Of course she had, Kathleen thought, fighting a renewed surge of panic. She avoided glancing at Melanie or Beth, afraid of the justifiable amusement she’d likely find in their eyes now. Instead she cast a look in Ben’s direction, wondering what he thought of his aunt’s blatant machinations. He had to find them as disquieting as she did.
Oddly enough, she thought he looked surprisingly relaxed. Maybe he was confident of his own ability to resist whatever trap Destiny was setting. Or maybe he hadn’t figured out what she was up to. Doubtful, though, if he’d watched his brothers get snared one by one.
Kathleen took a closer look. He was every bit as handsome as she’d expected after seeing his brothers’ pictures in the gossip columns of the local papers. There was no mistaking the fact that he was an artist, though. There were paint daubs in a variety of colors on his old jeans, a streak of vermilion on his cheek. Kathleen couldn’t help feeling a faint flicker of admiration for a man who could be so totally unselfconscious showing up at his own dinner party at less than his best.
What a contrast that was to her own insecurities. She’d spent her entire life trying to put her best foot forward, trying to impress, trying to overcome an upbringing that had been financially privileged but beyond that had had very little to redeem it. She’d spent a lifetime hiding secrets and shame, acceding to her mother’s pleas not to rock the family boat. Art had brought beauty into her life, and she admired and respected those who could create it.
As she stepped into the dining room, her gaze shifted from Ben to the magnificent painting above the mantel. At the sight of it, she came to a sudden stop. All thoughts of Ben Carlton, Destiny’s scheming and her own past flew out of her head. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Oh, my,” she whispered.
The artist had captured the fall scene with both a brilliant use of color and a delicate touch that made it seem almost dreamlike, the way it might look in the mind’s eye when remembered weeks or months later, too perfect to be real. There was a lone deer at the edge of a brook, traces of snow on the ground with leaves of gold, red and burnished bronze falling along with the last faint snowflakes. The deer was staring straight out of the painting, as if looking directly at the artist, but its keen eyes were serene and unafraid. Kathleen imagined it had been exactly like that when the artist had come upon the scene, then made himself a part of it in a way that protected and preserved the moment.
Destiny caught her rapt gaze. “One of Ben’s. He hated it when I insisted he hang it in here where his guests could enjoy it.”
“But it’s spectacular,” Kathleen said, dismayed that it might have been hidden away if not for Destiny’s insistence. Work this amazing did belong in a gallery. “I feel as if I looked out a window and saw exactly that scene.”
Destiny smiled, her expression smug. “I just knew you would react that way. Tell my nephew that, please. He might actually believe it if it comes from you. He dismisses whatever I say. He’s convinced I’m biased about his talent.”
Excitement rippled through Kathleen. Destiny hadn’t been exaggerating about her nephew’s extraordinary gift. “There are more like this?” she asked, knowing the answer but hardly daring to hope that this was the rule, rather than the exception.
“His studio is packed to the rafters,” Destiny revealed. “He’s given a few to family and friends when we’ve begged, but for the most part, this is something he does strictly for himself.”
“I could make him rich,” Kathleen said with certainty, eager to fight to do just that. She was well-known for overcoming objections, for persuading tightfisted people to part with their money, and difficult artists to agree to showings in her small but prestigious gallery. All of Destiny’s scheming meant nothing now. All that mattered was the art.
Destiny squeezed her hand. “Ben is rich. You’ll have to find some other lure, if you hope to do a showing.”
“Fame?” What painter didn’t secretly yearn to be this generation’s Renoir or Picasso? Disclaimers aside, surely Ben had an artist’s ego.
Destiny shook her head. “He thinks Richard and Mack have all the limelight that the Carlton family needs.”
Frustration burned inside Kathleen. What else could she come up with that might appeal to a reclusive artist who had no need for money or fame?
She drew her gaze from the incredible painting and turned to the woman who knew Ben best. “Any ideas?” she asked Destiny.
The older woman patted her hand and gave her a serene, knowing look. “I’m sure you’ll think of something if you put your mind to it.”
Even though she’d suspected the plot all along, even though Melanie and Beth had all but confirmed it, Kathleen was taken aback by the determined glint in Destiny’s eyes. In Destiny’s mind the art and the man were intertwined. Any desire for one was bound to tie Kathleen to the other. It was a diabolical scheme.
Kathleen looked from the painting to Ben Carlton. She would gladly sell her soul to the devil for a chance to represent such incredible art. But if she was understanding Destiny’s sly hint correctly, it wasn’t her soul she was expected to sell.
One more glance at Ben, one more little frisson of awareness and she couldn’t help thinking it might not be such a bad bargain.
* * *
Ben watched warily as his aunt guided Kathleen into the dining room. He saw the way the younger woman came to a sudden halt when she saw his painting, and despite his claim that he painted only for himself, his breath snagged in his throat as he tried to gauge her reaction. She seemed impressed, but without being able to hear what she said, he couldn’t be sure. It irked him that he cared.
“You’re amazingly talented,” Kathleen said the instant she’d taken her seat beside him.
Relief washed over him. Because that annoyed him, too, he merely shrugged. “Thanks. That’s Destiny’s favorite.”
“She has a good eye.”
“Have you ever seen her work?”
“A few pieces,” Kathleen said. “She won’t let me sell them for her, though.” She met his gaze. “Modesty must run in the family.”
“I’m not modest,” Ben assured her. “I’m just not interested in turning this into a career.”
“Why not?”
His gaze challenged her. “Why should I? I don’t need the money.”
“Critical acclaim?”
“Not interested.”
“Really?” she asked skeptically. “Or are you afraid your work won’t measure up?”
He frowned at that. “Measure up to what? Some other artist’s? Some artificial standard for technique or style or commercial success?”
“All of that,” she said at once.
“None of it matters to me.”
“Then why do you paint?”
“Because I enjoy it.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “And that’s enough?”
He grinned at her astonishment. “Isn’t there anything you do, Ms. Dugan, just for the fun of it?”
“Of course,” she said heatedly. “But you’re wasting your talent, hiding it away from others who could take pleasure in seeing it or owning it.”
He was astounded by the assessment. “You think I’m being selfish?”
“Absolutely.”
Ben looked into her flashing violet eyes, and for an instant he lost his train of thought, lost his desire to argue with her. If they’d been alone, he might have been tempted to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until she forgot all about this silly debate over