Treasured

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It had been one of those Friday-night gallery receptions that made Kathleen Dugan wonder if she’d been wrong not to take a job teaching art in the local school system. Maybe putting finger paints in the hands of five-year-old kids would be more rewarding than trying to introduce the bold, vibrant works of an amazingly talented young artist to people who preferred bland and insipid.

Of course, it hadn’t helped that Boris Ostronovich spoke little English and took the temperamental-artist stereotype to new heights. He’d been sulking in a corner for the last two hours, a glass of vodka in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The cigarette had remained unlit only because Kathleen had threatened to close the show if he lit it up in direct defiance of fire codes, no-smoking policies and a whole list of personal objections.

All in all, the evening had pretty much been a disaster. Kathleen was willing to take responsibility for that. She hadn’t gauged correctly just how important it was for the artist to mingle and make small talk. She’d thought Boris’s work would sell itself. She’d discovered, instead, that people on the fence about a purchase were inclined to pass when they hadn’t exchanged so much as a civil word with the artist. In another minute or two, when the few remaining guests had cleared out of her gallery, Kathleen was inclined to join Boris in a good, old-fashioned, well-deserved funk. She might even have a couple of burning shots of straight vodka, assuming there was any left by then.

“Bad night, dear?”

Kathleen turned to find Destiny Carlton regarding her with sympathy. Destiny was not only an artist herself, she was a regular at Kathleen’s gallery in historic Old Town Alexandria, Virginia. Kathleen had been trying to wheedle a few of Destiny’s more recent paintings from her to sell, but so far Destiny had resisted all of her overtures.

Destiny considered herself a patron of the arts these days, not a painter. She said she merely dabbled on those increasingly rare occasions when she picked up a brush at all. She was adamant that she hadn’t done any work worthy of a showing since she’d closed her studio in the south of France over two decades ago.

Despite her disappointment, Kathleen considered Destiny to be a good friend. She could always be counted on to attend a show, if not to buy. And her understanding of the art world and her contacts had proven invaluable time and again as Kathleen worked to get her galley established.

“The worst,” Kathleen said, something she would never have admitted to anyone else.

“Don’t be discouraged. It happens that way sometimes. Not everyone appreciates genius when they first see it.”

Kathleen immediately brightened. “Then it isn’t just me? Boris’s work really is incredible?”

“Of course,” Destiny said with convincing enthusiasm. “It’s just not to everyone’s taste. He’ll find his audience and do rather well, I suspect. In fact, I was speaking to the paper’s art critic before he left. I think he plans to write something quite positive. You’ll be inundated with sales by this time next week. At the first whiff of a major new discovery, collectors will jump on the bandwagon, including some of those who left here tonight without buying anything.”

Kathleen sighed. “Thank you so much for saying that. I thought for a minute I’d completely lost my touch. Tonight was every gallery owner’s worst nightmare.”

“Only a momentary blip,” Destiny assured her. She glanced toward Boris. “How is he taking it?”

“Since he’s barely said two words all evening, even before the night was officially declared a disaster, it’s hard to tell,” Kathleen said. “Either he’s pining for his homeland or he had a lousy disposition even before the show. My guess is the latter. Until tonight I had no idea how important the artist’s charm could be.”

Destiny gave her a consoling look. “In the end it won’t matter. In fact, the instant the critics declare Boris a true modern-art genius, all those people he put off tonight will brag to their friends about the night they met the sullen, eccentric artist.”

Kathleen gave Destiny a warm hug. “Thank you so much for staying behind to tell me that.”

“Actually, I lingered till the others had gone because I wanted a moment alone with you.”

“Oh?”

“What are your plans for Thanksgiving, Kathleen? Are you going to Providence to visit your family?”

Kathleen frowned. She’d had a very tense conversation with her wealthy, socialite mother on that very topic earlier in the day, when she’d announced her intention to stay right here in Alexandria. She’d been reminded that all three current generations of Dugans gathered religiously for all major holidays. She’d been told that her absence was an affront to the family, a precursor to the breakdown of tradition. And on and on and on. It had been incredibly tedious and totally expected, which was why she’d put off making the call until this morning. Prudence Dugan was not put off easily, but Kathleen had held her ground for once.

“Actually I’m staying in town,” she told Destiny. “I have a lot of work to catch up on. And I don’t really want to close the gallery for the holiday weekend. I think business could be brisk on Friday and Saturday.”

Destiny beamed at her. “Then I would love it if you would spend Thanksgiving day with my family. We’ll all be at Ben’s farm. It’s lovely in Middleburg this time of year.”

Kathleen regarded her friend suspiciously. While they had become rather well acquainted in recent years, this was the first time Destiny had sought to include her in a family gathering.

“Won’t I be intruding?” she asked.

“Absolutely not. It will be a very low-key dinner for family and a few close friends. And it will give you a chance to see my nephew’s paintings and give me a professional opinion.”

Kathleen’s suspicions mounted. She knew for a fact that Destiny’s eye for art was every bit as good as her own. She also knew that Ben Carlton considered his painting to be little more than a hobby, something he loved to do. In fact, as far as she knew, he’d never sold his work. She suspected there was a good reason for that, that even he knew it wasn’t of the caliber needed to make a splash in the art world.

Every article she’d ever read about the three Carlton men had said very little about the reclusive youngest brother. Ben stayed out of the spotlight, which shone on businessman and politician Richard Carlton and football great Mack Carlton. There were rumors of a tragic love affair that had sent Ben into hiding, but none of those rumors had ever been publicly confirmed. However, brooding was the adjective that was most often applied whenever his name was mentioned.

“Is he thinking of selling his works?” Kathleen asked carefully, trying to figure out just what her friend was up to. Being first in line for a chance to show them would, indeed, be a major coup. There was bound to be a lot of curiosity about the Carlton who chose to stay out of the public eye, whether his paintings were any good or not.

“Heavens, no,” Destiny said, though there was a hint of dismay in her voice. “He’s very stubborn on that point, but I’d like to persuade him that a talent like his shouldn’t be hidden away in that drafty old barn of a studio out there.”

“And you think I might be able to change his mind when you haven’t succeeded?” Kathleen asked, her skepticism plain. Destiny had lots of practice wheedling million-dollar donations to her pet charities. Surely she could persuade her own nephew that he was talented.

“Perhaps. At the very least, you’ll give him another perspective. He thinks I’m totally biased.”

Never able to resist the chance that she might discover an exciting new talent, Kathleen finally nodded. She assured herself it was because she wanted a glimpse of the work, not the mysterious man. “I’d love to come for Thanksgiving. Where and when?”

Destiny beamed at her. “I’ll send over directions and the details first thing in the morning.” She headed for the door, looking oddly smug. “Oh, and wear that bright red silk tunic of yours, the one you had on at the Carlucci show. You looked stunning that night.”

Destiny was gone before Kathleen could think of a response, but the comment had set off alarm bells. Everyone in certain social circles in the Washington Metropolitan region knew about Destiny’s matchmaking schemes. While her behind-the-scenes plots had never made their way into the engagement or wedding announcements for Richard or Mack, they were hot gossip among the well-connected. And everyone was waiting to see what she would do to see Ben take the walk down the aisle.

Kathleen stared after her. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she whispered to Destiny’s retreating back. “I am not looking for a husband, especially not some wounded, artistic type.”

It was a type she knew all too well. It was the type she’d married, fought with and divorced. And while that had made her eminently qualified to run an art gallery and cope with artistic temperament, it had also strengthened her resolve never, ever, to be swept off her feet by another artist.

Tim Radnor had been kind and sensitive when they’d first met. He’d adored Kathleen, claiming she was his muse. But when his work faltered, she’d discovered that he had a cruel streak. There had been flashes of temper and stormy torrents of hurtful words. He’d never laid a hand on her, but his verbal abuse had been just as intolerable. Her marriage had been over within months. Healing had taken much longer.

As a result of that tumultuous marriage, she could deal with the craziness when it came to business, but not when it affected her heart.

If romance was on Destiny’s mind, she was doomed to disappointment, Kathleen thought, already steeling her resolve. Ben Carlton could be the sexiest, most charming and most talented artist on the planet and it wouldn’t matter. She would remain immune, because she knew all too well the dark side of an artistic temperament.

Firm words. Powerful resolve. She had ’em both. But just in case, Kathleen gazed skyward. “Help me out here, okay?”

“Is trouble?” a deep male voice asked quizzically.