His Seductive Revenge. Susan Crosby
started to take another sip, then stopped, the glass an inch from his lips as he considered everything he knew about her. The irony didn’t escape him—Cristina Chandler would be perfect for Sebastian.
Gabe toasted the air. Sorry, old friend. He swallowed the contents of the glass and grimaced, diverting his thoughts.
The secret to knowing who this woman was and how useful she might be was somehow connected to why she’d gained weight. Or perhaps when the earlier photo was taken she’d lost weight. Whichever had occurred, there was a reason, as well as a reason for why she’d moved out of the family home and into her own apartment in San Francisco. And why she could afford to do so when her father was in debt to his earlobes. All these issues should be addressed before he took the next step.
He focused on her once more as she examined another canvas, the most traditional portrait of the showing, and yet she seemed to see something beneath the surface, something that held her attention much longer than it had her friends’, who had both moved on. She pressed her wineglass to her lips, dragged it across them, touched the tip of her tongue just below the rim, like a lover’s caress.
She turned then and caught him staring. He didn’t look away. He knew how to court a woman, how to flatter, how to seduce. The only women he respected were the ones who turned him down. If that said something deplorable about him, so be it. Respect wasn’t necessary for a satisfactory liaison, not for the routinely brief duration of his relationships, anyway.
She looked away first. He went in search of Raymond.
Two
Two days later Gabe watched from his vantage point inside the Galena Secreto as Cristina walked up the street. For the unusually warm fall weather, she wore a simple long skirt and low-necked T-shirt in the same shade of lavender, but relieved by a flashy necklace of multicolored, sparkly glass beads.
A tinkling bell announced her as she breezed through the front door and headed for Raymond’s desk. Gabe scarcely breathed, not wanting to alert her to his presence.
He didn’t have answers to all of his questions yet—and he shouldn’t proceed until he did—but he didn’t have the luxury of unlimited time, either. Although there could be a certain satisfaction in disrupting their engagement after the fact, too, he didn’t want to wait that long.
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