“The kiss I stumbled across when I came back into the dining room,” Mack replied, disproving Ben’s theory. “Looked pretty friendly to me.”
Faced with the truth, indignation seemed the only route left to him. “What the hell were you doing? Spying on us?” Ben demanded.
“Nope,” his brother said, clearly undaunted. “Destiny sent me in to ask how many pies you wanted her to leave for you, so she’d know how many to give Beth and me to take to the hospital.”
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Ben said defensively.
“Obviously.”
Ben scowled at his brother. “You didn’t race right back in the kitchen and report what you’d seen, did you?”
“Absolutely not,” Mack said, his indignation far more genuine than Ben’s. “I just told Destiny you said you’d had all the pie you needed and I should take the rest.”
“That’s why I couldn’t find so much as a crumb when I went looking for a late-night snack,” Ben grumbled.
Mack gave him an unrepentant smile. “I figured you owed me for not blabbing.”
Ben sighed. “You’re right. It’s a small enough price to pay for not getting Destiny’s hopes up. Who knows what she’d dream up, if she thought round one had gone her way.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re off the hook, little brother, not by any means. In fact, if I were you, I’d be looking over my shoulder from here on out. Something tells me you’ll be seeing Kathleen every time you turn around.”
Ben decided not to tell Mack that he was already seeing her everywhere. The blasted woman had crawled into his head and wouldn’t leave.
* * *
When it came to business, Kathleen wasn’t especially patient. The art world was competitive and she’d learned early to go after what she wanted before someone else snapped it up.
Though Destiny had suggested prudence where Ben was concerned, Kathleen decided not to take any chances. If, by some fluke, word about his talent leaked out, she could be competing with a crowd for the chance to mount his first show, maybe even to represent his work. The fact that he intended to play hard-to-get simply made the game more interesting.
She was back out in the rolling hills of Middleburg by 7:00 a.m. on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Leaves on the trees were falling fast, but there were still plenty of hints of the gold, red and burnished-bronze colors of fall. On this surprisingly warm, sunny morning, horses had been turned out to pasture behind white fences. It was little wonder that Ben painted nature, when he lived in a setting this spectacular.
Kathleen was armed for the occasion. She had two extralarge lattes from Starbucks with her, along with cranberry scones she’d baked the night before when she couldn’t get to sleep for thinking about Ben and that stash of paintings his aunt had alluded to. She told herself those scones were not bribery, that she hadn’t taken Destiny’s advice about Ben’s sweet tooth to heart. Rather they were simply a peace offering for intruding on his Sunday morning.
She was waiting in her car with the motor running when Ben emerged from the house, wearing yet another pair of disreputable jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Unshaven, his hair shining but disheveled, he looked sexy as hell. All dressed up, he would be devastating.
But she wasn’t here because Ben sent her hormones into high gear. She was here because his talent gave her goose bumps. Sometimes it was hard to separate the two reactions, but in general she steered clear of artists in her personal life. Most were too self-absorbed, the emotional ride too bumpy. If that was her basic philosophy, avoiding the dark, brooding types was her hard-and-fast rule, learned by bitter experience. Ben Carlton was off-limits to her heart. Period.
Seemingly, though, her heart hadn’t quite gotten the message. It was doing little hops, skips and jumps at the sight of him.
She expected a quick dismissal and was prepared to argue. She wasn’t prepared for the hopeful gleam in his eye the instant he spotted the coffee.
“If one of those is for me, I will forgive you for showing up here uninvited,” he said, already reaching for a cup.
“If the coffee gets me inside your studio, what will these freshly baked scones get me?” She waved the bag under his nose.
“I’ll call off the guard dogs,” he said generously.
“There are no guard dogs,” she said.
“You didn’t see the sign posted at the gate?”
“I saw it. Your aunt told me it was for show.”
“No wonder people come parading in here whenever they feel like it,” he grumbled. “I’ll have to talk to her about giving away my security secrets.”
“Either that or go out and buy a rottweiler,” Kathleen suggested, taking the fact that he hadn’t actually sent her packing as an invitation to follow him into the studio, which had been converted from a barn.
The exterior of the old barn wasn’t much, just faded red paint on weathered boards, but inside was an artist’s paradise of natural light and space. The smell of oil paint and turpentine was faint, thanks to windows that had been left cracked open overnight. Ben moved methodically around the room to close them, then switched on a thermostat. Soon warm air was taking away the chill.
Kathleen had to stop herself from dumping everything in her hands and racing straight to the built-in racks that held literally hundreds of canvases. Instead, she bit back her impatience and set the bag of scones on the counter directly in front of Ben.
“All yours,” she told him.
Apparently he was the kind of man who believed in savoring pleasure. He opened the bag slowly, sniffed deeply, then sighed. “You actually baked these?”
“With my own two hands,” she confirmed.
“Is this something you do every Sunday, get
