infuriate her. Judging from her lack of response, he worried he’d done both.

He wasn’t entirely sure what was driving him to head over there and find out. It could be intense curiosity, or maybe a death wish.

He found the gallery already closed by the time he arrived. The window shade in the door was drawn, but he could still see lights in the back of the shop, which suggested that Kathleen was still on the premises.

As he had once before, he banged on the door and kept right on banging until there was some sign of movement inside.

He heard the tap of her footsteps coming toward the door, saw her approaching shadow on the other side of the shade, but the door didn’t immediately swing open.