over.
He dreaded telling Lillian, but at least he could get back to Boston tomorrow. And Charlie’s mother didn’t need to know all the unpleasant details.
His eyes slid to the colorful painting over Ms. Walker’s head.
Tomorrow was Saturday. Maybe he could stay here over the weekend and do the icy lady lawyer a favor. After all, she had helped the Mendelev woman get away from Charlie and taken her to a hospital, so in a way she’d tried to save Lillian’s grandchild.
Now they’d gotten all that behind them, maybe he and Ms. Walker could start over again, without any ulterior motives to interfere with the magnetic hum of attraction he felt for her, an attraction he’d bet his last million she felt as strongly as he did.
Rosalie made a show of gathering up the few scattered papers on her desk, but Mr. Danby didn’t take the hint. Instead, he crossed his long legs and gave her a calculating look.
“Have you and your father considered selling your mother’s work? You could get several thousand dollars apiece for them.”
Obviously a man who put a cash value on everything.
“My father has been out of the picture since before Mother … before she started to paint seriously,” she told him with as thin a veneer of politeness as she could manage. “And even if I wanted to sell any of her work, I wouldn’t know how.”
“I might be able to help you. I’m not an art critic, as you put it, but I do have a private collection that has allowed me to develop relationships with several very successful art dealers. I know of one in Beverly Hills who specializes in the kind of paintings your mother did.”
“I’m surprised you’d buy anything from someone who deals in, quote, middle-brow art.”
“Not my usual taste, but I bought something for a friend who enjoys that sort of thing.”
“Why would I want to sell my mother’s paintings?” Especially on the recommendation of someone with so little respect for her work. “I don’t need the money.”
“Of course not. How many of them do you have?”
She thought of the cluttered, sunlit studio at home.
“Dozens, I’d guess.”
“Wouldn’t your mother want people to enjoy her work, instead of having the paintings stashed away in some spare room?”
With Rosalie’s home office crammed into one corner of her bedroom after she’d moved Joey into the smaller bedroom, her mother’s studio wasn’t exactly a spare room anymore. Rosalie remembered how happy it had always made her mother to give a painting to a friend. She’d spend hours to find the right one for that particular person, and was so happy when she saw any of her work in someone’s home. But to sell her paintings …
“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Danby.”
“Morgan.” His smile upgraded from charming to dazzling.
She ignored the slow burn that lit in her belly, the forgotten dreams it rekindled.
“I’m sorry. I’m not prepared to sell them.”
“I didn’t take you for a selfish woman, Ms. Walker.”
He emphasized the last two words in unspoken invitation, but she couldn’t invite him to call her Rosalie. Not when his words sent a wave of doubt and shame washing over her.
Was it selfish to keep Joey’s existence a secret from his grandmother? Would Márya really want her to go that far? She needed to think about that. She’d already spent the last few nights thinking about nothing else, but now Mr. Danby, Morgan, had given up his search, she needed to be certain, once and for all, that she’d done the right thing.
But this wasn’t a good time to rethink things, not while Morgan’s thousand-watt smile dazzled her, his navy blue eyes fascinated her, and the musky scent of his expensive cologne filled the air around her. Right now she needed to get the man out of her office.
She shuffled more papers around her desk. “Selfish?”
“If I were you, I’d want to celebrate my mother’s talent. Would she have turned down an opportunity like this?”
Rosalie blinked. She hadn’t thought of it that way.
He pressed his advantage.
“I’d be glad to take a few of her paintings to my friend’s gallery. I’m sure he’d be happy to show them.”
“Why would he want to show the work of an amateur painter?”
“Your mother may not have sold any of her work, but she was no amateur. She must have studied art somewhere.”
She pushed the flow of pink-tinted memories away. “In college. Then after … when she first began to paint again, she took more classes.”
“Not at the local community center.” It wasn’t a question.
“No. UCLA. She was in a couple of student shows up there, but her paintings didn’t sell.”
“Too conventional for that crowd. But not for the patrons of my friend’s gallery. These paintings are exactly what they want to decorate their winter homes in Palm Springs.”
The memories swirled into a rainbow-colored dance in Rosalie’s head. Her mother would have been so thrilled by an offer like this. And the money could go into Joey’s college fund.
“I’m not sure …”
“What if I came by your house this evening to look at the other paintings you have? I could pick two or three and show them to my friend tomorrow to see what he has to say.”
“No!”
Panic pushed the word out before Rosalie could think, could even breathe. Had he guessed her secret? Was all this talk about the paintings a ploy to get inside her house? What would he do if he found out she’d lied to him?
Then she realized her sharp response and flushed face might make Morgan suspicious.
She forced her voice back to normal. “Tonight isn’t convenient.”
“What about tomorrow?”
There had to be a way to protect Joey without passing up this chance to honor her mother’s memory. Maybe …
“I could bring a few paintings to your hotel.”
Morgan shook his head. “I’d need to see more than a few. If you aren’t familiar with the art market, you might not know which ones would sell well, and this art dealer won’t want to waste his time with anything but your mother’s most saleable work.”
Her mind went into overdrive. She hated to let this incredible opportunity slip by.
She could set up a playdate for Joey. It wouldn’t be hard to hide all the toys and other signs he lived there if she kept Morgan out of the back part of the house. She’d just have to display the paintings somewhere other than the studio, which was right next to Joey’s bedroom.
She took so long weighing the pros and cons that Morgan shifted impatiently in his chair.
“Would tomorrow around lunchtime work?” she suggested.
“Eleven-thirty?”
“That would be fine.”
They stood and said goodbye with another hand shake. If this one sizzled through Rosalie’s system a little too long, stirred needs and feelings best left unfelt, she ignored it.
As soon as Morgan Danby was out the door, she let out a long breath, sat down and spun her desk chair around in a slow circle of celebration.
He’d given up trying to find Joey. She grinned at the tiny picture stuck on the computer monitor. Her little boy was safe!
When