Millionaires' Destinies(166)

When it came to business, Kathleen wasn’t especially patient. The art world was competitive and she’d learned early to go after what she wanted before someone else snapped it up.

Though Destiny had suggested prudence where Ben was concerned, Kathleen decided not to take any chances. If, by some fluke, word about his talent leaked out, she could be competing with a crowd for the chance to mount his first show, maybe even to represent his work. The fact that he intended to play hard-to-get simply made the game more interesting.

She was back out in the rolling hills of Middleburg by 7:00 a.m. on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Leaves on the trees were falling fast, but there were still plenty of hints of the gold, red and burnished-bronze colors of fall. On this surprisingly warm, sunny morning, horses had been turned out to pasture behind white fences. It was little wonder that Ben painted nature, when he lived in a setting this spectacular.

Kathleen was armed for the occasion. She had two extralarge lattes from Starbucks with her, along with cranberry scones she’d baked the night before when she couldn’t get to sleep for thinking about Ben and that stash of paintings his aunt had alluded to. She told herself those scones were not bribery, that she hadn’t taken Destiny’s advice about Ben’s sweet tooth to heart. Rather they were simply a peace offering for intruding on his Sunday morning.

She was waiting in her car with the motor running when Ben emerged from the house, wearing yet another pair of disreputable jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Unshaven, his hair shining but disheveled, he looked sexy as hell. All dressed up, he would be devastating.

But she wasn’t here because Ben sent her hormones into high gear. She was here because his talent gave her goose bumps. Sometimes it was hard to separate the two reactions, but in general she steered clear of artists in her personal life. Most were too self-absorbed, the emotional ride too bumpy. If that was her basic philosophy, avoiding the dark, brooding types was her hard-and-fast rule, learned by bitter experience. Ben Carlton was off-limits to her heart. Period.

Seemingly, though, her heart hadn’t quite gotten the message. It was doing little hops, skips and jumps at the sight of him.

She expected a quick dismissal and was prepared to argue. She wasn’t prepared for the hopeful gleam in his eye the instant he spotted the coffee.

“If one of those is for me, I will forgive you for showing up here uninvited,” he said, already reaching for a cup.

“If the coffee gets me inside your studio, what will these freshly baked scones get me?” She waved the bag under his nose.

“I’ll call off the guard dogs,” he said generously.

“There are no guard dogs,” she said.

“You didn’t see the sign posted at the gate?”

“I saw it. Your aunt told me it was for show.”

“No wonder people come parading in here whenever they feel like it,” he grumbled. “I’ll have to talk to her about giving away my security secrets.”

“Either that or go out and buy a rottweiler,” Kathleen suggested, taking the fact that he hadn’t actually sent her packing as an invitation to follow him into the studio, which had been converted from a barn.

The exterior of the old barn wasn’t much, just faded red paint on weathered boards, but inside was an artist’s paradise of natural light and space. The smell of oil paint and turpentine was faint, thanks to windows that had been left cracked open overnight. Ben moved methodically around the room to close them, then switched on a thermostat. Soon warm air was taking away the chill.

Kathleen had to stop herself from dumping everything in her hands and racing straight to the built-in racks that held literally hundreds of canvases. Instead, she bit back her impatience and set the bag of scones on the counter directly in front of Ben.

“All yours,” she told him.

Apparently he was the kind of man who believed in savoring pleasure. He opened the bag slowly, sniffed deeply, then sighed. “You actually baked these?”

“With my own two hands,” she confirmed.

“Is this something you do every Sunday, get a sudden urge to bake?”

“Actually this urge hit last night,” she told him.

“Let’s see if you’re any good at it,” he said as he retrieved one of the scones and broke off a bite. He put it in his mouth, then closed his eyes.

“Not bad,” he said eventually, then gave her a sly look. “This will get you five minutes to look around. Promise to leave the bagful and you can stay for ten.”

“There are a half-dozen scones in that bag. That ought to buy me a half hour at least,” she bargained.

Ben regarded her suspiciously. “Are you here just to satisfy your curiosity?”