Читать книгу His Seductive Revenge - Susan Crosby, Susan Crosby - Страница 9

One

“There’s something wonderfully visceral about his work, don’t you think?” Cristina Chandler pressed her wineglass to her lips as she tried to understand her intense reaction to the painting in front of her. The Galeria Secreto teemed with people, but the voices were hushed and the laughter low, almost seductive, as if the tone had been established by the display they were all there to see—the newest De La Hoya creations.

What incredible work it was. Big canvas, broad strokes, bold colors, seething with passion. She couldn’t recall ever viewing a nude painted with such fire, such blatant sexuality, and yet it was tasteful enough to hang in a living room, although it certainly belonged in the privacy of someone’s bedroom.

“Makes you wonder if the artist fooled around with her,” Jen Wilding said under her breath. “I mean, look at her face. If that isn’t a well-satisfied woman, I don’t know what is.”

Cristina slid her glass across her lips again. “I don’t know that she’s satisfied. Not yet. I think she’s been thoroughly aroused, and satisfaction is just moments away.”

“And your father has commissioned your portrait from this De La Hoya person? Has he ever seen this guy’s work? Does he know you’d have to spend time alone with him?”

A picture started to form in Cristina’s mind as she imagined what Alejandro De La Hoya looked like. Dark, undoubtedly. Latin. With intense eyes that looked deep inside a person and drew out their fantasies. A man who would see through lies and insecurities to what was real. A man for whom a woman would gladly strip herself bare and not feel the least bit shy. Or hesitant. Or humiliated.

Jen whimpered. Cristina smiled at her friend.

“God, Cris, I’m getting hot just thinking about taking that woman’s place.” Jen drained her wineglass and set it on the tray of a passing waiter, grabbing a full one with the other hand in a practiced move. “It’s been weeks since I tangled under the sheets with anyone.”

Weeks? Cristina thought as they moved on. I should be so lucky. “What if De La Hoya is eighty years old and has a wart on his nose?”

“I’d shut my eyes. Any man who could make me feel like that woman obviously does—But if he looked like that I’d be ecstatic,” Jen said as she stopped at the next painting.

Cristina glanced at the program in her hand, looking for the title of the portrait Jen was panting over. Sebastian. The name teased her memory, the reason just beyond her grasp, but perhaps only because it was an old-fashioned name for such a modern man. And yet it suited him. His long, black hair framed a solid face with fine, dark eyes and a hard mouth, the image of a lord from another land, another century—who wore jeans, a lumberjack shirt and boots. Definitely twentieth century stuff.

Jen sighed. “I’ll bet he’d have me shouting timber more than once a night.”

Cristina laughed. She was glad she’d come, after all. She’d almost ignored the out-of-the-blue, engraved invitation, probably would have, except that Jen refused to let her. Too many strange things had happened lately, and she needed an evening of pure fun.

“So, what’s the deal with this portrait your dad is arranging?” Jen asked. “I know that De La Hoya is all the rage, but isn’t he, like, superexpensive?”

“Not only expensive, but incredibly mysterious. No one ever sees him.”

“How is that possible?”

“The rumor is that he works behind some sort of curtain or two-way mirror. I don’t know the specifics. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Even if De La Hoya agrees, I’m not going to allow it. I don’t think Father can afford to spend that kind of money, even if it does complete the family gallery. Besides which, it just seems so pretentious.”

“That is often the point, I believe,” said a man from behind them, his voice as hushed and seductive as the environment demanded.

Cristina and Jen turned. He’d obviously been eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Pretension is the point?” Cristina asked. His eyes mesmerized her, their dark, glittering depths pulling her in, stopping her breath. Not quite civilized. The thought flashed in her mind, fizzled, then flared again even brighter when he moved a little closer. She watched his mouth as he spoke.

“Don’t you believe we buy art not only for how it makes us feel, but for how our friends will react?” he asked.

“No.” His lips looked soft and firm. She almost touched them. “Art is very personal to me,” she added.

He made the slightest shift in his stance, as if a soldier at attention had been ordered at ease. “Gabriel Marquez,” he said, extending his hand.

“Cristina Chandler.”

“And I’m Jen, the ignored one. I’m here, too. Although you two sure couldn’t tell it the last couple of minutes,” she grumbled. “I’m going to feed my noisy and empty stomach, Cris. Do you want anything?”

Cristina shook her head, taking an unobtrusive step back at the same time. He was crowding her space, and she needed breathing room. “I’m to assume that you have a collection of art you’ve bought merely to shock or pacify your friends?” she asked, then sipped her wine, giving herself a moment to admire him, from his almost black hair, on down his lean, broad-shouldered body. He wore a tuxedo comfortably, not looking as if he wished he were at home in sweats.

“Like you, art is personal to me, Miss Chandler. Although certainly some pieces have shocked my friends.” They wandered to the next painting. “This one, for example. What do you think of it?”

Unlike the other portraits, this piece had an almost photographic feel to it, the sepia tones warm but the image stark. A bridal gown lay jumbled on the floor beside the woman portrayed. Tulle from her veil wound around her feet. Otherwise she was nude, her arms drawn across her body in a classic pose to hide her womanliness, the bouquet she carried startling against her pale abdomen. Her eyes were downcast. A lone tear trailed her cheek.

The untitled painting bothered Cristina in ways she’d have to think about later. Her initial reaction was simple, however, and she offered it to the still, silent man beside her. “I think a bride should look more like the woman in the first portrait. This woman’s not in love.”

“My impression as well. It is De La Hoya’s newest work, I understand.”

“I wonder why he didn’t title it. It seems obvious to me... Sacrifice,” she said.

He angled his head toward her. She felt a heat from his gaze that seared her all the way through.

“Why do you call it that?” he asked.

“There’s something old-worldly about it. About all of De La Hoya’s work. In this one I see a woman of another century, one who didn’t choose her groom, but was chosen.”

“An obedient woman.”

“But only to a degree.” Cristina gestured at the painting with her wineglass. “It’s there, in her posture—that little bit of defiance. She may not have choices, but she still has freedom of thought.”

“And what will that gain her?”

The hushed intensity of his voice made her hesitate. Something about the man hypnotized. Enticed. Lured.

“Self-satisfaction, Mr. Marquez. No one can take her soul.”

“Unless she weakens.”

Cristina didn’t know what to make of him. He was a cool one. And intelligent. And still she sensed he was not quite civilized. Dangerous. Yes, the word suited him. Temptingly dangerous, unlike any other man she’d known.

“What a strange conversation,” she said, forcing a smile. “How did we even start it?”

“Because I watched you—”

Sparks ignited in her body as she waited for him to finish the sentence. Why in the world was a man like him interested in her? She couldn’t fathom why he had picked her out of the crowd.

“I watched the way you studied the work,” he said finally. “You have a critical eye. A discerning one. Your friend, for example, reacted emotionally to the paintings.”

“So did I.”

“Yes. But you study why it affects you. You have an artist’s heart.”

It wasn’t a line. She didn’t know why she knew that, but she was sure of it. Another man might have used the same words, and she would have scoffed at them—and walked away. This wasn’t a man given to idle flattery.

Still, why had he singled her out? She usually attracted the intellectual types, or the needy ones. Not intense, attractive, dangerous men who made her wish she was a different kind of woman altogether. A prettier woman. A sexier woman.

No, men weren’t drawn to her because their hormones jumped when they were around her. They were drawn to her because—

“Look who I found!”

Jen’s cheerful announcement seemed an abomination in the rarefied air of the Galeria Secreto. To make matters worse, Jen had Jason Grimes in tow. Jason, who had become her shadow. Jason, who had suddenly become her father’s favorite topic of conversation. She suspected she knew the reason why, but she intended to ignore it for as long as possible.

“If you’d told me you were coming tonight, Cris, I would have escorted you,” Jason said.

If I’d wanted to be escorted, I would have called you, Cristina thought, too polite to say the words in public. Especially not with him standing there, listening, watching. “I didn’t think you cared much about art,” she said before introducing the men.

“If you will excuse me.” Gabriel Marquez nodded his apologies, then left.

Cristina tried not to watch him go. Genuinely tried. But the pull was magnetic, and she didn’t seem to have any control over it.

“Who was that?” Jason asked.

“I’ve never met him before. We were discussing the portraits.”

Jason looked around. “Some good stuff here. Sexy.”

There was a difference between sexy and sexual, but she knew Jason wouldn’t be interested in discussing nuance and subtlety when all he saw was a nude female body. She looked past him. Mr. Marquez stopped to talk with an elegant middle-aged woman. He held her hand; his thumb brushed her skin. Goose bumps rose on Cristina’s flesh. Warmth spiraled in her hand.

The woman smiled at him, then pouted, then flirted, using her eyes like invitations. Oh, please don’t let me have looked at him like that, Cristina prayed.

Gabe watched her with Jason Grimes. He’d detected no sign of recognition from Grimes at their introduction, had seen nothing in the younger man’s aristocratic features except jealousy, then dismissal. If Grimes happened to mention meeting Gabe to his father, the repercussions could be fascinating, indeed. He almost wished for it to happen.

Sipping a scotch and water, he shifted his gaze to observe the woman, not particularly pleased with her familiarity with Grimes, who angled close to her as they discussed a painting.

She was much different from what he’d anticipated from the photo, which obviously hadn’t been taken recently. For one thing, she’d gained weight. And not just a few pounds. She looked softer, more approachable, less brittle, not the cool, sleek woman of privilege he’d expected. More than that, there was a lushness to her that made him think of rumpled sheets and a morning sun—which made his task not only easier but something he looked forward to.

Her generous curves were clothed in a sapphire blue dress that was simple and elegant, and perfect for her—high-necked and sleeveless, fitted at the waist, hugging her hips. Her hair shimmered like fire, a shade somewhere between gold and red, and had the slightest curl to the thick fullness that fell over her shoulders. Her eyes were blue, as he’d guessed, but flecked with gold and...innocence.

Innocence held no appeal for him, either in body or spirit.

He would have the gallery manager, Raymond, photograph her tonight, unobtrusively, from several angles.

He started to take another sip, then stopped, the glass an inch from his lips as he considered everything he knew about her. The irony didn’t escape him—Cristina Chandler would be perfect for Sebastian.

Gabe toasted the air. Sorry, old friend. He swallowed the contents of the glass and grimaced, diverting his thoughts.

The secret to knowing who this woman was and how useful she might be was somehow connected to why she’d gained weight. Or perhaps when the earlier photo was taken she’d lost weight. Whichever had occurred, there was a reason, as well as a reason for why she’d moved out of the family home and into her own apartment in San Francisco. And why she could afford to do so when her father was in debt to his earlobes. All these issues should be addressed before he took the next step.

He focused on her once more as she examined another canvas, the most traditional portrait of the showing, and yet she seemed to see something beneath the surface, something that held her attention much longer than it had her friends’, who had both moved on. She pressed her wineglass to her lips, dragged it across them, touched the tip of her tongue just below the rim, like a lover’s caress.

She turned then and caught him staring. He didn’t look away. He knew how to court a woman, how to flatter, how to seduce. The only women he respected were the ones who turned him down. If that said something deplorable about him, so be it. Respect wasn’t necessary for a satisfactory liaison, not for the routinely brief duration of his relationships, anyway.

She looked away first. He went in search of Raymond.