His Seductive Revenge

The answers would have to come from the source, not from Doc’s skill with people and computers.

“Miss Chandler,” Raymond said effusively, hurrying into the room. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“You said it was important.”

“Yes. Please be seated.” He also sat and folded his bands on the desk. “I regret to tell you that Mr. De La Hoya has chosen not to accept your father’s commission.”

“I appreciate your letting me know,” she said, “but shouldn’t you be calling my father? He’s the one who made the inquiry.”

“That would be my doing,” Gabe said, moving into range. “I asked Raymond to arrange this meeting.”

Cristina looked up at Gabriel Marquez, wondering how long he’d been within earshot. Since she arrived? Probably. He moved like a panther stalking its prey. She should be angry. She knew she should. But excitement tipped the scale of should and shouldn’t. Her stomach filled with a huge quantity of tiny butterflies, flitting and landing, flitting and landing.

Raymond removed himself quietly from the room.

“Miss Chandler,” Gabe said, his gaze direct.

“Mr. Marquez.”

“Forgive me for resorting to subterfuge. I didn’t know if you would be open to my calling you on this matter. I thought perhaps a neutral meeting place...”

“To discuss what?” She watched him half sit on the corner of Raymond’s desk. He wore light linen slacks and a burgundy polo shirt, but nothing else about him seemed casual.

“I overheard your conversation the other night when you and your friend were discussing the portrait your father wants. It was rude of me, of course. I apologize.”

“Do you? A genuine apology or one you think is required?”

He smiled. “Ah, a cynic. I’m surprised.”

“A skeptic,” she corrected. “I do recognize a man with an agenda.”

His smile deepened. “One that coincides with yours, I believe. I have a solution to your dilemma.”

Cristina forced herself to relax. She settled into the chair and crossed her legs. “I’m not the least upset about De La Hoya’s decision not to paint me,” she said, although it wasn’t entirely true. She wondered why, all right, even as a quilt of relief had settled over her at the news. “I really don’t have a dilemma to solve.”

“You would like to pacify your father, wouldn’t you?”

She looked away from him. Damn it. Of course she would. How had he figured that out in such a short time? “My father will survive the slap to his ego.”

“How old is he, Miss Chandler?”

“Call me Cristina,” she said, stalling, comprehending his point at once but irritated that he used the ammunition. “Eighty-two.”

“In good health?”

“As healthy as eighty-two can be, Mr. Marquez.”

“Gabe.” He smiled slightly. “What if there were a way to provide your father with a portrait he believes is De La Hoya but at a cost much less than he charges?”

“I’d be interested in hearing the details.”

He lifted a leather binder from atop the desk and passed it to her. “I think you’ll agree that the paintings photographed there are of a style resembling De La Hoya’s.”

Cristina examined them critically. “These are landscapes, not people, which are two entirely different skills artistically. But I’ll grant that otherwise there are similarities in style. Certainly the artist has captured the same general mood and texture and tone.”

“What if that artist were to do your portrait—and do it well? Do you think your father would know the difference?”

“It wouldn’t matter, because I would. Surely the artist couldn’t sign his own name. My father would know by the signature, if nothing else.”

“If we somehow found a way around that problem?”

“That’s a big if.” Cristina closed the folder. She flattened her hands on the cover, curved her fingers over the edge. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Because I want very much to paint you.”

Cristina sucked in a breath. Oh, my. She was flattered, and appalled, and far too tempted. And she had a very hard time believing—

“You doubt me.” he said, taking her hand in his, watching her.

She glanced at the album again. Knowing now that he was the artist, she was tempted to take a second look. Composure. She had to dig deep for it.

“We have a kinship, don’t you agree? You’ve felt it, as have I,” he said, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “A connection between artist and subject improves the finished product.”

She was reminded of how he’d rubbed his thumb along the woman’s hand the other night. So, the gesture probably meant nothing to him but a means of turning off a woman’s brain while she pondered his incredible physique, his utter maleness, and his you-are-the-only-woman-for-me eyes.

“I’ll amend the offer, then,” he said as she remained silent. “I will charge you nothing, and you may do with the painting what you will. You can’t lose, Cristina.”

Oh, Lord, she loved the way he said her name. No one had ever said her name like that before. Not with an accent, but with a sultry edge, a tempting—

She stood and walked away from him, trying to find a way to elevate the discussion, trying to leave attraction—no, lust—out of it. She wasn’t a teenager. She wasn’t even frustrated. Well, not that frustrated. So, she hadn’t had sex since—She didn’t want to think about how long it had been, and it hadn’t been wonderful, then, anyway. With this man, however—

Stop, stop, stop. You don’t know anything about him.

Except that he had her hormones dancing pirouettes on every cell of her body, charging her with energy, as if she could light up the Golden Gate Bridge just by touching the steel.

“Say yes,” he said quietly.

He’d come up behind her, was standing so close she could feel his body heat all the way to her ankles. She wanted to lean against him. She wanted him to put his arms around her, nuzzle her neck, tell her she was beautiful. What was happening to her? She didn’t know the man.

Gabe lifted a hand toward her shoulder, then let it fall. He knew he affected her. Her breath came short and shallow. Her perfume became more potent as her body temperature rose.

“Do you need recommendations of my character?” he asked, backing away.

“That would help.” She turned to face him.

“Inspector Leslie O’Keefe with the San Francisco P.D. would vouch for me. Raymond, of course. Plenty of others, if necessary.”

“Are you a professional artist?”

“Do I make my living from it? No. But I’m serious about it.”

“What kind of business are you in?”

“More businesses than I can count. All of them legitimate,” he added, one corner of his mouth curving upward. “I’m a venture capitalist.”

“You make money from investments?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I lose money. It’s the challenge that appeals to me, and the work fills up most of my life. Painting relaxes me.”

“What’s your connection to this gallery?”

“I own it.”

He waited as she sifted the information. “Say yes,” he urged again when the silence dragged on.

Cristina considered all the angles. It was exhausting pretending to be so sophisticated for this urbane, mysterious man. She felt like a mouse trapped in his maze. And she had the feeling that he could drop mirrors along the path anytime he chose.

He couldn’t be much more than five years older than she, yet he seemed to have lived a lifetime longer. Being alone with him for hours at a time would be a challenge. He tempted her in ways she’d never been tempted before, was unwillingly flattered by his intense and direct gaze.

But temptation and flattery aside, she knew she could also use the time to her advantage, helping to cool Jason’s recent, bewildering attention and her father’s sudden preoccupation with her getting married.

Oh, she knew what was expected of her. Father thought he’d been subtle, but she read him well. He wanted her to marry Jason. He was in dire need of money, and the marriage would somehow help. He would be angry with her if she ignored her responsibilities for long.

It was a risk she was willing to take, because she’d never felt this pull toward anyone or anything in her life. And she wanted to experience it to the fullest. The problem with Jason would be there when Gabe was part of her past—if it mattered by then.

She finally looked at him, admiring his ability to wait her out. His patience appealed to her, showing her a level of maturity she was unused to from the men of her acquaintance.

“When would you like to start?” she asked.

“As soon as possible. I can adjust my schedule to yours.”

“I work at home, therefore I set my own hours. I imagine you want daylight, natural light.” At his nod, she picked up her purse from the chair and tugged the strap over her shoulder. “Name the time.”

He extracted a business card from a slim gold case and passed it to her. “I also work at home. Eleven tomorrow morning?”

“Fine.” She glanced at the card. His address put him smack in the middle of Pacific Heights, an area filled with wonderful Victorian-design houses that were huge, old and expensive. It was a world she came from, but had never felt comfortable in. “Please tell Raymond that if my father contacts him about the portrait, he should just stall for a while. Father won’t like it, but he thinks he understands the artistic temperament.”

“Why does he?”

She smiled “Because of me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m fine,” Cristina said into the phone, wandering around her apartment as she spoke to her father. She hadn’t accomplished anything since she’d left the gallery, and three projects awaited her attention. She’d gotten in the last word with Gabe, which pleased her, but the anticipation had rendered her useless otherwise. “And, no, I haven’t seen a single hoodlum, Father. It’s very quiet.”

“There was no reason to move out. You had your own wing, for heaven’s sake.”

“It’s not the same as having a place of my own. It was time for me to spread my wings. We’ve discussed this again and again.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve been smothering you since your mother died. You’ll have a place of your own when you marry.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll have my husband’s place.”

He sighed. “I don’t understand the modern woman. Your mother was content to join me in my life and make it her own.”

“I’m not her, Father.”

“As you remind me so often. I must go now, my dear. Oh, by the way, I gave Jason your new address and phone number. I expect he’ll check in.”

He hung up before she could utter a word of protest. Logically she knew she couldn’t keep her location a secret from Jason, but she resented her father being the one to tell him.

When someone knocked on her door, she knew without question who would be there. He’d probably been sitting in his car with his cellular phone, waiting for her father to call him, so she couldn’t pretend to be gone.

She didn’t want him in her apartment, in her space. She’d divorced herself from that life, and Jason would bring it back with him.

With a sigh, she opened the door and invited him in, unwillingly comparing Jason to Gabriel Marquez. They were close to the same height and weight, although their builds were entirely different, Gabe appearing more powerful, in physique and sheer presence. Where Gabe was dark, Jason was light. Most significantly, Jason wasn’t the slightest bit exciting or intriguing or...dangerous. She watched him glance around the room that combined a living room, bedroom and kitchen. The furnishings were few, but they were hers.

“You like it here, Cris?”

She counted to five. “I love it. Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s so small.”

“It suits me. So, what’s going on?”

“I have tickets to the opera. Friday night.”

“You hate the opera.”

“Yeah.” He jammed his hands in his front pockets. “But you don’t. I want to take you.”

She studied him for a moment. “Have a seat.”

They sat on the sofa, the only piece of furniture she owned other than her bed and computer desk. “What’s this all about, Jason? We’ve known each other almost forever. This is totally unlike you, asking me for a date.”

“I’ve been through a lot lately. You know. My life is different now.”

“Because of the scandal? But that’s your father’s problem. It’s his building that collapsed. His name was all over the headlines, not yours. And it’s his reputation that’s in question.”

“You don’t think I’m affected by the fallout? Don’t be naive, Cris. Until we find that guy who was paralyzed in the accident and prove he’s the one who caused it, I’m invisible. People don’t return my calls. I get the cold shoulder at the club. I have become persona non grata. You are the only one who didn’t turn away.”

If he only knew how little thought she’d given the whole mess. She’d been too wrapped up with planning her move to her own apartment to think about anyone else. Maybe she did owe him something. He’d always been nice to her, even when their parents weren’t around. His family had bought a house near hers when she was five, but Richard Grimes’s wealth was too new, and it had taken years for him to earn minimal acceptance in local society. The scandal had become a convenient excuse to ignore him.

Cristina swallowed a sigh, remembering how Jason had volunteered to escort her to her senior prom—her only invitation for the event. She’d been painfully shy then. Even now, she had to force herself to be more outgoing when she’d rather stand back and observe.

She looked at him. They were both going through changes that had taken them out of the social hub they’d always known—although hers was by choice. She didn’t want to encourage him, not when something new and exciting awaited her, but she couldn’t find it in her heart to turn away from him, either.

She touched the back of his hand. “Of course I’ll go with you. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“Really? I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty. We’ll have a late supper after.”

“Fine.” She followed him to the front door, startled by how fast he was leaving. Apparently he’d gotten what he came for, and that was that. No idle chitchat for this man. If he really thought that just being seen with her would help, well, she could make that sacrifice.

He clasped her hand and shook it, then he leaned back through the doorway and kissed her, right on the lips. On a scale from one to ten, she gave him a one in both technique and excitement level. She resisted wiping the back of her hand across her mouth when he pulled away.

“Bye,” he called as he hurried out to the street.

Cristina shut the door, then went into the kitchen to get something to wash away the experience. She drank half a glass of iced tea before she came up for air.

The planets must be out of alignment or something, she decided. All of a sudden she’d become some sort of femme fatale, a whole new role for her. Two men had taken a more-than-average interest in her. One might as well be her brother—she’d certainly never looked at him as anything other than a platonic friend. The second man she couldn’t even begin to define. But she had a hard time believing that she was the kind of woman who normally drew Gabriel Marquez’s attention.

So, it appeared that both men had agendas and neither of them were sharing the itemized list with her, leaving her in a quandary. The biggest adventure of her life was about to begin, and she wasn’t sure what to pack for the journey.

Three

Right on time. From his office window, Gabe watched Cristina exit the taxicab. Not surprised at her punctuality, he left the room, then waited on the landing as his part-time housekeeper directed her up the stairs.

He watched her trail her hand along the mahogany banister, her fingertips caressing the polished wood. He saw her focus on the individual paintings hung at precise intervals on the wall along the staircase, the same scene but depicted at different times of year and in different weather. Light and shadows changed with the seasons, creating individual moods.

“Good morning,” she said as she reached the landing and accepted his outstretched hand. “What a beautiful home, and what incredible work you do.”

“We have to go up one more flight to the studio.” He curved his fingers around hers. “And you don’t have to flatter me, but I thank you.”

“Now, you strike me as a man with a firm grip on his ego.” She smiled, casting him a sideways glance as they climbed the next staircase. “My opinion of your work probably doesn’t even matter to you.”

He noted the teasing light in her eyes. “Even a secure ego needs feeding.”

She made a sound of agreement. “Have you lived here long?”

“A few years.”

“So your risks pay off more often than not.”

He released her hand as they stepped into the garret room he’d turned into a studio. “I don’t seem to run out of beer and pretzels.”

“I’ll bet. Oh! Oh, Gabe, this is wonderful!”

His time in the studio was limited, but he enjoyed every second. Skylights allowed the sun to flood the space. Windows replaced the front and back walls. Although called a garret, it was really too large and airy for the title, thanks to the changes he’d made. He’d spent the morning straightening up the room. Usually he didn’t bother. It was the only area of his life he didn’t keep filed, sorted, computerized or pigeonholed.

He watched her move to the back window, which overlooked his garden, her teal-colored skirt undulating around her calves as she walked, a contrast to her demure sleeveless blouse printed with tiny flowers and buttoned to her throat. On her feet lilac-painted toenails drew attention to her strappy sandals. Gold bracelets danced along her left wrist, tinkling sweetly. She didn’t wear a watch, which pleased him. She wasn’t in a hurry.

“Beautiful,” she said, turning to him.

“I can’t take credit for it. I only enjoy someone else’s hard work.”

“But beauty and color are important to you. You surround yourself with it. That’s obvious in your work.”

“And my subject.” He waited to see if she blushed. She didn’t, but her posture changed, as if she didn’t believe him. “I’ll just be sketching you today, Cristina, and conversing. I need to know more about you before we talk about clothing and tone.”

“My father will want something appropriate to hang with the other generations in the family gallery.” She paused. “That sounds really pretentious, doesn’t it? Again.”

“Traditions die hard. Please, come sit here and let me study you.”

Cristina moved to the appointed chair he’d placed directly under a skylight. Her heart hadn’t stopped thumping since she’d stepped into his house. Her body was warm and her temperature still climbing. She’d intentionally worn something nondescript because...because—She didn’t know why, for sure. Only that she needed some kind of armor for now.

If De La Hoya had actually taken the commission, she would have allowed him—because he undoubtedly would have demanded—artistic control. Except that she certainly wouldn’t have posed nude.

Maybe he’d turned down the commission because he’d deduced that what her father wanted would be too traditional for his interest She’d never know, of course, since his reclusive life meant that they would never cross paths.

“What are you thinking about?” Gabe asked.

Startled out of her thoughts, she fidgeted. “Alejandro De La Hoya.”

“Well. I’m flattered.”

She smiled. “I was uncomfortable having you study me. I had to think about something else. Have you ever met him?”

He made a noncommittal sound as be pulled up a rolling stool beside her and hefted a sketch pad into his lap. “What kind of music do you like?”

“Classical. Opera, in particular. Most especially Verdi. I’m going to see Rigoletto tomorrow night with Jason Grimes. He’s the man you met the other night.”

“Yes, I remember him.”

She listened to the sound of his pencil as he sketched—short, quick strokes detailing her face in profile. She was glad she didn’t have to see him eye her inch by inch. “How about you? What’s your music of choice?”

“Wagner. Miles Davis. Segovia.”

“Eclectic taste,” she commented, tempted to look in his direction. There was tension in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Why don’t you put on some music now?”

“Because I don’t like it to influence me in the early stages. I figure out what suits the subject, then I choose the music to accompany me while I work. Your hair needs to be pulled back from your face.”

He set down his pad and pencil, then walked to a nearby chest of drawers. In a minute he returned, a length of black ribbon in his hand. He moved behind her.

“I’ll do it,” he said as she started to gather her hair into a ponytail

She closed her eyes. He combed her hair with his fingers as he pulled it back. The cool satin of the ribbon glided across her neck. His fingertips grazed her skin. She shivered. She wasn’t used to familiarity, especially from a stranger.

A man.

She’d grown up in a house where people seldom touched. Oh, she’d felt loved, but physical warmth was missing. Sometimes when she’d stayed overnight with friends, she’d seen how different families could be. On the other hand, no one argued at her house, which was also good. She froze during arguments. Logic slipped away, leaving only the emotion she was feeling, and she could never convey her emotions clearly while under duress.

“One of the first things I noticed about you,” Gabe said from behind her, “was your hair. More beautiful than fire.”

“I was born in the wrong century.” She tried to shrug off the mesmerizing lure of his voice. “I figured Titian would have hired me to model,” she said, referring to the Renaissance painter whose use of color brought him acclaim, particularly his redheaded subjects.

“Your hair is more gold than red.” Gabe moved then, coming to a stop in front of her, staring at her long enough to make her squirm. “Had Rubens gotten a look at you, however—Ah, I’ve made you uncomfortable. Forgive me. I tend to analyze too much.”

Cristina didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. One of Rubens’s claims to fame was his paintings of voluptuous women. How many times in her adult life had she wished she’d lived in Rubens’s time instead of now?

“I used to be a lot thinner,” she said, then clamped her mouth shut.

“Oh?” Gabe settled in the seat beside her again and started sketching, pleased to be pulling information from her so easily. “Was thinner better, Cristina? Did you like yourself more?”

“No.” She blew out a breath, relaxing. “No. If anything, I hated it.”

He wanted tension back in her face. It would make for a much more interesting portrait than soft and sweet. He could tell her that she was beautiful. That would surely bring back the tension. Some women thrived on flattery, whether true or false. But not this woman. Even her posture had indicated it earlier. “Why did you hate it?”

“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t real.”

“Had you been ill?”

“No.”

She looked at her lap, and he stopped sketching to wait.

“I was a surprise, mid-life baby,” she said finally. “I came along twenty-five years into my parents’ marriage, when my mother was forty-six and my father fifty-five, long after they’d given up hope of ever having a child. They didn’t quite know what to do with me.”

Again, he waited. After a minute he rolled his stool directly in front of her and set his sketch pad aside. He clasped her hands. She looked up. His gaze never strayed from hers. “Tell me.”

She swallowed. “They had certain expectations.”

“Unrealistic ones.”

Cristina nodded. “My father was a state senator, so we lived in a fishbowl. I was to be well mannered, and studious, and a dainty little lady. The well-mannered part I could manage. And when my mother became terminally ill, I tried to make myself into what she wanted—a dainty woman. It was the hardest thing I’d done, but before she died two years ago, I’d made her proud, and I’m glad I did. I learned a lot about myself because of it.” She squeezed his hands. “Why am I telling you this?”