An Irresistible Bachelor (6 page)

“There, now, that's not so bad, is it?” he teased with a smile.

“Mr. Walker—”

“Jack.”

“Jack,”
she repeated, “why don't we talk about the job?”

“You don't want us to get to know each other a little bit?”

“That's not what I'm here for.”

He shrugged while spearing a strawberry with his fork. “So loosen up. Live a little. You might even like me if you got to know me.”

“I doubt that.” She shook her head, wondering if she was ever going to learn to think before she spoke to the man. “Listen, I—”

“I'm hurt, Ms. Burke,” he murmured. “Or may I call you Callie?”

She rolled her eyes. He didn't seem hurt. In fact, he looked perfectly content as he munched on his breakfast.

If this guy has a tender ego, Callie thought, I'm the tooth fairy.

She gave it another shot. “No offense, but I'm really just interested in the painting.”

“Well, maybe I want to learn a little more about you.”

“You know my professional background. What else is there?”

He shot her a dry look. “You don't like to talk about yourself?”

“Not to you, no.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I have a feeling that anything I say might be used against me.”

He laughed, a big, easy sound. “I'm not the police. You're not a criminal. At least as far as I know.”

As he smiled at her, she made busywork by spreading cream cheese on the bagel. “So about Nathaniel—”

“You are bound and determined not to enjoy breakfast with me, aren't you?” he said laconically.

“I can't imagine I'd enjoy anything with—” She flushed as he sent her a sharp look. Waving her hand in the air, as if she could erase her words, she muttered, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

He considered her for a moment. “You're very honest. And you don't let yourself get pushed around, do you?”

Callie's mouth almost dropped open. Both because he seemed to approve of her candidness and because he was so off base.

How little he knew, she thought, putting the knife down. She'd had to absorb the fallout from her mother's emotional theatrics for years. She'd accepted being relegated to a shameful footnote in her father's life without ever challenging him or telling him how much it hurt. Hell, she'd taken the brunt of Stanley's peevish nature day after day without sticking up for herself.

But Jack Walker didn't need to know all that. And she was quite content to relish his misunderstanding in private.

“Why is it so important that I work for you?” she asked abruptly.

He picked up his cup and she saw his gold cuff links flash.

“We all need a start in life,” he said. “You've worked hard and you deserve a chance to make a name for yourself. You've interned with some of the best in the field, but you need to branch out and do something that'll get you noticed. Make your mark.”

It was sound advice and a generous inclination on his part. But she didn't know him and he didn't owe her, and that meant the pat explanation didn't hold water. She wondered if Grace had said something. Was he doing this as a favor to her?

“What did Grace tell you about me?” she asked.

He regarded her evenly. “That you're a friend of hers. That you're talented. That it was important to her for you to have a chance at this project. Why?”

“Nothing.” She tried to sort through the implications of Grace having a hand in her career. She appreciated the support, although she'd have preferred to get the job solely on her own merits. But maybe she had. Jack Walker didn't seem the type who'd hire anyone on the basis of sentimentality.

And now she better understood why he'd tracked her down.

“Is there a problem?” he asked as she stayed silent.

“I just don't want to be a charity case,” she blurted.

He frowned and then laughed.

“Then you'll be pleased to know that my lack of philanthropic interest is legendary. You've got the credentials and you're going to work for every penny. My money's far too important to me to have it any other way.” He gestured at her clothes. “Besides, if you can afford to wear Chanel, you're not exactly starving. Although I have to say, I'm surprised you have a workshop in such a worn-down building.”

“Workshop?”

He frowned. “The one in Chelsea.”

Callie almost laughed. He thought she worked where she lived? It was certainly conceivable. There were a lot of artists' studios in her neighborhood.

She was about to disabuse him of the error when she decided to keep quiet. There was no reason to tell the man her life story, and if he thought she had money, it worked in her favor by putting them on more equal footing.

As she fell silent again, he let out a frustrated noise. “Fine, no more chitchat. When can you start?”

“As soon as you want me to.”

“Can you be in Boston the day after tomorrow?”

“Boston?” She stiffened.

“The painting is going to be shipped to my home on Tuesday.”

“Oh. I'd assumed it would stay here.”

“I don't live here.”

“But you could have the portrait bonded and leave it with me,” she said hopefully.

“That's not what I had in mind.”

And she could tell his mind was made up. “This changes everything.”

“Why?”

“All my contacts are here. My, ah, work space. My tools.”

“None of that will be a problem,” he said smoothly.

Maybe not for him, she thought.

“I'll see to everything for you,” he continued. “And I'd like you to stay at Buona Fortuna while you work.”

“Where?”

“My house.
Buona fortuna
means good fortune in Italian. My great-great-grandmother had a fondness for the Renaissance period.” He took another croissant from the basket. “I'm going to dedicate studio space to you, get you whatever equipment you need. You can set up everything exactly as you want it.”

She pictured herself sleeping under the same roof as him and the pool of heat that set up shop in her stomach made her want to get away from the man, not move in with him.

“I don't know whether that would be such a good idea. It could be at least six weeks. That's a long time for a guest.”

“True. But it's a big house.”

Yeah, well, the damn thing could be the size of a football field and it would still be too small, she thought.

“I don't know.”

“I won't charge you for the hospitality,” he said with disapproval. “If that's what you're worried about. I'll still pay you the same.”

And then he named a price that almost made her fall out of the chair.

With that kind of money, she wouldn't have to worry about rent for a year and then some. She'd be able to do a job search in comfort. She could start a nest egg.

Callie tried to keep her voice level. “That's very generous.”

“It's the going rate for a professional. And remember, I'll get you anything you need for your work on the painting.”

She hesitated, finding it hard to imagine doing the job in a private home. It wasn't impossible, but it would complicate things.

“Why is it so important that the work be performed at your house?”

“No museum is going to get the mistaken impression that my painting is hanging on any wall but my own. I've been burned a few times, having to wrestle pieces back once they'd been conserved, even if I've footed the bill for the restoration. The attachment can become personal for some conservationists and their museums, which is another reason why you're attractive to me.” There was a slight pause. “You're unaffiliated with an institution, so there'll be no confusion.”

“But I'll need equipment that will be either prohibitively expensive or hard to get.”

“There are no such things,” he said, pouring himself some more coffee.

Taking a sip, he looked at her over the rim and she shifted her eyes to his pinkie ring. She was close enough to see that it had a crest on it and she thought that with the money and connections he had, there was probably nothing Jack Walker couldn't get his hands on.

No material possessions, at any rate.

“If there's something you absolutely can't do onsite, we can take it to the MFA. I've already spoken with their head of conservation and he's offered to help even though I've made it clear that I'm going to have an independent do the work.” He wiped his mouth on his napkin and leaned back in the chair. “So, you see, everything is arranged. All you need to do is show up.”

Callie wavered, thinking the job was taking her in directions she wasn't entirely comfortable with.

Moving sharply, Walker threw down his napkin and got to his feet. “I've got a meeting in ten minutes. I know my terms are generous so I'm not inclined to negotiate. Are you in or out?”

As she measured his expression, she realized he was totally prepared to walk away, and that eased some of her concern.

She took a deep breath. “Where should I meet you in Boston?”

Showing no particular reaction, he walked over to a desk.

“My house is in Wellesley. We live on Cliff Road.” He bent down and wrote something with a gold pen. “That's the address and phone number. I'll make a point to be there by five on Tuesday.”

He handed her the paper and she squinted at the wide scrawl. His handwriting was barely legible.

“Is this a nine?” she asked, surprised at how sloppy it was.

He nodded and smiled. “My penmanship has always been awful. It was one of many things my father never liked about me. A therapist would probably tell you my enduring carelessness is a passive-aggressive expression of independence targeted at a dead man. But I reject that theory out of hand.”

She couldn't help it. The corners of her mouth lifted.

“You don't smile very often, do you?” he said softly.

Callie folded her napkin and stood up, clearing her throat. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

Walker extended his hand to her and looked darkly amused as she just stared at it. When she finally stuck her hand out, his fingers wrapped around hers and she felt a surge of warmth shoot up her arm. She pulled back quickly and went over to pick up her coat.

He frowned as he looked at it.

“May I help you with that?” he murmured.

She shook her head, draped it over her arm, and headed for the door.

“Callie?”

She halted and looked over her shoulder.

Jack Walker stared at her for a long time, his eyes lingering on her hair and then moving downward. She shifted her coat so it blocked his view of her body, feeling as though she was being measured against something. She wondered what the standard was.

When he said nothing, she got antsy. “Good-bye, Mr. Walker.”

“Jack. Call me Jack.”

She didn't bother replying and left his suite quickly.

As she rode down in the elevator, her body shaking and her head in a fog, she had to remind herself that she'd survived a hell of a lot worse than the job offer of a lifetime. Just because her new boss was capable of melting paint off a wall with those hazel eyes of his didn't mean she should be overwhelmed.

She just had to be strong.

And, fortunately, she'd spent a lifetime in training for that.

 

Jack stared at the door.

She was really quite attractive. He'd never bought that whole passionate redhead cliché, but there was a real fire in her. He loved how she stood up to him and the fact that she fought harder whenever she was especially uncomfortable.

Was she with someone? She didn't wear a wedding ring, but maybe there was a boyfriend in the picture.

He frowned, thinking that shouldn't be relevant.

The phone rang and he answered it. Grayson Bennett, his college roommate, was on the line.

“I've cleared my calendar,” Gray said. “I'm ready to spend the next month or so assessing your candidacy in Boston.”

“Excellent. What's the first order of business?”

“We're going to set up your exploratory committee. We'll pull together ten or twelve people from different sectors in the state and do a quiet assessment of the landscape. We need to know who will back you and who's going to be trouble, what kind of money we can raise, how you're perceived. Should take four or five weeks.”

“When are you coming in?”

“Tomorrow night. I'm staying at the Four Seasons.”

“You bringing female company?” As a resounding no came over the line, Jack laughed. “No more—what was her name? Sarah?”

“Sophia. No, she's gone. She was starting to talk rings, and as you know, I'm allergic to diamonds. She's a good woman—for someone else.”

After they hung up, Jack headed for the bedroom to finish getting dressed. For a long time, he and Gray had shared the same view of marriage, namely that it was right for other people. But hell, if he could change his mind, so could Gray.

Just not when it came to Sophia, evidently.

The grandfather clock in the corner started to chime and Jack hurried up.

In a few minutes, he was going to meet with two brothers, one a physician and the other an engineer. Bryan and Kevin McKay had devised a new, faster, and cleaner way of processing blood products like plasma and platelets. They had the proper patents, so the intellectual property rights were sewn up, and with some good contracts with a few hospitals, they had an income stream. Currently housed in a small shop on the West Coast, they wanted to expand and they needed some big money. If they had the right mix of debt to equity and some reasonable growth projections, Jack figured there was a potential to make some money.