Unpredictable Love Read online

  She had developed the idea for a new painting series after she discovered Baroness Beardley’s erotic diaries hidden in the gardener’s toolbox.

  She’d labored on the drawings and masks for months, applying tubes and tubes of oil paint to the expanse of the canvases partially covered by the stenciled drawings.

  Her small studio was the only place where, in the safety of solitude, she could open up to the well of creativity inside her mind and heart, letting life’s symbols of wilderness, banality, and darkness out, bending the dichotomy between a too-harsh physical reality and its imagery to her will. With colors and strokes of brushes, she reduced them to nothing more than matter on a canvas.

  After a few hours, the careful slashes of the brush against the canvas—midnight-blue, grayish-blue, and finally a cold-teal-blue, blending or standing alone—made the image come together.

  She stared at the painting, giving the sky a last stroke. It was supposed to be an erotic, expectant scene. It was not her first intention to give it an alarming perception.

  Under a roiling thunderstorm, a naked, lascivious woman, camouflaged by trees, watched a muscular man, bared to the waist, trimming the branches with garden shears.

  Yet, it was the menace of the active man and his implement that struck a chord, which threatened to resonate with the past inside her, but it took just a second for her to route her thoughts back into the present.

  “Good job, Laetitia,” she praised herself.

  She cleaned her painting utensils, put everything in order, and crossed back to the lodge to get ready for her day.

  As soon as she had donned her black clothes, a pitched screech coming from the intercom speaker made her jump.

  “Laetitia! Laeeeeetitia!”

  Before another scream pierced the air, she replied, “Arriving in a sec!”

  After she hitched up the hem of her skirts, then hurried in a fifteen-minute headlong dash, Laetitia had no idea that, in the months to come, the world would discover her.

  And then judge her.

  CHAPTER 2

  London, Chelsea

  The Blue Dot

  Monday, September 1, 2014

  9:31 a.m.

  Tavish stepped to the back of the room to better assess the three paintings one of his partners, Maddox Vaughn, had brought to the gallery this morning.

  On one, done in blackish-brown hues, there was a well-built man on his knees, surrounded by circling, playful, skin-and-bones children, reaching out but unable to touch them.

  On another, a gray sky darkened a charcoal ghost town, while its dark river flowed calmly by, full of pale-gray dead bodies resembling leisure boats.

  In the last, the most seemingly banal landscape he had ever seen burst from the canvas.

  He watched, stunned and awed, as the images struck him anew. They all reminded him of live hallucinations, worldly nightmares.

  The figurative paintings done with dense, contoured and concentrated paint were nearly three-dimensional. The layers and layers of paint appeared to have been piled, smoothed, and only then carved; the dark colors produced a dynamic vibration upon the canvas in relation to the lighter tones; each color glowed separately, but then they fused together, barely able to stand on their own.

  They punched Tavish in the gut so deep his soul was shaken. He shook his head and blinked, turning to Maddox. He had but one word for it: “Powerful.”

  “I thought so, too. Contemporary touch, political sense, from banal, ordinary scenes to extreme psychological situations without losing their permanent tension. The technique has a style reminiscent of . . . hmm . . . the impressionists?” Maddox was so excited he was toying with his Dupont cigarette lighter between his fingers. “He promised me three more by the end of this week. I don’t know how no one has discovered her before.”

  Tavish looked at Maddox, a small frown between his eyes. “Her? But you said he charged—”

  “The artist’s name is Laetitia Galen, and she consigns her paintings in a very small gallery in Leam,” he explained, giving Tavish a business card. “Mr. Belmont, the gallery owner, charged me three hundred pounds per linear meter, after I bargained for a discount. She is probably receiving thirty-five, forty percent of it.”

  “It barely covers the material,” Tavish whispered to himself. “We have a great potential on our hands.”

  “Do you think Alistair will approve?”

  “If she is half as good as I’m imagining, for sure he will.” Tavish’s gaze was drawn back to the image. “If he won’t, I already have.”

  12:35 p.m.

  A firm knock on the door frame made Tavish turn his head from his computer screen.

  The older version of himself, his powerful entrepreneur brother, Alistair MacCraig, was leaning on the jamb of his office door.

  Tavish rose from his chair and circled his table to embrace him. “It wasn’t that urgent.”

  “Your voice had a catching tone,” said Alistair, with a smile on his face. “I couldn’t resist seeing what took my brother from his ever-so-calm and brooding state.”

  “I don’t brood.”

  “Nae, you sulk,” Alistair replied, deadpan.

  Tavish rolled his eyes heavenward, opened the connecting door to the showroom, and turned on the lights. “Here.”

  Alistair stepped to the three canvases hanging on the farthest wall and scanned the images. After a few minutes, he whistled low and turned to Tavish. “There’s an innate, hidden ambiguity to this work. I’d say it’ll be the new rage, if it has consistency.”

  “Aye,” he said, his stare fixed on one of the images. “It has something unique. This carefulness, thoughtfulness of the drawing, and yet it comes out as a vibrant, restless scene.”

  “This artist could be a fucking genius, Tavish Uilleam,” Alistair said, still admiring the paintings. “How have you contacted him?”

  “Her. Maddox and his assistants couldn’t find any contact info for a Laetitia Galen. I called the gallery that sold her paintings, probing for information, but they were evasive.” Tavish made a vague gesture in the air that puzzled Alistair, as his brother was one of the most straightforward people he knew, always economical with gestures and even more so with words. “I never thought I would be asking you this, but there’s always a first time in life.”

  “Ask what?”

  The words left Tavish’s mouth with the certainty ingrained by his sharpened military and medical instincts. “I’m going after this artist. I want her address, even if it takes Baptist to get it.”

  “Oho, Brother!” A wicked smile opened on Alistair’s face and he fished his iPhone from his inner jacket pocket, dialing the number of one of the best private investigators in Britain. “Alistair MacCraig here. I need you to find someone for me.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Warwickshire, Royal Leamington Spa

  The Belmont Gallery

  Wednesday, September 3, 2014

  12:05 p.m.

  “The gentleman asked for a discount, which I gave, of course,” Mr. Belmont said with a smile, counting the notes to pay Laetitia her share of 40 percent.

  Laetitia bobbed her head twice. “Of course.”

  “I charged three hundred pounds per linear meter,” he said. “Here. I split the discount between us. We are interested in you consigning more.”

  Laetitia almost touched her chin to make sure she wasn’t gaping openmouthed at Mr. Belmont.

  “It’s rather a shock, I gather?”

  “Yes, rather,” Laetitia uttered, thrusting the stack of notes in her bag, not sure if she was exhilarated or what.

  “Your work has reached a more mature level, Laetitia,” said Mr. Belmont. “You didn’t believe me when I said you were a natural, did you?”

  “No, not really.” When she was a child, and later, as a teenager, she’d used whatever material was available. After she started working on Beardley Manor, she had been able to invest in better media and online courses, but she did it more for herself than bec
ause she thought she was talented. “As you know, I have more work stacked than I have sold.”

  “Selling your paintings has been difficult because of their motifs, not because of their quality. They have a crudeness and intensity, which make them more personal to the buyer.” Mr. Belmont pushed a contract in her direction.

  Laetitia read the clauses and looked at the old man. “You want me to sign a different contract. Why?”

  “We need your authorization to market you and your paintings on our website. We can sell more that way.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Laetitia folded the sheet and put it in her bag. “How many shall I bring next time?”

  “I’ll send transportation. We want those.” He pointed to six photos on his iPad from her file. “I sold three others to the same buyer.”

  She walked out of the gallery in such a giddy daze she almost forgot to stop in the supermarket to buy the goods for the party the baron’s nephew was throwing that weekend. She would work her fingers to the bone until Sunday.

  Then she would think about the repercussions of having her work spread across England.

  Monday, September 8, 2014

  10:32 a.m.

  After following the highway and crossing the small town of Royal Leamington Spa, Tavish was now halfway past the even smaller neighborhood of Cubbington, almost in the middle of nowhere. Even though he was familiar with the region, as two of his best friends had an ancient country house and farm nearby, Laetitia Galen lived farther outside the city limits. And even with Baptist’s directions, it took him a while to find the turnoff.

  There was a tall, heavily wired fence with signs warning of electric shock, and a video camera with an intercom; however, the iron gates were gaping wide.

  Dense woods bordered one side of the road, with yew trees on the other. The wheels skimmed over the loose gravel that covered the long one-lane road that ended in a cul-de-sac, where sat a two-story, centuries-old house, partially hidden by a garden, which in contrast with the greener trees and seriousness of the building was an explosion of colors: Kashmir rowans, with eye-catching white berries hanging in clusters from the spreading branches, surrounded by creeping blue blossoms still full of pale-blue button-flowered florets and red maples’ striking scarlet leaves scattered here and there over the grass. The sun glinting over the garden added drama and reminded him of her paintings.

  The silence managed to displace the quiet rumble of his black Range Rover.

  Tavish killed the engine and observed the surroundings.

  Her neighborhood—or the lack of it—pleased him. There was no background noise from traffic or from people. No far-off yells or shouts. No one around.

  There was only the sound of birds chirping and trees rustling, as the gentle breeze fluttered through the branches. He could even hear the soft, lulling, gurgling sound of River Leam.

  He got out of the car and closed the door without making much noise. He wanted a moment to look around before he knocked on her door.

  The unusual sound of a motor rumble coming from the security system broke Laetitia’s concentration, making her frown at the new stencil.

  On the camera she saw a car, its license plate unknown, coming down the lane toward the house.

  Damn! I forgot to close the gates and turn on the alarm. Again!

  Her carving knife clattered on the ground of the studio as she ran out. Pulling off her gloves, she entered the house by the kitchen and hurried to the hall.

  A man was crossing her pebbled driveway and entering the front garden.

  Laetitia knew that there were things in life that took their attraction from intricate symmetry, delicate structure, and innocent nature: rare orchids, unbroken seashells, and icy snowflakes; and those that were irresistible for their great power, refusal to be tamed, and dangerous potential: active volcanoes, huge waves, and craggy precipices.

  And there were things that were simply too immense, too savage, or too intense to be contained in a single image or explained in mere words, even if there were a thousand of them.

  The tall, powerfully built giant of a man walking toward her door belonged in the latter category, she was sure.

  Wearing a tailored charcoal three-piece-suit, a baby-pink shirt, and a dark-gray tie, he was frighteningly male, terrifyingly beautiful, and vitally imposing.

  His skin was an exquisite shade of the lightest coppery-gold. His mane was made of the darkest midnight-black silky locks, which shimmered under the soft sun. Wind-blown strands brushing against his forehead and wraparound glasses did nothing to diminish the sharpness of the man.

  Who are you? By his firm strides, he wasn’t lost, which in her suspicious mind was not a good thing.

  A funny flutter began in her stomach when he climbed the three steps to the double doors. His forehead creased for a moment, his ink-black brows going down, as if he was carefully weighing his next move.

  Laetitia didn’t move but held her breath, waiting for him to leave, as she did whenever people came probing for information—when and if they came.

  She didn’t know if she was afraid or excited, when, using one of the old iron lion knockers, he banged twice and called, “Ms. Galen?”

  Even muffled by the old oak-carved doors and thick brick walls, his voice was a deep baritone, rich and sensual. It seemed to wash over her like warm rain on a summer night.

  Damn. He knows me. She frowned and walked stealthily to the front door.

  Cleopatra entwined around her calf, purring as if approving of the man outside.

  Laetitia debated with herself: she had been careful ever since she had left Ireland in the dark of night, and she’d never had contact with such masculine power, yet there was her matured, innate sense saying that the danger he posed was not the one she feared.

  Cleopatra tilted her head at her and lazily walked back to the kitchen, giving her a last look, encouraging her to open the door.

  “Traitor,” she whispered, yet agreeing with her in some measure. She wanted an opportunity for a bit of unruly emotions to let her unthawed heart beat again.

  He knocked again and called louder, “Ms. Galen.”

  There was a quiet command in his deep voice. It compelled her.

  Laetitia opened her door. “May I help you?”

  Tucking his sunglasses into the inner pocket of his suit, Tavish looked down and froze, staring at the woman in front him as if he had never seen one before. Infinitely fragile. And equally arresting.

  The white-blonde hair delicately framed her heart-shaped face of creamy skin, where lively violet-blue eyes shone under light-brown arched eyebrows and velvety plum-colored lips.

  Then she smiled. Not exactly a grin, but not just a polite smile. It was more like an uncertain, questioning smile teeming with a checked desire to blossom. It was as fresh and delicate as the rest of her, and it gave her an angelic air.

  His chest tightened, and for a moment he was unable to breathe. He was sure he hadn’t been living, but merely existing as days passed by in a blur of unending physical and psychological pain that he had learned to mask but that smile—that shimmering smile—made his heart slam painfully. I remember, Aingeal. I remember very well. Memories that had been lost and asleep were reborn and recreated to make him think of happy times long gone. It seems like yesterday. When I was a man full of life. When I had something to offer.

  Time suspended into what seemed endless moments of breathless anticipation as a battle of unidentified emotions warred through him.

  Not being able to distinguish among them, as they were deeply marred by what he had been through, desire won.

  It heated his blood, blazing it to an erotic inferno, and surprised the hell out of him. Immediate desire wasn’t his style anymore—especially not something as strong as this. What makes her so different?

  He tried to figure out how old she was, but her appearance exhibited an interesting blend of youthful charm with a hint of worldly sophistication, as if she were an old soul cloaked in
an ethereal fairylike body. The flower-printed white turtleneck sweater over gray leggings highlighted her youth and efficiently hid the contour of her breasts and slender body.

  He managed not to squint his eyes as his gaze wandered down, and desire clenched its fist around him. Beautiful shoulders, a slim waist, sweet flare of hips and legs. Elegance, beauty, and understated sensuality combined. Skin—

  When his eyes met again with hers, Tavish saw she was looking at him with arched brows.

  Jesus Christ, Tavish Uilleam! “May I speak with Ms. Laetitia Galen?”

  Sea-green eyes. Lost in the most amazing eyes she had ever seen—eyes that should have made her run back into the sanctuary of her home and lock her door—she didn’t answer. Turbulent greens. Tumultuous seas.

  She felt herself caught in the storm of that tempestuous gaze, and nothing would ever be the same for her.

  Tavish’s eyes were a vivid color, between turquoise and intense green, framed by absurdly thick, long ink-black lashes. His rugged face was made of hard angles and fierce planes: high cheekbones, a thin blade of nose that was not so straight anymore, and a squared jaw. His feathered lashes and incongruous sensual lips gave an otherwise austere countenance a touch of the exotic.

  He had a masculine and solidly built body, but not overly muscled. His height and the width of his muscular shoulders and chest made her feel small and slight.

  Laetitia’s mouth parted as she breathed deeper. She knew that in front of her stood a man to be reckoned with. An intrinsic force of Nature. Uncontrollable. Someone who can threaten my whole world.

  Something stirred within Tavish, calling his name like a whisper on the cold breeze—a whisper that rustled through the fallen leaves, caressing opened wounds and kindling extinguished flames. Pleasure and pain. Fear and desire.

  He watched the tip of her tongue licking her bottom lip, as if asking him to kiss her, and he wondered how it would be to taste the sweetness of those lips.