His Seductive Revenge. Susan Crosby

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      Jen sighed. “I’ll bet he’d have me shouting timber more than once a night.”

      Cristina laughed. She was glad she’d come, after all. She’d almost ignored the out-of-the-blue, engraved invitation, probably would have, except that Jen refused to let her. Too many strange things had happened lately, and she needed an evening of pure fun.

      “So, what’s the deal with this portrait your dad is arranging?” Jen asked. “I know that De La Hoya is all the rage, but isn’t he, like, superexpensive?”

      “Not only expensive, but incredibly mysterious. No one ever sees him.”

      “How is that possible?”

      “The rumor is that he works behind some sort of curtain or two-way mirror. I don’t know the specifics. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Even if De La Hoya agrees, I’m not going to allow it. I don’t think Father can afford to spend that kind of money, even if it does complete the family gallery. Besides which, it just seems so pretentious.”

      “That is often the point, I believe,” said a man from behind them, his voice as hushed and seductive as the environment demanded.

      Cristina and Jen turned. He’d obviously been eavesdropping on their conversation.

      “Pretension is the point?” Cristina asked. His eyes mesmerized her, their dark, glittering depths pulling her in, stopping her breath. Not quite civilized. The thought flashed in her mind, fizzled, then flared again even brighter when he moved a little closer. She watched his mouth as he spoke.

      “Don’t you believe we buy art not only for how it makes us feel, but for how our friends will react?” he asked.

      “No.” His lips looked soft and firm. She almost touched them. “Art is very personal to me,” she added.

      He made the slightest shift in his stance, as if a soldier at attention had been ordered at ease. “Gabriel Marquez,” he said, extending his hand.

      “Cristina Chandler.”

      “And I’m Jen, the ignored one. I’m here, too. Although you two sure couldn’t tell it the last couple of minutes,” she grumbled. “I’m going to feed my noisy and empty stomach, Cris. Do you want anything?”

      Cristina shook her head, taking an unobtrusive step back at the same time. He was crowding her space, and she needed breathing room. “I’m to assume that you have a collection of art you’ve bought merely to shock or pacify your friends?” she asked, then sipped her wine, giving herself a moment to admire him, from his almost black hair, on down his lean, broad-shouldered body. He wore a tuxedo comfortably, not looking as if he wished he were at home in sweats.

      “Like you, art is personal to me, Miss Chandler. Although certainly some pieces have shocked my friends.” They wandered to the next painting. “This one, for example. What do you think of it?”

      Unlike the other portraits, this piece had an almost photographic feel to it, the sepia tones warm but the image stark. A bridal gown lay jumbled on the floor beside the woman portrayed. Tulle from her veil wound around her feet. Otherwise she was nude, her arms drawn across her body in a classic pose to hide her womanliness, the bouquet she carried startling against her pale abdomen. Her eyes were downcast. A lone tear trailed her cheek.

      The untitled painting bothered Cristina in ways she’d have to think about later. Her initial reaction was simple, however, and she offered it to the still, silent man beside her. “I think a bride should look more like the woman in the first portrait. This woman’s not in love.”

      “My impression as well. It is De La Hoya’s newest work, I understand.”

      “I wonder why he didn’t title it. It seems obvious to me... Sacrifice,” she said.

      He angled his head toward her. She felt a heat from his gaze that seared her all the way through.

      “Why do you call it that?” he asked.

      “There’s something old-worldly about it. About all of De La Hoya’s work. In this one I see a woman of another century, one who didn’t choose her groom, but was chosen.”

      “An obedient woman.”

      “But only to a degree.” Cristina gestured at the painting with her wineglass. “It’s there, in her posture—that little bit of defiance. She may not have choices, but she still has freedom of thought.”

      “And what will that gain her?”

      The hushed intensity of his voice made her hesitate. Something about the man hypnotized. Enticed. Lured.

      “Self-satisfaction, Mr. Marquez. No one can take her soul.”

      “Unless she weakens.”

      Cristina didn’t know what to make of him. He was a cool one. And intelligent. And still she sensed he was not quite civilized. Dangerous. Yes, the word suited him. Temptingly dangerous, unlike any other man she’d known.

      “What a strange conversation,” she said, forcing a smile. “How did we even start it?”

      “Because I watched you—”

      Sparks ignited in her body as she waited for him to finish the sentence. Why in the world was a man like him interested in her? She couldn’t fathom why he had picked her out of the crowd.

      “I watched the way you studied the work,” he said finally. “You have a critical eye. A discerning one. Your friend, for example, reacted emotionally to the paintings.”

      “So did I.”

      “Yes. But you study why it affects you. You have an artist’s heart.”

      It wasn’t a line. She didn’t know why she knew that, but she was sure of it. Another man might have used the same words, and she would have scoffed at them—and walked away. This wasn’t a man given to idle flattery.

      Still, why had he singled her out? She usually attracted the intellectual types, or the needy ones. Not intense, attractive, dangerous men who made her wish she was a different kind of woman altogether. A prettier woman. A sexier woman.

      No, men weren’t drawn to her because their hormones jumped when they were around her. They were drawn to her because—

      “Look who I found!”

      Jen’s cheerful announcement seemed an abomination in the rarefied air of the Galeria Secreto. To make matters worse, Jen had Jason Grimes in tow. Jason, who had become her shadow. Jason, who had suddenly become her father’s favorite topic of conversation. She suspected she knew the reason why, but she intended to ignore it for as long as possible.

      “If you’d told me you were coming tonight, Cris, I would have escorted you,” Jason said.

      If I’d wanted to be escorted, I would have called you, Cristina thought, too polite to say the words in public. Especially not with him standing there, listening, watching. “I didn’t think you cared much about art,” she said before introducing the men.

      “If you will excuse me.” Gabriel СКАЧАТЬ