“Don’t stop,” he says, grinning proudly. “Feel free to babble away. I’m so happy to share these pieces with someone who cares.”
“It’s a shame that people like that guy Andrew who almost won your painting—”
“My stolen painting—” St. Clair adds with a teasing grin.
“Yes. Well, that people like that can buy a masterpiece they don’t love,” I exclaim.
“And then store it in the cellar like a block of cheese getting pricier with age,” St. Clair continues.
“Right! That’s a tragedy,” I say, and mean it. “God, If I had a Picasso or a Rubens, or a Rothko, I’d put it on display, like you.” I mean, I’d put him on display, too, but I gesture to his walls, painted plain white so the art can stand out. “Somewhere I could stare at it all day long.”
“Art is meant to be seen,” Charles says and I smile. “What?” he asks.
“My mom always said that,” I confide.
“Smart woman,” he says. “Just like her daughter.”
Our eyes lock, and I feel the heat pulse between us again. Then somewhere, a clock chimes and the moment is broken. “Let me show you to the guest suite,” he says and I follow him up a staircase to the second floor.
The carpet is so plush it muffles our footsteps as St. Clair leads me to a huge master suite, perfect as a hotel penthouse. “Here we are. Is this okay?” he asks.
I try not to laugh. There’s a king-size bed, and through the door to the bathroom, I can see a tub big enough for the whole di Fiore family. It’s so luxurious, I never want to leave. “I think I’ll manage.”
He chuckles. “Dinner should be ready in about an hour. Relax, make yourself at home.” He closes the door behind him, leaving me alone.
Wow. The décor is stunning—more thick carpet and elegant curtains and bedding, satin sheets and a beautiful quilt stitched with blue and silver patterns that looks like a work of art. Did he have this made up for me, or is he always prepared with an exquisite guest suite in case he decides to bring a girl home?
Huge windows look out over a private patio and the vineyards beyond. It’s like I’m dreaming, except that kiss in the elevator was definitely real, and hot, and he invited me here, alone, which is also not a dream. I’m in Charles St. Clair’s house, about to have dinner with just him. The thought sends shivers of nervous anticipation down my spine.
I head to the bathroom and fill the massive tub with hot water and lavender scented bubble bath. He said to make myself at home and a long luxurious bath sounds like just the ticket after the stress of today and our long drive. I undress and slide into the water, loving the feel of the bubbles and hot water on my skin. For once, I don’t have anywhere to go, or anything to do: no waitressing shift, or job interview, no boss demanding my time, I can just lay back and breathe it all in.
After a while, I worry about being late to dinner so I stand and wrap a towel around me. Then it hits me: I only have my work clothes from before to wear! It feels wrong to be putting my boring blouse and suit back on for a romantic dinner, but as I step into the bedroom, I notice a dress has been laid out on the bed. It’s a simple blue sundress that looks like it will hug my curves but still be comfortable. I’ve got to give the guy credit. He has good taste in everything.
For a moment, I wonder why he has brand new women’s clothing on hand, but I push the thought aside. My make-up is a bit faded, but my cheeks are pink with the heat of the bath and thoughts of what tonight might bring, so at least my face has some color, and my eyeliner has smudged in an I-just-happened-to-sleep-in-my-make-up-and-wake-up-looking-sexy way that I could never have pulled off if I’d tried to achieve it. Not bad, Gracie. Already, something smells delicious downstairs, so I get dressed, take a deep breath and head out to face St. Clair again.
“Hello?” I call, looking around the empty living area.
“Out here.”
St. Clair’s voice comes from outside, so I follow the sound out to the terrace. It’s breathtaking. There are twinkling candles, and a rustic table with a white tablecloth has been set with two places. Beyond the terrace, the sunset has splashed an array of colors across the sky, lighting up the clouds and turning them a fiery orange-pink-purple-gold mix. But none of that takes my breath away like the sight of St. Clair. He’s changed into worn, casual jeans that hug his ass just right, with a white shirt open at the neck and his feet bare on the flagstones. He looks relaxed, at ease, and good enough to eat.
“You look great in that dress,” he says, greeting me with a light kiss on the cheek. “I had to guess your size, but I figured it would fit. And I know you like blue, so…”
“Thank you, it’s perfect.”
“You’re very welcome. I like to keep some things here for guests.”
So he does have women here all the time! I try to hide my disappointment, but it must show on my face because St. Clair adds, “Guests like my sister. She and her family like to come stay at the estate during vacations.”
“Oh,” I say, secretly filling with relief at not being just another interchangeable ‘guest’ he brings up for a night. “That sounds nice. I bet they love it here.”
“That they do. Are you ready to eat?” he asks.
“Yes, please!” I reply right away. I haven’t eaten since lunch, and it feels a lifetime ago.
He chuckles. “Then I won’t stand between you and your meal.”
He pulls out my chair for me and I sit, my eyes drawn to the sunset’s changing colors across the sky. “It’s like a living painting.” I sigh, taking in the views.
“I bought this place because of it,” he says, lifting the silver serving domes and revealing a simple green salad with arugula and shaved parmesan, and two perfectly grilled steaks.
“This smells delicious.” I take a bite of the steak. It is delicious. “Wow. Is there anything you can’t do?”
He laughs as he pours us sparkling water from a glass carafe. “I like cooking. It helps me unwind. What about you?”
“I leave all the cooking to the experts downstairs.” I smile at his confused expression. “I live above an Italian restaurant,” I explain, “So most nights I just grab some food from there. Nona likes to keep me fed.”
“So what do you like to do for fun? To relax?” he asks, spooning a lemon and olive oil dressing over our salad.
“Sleep?” It sounds like a joke but that is what I do with a lot of my free time.
He laughs again. “No, really,” he prompts me. “What helps you relieve stress, get back to yourself?”
I take a breath. “Well, painting used to feel like an escape.”
“Not anymore?”
I shrug. “It’s been hard to feel inspired since I lost my mom.”
He nods thoughtfully as he chews. “Do you want to paint professionally?”
“Maybe,” I say, pushing food around my plate. “As much as anyone can, I guess. Making a living as an artist isn’t exactly stable.”
“Ah, but then at least you’re following your passion!” His whole face lights up with energy. “Imagine the life you could live, traveling the world, studying with masters…”
“Living on the streets…” I add and he stops to look at me quizzically. “That sounds wonderful, but I don’t have the money, or a patron like they did in the Renaissance.”
“I get it. But doesn’t it make you feel stifled, to ignore your true love?”
I try to smile. “It’s hard to pursue my art when I have to work to pay the bills.”
He pauses, looking at me across the table. “You should try to find the time, Grace, or someday you won’t recognize yourself. You’ll look at your life and wonder when you stopped feeling alive.”
Is that what happened to you? I want to ask. There’s something in his eyes that feels regretful, but I don’t want to bring the mood down. “Thank you,” I say instead.