Unpredictable Love

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Mallory Court Hotel

12:00 p.m.

“I trust you’ll find the food excellent,” he said, parking his car in front of a Lutyens-style main house, the epitome of a classic English country house.

After she had changed clothes and came to meet him in the studio, he had known she would capture the attention of all the men in Mallory Court. It was not that her dress was transparent, clingy, short, or even brand-new. Far from that. She was wearing a lilac turtleneck long-sleeve maxi dress with a large gray belt low on her hips and gray flat booties. The vintage outfit emphasized her youth and put his imagination on fire. He wanted to rip off her dress and devour her breasts.

He wasn’t quite sure what they had talked about or what had happened on the way to the hotel, as her sweet scent wrapped him in its flowery vine.

As he helped her out of the car, the warmth of his hands penetrated through her dress. She kept her hands on his shoulders when he didn’t let go of her waist immediately, striving to ignore how rigid and well formed his muscles were. Damn, Laetitia! Stop these thoughts. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Wee lasses tend to have a difficult time descending from my car in long dresses, unaided.” And man, I’ve developed an appreciation for wee lasses in long dresses.

She wanted to point out that everything would be wee when compared to him, but she just said again, “Thank you.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, lest he would pick her up in his arms and take her directly to a room. Focus on something else. “You have a lilting Gaelic accent. But you’re not Scottish, are you?”

Her accent was unusual: English upper-middle class, with a shadow of Irish Gaelic and a rich tinge of French.

When she shook her head, he asked, “Where are you from?”

“Ireland,” she said curtly. The wind stirred through the trees, crashing branches together and sending leaves to the ground. Laetitia stifled a shudder. Careful, or you’ll fall like these leaves.

As they walked into the hotel toward the art deco–inspired restaurant, he shortened his stride to match hers, which made him look languid like a prowling panther. “Have you been living here long?”

“Yeah,” she murmured.

Mysterious, eh? He raised an eyebrow. “Are you always so evasive?”

“Are you always so inquisitive?” she countered with a smile.

“Touché,” he said. Denying me answers will get you nowhere. I’ll probe until you tell me everything.

Before he could inquire further, she said, “And you are Scottish.”

“Half-English, half-Scottish. My mother was English. My father is a Highlander. I was raised between London and the Highlands.”

Her eyes wandered over his face, large shoulders, and broad chest. He carried himself with a confident poise that inspired trust and respect, if not fear. She could effortlessly imagine him wearing nothing but a kilt, with a sword strapped to his back, scars marring his body. You’ve been reading too many romantic novels, Laetitia!

The maître d’ directed them to a table overlooking the breathtaking grounds of the hotel, and a waiter served them water as the sommelier approached bringing the wine list.

They made small talk, trying to disguise the undercurrent of lust flowing between them. The sommelier brought the wine, tasted it, and poured for Tavish.

She looked at his sensual mouth on the rim of the glass, and her eyes wandered down to take in the movement of his strong throat swallowing and his large hand handling the delicate stem of the crystal glass. Laetitia’s heart slammed in her chest, and the tingles she felt when he had held her hand returned.

“What’s so interesting?” he asked.

She blinked and raised her eyes to his face.

He was observing her closely; the maddening ink-black eyebrow raised once more.

“Are you a wine appreciator? I am, too.” She opened the menu to hide her embarrassment. “Hmm…I’ll have the wild mushroom risotto with truffle oil.”

“No appetizer?” When she shook her head, he signaled a waiter, who approached. “We are ready to order. For the lady, the mushroom risotto, as main course. For me, the goat cheese and cherry tomato omelet as starter, and after, the tagliatelle pasta and Roma tomatoes.”

As soon as the waiter vanished, he asked, “Your family still lives in Ireland?”

“I have no family,” she said curtly, crossing her arms to end the subject and to close him out.

The action had a different effect, as the swell of her breasts pushed against the soft cashmere. He pictured her beneath him, her n*****s brushing his chest as he pounded into her.

His own reaction made him curiouser and curiouser.

He gave himself a brisk mental shake. Jesus, Tavish. Stop that! “Why did you move to Leamington?”

“Nearer London, better market,” she offered curtly.

And for the first time since they met, he noticed her closing down, the walls rising, and the barbs sharpening. He recognized it easily, the need for protection; he had done it himself many times, but it didn’t bode well for his instincts. I’ll disarm you, and you’ll tell me everything. Masking the wild vibes emanating from his mind and body, he said in a businesslike manner, “Makes sense. What’s your concept?”

“If you want, you can make up my…uh…concept.” She scrunched up her pert nose. “I leave such things as concepts of art to others. The art critics speak in such a complicated language, using so many big words, that the art itself is relegated to the background.”

“A refreshing thought, Laetitia,” he said, the unfamiliar desire to grin tugging once more at his lips. “But, please, don’t tell this to any critics, or I won’t be able to sell you.”

“In fact, I’m not at all worried about what the critics would say about me, but about my art.” Laetitia drilled her short, clean nails on the glass tabletop.

He almost hissed with the imagined pleasure of her hands on him, her nails digging in as he showed her how good it would be if they came together. You can’t have her. He shook his head to himself. Again.

“I don’t understand why an artist’s life or one’s art needs a concept explained in minute details.”

“It doesn’t,” he said, and felt totally disconnected from his next words: “But the concept helps art critics to contextualize aesthetics and theorize the beauty of the connection. It pursues a rational political, social basis or inside purpose for your art. Well-known, positive opinions from critics facilitate the presentation of you as a new artist and promotes the sales of your work.”

“I think art is to be appreciated, not explained.”

Aye, and I want to appreciate yours. At the inner badly waxed poetry, he snorted softly. Aloud.

And she started. “Why do you want people to find my work hard to understand?”

She is making you crazy! “Art is to project ambiguity,” he said, clearing his throat, willing his turbulence away for the moment. “Just go out in the world and everything you confront, from the prescription for your medicine to your grocery list and your job description and everything in between, is in some way or another trying to eliminate ambiguity. It’s like science and religion. There are things which are designed to explain away mystery, but there are those which are better developed in blind faith.”

Blind faith, ha! She didn’t like her work linked to faith, but it was not time to talk about her issues with it. As he talked and explained how the art market worked, her mind wandered, only half listening, her subconscious watching his mouth and hands. To her artistic eyes, his handsomeness was rugged, brutal, pure animal male. He would never be referred to as beautiful.

“So, forget the concept. What inspired you to create your series, Laetitia?”

Her name brought her back to the conversation. “I think art is the opposite of science. Unrestrained by definition and clarity, my art is opened to interpretation. One can think it’s about overt lies or secret needs.” Her hands moved in the air as if she could paint her ideas with them. “Unseen beauty or plain ugliness. Hidden agendas. Wild desires. Unnecessary deaths or forgotten births. The black-and-white magic of every day—” She stopped when she noticed his eyebrows had shot high on his face. “Hmm…basically, my work is the outcome of our lives, be they in a fortunate or ruined status, Mr. MacCraig.”

Our? Her words hit a place too near his heart. “Tavish Uilleam. Call me Tavish Uilleam. Are the paintings about your own anxieties, then?”

“Hmm. I’d say every creative artist is involved in their own affairs and neuroses, even when they are expressing their feelings over the more worldly situations. I don’t want the spectator to see my work as representations of myself or my take on the world but more if it were a painting done by nobody, who used my hand. Actually…” Her pale-brown eyebrows lowered as she mused how to correctly answer his question. She snapped her fingers as she grasped what she wished to express. “Actually, I want my art to be a catalyst for different reactions in different people, like a magic potion whose effects can only be known after each individual imbibes it and discovers what it does uniquely to them.”

“And you don’t think you have a concept?” He stared incredulously at her, the s****l tension there, but half forgotten, more focused on her ideas as she spoke so passionately about her work. “It’s one of the most perfect concepts I have ever heard.”

She made an elegant gesture with her slender shoulders as if she didn’t care. “What is important for me is…umm…the collective unconscious. That is why I carve the stencil for the paint to be layered on. Without us knowing, this collective unconscious controls and impacts the lives of the majority of people. It directs our everyday routine, so it’s quite interesting to describe in my paintings the life of those who failed to live as they or others expected them to do. The concept is not really that important to me.”

During the rest of the meal, the safe subject of the gallery, art, and general subjects helped them both relax in the company of each other.

When she excused herself to go to the restroom, she realized she was enjoying herself, as she hadn’t for a long time.

She came back to the table, eager to continue where they left off. When she looked around, she saw that they were the only ones in the restaurant. The unobtrusive service and simply exquisite food had allowed the hours to slip away unnoticed as they talked. And here lies the danger, Laetitia. Are you going to be fooled again? She looked at her watch, praying the baron was still in London with his family. “It’s late. I must go.”

He signaled for the waiter to bring the check. Still, he had a million unanswered questions. He knew there was more to her, and he decided he was going to discover who she really was, why she behaved so skittishly, and why she was so evasive about her private life. When an idea was planted in his mind, it was impossible to sway him. He would nag and cajole, until she begged for mercy and ceded.

Tavish stood and held the chair for her.

They walked out of the restaurant and crossed the elegantly furnished corridor and hall. Outside the house, Tavish’s car already waited.

He had escorted her with a hand on the small of her back, barely touching her, and helped her in the car before rounding it to get in.

Although they seemed like gentlemanly actions, they came from a need to deepen touch—a desire to further that tiny physical connection of hands.

Laetitia had achieved what she had yearned to have for years: a job and a place where she could live alone and in peace, but it now seemed a silly wish.

She wanted the man sitting beside her in the car; there was no denying it. She was shocked by how much she wanted to say yes to everything he was proposing. Yes to selling her paintings in London, yes to a sole exposition, yes to the exclusivity and to whatever came after. And yes to his unspoken desire, too.

He might not care about your past. But nothing had changed since Tavish had arrived at her doorstep. Nothing but the possibility of her childhood dreams being fulfilled. The rest continued exactly the same: herself, her life, and her world. Everything was rotten and ruined as before. Or he might care about it too much, and it would be the end of Laetitia.

On the drive back to the lodge, the only sound came from the window wipers. They were each immersed in their own thoughts and sensations.