An Irresistible Bachelor(6)

Callie just wasn't in a big hurry to work for the man. She knew how the Jack Walkers of the world operated, having had to deal with them on occasion in Stanley's gallery. Having had one for a father. They thought of themselves first and that meant there was always an angle and always a demand. He probably treated his employees as if they were disposable and found fault with even the most successful of efforts.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Walker was a perfectly nice man who just happened to have built a business empire. Maybe he was honest and forthright, a beacon of human virtue laced up in a Saville Row suit. Maybe he was closer to Nelson Mandela than Donald Trump.


But more likely, he was a tough guy in gentleman's clothes and not someone she should work for. Getting mixed up with Walker had Bad Idea written all over it, even if she could have used the money.

Abruptly, Callie turned around and started for home. She reminded herself that walking alone through the city on a cold night could only get her two more things she wasn't interested in: a case of pneumonia and mugged.

Besides, she had more important things to worry about than the real or imagined character defects of some man she was never going to see again. She had to think about shelter. Food.

She shoved her hand into her pocket and felt the lining give way.

Clothing.



Chapter 3





Jack stood in front of the dingy six-floor walk-up and frowned. The front door hung off-kilter in its jamb, a pile of Chinese food leaflets littered the stoop, and the place looked as if it was sagging in on itself. He went up five stone steps and leaned in, looking through grungy glass. A bald lightbulb hung over a battered set of stairs and a decrepit tile floor.

He went over to an intercom with a row of buttons below it. There were no names attached to the thing so he punched a few randomly. He wasn't surprised when there was no answer. He hadn't expected it to work.

With a curse, he stepped back and looked up again. He was finding it hard to believe that the conservationist lived in such a building, so he took out the slip of paper he'd written her address on. After double-checking the street and the number Grace had given him, he thought maybe it was a working studio.

A cold gust of wind shot down the street and he glanced in its direction. He'd tried calling Ms. Burke a number of times throughout the day, but hadn't gotten so much as an answering machine. Since he was going back to Boston tomorrow, he'd figured his best shot at reaching the woman was to do a flyby in person, but it appeared, unless he was prepared to do a little breaking and entering, that he'd reached another dead end.

He tried the front door in case its lock, like so much else, was broken. When it held fast, he figured enough was enough.

He didn't have any more time to waste. If she was so damn hard to find, it was her loss. Crumpling the paper in his hand, he started down the steps.

Just as he hit the sidewalk, a woman rounded the corner at the far end of the block. He was about to look away when he caught a flash of red hair and his breath left him in a cloud of mist. An image from the dream, of pale hands touching the skin of his stomach, brought him to a standstill.

Christ, he told himself, don't think like that.

He watched as she moved between two parked cars and crossed the street, her head down as if she were deep in thought. It wasn't until she was halfway to him that she lifted her eyes, caught sight of his limousine, and stopped dead in the middle of the road.

"Hello," he called out, raising a hand. "You're a hard lady to track down."

She frowned and looked to the left and the right.

"Yes, you," he said, smiling.

When she started walking again, it was much more slowly.

"What are you doing here?" she said.

He narrowed his eyes, taking in every detail of her. Her cheekbones and the tip of her nose were glowing bright red from the cold. Her hair, which fell past her shoulders, was being tossed around by the wind. Her blue eyes were regarding him with open suspicion.

She was as beautiful as he remembered and he had to wonder if her body was anything like what he'd dreamt of. He couldn't make out anything under her enormous coat and he was surprised at what she was wearing. The thing was old and shaggy, a mottled brown tent that did nothing to accentuate her dramatic coloring or her curves.

"Well?" she prompted him. "Why are you here?"

He lifted an eyebrow. People didn't tend to address him with annoyance in their voices.

"As I said before, I want you to conserve my painting."