Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“No,” I intercepted. “She has enough on her plate. I’ll handle it. Thank you.”
We turned to other business, like new opportunities in Melbourne and Dallas. Sanjay tapped numbers onto a shared virtual spreadsheet while I grunted or hummed as proof I was paying attention. I wasn’t.
My mind whirled in a spiral of anxious thoughts. I hated feeling like I was one step behind when I was supposed to have the upper hand. This wasn’t about money anymore. This was Blower preparing one last parting shot. Something personal and damaging…meant just for me.
I answered a few emails after I ended the call. And a text from Julia.
We heard from The Times again. They still want to do a write-up for the M and C merger and would like to make an appointment for an interview. They’re set to meet with Lloyd’s next week. Shall I schedule something for you?
I huffed irritably. No. We’ll get back to them.
Yes, sir. Is there anything else you need before lunch?
No, thank you.
This was where I should have given her the Padstow project to follow up on. It was a matter of simple research. She could even forward it to the new assistant.
It was too bad Raine wasn’t here. Research was the one specialty he owned up to with fervor and—I sat up taller and pressed the intercom.
“Bernadette, I need a phone number.”
All right, perhaps I wasn’t thinking clearly, but trusting my instincts had been the key to my success. And something told me this was important.
Bernadette delivered Raine’s contact information within five minutes—phone number and his London address. I transferred it to my cell and typed,
This is Graham. I want to talk to you.
I studied my screen, willing him to respond immediately.
Nothing.
But three hours, one boring lunch, two meetings, and a conference call later…
Graham, my ex almost-boss? Did you mean to text me? This is Raine, the not ready for prime time assistant.
I smiled for what felt like the first time in a week. Yes, I know. Are you free to talk?
I’m at a museum now, but I can call you later.
Which museum?
Three dots appeared and disappeared twice before he finally replied, The National Gallery.
Will you be there in thirty minutes? I typed, reaching for my jacket.
Yes.
On my way.
Traffic was a nightmare as usual, but Collins had tricks for getting around slow-moving lorries and tour buses without causing mayhem. He dropped me off in Trafalgar Square and told me he’d wait for instructions.
“No need. I’ll take it from here. Good night, Collins.” I waved brusquely, then headed for the wide stone steps and grand pillared entry.
I hadn’t been to the National Gallery in years. It was a formidable space with tall, sloping ceilings, decorated with priceless friezes and ornate gold-leaf details on plasterwork. Some of the artwork rivaled the size of small yachts. I passed a Caravaggio and some gory religious paintings, dodged prams and bored teenagers, climbed yet another stone staircase, and—there he was.
Raine gazed up at a landscape of an English countryside and a lazy lord leaning on a tree branch, his chin tilted and lips parted as if in utter fascination.
I gave the pastoral scene a passing glance. Raine was far more interesting. His floppy brown hair fell across his forehead, giving him a youthful look. Or perhaps it was his worn jeans and the baggy sweater with a hole at the elbow. If I didn’t know him, I might have mistaken him for a student.
I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been attracted to a younger man. I liked experience and maturity, no drama. But God, he was unassumingly lovely. I wanted to run my fingers through his messy hair, lick the curve of his jaw, nip his lush bottom lip, and—
“There you are!” Raine turned on his heels and beamed. “I was just admiring this Gainsborough. I read that he used unconventional materials for his art, like skim milk and smalt. What the heck is smalt?”
“I…don’t know.” I pushed my hands in my pockets to avoid touching him and stared up at the nobleman and his dog. “Do you like Gainsborough?”
“Yes. He’s not my fave, but his work is pretty and it’s a little window into the past. Women in fancy gowns, men in velvet breeches, and everyone else suffering in itchy wool, bad shoes, and no plumbing.”
“Indeed.” I cast a quick glance at the couple hovering under a mammoth landscape with massive clouds and a meandering stream. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I found this type of art pretty but boring.
“You don’t like it,” he guessed.
“I like it all right. Too safe for my taste. I prefer modern or contemporary art.”
“I was at the Tate yesterday. Loved it!” Raine’s smile dipped as he moved to sit on the bench facing a portrait of a boy dressed in a brilliant shade of red. “Um…are you pressing charges or something?”