This Heart of Mine (Chicago Stars #5)(75)

Lilly waited until the tour was over and they'd returned to the central living area before she asked about it. "Why haven't you hung any of your own paintings?"

"Looking at my work when I'm not in the studio feels too much like a busman's holiday."

"I suppose. But they'd be so joyous in this house."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then the craggy lines of his face softened in a smile. "You really are a fan, aren't you?"

"I'm afraid so. I bid on one of your paintings a few months ago—Composition #3. My business manager forced me to drop out at two hundred and fifty thousand."

"Obscene, isn't it?"

He looked so pleased that she laughed. "You should be ashamed of yourself. It wasn't worth a penny over two hundred thousand. And I'm just beginning to realize how much I hate giving you compliments. You truly are the most overbearing man."

"It makes life easier."

"Keeps the masses at a distance?"

"I value my privacy."

"Which explains why you've built such an extraordinary house in the wilds of northern Michigan instead of Big Sur or Cap d'Antibes."

"Already you know me well."

"You're such a diva. I'm certain I've had my privacy invaded far more than you have, but it hasn't turned me into a hermit. Do you know that I still can't go anywhere without people recognizing me?"

"My nightmare."

"Why is it such a big deal to you?"

"Old baggage."

"Tell me."

"It's an incredibly boring story. You don't want to hear it."

"Believe me, I do." She sat on the couch to encourage him. "I love hearing people's stories."

He gazed at her, then sighed. "The critics discovered me just before my twenty-sixth birthday. Are you sure you want to hear this?"

"Definitely."

He stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered toward the windows. "I became the proverbial overnight sensation—on everybody's guest list, the subject of national magazine articles. I had people throwing money at me."

"I remember what that was like."

The fact that she understood what he'd gone through in ways most people couldn't seemed to relax him. He left the windows to sprawl down across from her, dominating the chair he'd chosen in the same way he dominated every space he occupied. She felt a moment of uneasiness. Craig had been overpowering like that.

"It went to my head," he said, "and I started believing all the hype. Do you remember that, too?"

"I was lucky. My husband kept me grounded in reality." Too grounded, she thought now. Craig never understood that she'd needed his praise more than his criticism.

"I wasn't lucky. I forgot that it was about the work, not about the artist. I partied instead of painted. I drank too much. I developed a taste for nose candy and free sex."

"Except sex never is free, is it?"

"Not when you're married to a woman you love. Ah, but I justified my behavior, you see, because she was my true love and all that other sex was meaningless. I justified it because she was having a tough pregnancy, and the doctor had told me to leave her alone until after the baby was born."

Lilly heard his self-contempt. This was a man who judged himself even more harshly than he judged others.

"My wife found out, of course, and did the right thing by walking out on me. A week later she went into labor, but the baby was born dead."

"Oh, Liam…"

He turned away her sympathy with an arch twist of his mouth. "There's a happy ending. She married a magazine editor and went on to have three healthy, well-adjusted children. As for me… I learned an important lesson about what is important and what isn't."

"And you've lived in lonely isolation ever since?"

He smiled. "Hardly that. I do have friends, Lilly. Genuine ones."

"People you've known for a hundred years," she guessed. "Newcomers need not apply."

"I think all of us get set in our friendships as we grow older. Haven't you?"

"I suppose." She started to ask why he'd invited her here, since she was definitely a newcomer, but a more important question was on her mind. "Am I mistaken, or didn't you leave something important out of the house tour?"

He sank deeper into his chair and looked annoyed. "You want to see my studio."

"I'm sure you don't make a habit of opening it up to everyone, but—"

"No one goes in there but me and an occasional model."

"Perfectly understandable," she said smoothly. "Still, I'd be grateful if I could just have a peek."

A calculating glint appeared in his eyes. "How grateful?"

"What do you mean?"

"Grateful enough to pose for me?"

"You don't give up, do you?"

"It's part of my charm."

If they'd been at the B&B or by the stream in the meadow, she might have been able to refuse, but not here. That mysterious space where he created some of the world's most beautiful art was too near. "I can't imagine why you'd want to sketch a fat, over-the-hill, forty-five-year-old woman, but if that's what it takes to see your studio, then, yes, I'll pose for you."