“It’s by Gustave Courbet.” He showed her several smaller pieces that complemented the seascape. She remained silent, but her gaze took in her surroundings as though cataloging everything for use later.
They continued through the house. Her comments, although infrequent, gave him pause. For some, art was simply decoration; for others, an investment. Caressing heirloom tables and chairs, Gabe eyed details that only a representative from an auction house would know. She playfully noted the location of a hidden drawer in the John Guilbaud cabinet and the unusual lack of a cabriole leg in the settee in the drawing room.
The more rooms they entered, the more excited she became. After discussing one of Henry’s favorite portraits in the upper hallway, she stepped to his bedroom door, the scene of her breakdown. She probably wanted to forget she’d ever been there. He hesitated at the door, but Gabe entered. She crossed the room and touched her fingertips, decorated with black nail polish, to the top of his late-eighteenth-century George III dresser. Her hand continued to caress the wood, and Henry’s mind began imagining those fingers on him.
“This is beautiful,” she said. “See the brass swan neck handles and the mahogany cross-banding? I only know of two cabinetmakers who mixed the wood types with such an eye for detail.”
“You recognize the cabinetmaker?”
She stalled and dropped her eyes as though she’d stepped over her bounds, revealing too much of herself perhaps?
He pointed to a side table. “Can you recognize the wood in that piece?”
She tilted her head so her hair moved away from her eyes. With an exaggerated squint and the quirking of her mouth to the left, she answered, “Pine?”
He laughed. “Seriously? Even I wouldn’t guess pine. Don’t tell me you can’t figure it out.”
“It might be oak.” She shrugged her shoulders.
It certainly was oak, but was stained to look like mahogany.
“Are you familiar with the designer?”
“Are you testing me?”
Yes, I am.
He savored the last drops of his coffee and then stepped in front of her. Bending down to look at her eye to eye, he breathed in her scent. Something sweet mixed with something that beckoned him to kiss her. He’d watched her face off with obnoxious university boys and huge police officers. She didn’t seem the type to back down from a challenge.
“I just can’t imagine you really know what you’re talking about,” he whispered so softly, she moved a centimeter closer toward his lips. Her proximity spiked his temperature and his hunger for her.
“William Kent,” she whispered in response.
…
Alex leaned away from him; his breath had smelled just a little too tempting. And she didn’t intend to run from one mansion into another. Men with money had secrets, usually bad ones. What did she know of Henry, anyway? Nothing.
Based on his gentle hold of her hand and the easy smile he offered, he seemed to care for her. Luc had been romantic once, too. She needed to remind herself of him and why she was running, even when this man didn’t seem as cruel. In fact, he acted more protective than controlling. She left her hand in his, just for now. They descended the main staircase, chatting nonstop about their preferred artists.
He paused on the landing and bent toward her. Was he going to kiss her? Alex took a step away from him. Too much, too soon.
“Who’s the architect of the house?” she asked, trying not to appear overwhelmed by Henry’s presence.
“John Dover.” His emerald eyes were intense and mesmerizing. She needed fresh air.
“It’s really beautiful.” She began to descend the stairs again and pointed to a few of the pieces. He obliged her by explaining how he acquired some of the paintings. They were in wonderful shape. Not many people appreciated art the way she did. Not many people could see art the way she did. Henry may not have an appraiser’s eye, but he genuinely cared about the pieces he owned.
The art in his house revealed high value and depth in the quality and the range of the works. He seemed to exist comfortably with such riches surrounding him. Imagine living side by side with these pieces, greeting each new day staring into a two-hundred-year-old mirror or reading a book while perched on a chair that existed at the time of Queen Victoria. And not just any chair, but a chair of such exceptional workmanship, the temptation to lock it away for its own protection would be overwhelming.
All her thoughts dissipated when she approached the final room. Henry, walking close to her and causing her heart to beat too fast, guided her inside a large space with paintings on all of the walls and statues interspersed with several small sitting areas. A personal art gallery. Amazing.
“What do you think?”
“You certainly saved the best for last.”
A black-and-white charcoal portrait by Camille Pissarro hung on one wall along with several other lithographs and landscapes from some of her favorite artists. Henry remained near the doorway as she walked slowly by each one, savoring the textures, the colors, and the emotions.
Turning to the next wall, she paused and stepped closer to the large portrait hanging there. Why would he have a newer imitation mixed into his fabulous collection? “Everything is impressive except your Sir Thomas Lawrence reproduction. It’s a quality piece, but I’m unaware of anything Lawrence painted involving a blonde aristocratic lady sitting on a chestnut mare.”
Henry came up beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not a fake.”
“Of course it is.”