Kathleen stared after her. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she whispered to Destiny’s retreating back. “I am not looking for a husband, especially not some wounded, artistic type.”
It was a type she knew all too well. It was the type she’d married, fought with and divorced. And while that had made her eminently qualified to run an art gallery and cope with artistic temperament, it had also strengthened her resolve never, ever, to be swept off her feet by another artist.
Tim Radnor had been kind and sensitive when they’d first met. He’d adored Kathleen, claiming she was his muse. But when his work faltered, she’d discovered that he had a cruel streak. There had been flashes of temper and stormy torrents of hurtful words. He’d never laid a hand on her, but his verbal abuse had been just as intolerable. Her marriage had been over within months. Healing had taken much longer.
As a result of that tumultuous marriage, she could deal with the craziness when it came to business, but not when it affected her heart.
If romance was on Destiny’s mind, she was doomed to disappointment, Kathleen thought, already steeling her resolve. Ben Carlton could be the sexiest, most charming and most talented artist on the planet and it wouldn’t matter. She would remain immune, because she knew all too well the dark side of an artistic temperament.
Firm words. Powerful resolve. She had ’em both. But just in case, Kathleen gazed skyward. “Help me out here, okay?”
“Is trouble?” a deep male voice asked quizzically.
Kathleen jumped. She’d forgotten all about Boris. Turning, she faced him and forced a smile. “No trouble, Boris. None at all.” She would see to it.
* * *
Only a faint, pale hint of sunlight streamed across the canvas, but Ben Carlton was hardly aware that night was falling. It was like this when a painting was nearing completion. All he could see was what was in front of his eyes, the layers of color, the image slowly unfolding, capturing a moment in time, an impression he was terrified would be lost if he let it go before the last stroke was done. When natural light faded, he automatically adjusted the artificial light without really thinking about it.
“I should have known,” a faintly exasperated female voice said, cutting through the silence.
He blinked at the interruption. No one came to his studio when he was working, not without risking his wrath. It was the one rule in a family that tended to defy rules.
“Go away,” he muttered, his own impatience as evident as the annoyance in his aunt’s voice.
“I most certainly will not go away,” Destiny said. “Have you forgotten what day this is? What time it is?”
He struggled to hold on to the image in his head, but it fluttered like a snapshot caught by a breeze, then vanished. He sighed, then slowly turned to face his aunt.
“It’s Thursday,” he said to prove that he was not as oblivious as she’d assumed.
Destiny Carlton gave him a look filled with tolerant amusement. “Any particular Thursday?”
Ben dragged a hand through his hair and tried to remember what might be the least bit special about this particular Thursday. He was not the kind of man who paid attention to details, unless they were the sort of details going into one of his paintings. Then he could remember every nuance of light and texture.
“A holiday,” she hinted. “One when the entire family gathers together to give thanks, a family that is currently waiting for their host while the turkey gets cold and the rolls burn.”
“Aw, hell,” he muttered. “I forgot all about Thanksgiving. Everyone’s here already?”
“They have been for some time. Your brothers threatened to eat every bite of the holiday feast and leave you nothing, but I convinced them to let me try to drag you away from your painting.” She stepped closer and eyed the canvas with a critical eye. “It’s amazing, Ben. No one captures the beauty of this part of the world the way you do.”
He grinned at the high praise. “Not even you? You taught me everything I know.”
“When you were eight, I put a brush in your hand and taught you technique. You have the natural talent. It’s extraordinary. I dabbled. You’re a genius.”
“Oh, please,” he said, waving off the praise.
Painting had always given him peace of mind, a sense of control over the chaotic world around him. When his parents had died in a plane crash, he’d needed to find something that made sense, something that wouldn’t abandon him. Destiny had bought him his first set of paints, taken him with her to a sidewalk near the family home on a charming, shaded street in Old Town Alexandria and told him to paint what he saw.
That first crude attempt still hung in the old town house where she continued to live alone now that he and his brothers had moved on with their lives. She insisted it was her most prized possession because it showed the promise of what he could become. She’d squirreled away some of Richard’s early business plans and Mack’s football trophies for the same reason. Destiny could be cool and calculating when necessary, but for the most part she was ruled by sentiment.
Richard had been clever with money and business. Mack was athletic. Ben had felt neither an interest in the family company nor in sports. Even when his parents were alive, he’d felt desperately alone, a sensitive misfit in a family of achievers. The day Destiny had handed him those paints, his aunt had given him a sense of pride and purpose. She’d told him that, like her, he brought another dimension to the well-respected family name and that he was never to dismiss the importance of what he could do that the others couldn’t. After that, it had been easier to take his brothers’ teasing and to dish out a fair amount of his own. He imagined he was going to be in for a ton of it this evening for missing his own party.
Having the holiday dinner at his place in the country had been Destiny’s idea. Ben didn’t entertain. He knew his way around a kitchen well enough to keep from starving, but certainly not well enough to foist what he cooked on to unsuspecting company. Destiny had dismissed every objection and arrived three days ago to take charge, bringing along the family’s longtime housekeeper to clean and to prepare the meal.
If anyone else had tried taking over his life that way, Ben would have rebelled, but he owed his aunt too much. Besides, she understood his need for solitude better than anyone. Ever since Graciela’s death, Ben had immersed himself in his art. The canvas and paints didn’t make judgments. They didn’t place blame. He could control them, as he couldn’t control his own thoughts or his own sense of guilt over Graciela’s accident on that awful night three years ago.
But if Destiny understood all that, she also seemed to know instinctively when he’d buried himself in his work for too long. That’s when she’d dream up some excuse to take him away from his studio and draw him back into the real world. Tonight’s holiday celebration was meant to be one of those occasions. Her one slipup had been not reminding him this morning that today was the day company was coming.
“Give me ten minutes,” he told her now. “I’ll clean up.”
“Too late for that. Melanie is pregnant and starving. She’ll eat the flower arrangement if we don’t offer an alternative soon. Besides, the company is beginning to wonder if we’ve just taken over some stranger’s house. They need to meet you. You’ll make up in charm what you lack in sartorial splendor.”
“I have paint on my clothes,” he protested, then gave her a hard look as what she’d said finally sank in. “Company? You mean besides Richard and Mack and their wives? Did you say anything about company when you badgered me into having Thanksgiving here?”
“I’m sure I did,” she said blithely.
She hadn’t, and they both knew it, which meant she was scheming about something more than relieving