His Seductive Revenge. Susan Crosby

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      “Who was that?” Jason asked.

      “I’ve never met him before. We were discussing the portraits.”

      Jason looked around. “Some good stuff here. Sexy.”

      There was a difference between sexy and sexual, but she knew Jason wouldn’t be interested in discussing nuance and subtlety when all he saw was a nude female body. She looked past him. Mr. Marquez stopped to talk with an elegant middle-aged woman. He held her hand; his thumb brushed her skin. Goose bumps rose on Cristina’s flesh. Warmth spiraled in her hand.

      The woman smiled at him, then pouted, then flirted, using her eyes like invitations. Oh, please don’t let me have looked at him like that, Cristina prayed.

      

      Gabe watched her with Jason Grimes. He’d detected no sign of recognition from Grimes at their introduction, had seen nothing in the younger man’s aristocratic features except jealousy, then dismissal. If Grimes happened to mention meeting Gabe to his father, the repercussions could be fascinating, indeed. He almost wished for it to happen.

      Sipping a scotch and water, he shifted his gaze to observe the woman, not particularly pleased with her familiarity with Grimes, who angled close to her as they discussed a painting.

      She was much different from what he’d anticipated from the photo, which obviously hadn’t been taken recently. For one thing, she’d gained weight. And not just a few pounds. She looked softer, more approachable, less brittle, not the cool, sleek woman of privilege he’d expected. More than that, there was a lushness to her that made him think of rumpled sheets and a morning sun—which made his task not only easier but something he looked forward to.

      Her generous curves were clothed in a sapphire blue dress that was simple and elegant, and perfect for her—high-necked and sleeveless, fitted at the waist, hugging her hips. Her hair shimmered like fire, a shade somewhere between gold and red, and had the slightest curl to the thick fullness that fell over her shoulders. Her eyes were blue, as he’d guessed, but flecked with gold and...innocence.

      Innocence held no appeal for him, either in body or spirit.

      He would have the gallery manager, Raymond, photograph her tonight, unobtrusively, from several angles.

      He 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. СКАЧАТЬ