His Seductive Revenge

Just another woman of privilege, as cool as she was sleek. He knew her type, had avoided her type all his life.

He stopped pacing in front of the large De La Hoya portrait, of his mother. He’d regretted the promise he’d made to her seventeen years ago, regretted it so much he hadn’t made a promise to anyone except Sebastian since then. Circumstances change with time. At fifteen, he hadn’t known that yet. Now, at thirty-two, he knew better. And he knew he had to break that early promise..

The time had come. As if preordained, everything was falling into place. Nothing could stop what would happen now. Preventing this merger that the families were calling a marriage was the first step.

Gabe moved to look out a window. The city skyline was shrouded with morning fog, the kind that would burn off soon, revealing a crisp San Francisco autumn day. It suited his mood, for a fog was surely lifting from his own life. Richard Grimes and Arthur Chandler would pay for what they’d done.

The sins of the fathers are to be laid upon the children.

The quotation rang in Gabe’s head. A price would be exacted between the generations, a price long overdue, in Gabe’s book. Yet there would be other costs. His mother may never forgive him, even though he also sought justice for her. And Miss Cristina Chandler may find herself an inadvertent victim of convenience—Gabe’s. and the other men’s. But the world needed to hear the truth, and perhaps the cool, sophisticated woman was due to have her eyes opened, as well. Perhaps he was even saving her from a worse fate.

He could not fail. He’d waited a long time for this moment, and indeed, there would be a price to pay. But reward justified risk. That was his motto.

One

“There’s something wonderfully visceral about his work, don’t you think?” Cristina Chandler pressed her wineglass to her lips as she tried to understand her intense reaction to the painting in front of her. The Galeria Secreto teemed with people, but the voices were hushed and the laughter low, almost seductive, as if the tone had been established by the display they were all there to see—the newest De La Hoya creations.

What incredible work it was. Big canvas, broad strokes, bold colors, seething with passion. She couldn’t recall ever viewing a nude painted with such fire, such blatant sexuality, and yet it was tasteful enough to hang in a living room, although it certainly belonged in the privacy of someone’s bedroom.

“Makes you wonder if the artist fooled around with her,” Jen Wilding said under her breath. “I mean, look at her face. If that isn’t a well-satisfied woman, I don’t know what is.”

Cristina slid her glass across her lips again. “I don’t know that she’s satisfied. Not yet. I think she’s been thoroughly aroused, and satisfaction is just moments away.”

“And your father has commissioned your portrait from this De La Hoya person? Has he ever seen this guy’s work? Does he know you’d have to spend time alone with him?”

A picture started to form in Cristina’s mind as she imagined what Alejandro De La Hoya looked like. Dark, undoubtedly. Latin. With intense eyes that looked deep inside a person and drew out their fantasies. A man who would see through lies and insecurities to what was real. A man for whom a woman would gladly strip herself bare and not feel the least bit shy. Or hesitant. Or humiliated.

Jen whimpered. Cristina smiled at her friend.

“God, Cris, I’m getting hot just thinking about taking that woman’s place.” Jen drained her wineglass and set it on the tray of a passing waiter, grabbing a full one with the other hand in a practiced move. “It’s been weeks since I tangled under the sheets with anyone.”

Weeks? Cristina thought as they moved on. I should be so lucky. “What if De La Hoya is eighty years old and has a wart on his nose?”

“I’d shut my eyes. Any man who could make me feel like that woman obviously does—But if he looked like that I’d be ecstatic,” Jen said as she stopped at the next painting.

Cristina glanced at the program in her hand, looking for the title of the portrait Jen was panting over. Sebastian. The name teased her memory, the reason just beyond her grasp, but perhaps only because it was an old-fashioned name for such a modern man. And yet it suited him. His long, black hair framed a solid face with fine, dark eyes and a hard mouth, the image of a lord from another land, another century—who wore jeans, a lumberjack shirt and boots. Definitely twentieth century stuff.

Jen sighed. “I’ll bet he’d have me shouting timber more than once a night.”

Cristina laughed. She was glad she’d come, after all. She’d almost ignored the out-of-the-blue, engraved invitation, probably would have, except that Jen refused to let her. Too many strange things had happened lately, and she needed an evening of pure fun.

“So, what’s the deal with this portrait your dad is arranging?” Jen asked. “I know that De La Hoya is all the rage, but isn’t he, like, superexpensive?”

“Not only expensive, but incredibly mysterious. No one ever sees him.”

“How is that possible?”

“The rumor is that he works behind some sort of curtain or two-way mirror. I don’t know the specifics. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Even if De La Hoya agrees, I’m not going to allow it. I don’t think Father can afford to spend that kind of money, even if it does complete the family gallery. Besides which, it just seems so pretentious.”

“That is often the point, I believe,” said a man from behind them, his voice as hushed and seductive as the environment demanded.

Cristina and Jen turned. He’d obviously been eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Pretension is the point?” Cristina asked. His eyes mesmerized her, their dark, glittering depths pulling her in, stopping her breath. Not quite civilized. The thought flashed in her mind, fizzled, then flared again even brighter when he moved a little closer. She watched his mouth as he spoke.

“Don’t you believe we buy art not only for how it makes us feel, but for how our friends will react?” he asked.

“No.” His lips looked soft and firm. She almost touched them. “Art is very personal to me,” she added.

He made the slightest shift in his stance, as if a soldier at attention had been ordered at ease. “Gabriel Marquez,” he said, extending his hand.

“Cristina Chandler.”

“And I’m Jen, the ignored one. I’m here, too. Although you two sure couldn’t tell it the last couple of minutes,” she grumbled. “I’m going to feed my noisy and empty stomach, Cris. Do you want anything?”

Cristina shook her head, taking an unobtrusive step back at the same time. He was crowding her space, and she needed breathing room. “I’m to assume that you have a collection of art you’ve bought merely to shock or pacify your friends?” she asked, then sipped her wine, giving herself a moment to admire him, from his almost black hair, on down his lean, broad-shouldered body. He wore a tuxedo comfortably, not looking as if he wished he were at home in sweats.

“Like you, art is personal to me, Miss Chandler. Although certainly some pieces have shocked my friends.” They wandered to the next painting. “This one, for example. What do you think of it?”

Unlike the other portraits, this piece had an almost photographic feel to it, the sepia tones warm but the image stark. A bridal gown lay jumbled on the floor beside the woman portrayed. Tulle from her veil wound around her feet. Otherwise she was nude, her arms drawn across her body in a classic pose to hide her womanliness, the bouquet she carried startling against her pale abdomen. Her eyes were downcast. A lone tear trailed her cheek.

The untitled painting bothered Cristina in ways she’d have to think about later. Her initial reaction was simple, however, and she offered it to the still, silent man beside her. “I think a bride should look more like the woman in the first portrait. This woman’s not in love.”

“My impression as well. It is De La Hoya’s newest work, I understand.”

“I wonder why he didn’t title it. It seems obvious to me... Sacrifice,” she said.

He angled his head toward her. She felt a heat from his gaze that seared her all the way through.

“Why do you call it that?” he asked.

“There’s something old-worldly about it. About all of De La Hoya’s work. In this one I see a woman of another century, one who didn’t choose her groom, but was chosen.”

“An obedient woman.”

“But only to a degree.” Cristina gestured at the painting with her wineglass. “It’s there, in her posture—that little bit of defiance. She may not have choices, but she still has freedom of thought.”

“And what will that gain her?”

The hushed intensity of his voice made her hesitate. Something about the man hypnotized. Enticed. Lured.

“Self-satisfaction, Mr. Marquez. No one can take her soul.”

“Unless she weakens.”

Cristina didn’t know what to make of him. He was a cool one. And intelligent. And still she sensed he was not quite civilized. Dangerous. Yes, the word suited him. Temptingly dangerous, unlike any other man she’d known.

“What a strange conversation,” she said, forcing a smile. “How did we even start it?”