An Irresistible Bachelor(36)
"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 un-equaled, 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 hen "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 kind 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, 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.