An Irresistible Bachelor (An Unforgettable Lady #2)(32)

“Ah, cheri, it will be okay,” he whispered, as if he knew she wouldn’t want Jack hearing him reassure her. The lilt of his accent was musical. “You have done this before and you will do fine. There is love in your eyes when you speak of the painting, and you would never hurt what you love, would you?”

She shook her head with a series of jerks, worried that if the man were any nicer to her, she might burst into tears.

“So go now, go and do what you have been trained to do. And know if you call me, I will come.”

He squeezed her hands again and then went back into his museum, a slight man with the bouncing walk of a child.

Later, as they waited for a break in traffic, Jack said, “You’ve got a hell of a glow going.”

She glanced over at him. “What? Oh—Gerard. He’s just so amazing. And surprisingly humble.”

“The great ones always are,” Jack murmured as he put the car into gear and eased them into traffic. “What were you two whispering about?”

“He was just giving me some advice.”

“Good man to take advice from.”

She nodded and tilted her head toward the back of the car. “Generous, too.”

His brows tightened. “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to disabuse him of the notion that my portrait is going to hang next to Paul Revere. Damn it, my mother’s ability to commit the assets of others is unequaled, at least now that my father is dead.”

Callie waited, hoping he would continue, and was disappointed when he didn’t. She shifted her gaze to his hands on the steering wheel. She wanted to ask him to elaborate, but then he changed the subject.

“By the way, I was wondering if I could introduce you to a friend of mine.”

She looked at him with surprise, thinking that taking on another private client after she finished the Copley conservation would be great. “Of course. But are you sure you don’t want to wait until after you’ve seen some of my work?”

“This isn’t about work.”

The Aston Martin darted out in front of a truck and Callie gripped the door again.

“Gray was my college roommate and he’s an all-around good guy. He lives in New York, but he’s going to be here for the next couple of weeks. I think you two might get along.”

Jack wanted to set her up on a date?

“No pressure, of course,” he said, glancing across the seat at her. “I just thought maybe we could invite him out to Buona Fortuna. You could meet him, see if you like him.”

Callie told herself this was normal. This was how people met other people. Through friends. Contacts.

Business associates.

And it proved how serious he was about keeping things between them . . . out of the closet, as it were.

“Er—okay.”

Jack focused on the traffic again. “Good. That’s just great.”




The next morning, Callie had just settled in front of the painting when the garage door opened down below. She got up and went to a window, just in time to see the Aston Martin shoot down the driveway. She was watching the taillights disappear when Arthur came over and nudged her thigh with his head.

Work, she thought. She had work to do.

But it was hard to think about the job.

Yesterday, when she and Jack had returned from the museum, he’d helped her set up the microscope, and after it had arrived, the light as well. In the course of getting her workplace organized and removing the portrait’s massive, gilded frame, he’d asked her innumerable questions about the project. He wanted to know what the process for cleaning the painting was going to be. What kinds of solvents she would use to remove the dirt and old varnish. What type of new varnish she would apply at the end to protect the fragile, original oil paint.

Given what had happened that morning, she was surprised by how comfortable she’d felt around him. He was witty and charming and had smiled at her with respect as she answered each of his queries. And the best part had been the sense that he was hitting her with all the questions simply because he was curious, not because he didn’t trust her.

He’d been on his way back to the house when she’d asked him how to work the complicated stereo system. In the process of showing her how to turn the thing on, he’d discovered that it wasn’t working, and that had led to him going up into the shallow crawl space over the room. She’d played nurse to his electronic surgeon as he’d banged and crashed around overhead, trying to get the speakers to receive a signal.

The cursing that had drifted down through the ceiling had been priceless and when he’d reemerged, cobwebs hanging from his hair, his beautiful business shirt and slacks covered with dust, she’d had to laugh.

Still, he’d got the damn thing working.

By the time they’d gone back to the house, dinner had been served and cleared. Jack had parceled out some leftovers and overdone it with the microwave, and they’d laughed as they tried to chew through the rubberized chicken. Neither of them had wanted to take a shot at the flaccid, weary green beans.

As much as she’d tried not to, she’d thoroughly enjoyed his company.

Callie shook her head and went back to the painting. She really needed to get started.

Positioning the microscope over the top right-hand corner of the painting, she brought the paint surface into focus by twisting a pair of knobs. Her eyes sought out the craquelure, memorizing the pattern of fissures, their direction, their depth. Inch by inch, she surveyed the surface of the portrait and meticulously recorded the status of the varnish, paint, and canvas support. This documentation, as she’d explained to Jack, was the first step in any conservation.