His Seductive Revenge

“Because you want me to paint the real Cristina.”

God. He was right! He was absolutely right. “Weight and all,” she said.

“You. As you. You’re lovely.”

She shook her head.

“Yes.” He lifted a hand to her face, stroked the flesh along her cheekbone with his thumb. “You weren’t born in the wrong century, either. I will paint you not only as you want the future Chandler generations to see you, but as I see you. Then you’ll know how beautiful you are.”

Oh, he tempted her with his words. He wanted to paint some exotic, erotic woman that wasn’t the least like her, maybe even a second, more-personal portrait in the De La Hoya style. And the allure of giving in to the flattery was strong, even as she knew it wasn’t something she would ever feel comfortable doing. What if the painting ended up in some gallery where someone she knew saw it? What if someone told her father? She’d disappointed him enough lately.

And the biggest “what if” of all—what if when Gabe saw her unclothed, he was repulsed. His imagination had undoubtedly painted a better picture than reality.

“I think we should focus on the portrait that will please my father,” she said, aware of changes in her body. Her nipples had drawn taut the moment he’d touched her face and now pulsed with a gentle ache.

She wondered whether he kissed hard or soft, whether he enticed or attacked, whether he would know how inexperienced she was. Jason’s kiss had been one hard, closed mouth pressed to another. She’d bet her trust fund that Gabriel Marquez never kissed with a closed mouth, nor hurried out the door the next second.

Cold seeped into her when he moved back, then she warmed as his gaze dropped to her breasts and he took note of her reaction to him. Confused, she stood and walked to the front window. “I’m not too sure that this is a good idea.”

“On the contrary, Cristina. This is the best idea I’ve ever had. I hope I can convince you of the same thing.”

“Let’s change the subject.”

A few seconds of silence filled the room. From outside she heard a bird trill, a car drive past, a child shriek with laughter. Uncomfortable with the quiet inside, she started to turn.

“Don’t move.”

The sound of pencil on paper held her suspended. She could see him in her peripheral vision, could feel the intensity of his focus.

“Put your right hand on the window, level with your shoulder. Spread your fingers open,” he instructed her. “Tip your head back a little. Look as far into the horizon as you can. Shoulders back. Good.”

He worked in silence for several minutes. “Put your left hand to your chest, over your heart. A bit lower. No—”

Gabe moved closer, then placed her hand where he wanted, spreading her fingers apart like her other hand, not letting his fingers brush her breasts.

A wistful pose, Gabe thought. “Angle toward me a little.” He flipped a page. “Now, turn only your head and look directly at me.” The pencil glided. “Who are you right now?”

A long pause, then, “Someone from a previous life.”

“Tell me.”

“A...a New England sea captain’s wife, I think, watching for my husband’s ship to return after a long journey.”

“A woman who waits.”

“A woman who worries. And pines.”

“Do you love your husband?” he asked.

“Oh, yes”

“How long have you been married?”

A faraway look settled in her eyes.

“Ten years. He’s home only half the year. I worry about him.”

“Do you have children?”

“No. It’s my one sorrow.”

“How do you feel when you see his ship come into port?”

She smiled. “Thrilled. Grateful. Relieved.”

“Do you wait at home for him or go to the ship?”

“He’s too busy to see me for a while. I take a bath, dress in something feminine, make sure there’s something to eat. For afterward,” she added. “He’s hungry for me first.”

“When he comes through your front door, what happens?” He flipped another page. The clean sheet would capture a new impression.

“I fly into his arms. He whirls me around and around. I press my nose against his neck and he smells wonderful. Like him. Like no one else in the world. Then he kisses me, and the long, lonely months melt away. He carries me upstairs.”

Gabe watched the changes in her expressions. She had become the fictitious captain’s wife. Her imagination had taken her away and planted her firmly in the scene. Her muscles were tense, her body taut Her nipples pressed at the fabric covering them.

He tamped down his own reaction, one that shocked the hell out of him. He’d thought himself immune to innocence, to purity, to sweetness. He much preferred an equal partner, one who led, who took, who demanded. He didn’t think that defined Cristina.

Seeing her start to relax, he began sketching and questioning again. “Are you faithful while he’s gone?”

“Absolutely.”

“He’s a good lover.” A statement, not a question.

“Beyond good,” Cristina said, a smile forming.

“Why? What makes him special?”

“It’s not what he does. It’s why he does it.”

“Why?”

“He loves me.”

Dead silence. His pencil skidded, seemed to dig a hole in the paper. Cristina watched his focus shift as he absorbed her words. She was enjoying his game, which tempted her, dared her, excited her—more than any man had done with actions. Part of his allure was the danger, she knew.

“What he does is also important,” he said.

She moved a shoulder. “Maybe. More important is how I feel afterward.”

He continued to sketch, his thoughts well hidden.

“You want to comment,” she said. “What’s stopping you?”

He hesitated. “You might change your mind about posing.”

“You’ve demanded honesty from me. You’ve managed to pry some of my secrets loose from moorings I didn’t think anyone could. Don’t deny me the same insight into what drives you.”

“Men view sex differently. Women like to fantasize that it’s different when she’s the right woman for him. It’s not true. It still comes down to physical satisfaction for men, not emotional.”

“Always?”

“I suppose I can’t speak for all men. We don’t discuss the point as women do. But I believe it’s so.”

She rolled her head, easing kinks settling in her neck, feeling sorry for him because he was so disillusioned about love.

“Tired?” he asked.

“A little.”

“Let’s stop for now. I’ll order lunch.”

He watched her shift her shoulders as he asked his housekeeper to serve lunch on the screened porch facing the garden. He hung up the phone just as Cristina put her hand on a stack of paintings leaning against a wall.

“May I?” she asked.

He had a decision to make, quickly. After a minute, he nodded. Then he waited.

At first she simply seemed caught up in the images she was examining, then something changed. She slowed down. Concentrated. Focused. She turned toward him, accusation in her eyes.

“These paintings are signed Marquez. But the style... It’s so distinctive. I couldn’t see it in the photographs. You’re—You’re not—”

“I am Gabriel Alejandro De La Hoya y Marquez.” And I am descended from kings.

The tag came automatically to mind, an old game he and his mother had played. She’d always made him say the whole thing together. He’d stopped when he was fifteen and knew better.

“I don’t understand,” she said, looking around. “There’s no curtain. No two-way mirror. There’s just—”

“Me and you. The ridiculous rumor is just that, Cristina, started by someone who thought it would be diverting to say that is the way De La Hoya works. It’s part of the mystique.”

“Why?”

“Why the secrecy? Because it places a higher value on the work.”

“And you’re only interested in making money.”

He watched her expression close up. He’d disappointed her. “I make a very comfortable living. I don’t need what I get from my art, but I enjoy the game, one I have to play out now because I’m too far into it to stop. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love it. I do. I also love the challenge of taking a losing company and making it successful. Or helping a determined immigrant start a business. Or endowing an artist. Painting feeds my soul. It also puts food on the plate of some starving artist, giving him or her the freedom to pursue their dreams full-time.”

They faced each other like duelists in the streets of the Old West. Cristina intentionally moved toward him, needing some kind of action, some forward momentum. The shock had immobilized her. “And you’ve already decided that I’m worthy of your trust. You don’t think I’d tell anyone the truth,” she said, studying his expression.

“I know it for a fact. We have a connection. That connection is only going to get stronger by your knowing the truth. Alejandro De La Hoya is a known quantity. Gabriel Marquez is not. Not as an artist, anyway. I want you to have confidence in me to do what’s right for you in this portraits. I think you would trust De La Hoya more than Marquez.”

“Well, you’re wrong.” She stopped in front of him. “I don’t think it will make a difference, except that I like knowing the truth. Your secret is safe with me.”

“I know.”

She smiled. “You were the tiniest bit worried, though, weren’t you? I could see it in your eyes.”

“It’s always a leap of faith.”

“I knew there was something you were keeping hidden.”

“Did you?”

She liked the arrogant lift of his brow. He was a complicated man who had just made himself more so, therefore more intriguing, and more dangerous. She would have to open up to him now in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

“Tell me, Gabe—Is that what I call you?”

He nodded.

“Tell me. Do you have affairs with your subjects? Jen was sure by looking at the paintings that you do.”

“Is that what you’re looking for?”

“I asked you first.”

He hesitated. “I choose my subjects carefully. Sometimes I’ve chosen to paint someone I’m involved with. Usually, it isn’t the case. Certainly the older I’ve gotten, the less the two mesh.”

“Thank you for your honesty.”

Gabe reached behind her and loosened the ribbon, pulling it slowly across her neck. “Now you must answer my question.”

She pressed a shaky hand to his chest. “If my father had his way, I’d be engaged to Jason Grimes today and married to him next week.”

“Which tells me nothing. Certainly it doesn’t answer my question. Are you looking to have an affair?”

She shifted her weight. “No.”

Her hesitation gave him a different answer, but he wouldn’t call her on it. Not yet. “All right.”

He found it endearing, the way surprise and disappointment washed across her face before she stepped back. What an innocent she was. If her father played the right cards—the emotional ones—she’d marry Jason Grimes. For her father’s sake, of course, not hers. She believed in love—or the fantasy of love. But she also believed in family. Losing weight to please her dying mother said it all.

Gabe loved his mother. She’d been the only constant in his life. But he had never allowed her to tell him how to live his life—

Except once. He had promised her he wouldn’t exact revenge against his father, worthless bastard that he was, even though the opportunity and means had been within Gabe’s reach many times. What was the purpose of having money and the power that came with it if he couldn’t use it as he wished?

In that sense he supposed he was like Arthur Chandler or Richard Grimes. Grimes would use his wealth to buy back lost power. Gabe would do the same thing, if necessary. The difference was that he would never get in the same kind of trouble—and expect his son to bail him out.

But the ultimate sacrificial lamb was Cristina Chandler. And lamb she was, one in need of protection. Her powerful but desperate father had turned her into a commodity, her value set according to how well she could get him out of a jam.

Then again, Gabe seemed to be doing the same thing.

“You’ve drifted to another time zone,” she commented.

“I was thinking I should paint you beneath a bower of ivy.”

“With flowers?”

“You are colorful enough on your own. Your dress should be white, even. Something outwardly virtuous.”

She raised her brows. “Outwardly?”

“At first glance you would seem the very essence of innocence, then when the viewer focuses on your face, there’ll be something different. The hidden depths, not so hidden.”

“My father won’t see it.”

“It doesn’t matter. You and I will see. And understand” He watched her pluck a purple mum from an arrangement on the chest. She snapped the stem a little shorter and tucked the bloom into her hair, over her ear.

“Do you have a dress that would be right?” he asked.

“Nothing remotely close.”

He nodded. “We will go shopping.”

Cristina sent an army of control to quell her rioting nerves. She’d been edgy when she arrived, had gotten edgier since then. Now, pinpricks of panic stabbed at her. “I’m capable of choosing a dress myself.”

“If you’re worried about me seeing what size dress you wear...”

She stiffened. What was he, psychic? A mind reader? She couldn’t go through with this, after all. He was burrowing deep inside her, this man who saw beyond what anyone else had ever seen. It scared her, excited her, baffled her. And it made her acknowledge feelings she’d never had before. She hadn’t lied to him, not consciously. She didn’t want an affair. She just didn’t know what she was going to do with these physical cravings and sexual yearnings, however.

“You’re not going to have any secrets from me when we’re done,” he finished.

“None?”

He shook his head. “In designer clothes, you wear a fourteen. Off the rack, a sixteen. I don’t give a damn. Neither should you. You told me yourself that you hated being thinner.”

How did he do that? He knew way too much about women. Yellow warning flags went up all around her. She ignored them. “But I also hate having you know what size I wear. I may have come to some acceptance of myself along the way, but you’re a man, after all. An attractive man.”

“A man who’s telling you this truth, Cristina. I think you’re beautiful just as you are. And this is the last time we are discussing this.” He touched the flower in her hair. “Relax with me. Be yourself. Be playful when you feel like it. Sensual when you feel like it Angry, even. Be you. You know that’s what you want more than anything. Trust me.”

“My mother told me never to trust a man who said, ‘Trust me.’”

“She sounds like a wise woman.”

“I miss her.”

The simplicity of her words made his gut clench. There were many levels of loneliness. He’d known a lot of them himself. But he’d chosen his life, chosen to be alone most of the time, to stay out of the limelight. The only person he’d ever missed was Sebastian, who’d done nothing to harm anyone in his entire life. Sebastian, who’d insisted on forging a friendship between four completely opposite boys and one girl. A friendship that had endured for eighteen years but was floundering now without the bond that Sebastian provided.

Sebastian had watched Gabe track Richard Grimes’s every move through the years and understood Gabe’s deep hatred of the man. More important, Sebastian had taken it upon himself to try to expose Grimes’s unscrupulous business dealings, Gabe should have trusted his instincts and not allowed Sebastian to make himself the bait. Now he was struggling to walk again—and fighting for his reputation as well.

“Gabe?”

He breathed again. “Yes?”

“You keep disappearing on me.”

He lifted her hand to his lips, felt her retreat at first, then relax. “After lunch we’ll do a little shopping, shall we, Miss Chandler?”

Cristina held her breath. Inhibitions fled her body faster than she could count to ten. He was offering her a freedom she’d never known. Suddenly, she felt safe. Very, very safe. He was going to demand a lot of her, but he wouldn’t hurt her. If she got hurt, it would be her own fault. This wasn’t a man looking for commitment. She understood that.

She wished he would kiss her mouth. She waited a few seconds, hoping he’d take the hint, or read her mind, or whatever he did to figure her out so well. But he just waited, the patience she’d seen in him from the beginning settling around them.

Plus, she’d said no, after all. She supposed she should respect him for taking her seriously.

“You can’t act like my lord and master while we shop.”

He smiled. “I promise.”

“No leaning back in a chair and scrutinizing each dress. No twirling your finger indicating I should turn around like some model.”

“Agreed.”

“Do you have any idea how hard it’s going to be to find a white dress this time of year?”

“Not if you know the right places to shop.”

Four

The air of the War Memorial Opera House was redolent with perfume. The auditorium echoed with low murmurs, cool laughter and rustling fabric, sounds suited to the exquisite setting. And Lady Luck smiled on Gabriel Marquez.

From his usual box seat he spotted Cristina’s brilliant hair as she walked down the aisle ten minutes prior to curtain, Jason’s hand resting against the small of her back. Her floor-length emerald green dress was simplicity itself. No glitter for this woman, not even on opening night Just a classic design that flattered her figure and complemented her coloring.

And he was irritatingly pleased the gown offered little view of her cleavage to the tall, blond man hovering nearby—unlike the gown she would wear for her De La Hoya portrait.

After a great deal of debate the afternoon before, she’d agreed to a champagne-colored silk with skinny straps and a scooped bodice.

Oh, she’d argued against the cut of the gown, believing that a portrait destined to be hung in a family gallery for generations should be tasteful. From behind her, he’d caught and held her gaze in the mirror.

“Who do you look like, Cristina? Your mother?”

“No. Her maternal grandmother.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because her portrait—Oh. I see your point.”

“Your great-granddaughter will like knowing how she comes by her looks.”

“I yield to your expertise, Gabe. However, I don’t believe we need to show quite so much ‘looks.’”

His body had grazed hers as he moved a little closer. He fingered her dress strap where it touched her shoulder blade. Her flesh tightened under his knuckles. “It will be tasteful enough to hang in the White House.”

Gabe recalled the breath she’d held for a long time, then her silent assent. She was pitifully easy to read, and far too open with him for her own good. Plus, she was ripe for an affair, hungry to experience sexual freedom, which was part of the reason she’d embarked on a life independent of her father—even if she hadn’t acknowledged it to herself yet.

He understood the risk she was taking—be thrived on risks, after all—but he had to prevent the marriage-merger of Cristina and Jason. Could he do that without sleeping with her? His original plan had included intimacy—the graphically imagined rumpled sheets and morning sun. How else could he entice her away, not only from Jason’s persistent pursuit, but from her father’s influence?

It was a test of his own character, Gabe decided. Ethics weren’t foreign to him, after all. But he had to be very, very careful this time. A seduction—and yet, not. A little heartbreak would be unavoidable, perhaps. Something bearable. Something memorable. Even educational. She wouldn’t be so gullible again.

“If you hurt someone for your own gain, the victory is hollow, hijo.” He ignored his mother’s voice that seemed to speak directly into his conscience, disappointment weighing heavily in the words. However, it wouldn’t be his victory alone, but Sebastian’s. The reward justified the risk.

Gabe focused on Cristina again as Jason, seated now, pointed to something in the program. She nodded, her shimmering hair bouncing softly.

“This place reeks of money,” the woman seated beside Gabe announced.

He took his eyes off Cristina to smile at his companion as he eyed her concession to getting dressed up—a black silk tunic and palazzo pants that she’d probably borrowed. She hated dressing up. In fact, he hadn’t seen her wear a dress since her wedding gown years ago. “You look beautiful, Les.”

“Save your slick charm for someone who’s susceptible, Gabriel.”

He smiled leisurely as he stretched an arm across the back of her chair. “I thought you’d be feeling pretty mellow after all the wine you had with dinner.”

“Well, I’m not.”

He studied her for a minute, then dragged his chair closer and covered her hands, clenched tightly in her lap, with his. “You want to talk about it, Les?”

“No.” She blew out a breath. “No, thanks,” she said, more gently. “I know you’ll listen, Gabe. I just need to work some things out by myself.”

“Ben?”

She looked away. “Who else?”

The lights faded. Anticipation built into an anxious silence. Then music washed over them, transporting the audience to another world.

“It’s not his fault, you know,” Leslie whispered, leaning closer. “It’s no one’s fault.”

Gabe didn’t agree, but this wasn’t the time or place. “Let the music take you away for a while,” he said. He should be heeding his own advice, he supposed, but he watched Cristina instead—and wondered if she was holding hands with Jason Grimes.

Cristina hated her—the woman she spotted with Gabe during intermission. She was tall and model slender. Her short auburn hair framed a face so perfect she didn’t seem to need makeup. And she had enough nerve to wear pants to opening night.

Hate wasn’t a strong enough word, not when envy and resignation got tossed into the mix, as well. And they looked so...comfortable together, her arm looped through his, her head pressing his shoulder as they laughed together.

Cristina sipped the wine Jason had brought her, before he excused himself, heading in the direction of the men’s room. And she waited for Gabe to notice her across the crowded lobby.

Why hadn’t he told her he was coming tonight when she’d said she was? Perhaps he was hoping they wouldn’t run into each other. Their relationship couldn’t be public knowledge because Alejandro De La Hoya was a secret. A dark, magnificent secret.

She shivered and looked away, recalling their shopping expedition yesterday—his interest in each new dress she tried on, his sudden intensity when she’d finally slipped into the champagne silk. His silent and complete approval, communicated by the way his posture turned military, his eyes narrowed and lips compressed. He’d moved behind her, looking in the mirror as she turned side to side.

“Not exactly the stuff of grand portraits,” she’d said.

“It’s perfect.”

His gaze had drifted down her, made a slow return trip, then locked with hers. “Perfect.”

Again she’d hoped he would kiss her. Again he ignored her unspoken wish. There was just that feathery touch where her strap grazed her skin. At first she’d thought she imagined it, then heat spread from that one spot. Tentacles of fire flashed down her veins.

“Ready to go back in, Cris?”

Reality yanked her out of the memory. Jason blocked her view of Gabe, who either had not seen her—or didn’t want to be seen with her. What did he think, that she would fawn over him in front of his date? He was probably used to that, but—

“I’m ready, Jason,” she said, but the enjoyment of the evening evaporated like the fading sizzle of a summer rain hitting a scorched sidewalk.

Gabe watched Cristina until the lights faded again. She’d spent the minute or so before intermission ended looking around the auditorium, something she hadn’t done before the first act. He knew the moment she’d spotted him. He pretended not to notice.

Leslie leaned in his direction. “So, who’s the gorgeous redhead you’ve been eyeing all night and pretending not to?”