Family Of His Own

“I want all three.”

“You what?” Isabelle doubted she’d ever been as stunned. She didn’t want to appear ridiculous or not deserving of the honor, but now that she’d gotten over the initial shock, she just couldn’t hold back her excitement. “This is amazing. I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Whitestone. I had hoped, obviously, but I never dreamed you would accept me...”

The heavy clomp of heels against the wood floor outside the office made her pause. Isabelle turned toward the doorway.

Backlit against the hall lights stood a tall man dressed in scuffed cowboy boots, faded jeans and a black, paint-splattered T-shirt. His shoulders were wide and nearly filled the doorway. Though it was just below freezing outside, he wore no hat or gloves, and Isabelle wondered where he’d put his coat. His sky-blue eyes lingered on her face and he sent her an audaciously appreciative smile.

He held out two takeout coffees, gesturing toward Malcolm. Isabelle couldn’t help but notice how his biceps bulged as he raised his hand.

“I brought cappuccinos for two. I didn’t know you were expecting company.”

He never took his eyes off Isabelle, and she didn’t mind one bit.

“Wes,” Malcolm replied, propping Isabelle’s painting on the floor next to his desk. “Come meet Isabelle.”

Wes moved toward her stealthily, as if still sizing her up. He handed Malcolm his cappuccino. “No sweetener and an extra shot. Just how you like it, uncle.”

Isabelle tore her gaze from the masculine vision in cowboy boots back to the man who was about to define her future. “Uncle?”

“Yes. This is Wes Adams. My sister’s one and only. Thank God.”

“Oh, Malcolm.” Wes laughed and turned back to Isabelle. “He says things like that to keep me on my toes.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes and sipped his drink. “This is really good. Best I’ve had since Italy. Where is this from?”

“The new café down the street,” Wes said. “I told you. Cupcakes and Cappuccino Café. It’s different. I like it.”

“Maddie’s place,” Isabelle gushed. Malcolm and Wes shot her quizzical expressions. “My friend from Indian Lake owns those cafés. She started the first one over a decade ago in our town. I forgot that she’d just opened up her third here in Evanston.”

Wes’s smile got broader, if that was possible. “I’m a fan already. And they stay open till midnight, which is when I need a triple caffeine fix. The cupcakes aren’t bad, either.”

“They’re the best.” Isabelle replied feeling a flutter of defensiveness. She was as protective of her friends as she was of her family.

“I’m sure they are,” Malcolm said. “Neither of us is very into sugar. Nasty stuff. Bad for the brain.” Malcolm grimaced and shook his head. “And since Wes is my most talented protégé—” he shot his nephew a purposeful stare “—I try to keep him in check.”

“This is true. Sadly. I’d be freer in prison than under my uncle’s watch.” Wes chuckled and slapped Malcolm’s shoulder good-naturedly. “I am grateful for all he’s done for me.”

“Which is a lot.” Malcolm nodded sternly. “And I won’t apologize for my mercenary ways. I believe my investment will pay off in the long run.”

Isabelle gaped at them. For the first time, she wondered if getting involved with Whitestone Gallery was a good idea.

Wes burst into laughter. “We’re just kidding,” he said. “From the horrified look on your face, I’m guessing we should dial it down. You know how it is with family sometimes.”

“Oh.” She let out a breath. “I understand now.”

When had she become so uptight? She couldn’t even take a simple joke for what it was. Maybe if she hadn’t dreamed of this kind of interview since she was a kid, she might be more at ease. Without a mentor, without a supporter who knew the ropes of the art world, had connections with the critics and acquisitions houses, she didn’t think she would ever be able to succeed. She attempted a smile at Malcolm and Wes. She needed this.

“I should explain, Isabelle. Wes fancies himself a contemporary artist and I have recently landed him a large commissioned painting.”

“Enormous is more the word for it,” Wes interjected. “One of the old residential buildings on Lake Shore Drive is being renovated, and I’m painting three murals for their lobby.”

“Wow, congratulations,” Isabelle said. She couldn’t imagine being sought after enough to have her work hung in one of the Gold Coast historical buildings. The thought gave her goose bumps. When she smiled at Wes, she realized he was beaming at her. The moment seemed suspended, reminded her of what it felt like whenever she was painting. She wasn’t exactly on the earth, yet she hadn’t left it, either. She could feel the paintbrush in her hand, but the energy that flowed through her arm to the brush and onto the canvas came from somewhere else. She didn’t know where. But she knew instantly that Wes understood. He went to those places, too.

And he recognized the artist in her.

Isabelle thought she’d melt on the spot, which would cause a great deal of trauma to perfectionist Malcolm.

Wes finally tore his eyes from her and glanced down at the paintings. “You did these?”

She blinked. Her paintings. Yes. That’s what she was here for. To sell her paintings. To impress Malcolm. Not flirt with Wes. Not conjure romantic daydreams about an artist, no matter how perfect he seemed to be.

“Yes.” she gulped back a huge block of fear. “I did.”

Wes’s gaze snapped to Malcolm. “This is what you were talking about last night? For the art nouveau showing in the spring?”

“Precisely.” Malcolm finished off his cappuccino and put the paper cup in the wastebasket, being careful not to splash any errant drops on the floor. “Isabelle’s work intrigues me.”

“Because it’s rudimentary,” Wes quipped. “I don’t mean to insult,” he said to Isabelle. “I just know how fastidious my uncle is when he’s selecting pieces for the gallery. Trust me, if Gustav Klimt were to sail in here with the Woman in Gold, Malcolm wouldn’t be impressed.”

“Oh, stop. Of course I would.” Malcolm folded his arms over his chest. “I want something startling.”

Isabelle looked at her acrylic of the blue faeries. “And are they startling?”

Malcolm went to stand by Isabelle as they studied the painting. “It’s their expressions, their demeanor. Their apparel is luscious. I’m fascinated by your use of figurative, abstract and decorative combinations. There’s an overlay of silver, here, is there not?”

“An underlay,” Isabelle said, not taking her eyes from the faerie’s face. “Then an overlay. You’re right.”

“Gives it depth. I like that. I’m interested to see what you can do with oils,” Malcolm said, twisting his face to her.

“Oils?”

“You have worked with them?”

“Yes. Of course, but...” She wrung her hands. “They’re intimidating.”

“Ah,” Wes interjected. “That’s because they demand the utmost from your talent and vision.”

“They do.” She smiled at him. When his eyes, filled with admiration, met hers, she felt validated in a way she’d never experienced before. These men were professionals with exacting tastes. They saw potential in her. Isabelle could not have been more honored.

“Would you be willing to explore your vision in oils rather than only watercolor and acrylic, Isabelle?” Malcolm asked.

“I would.”

“Good answer.” Wes stepped toward her. “I’m off. I wish you luck, Isabelle. Clearly, my uncle is charmed.” He extended his hand.

As she slipped her hand into his chapped palm, he whispered, “But not as charmed as I am.” Without another word, he walked out of the office. Isabelle listened for his boot heels on the wood floor.

After a few moments the sound faded. Then silence. She turned to Malcolm. She wondered if he could see the hot flush in her cheeks and rising up her neck. “Wes is...”