The Reluctant Heiress. Sara Orwig
Читать онлайн книгу.
two glass walls. One end of the room bowed out in a sweeping glass curve, giving the room light and a sensation of being outdoors. The other end featured a massive brick fireplace. Leather furniture and dark fruitwood lent a masculine touch.
“This is a livable room. Very comfortable,” he said. “I’m in here a lot.” He led her across the room and she saw a familiar painting she had done a year earlier.
“I like it there,” she said, looking at her painting on his wall with others in a grouping. “A prominent spot in a room you like and live in. Now you can think of me when you see it,” she added lightly, teasing him.
“I’ll always think of you when I see it,” he said, his solemn tone giving a deeper meaning to his words.
“Sure you will,” she said, laughing. “Is this the room where you’d like to hang the other painting?”
“Yes, possibly. Where do you think it should go?”
Aware of his attention on her, she strolled around the room, selecting and then rejecting spots until she stopped. “I think this is a good place.”
“It is. One other possibility you should consider is over the hearth. It’s a sizable painting. I think it fits this room.”
“That would be the most prominent spot in the room,” she said, surprised and pleased.
“I think it would look good there.” He shed his coat. “Let me hold it up and see what you think.”
She watched as he picked up the painting and held it in place.
She smiled at him. “It looks great there. Are you sure?”
He grinned. “I’ll get tools and hang it.”
“What can I do?” she asked.
“Let’s have a drink and you can supervise the hanging.”
“I can get the drinks,” she said, moving to the bar in the corner of the room. “What would you like?”
“I think I’ll have beer.”
“And I’ll have red wine,” she stated. While she got a wineglass and opened a bottle, he disappeared. By the time he returned, she was on a leather couch in front of the fireplace with the drinks on a table. He placed an armload of tools on a chair and pulled off his tie. He twisted free the top buttons of his shirt—something so ordinary and simple yet it filled her with heat and she longed to get up and unbutton the rest for him. He picked up his beer, raising the bottle high.
“Here’s to improving the looks of my house by adding a Sophia Rivers painting.”
“I’ll drink to that,” she said, standing and picking up her drink to touch his cold bottle. Again, when she looked into his eyes, her heart skipped a beat. Each time they almost kissed, her longing intensified. How soon would they be in each other’s arms?
Sipping her red wine, she stepped back. His gaze remained locked on hers. Watching her, he sipped his beer and then turned away, breaking the spell.
He picked up the painting. “I’ll hold this and you tell me when I have it in exactly the right spot.” He held the painting high, and then set it down. “Just a minute. I can put myself back together later,” he said as he took off his gold cuff links and folded back his immaculate cuffs. “Now, let’s try this again.”
Slightly disheveled, he looked sexy, appealing. She tried to focus on the painting, but was having a difficult time keeping her attention off the man.
“To the right and slightly higher,” she said. After several adjustments, she nodded. “That’s perfect.”
He leaned back to look while he held the picture. Setting it down, he picked up chalk to mark a place on the bricks before pulling the tape measure out.
She sipped her wine while he worked. In an amazingly short time he had her painting hanging in place and he stepped away.
“Let’s look at it.”
He took her arm and they walked across the large room to study the result of his work. She was aware of the warmth of him beside her. He looked at his watch. “Shall we go eat now, or should I just throw some steaks on the grill?”
“If we eat here, it’s fine with me.”
He leaned down to look directly into her eyes. “Are you certain you don’t mind my cooking?”
“Now I’m curious,” she said. “I’ll view it as an adventure.”
“Steaks at home it is.” He draped his arm across her shoulders. “It’s a nice evening. We’ll eat on the terrace.”
They carried their drinks outside, and Sophia was again surprised by the house.
“This isn’t a terrace, Garrett—it’s another kitchen, plus a terrace, plus a living area, plus a pool.”
“With Houston’s weather, it works well through the fall and winter,” he replied, crossing to a stainless-steel gas grill built into a stone wall. In minutes he had the grill fired up and he sat with her on comfortable chairs in the outdoor living room.
“So where are you going, Sophia? What do you want out of life?”
“To pursue painting. To do charity work. I’d like to help with literacy. Also, try to do something to aid in getting more opportunities in school for children to take art and learn art appreciation. I want to open a gallery in New Mexico.”
“Marriage and family?”
She shrugged. “I don’t think about that. I’m accustomed to being on my own. I don’t ever want to be in the situation my mother was in—in love with my dad who never returned that love fully.”
“Your dad—you knew him?”
“What I told you last night wasn’t completely accurate. He was around off and on all my life,” she said, feeling a stab of pain and anger that had never left her. “My dad wouldn’t marry my mother. He practically ignored me except for financial support.”
“You said he was married?” Garrett said.
“Not by the time I was a teenager, but he didn’t want to get tied down again. Whenever he came to visit, it tore her up each time he left. She would cry for several days. He was the only man she ever loved,” Sophia stated bitterly. “He had a family—boys. He would go home to them. I couldn’t do anything to help her or stop her tears. When I was little, we both cried. I cried for her and she cried over him.”
“That’s tough,” Garrett said. “He ignored you?”
“In his way he provided for me. But looking back, I don’t think he knew how to deal with a little girl. He brought me all kinds of presents. I can remember reaching an age where I smashed some of them to bits. Mom just started giving them to charities. I didn’t want anything from him.”
“How old were you then?”
“Probably about eight or nine. He was polite to me and Mom saw to it that I was polite to him, but we weren’t together a whole lot. He never talked to me other than hello and goodbye. I rarely heard him say my name. When I was little I wondered whether he knew it. Often, I would be sent to my grandmother’s, which I loved, or out with my nanny when he was coming. Worked fine for me. I didn’t want to see him.”
“Yet your mother always loved him.”
“She did. And I don’t ever want to fall into that trap. The best way to avoid it is to keep relationships from becoming too deep.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t base everything on the actions of your father.”
“That’s the legacy he left me—a deep fear of any relationship that isn’t totally committed.”
“Sorry, Sophia,” Garrett said with a somber note.
“How’d