Chapter 31
J.T. couldn’t believe he was hauling a priceless painting across town without an iota of security.
To his mind, Hargreaves didn’t count—even though Aunt Clara had said he was proficient in the martial arts. The man was ancient, for Christ’s sake. A good wind would likely blow him over.
“Hargreaves,” his aunt said from the back of the limo, “if it snows, we’ll need to find another form of transportation.”
Heaven save him, the man also doubled as a chauffeur. “Yes, Aunt, a limo isn’t really practical in winter.” Or in a small town like Dare Valley, he wanted to add. This wasn’t Manhattan.
“Don’t be a fuddy duddy, dear. You should have seen the look on Arthur Hale’s face when I showed up on his doorstep last night and had my way.”
He wanted to plug his ears. Had she phrased it that way on purpose? God, the images. “Yes, I can imagine his surprise. Aunt Clara, you really must let me store this painting somewhere safer. Trevor has a safe—”
“Safer than under my bed at Arthur Hale’s house? Julian Thomas, there is no safer place on earth. Trust me.”
Under her bed? She had to be kidding. Except he knew she wasn’t. If it weren’t for this comic distraction, he’d be fretting more over where things stood with Caroline. Even thinking about seeing her this morning had his gut clenching. He’d asked her if she wanted to ride to the university with them in the limo, but she’d insisted on meeting them there. It felt like she was avoiding him, and he couldn’t blame her. His apology hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped even though he’d rehearsed it in his car.
He’d hoped to reassure her—instead, she’d hammered through his thick skull how important this museum was to her and her career. She was right. He had something to fall back on and a bank account to pad his way. Part of him had wanted to say she had that same safety net—that what was his was also hers—but it hadn’t been the time. The last thing he wanted to do was insult her.
“You’re in a mood this morning, aren’t you?” Aunt Clara commented, slapping him on the thigh. “You and Caroline didn’t kiss and make up, I gather.”
Not even close. His glancing kiss on her cheek had left him frustrated and sad, but he’d thought it best not to push her. She hadn’t wanted him to be there last night. Hadn’t he seen her fiddling with the three tea boxes in the cabinet to avoid looking at him?
“That’s none of your business, Aunt,” he said. “Now I’d like to talk about the press conference for the Rembrandt.”
“Evasion is a coward’s tool, Julian,” she said.
“Will you please not call me that?” he asked.
She turned her head and studied him. “The coward part or your given name?”
Both pretty much sucked. “Let’s focus on the latter right now.”
“Why ever not? It’s your name, isn’t it?”
“My ex-wife called me that, and it leaves—”
“A sour taste in your mouth,” she said, playing with the diamonds at her wrist. “Fine, I’ll call you by those appalling two letters then. You know, punctuating them with a couple of periods doesn’t make them anything more than a couple of letters in the alphabet.”
He was going to bash his head against the window if she kept it up. “Aunt, about the press conference… We need to come up with a story about why the Rembrandt remained hidden for so long.”
She cackled so hard she fell back against the seat of the limo. “You mean, you don’t want to tell them I was protecting it from my dead husband’s money-grubbing hands? Oh, J.T., give me more respect. I know we’ll need to come up with something better than, ‘I forgot I had it.’”
“Maybe we can discuss it after the photo shoot.”
“Photo shoot,” she scoffed. “If Caroline hadn’t felt it necessary, I would have vetoed it. It’s a painting. Not some skinny model showcasing a bikini.”
He fought for patience. “People all around the world—including the art community—are going to want to see this painting, Aunt. Until the museum opens, this is the best we can give them.”
“Other than displaying it at the press conference, I expect,” she said. “You can hire security for that event, J.T. A public event calls for a different approach. Hargreaves can stop a few banditos but not an entire audience.”
“Thank you, madam,” the man said from his position in the driver’s seat.
Banditos? He should be grateful for small favors, he supposed.
“Do you have any thoughts on where you’d like to hold the press conference?” she asked.
He smiled. “Oh, yes. I called President Matthau last night after the press release went out to ask for his help in hosting what should be a global media event.”
“A global media event? Speak English, boy.”
He struggled for patience. It was technically her painting. Trevor had wanted him to ask her to officially sign over the Rembrandt and the whole collection, but he hadn’t felt it was right yet.
“Yes. Press and art lovers are going to want to be there,” he said, “but we’re going to have to limit the invitations.”
He’d already compiled a solid list of art luminaries. After going home last night, he’d emailed it to Caroline. When he woke up alone in bed at five a.m., her comments and suggestions were waiting for him in his inbox.
She clearly hadn’t slept any better than he had.
They were emailing.
How had it come to this?
“You should buy her flowers,” Aunt Clara was saying. “Groveling wouldn’t hurt either.”
“Aunt—”
“Not that I’d know what a male apology looks like,” she said, tapping the window. “Do you know that no man has ever apologized to me? Not once in my whole life.”
That did sound rather incredible. “I seem to be apologizing all the time.”
“Too much apologizing means something is out of balance,” she said, reaching over to tap his knee. “You need to strike the right tone, J.T. Admit when you’re wrong. Then don’t do it again. Women hate repeat offenders.”
Uncle Arthur was already brushing off on her. Or maybe she’d always been this way. After all, he’d only just met the woman. Perhaps she’d always been a hard ass.
His opinion of Aunt Clara wavered when he brought her up to Lucy’s studio. She kissed them both on the cheek and embraced them like old friends. Hargreaves took up his sentry position at the door after laying the still-covered painting on the table.
“Arthur showed me some of your photos over breakfast, my dear,” Clara said to Lucy. “Grudgingly, of course, but his bark has always been worse than his bite. I particularly love the one of the mother nursing the child by the ocean. Where was it taken again?”
“In Ghana,” Lucy said. “It’s such an honor to photograph a painting of this stature. And a Rembrandt! I have to admit, this is a first for me. I’m a little nervous.”
“Don’t be,” Aunt Clara said. “Caroline tells me you’ve photographed naked women before.”
Caroline laughed, and normally J.T. would have joined in, but it stuck in his throat. She hadn’t glanced at him to include him in the joke, the way she normally would have.
“I brought you a copy of the calendar, Clara,” she said. “Like you asked.”
“Good! I can’t wait to put it up in my bedroom. That’s sure to raise Arthur’s blood pressure.”
Good God. He didn’t want to ask why.
“I still can’t believe Uncle Arthur agreed to let you stay with him,” Caroline said, keeping her eyes fixed on his aunt.
While J.T. didn’t feel like she was ignoring him, he could tell she was glad for the other people in the room. They were a buffer.
“Did Caroline tell me correctly that you hadn’t seen Arthur since 1962?” Lucy asked, adjusting the velvet folds of the black cloth she’d set up for the backdrop.
“Yes, the day of my wedding,” she said. “It was a horrid affair. A word to the wise, ladies… If you aren’t happy on your wedding day, odds are pretty low you’ll be happy during your marriage.”
The comment reminded him about the conversation he and Caroline had had about marriage. Was he selling her short? Didn’t most women want to have a wedding day? His sisters had talked about it, he recalled, even before they met their first boyfriends. Heck, his mother still said her wedding was one of the best memories of her life. But it was only a single day, right?
He thought back on his wedding to Cynthia. Had he been happy? Mostly, he remembered it being a zoo. Had it been a bellwether for his marriage, the way Aunt Clara had said? Yes, he could see that it had been. He hadn’t known the majority of the people Cynthia had invited. She’d spent more time talking to them than she did him.
But if people in a long-term relationship didn’t have “a day,” how did they start their life together off on the right foot? His parents always celebrated their anniversary with a big romantic gesture—a week-long sail around the Greek isles or hiking seaside trails in the Galapagos, something they both enjoyed. What would he and Caroline do? She was more special to him than any piece of artwork.
But did she know that? It struck him that he’d never told her, not really.
“Caroline?” he asked, taking his hands out of his pockets. “Can I speak to you? Privately?”
She finally looked at him. A deer in headlights came to mind. “Ah…Lucy, do you need me to help?”
“No,” the woman said after taking a long, measuring glance at him. “I can manage.”
“It’s not hard,” Aunt Clara said, crossing to Caroline and nudging her toward him. “You set up. You point the camera. You hit the button.”
Lucy laughed. “Don’t tell my students that, Mrs. Allerton.”
“Please, call me Clara, my dear,” she said. “Caroline tells me you’re marrying her brother, Dr. Andy. I hear he’s a nice boy. I made Arthur guide me through his whole family tree over the nasty oatmeal he insisted on having for breakfast. He complained it was cold by the time he’d finished, but I was delighted to hear about everyone.”
Oh, she was going to drive Uncle Arthur and him both mad.
“Caroline, you and J.T. step out for a bit for your talk. I don’t want Lucy to be distracted.”
Okay, now he wanted to kiss the meddling old woman. Caroline crossed the room to join him, still not looking him in the eyes.
“You can use my office,” Lucy called.
“Where—”
“I know the way,” Caroline said, smiling at Hargreaves as they left the room.
She walked down the hall and opened another door, gesturing for him to go inside.
His spine straightened. Did she think his basic manners had disappeared? “Ladies first.”
She sighed as she went by, as if he’d irritated her by fighting her on something so simple. Like being a gentleman was foolish. Heck, he wished women would decide what they wanted sometimes. He closed the door behind him. She turned to face him, her hands behind her back.
“What did you want—”
He grabbed her to him. “This,” he said and then pressed his mouth to hers.
She tensed, as he’d expected she might, and he gentled the kiss. She could step away any time, and he made sure she knew it by dropping his hands. When she lifted her face to give them a better connection, his heart started to race in his chest.
“I hated leaving you last night,” he whispered in between short kisses. “In fact, I hate all of this. I just…want you.”
Aunt Clara was right. The time for groveling was past. He needed to be honest with her—to let her know how much she meant to him.
She fisted her hands on the back of his jacket in response, kissing him harder, and he gave up the fight to keep things gentle. Gripping her hips, he opened his mouth and gave in to the heat radiating through him. She uttered a short moan. He nipped the bottom of her lip. Another moan sounded from her lips, and he fought the urge to lift her onto the nearest surface, lift her dress, and take her right there.
“I hate this too,” she said, breaking their connection for a moment.
Then her mouth was back on his, and her leg twined around his calf, fitting their hips more intimately together. He gave her what they both wanted, rubbing slowly against her.
“I love you,” he said, taking her face between his hands. “Do you want me to give up the Rembrandt?”
“Good God, no,” she said, her eyes horrified. “I only want this to be easier.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, fighting a surge of emotion. “I want that too. You’re more precious than any painting.”
“I love you, J.T.,” she whispered.
They stayed like that for a moment, and then she ran a comforting hand down his spine and stepped back.
“We shouldn’t…” Her sigh was audible. “This is Lucy’s office, and it’s not professional.”
He nodded and wiped her lipstick from his lips with a tissue he procured from Lucy’s desk. He caught sight of a photo of her, Andy, and Andy’s young son, Danny. Caroline’s brother had lost the love of his life only to find love again with his childhood best friend. Hope shot through his heart. If Andy could overcome such an unimaginable tragedy, J.T. could begin a wonderful new life too.
The tones of “Gold Digger” chimed suddenly, tamping down that surge of hope.
Caroline clenched her hands. “I’ll…let you take that.”
He watched helplessly as she left the office and closed the door. Pulling out his phone, he stared at it for a moment, listening to the music. He imagined ignoring the call, hurling the phone against the wall. In the end, he clicked it on. No other course of action seemed possible right now.
“Cynthia,” he said. “I’d like to say it’s a pleasure to hear from you, but it’s anything but.” He’d actually thought he’d hear from her last night, and he’d wondered at the delay.
“You’ve been a naughty boy, Julian,” she said in what she probably intended to be a playful tone. “Finding a long-lost Rembrandt. And right before I was going to announce to the world I was giving three hundred million dollars to the university for cancer research. I even flew in the family lawyer to finalize everything. That was a nice move, darling. I underestimated you.”
Score one for him. “I’m sure you won’t let it happen again. What do you want?”
“Like I told your new arm piece last night at the refreshing French bistro in town, you’re going to have to do some fancy dancing to explain why your aunt kept this painting under wraps.”
He wasn’t going to be baited. “So you say. Look, I have to go.”
“I’m a little hurt you never mentioned this Rembrandt to me while we were married.”
There was a trap here. If he claimed he hadn’t known about it, she’d call him a liar. If he admitted he had, she’d make him look greedy or use it as proof he’d known about it and hadn’t said anything. “As I said, I have pressing concerns. Goodbye, Cynthia.”
“Julian,” she said as he was poised to press the button to cut her off.
The glee in her voice was unmistakable. This was how she’d sounded when he bought her a hundred-thousand-dollar emerald and diamond necklace in London.
He didn’t hit the button, but he didn’t say anything either. She’d know he was listening.
“Wait until you see what I have planned next,” she said. “It might be my ultimate coup de grâce.”
The call ended, and he stood there, thinking about the words she’d used. Fear swept through his body.
Coup de grâce was French for death blow.