An Irresistible Bachelor(32)

She slid into the car and felt like the seat had been custom fit to her body. Impressive, she thought. "What does he do?"

"He's a chef." Jack got behind the wheel.

"You sound proud of him."

"I am."

The doors shut with a muted sound and she breathed deeply as she put on her seat belt.

"Hmmm. I love the way this car smells. All this leather... It's beautiful. What kind is it?"

"An Aston Martin DB9."

The engine came to life in a deep growl that faded to a soft pure As they headed down the drive, Mozart filled the air and she stroked the butter-soft hand rest.

One minute later she was gripping the damn thing for dear life.

After screaming down Cliff Road, Jack shot into traffic on Route 9 and proceeded to dodge around other cars like he was playing a video game. The man was a menace behind the wheel and Callie thought the only saving grace was that the sports car probably had top-of-the-line airbags and plenty of them.

As they swerved around a truck, she looked over at Jack in alarm. He was calm, whistling under his breath with the music.

He glanced over at her and frowned. "Are you cold? You look uncomfortable."

He reached for the climate controls.

"No! I'm fine." Anything to keep him looking forward, with both hands on the wheel.

"You don't look fine."

"Fear of imminent death does that to me," she said as she was pushed against the door when they jogged around a VW bug.

Jack nodded. "The traffic around Boston takes a while to get used to, but it's not much better in New York. Those cabbies can be heavy-handed."

This was being said while he cut off a bread truck and then threw on the brakes as they came up to a stoplight.

Callie jerked forward and thanked God for the seat belt running down her chest. Catching her breath, she looked at him. "You know, there's a middle ground

between the brake and the accelerator. You don't have to always pick one."

He seemed surprised. "I'm making you uncomfortable?"

"G-force wasn't something I expected to experience in a car."

He let out a short laugh as the light turned green. She braced herself, but he eased them forward.

"Sorry about that. I usually drive alone."

"Probably because people are afraid to ride with you," she said dryly.

He looked over at her. And then grinned.

She flushed, wishing she could be indifferent to him, wishing that his smile didn't make her feel as if they were sharing some kind of intimate secret. She looked out the window. They were passing neighborhoods and small shops, the road being an odd hybrid of a small highway and a regular municipal street. As she focused on the passing view, distraction was the landmark she was searching for.

"So how did you get into conservation?" he asked, as if he sensed her desire for a diversion.

"I started out studying art history. I loved the lectures. Sitting in a dark room, seeing beautiful works of art up on the screen, the professor's voice low in the background. I used to imagine that I might someday own paintings like the ones I studied. Pretty soon, I found out how much they cost and knew the only way I'd ever get close to them was if I worked on them." She paused. "You know, you have some very special art in your house."

"Thanks."



"I mean, the Canaletto in the front hall alone is... spectacular. The Titian and the El Greco in the dining room."

She felt him look at her. "Did you see the Rubens in my study?"

Her eyes widened. "Don't you ever worry someone is going to steal them?"

He shook his head as he pulled up to another light. "The man who wired the MFA did my house. The paintings are bolted into the walls with weight-sensitive alarms. They're going nowhere."

"Has your family always collected?"

"Yes. My great-great-grandmother was the first to focus in on the Renaissance period. She donated some of her collection to the MFA when she died, which was fine with my great-grandmother, who just filled up the wall space again. The thrill is the hunt, of course."

Callie shifted in the deep leather seat, wondering what it was like having so much. She had no intention of asking him, however, because she didn't want to seem like a rube. Dignity, after all, was one asset the rich and the poor could both have.

She frowned, thinking of the past. Maybe that was why her mother turned down so many gifts. Her father would show up at the door of their apartment bearing a small, foil-wrapped box or some huge package with a bow on it and her mother would just shake her head.