How Sweet It Is (8 page)

“Never,” he said almost pleasantly.

She looked up at him, trying not to notice that his hand brushed hers as they walked, or the giddy feelings it inspired. Or that she wanted him to kiss her.

She pursed her lips. She didn’t need kisses—she’d gone without them a long time, and she could go on for quite a while longer despite what Bea thought. She was on the cusp of becoming someone though, and that wasn’t something to compromise. So she said, “I think you’re being shortsighted by not showing me your work.”

He stopped at the entrance of the Saint Michel metro station and stuck his hands in his pockets. “And I think you should go home to London.”

She shook her head. “Not until you agree to let me see your work. Like I said, I might like to sell it.”

“I told you I don’t sell my work.” His tone brooked no debate.

But she was used to Charles and Chloe. She knew how to work around stubborn people. “It’ll be good for you.”

He shook his head. “Nothing you have to offer would be good for me.”

“I should be offended, but I’m not,” she said, smiling slowly as his words registered. “You’re saying I’m like chocolate cake.”

“Daft,” he murmured.

Vi poked his arm. “You want to kiss me.”

He nodded. “Unfortunately, I’m daft, too.”

“Astonishing.” Laughing a little, she descended into the metro station. “See you tomorrow, Phineas.”

“No, you won’t,” he called after her.

“Yes, I will,” she promised with a wave, knowing he waited at the top and watched her all the way in.

Chapter Eight

“
Mon vieux,
” Marcel said as he opened his door. He took the espresso off the tray in Finn’s hands and motioned him into the flat. “What a wonderful surprise to see you this morning.”

“Is it?” Finn entered, setting the tray on the tiny counter in the kitchen.

“But of course.” Marcel grinned at him. “You can tell me about the beautiful woman you left with last night.”

Viola Summerhill, with the amazing legs and lips that begged for sweet kisses. Finn turned, eyes narrowed. “What do you know of her?”

Marcel shrugged, overly casual. “Only that Anne-Marie saw you leave with a goddess. I ask myself, could this really be
my
Finn, who has forsaken all feminine enticements?”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s not true.”

The man pointed at him. “You cannot distract me, my friend. I’ll find out who she is.”

“She’s only a gallery owner.”

Marcel perked up. “She will sell your paintings? Then she’s an angel sent from above to save you.”

“You know I don’t sell my art.”

“The only thing I know is that you have a passion you restrain, and
that
, my friend”—he pointed a finger at him—“is unnatural.”

Restrained passion made him remember Viola again, which annoyed him, because he’d already spent too much time thinking about her. She’d haunted him all night as he tossed and turned.

Shaking his head, he headed toward the door. “Remember to take the tray and dishes back to Anne-Marie.”

“Of course,” Marcel said as he flopped onto his couch, the legs bowing out despite his insubstantial weight. “And you? What are you doing today?”

Finn shrugged, hand on the doorknob. “What do you think I’m doing today?”

“Not what I believe you’d like to be doing, and certainly not with the woman you want to do it with.” Marcel cackled.

The man was too easily amused with himself. Finn shot him a glare as he closed the door behind him.

As he let himself into his workshop, Marcel’s trombone sounded. It growled, slow and sexy. Finn wasn’t sure whether it was encouraging or mocking him.

His mobile vibrated in his pocket. Taking it out, he frowned at the unknown number. He almost let it go to voicemail, but curiosity got the better of him. “
Oui
?”

“May I speak to Phineas Buchanan?”

He recognized Abigail Potter’s voice. He shook his head. “Ms. Potter, I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Which is why I’m calling. I’m not sure I expressed the prestige that working on the Coronation Chair would bring you. Of course, in the interim you wouldn’t be able to talk about it, but after the restoration is complete it’d be fine.”

He shook his head. “I’m not interested in the project. If you contact Philippe, he’ll be able to recommend someone else.”

“Yes, but I’d rather have you.”

“That’s not possible.” The door buzzer rang. Normally he hated when someone stopped by, but today he grasped at it eagerly. “I must go.”

“Mr. Buchanan—”

He hung up and went to his door. He should have known who it’d be.

Viola Summerhill stood under the overhang in the doorway, probably to avoid the steady onslaught of cold rain, her hair loose and wind-blown. She wore a red winter coat, a white scarf, and crisp black boots. She had the kind of big, earnest eyes that made men do stupid things—that made them want to say yes.

But he wasn’t going to say yes to her. He wasn’t going to sell his art, ever, not even for a stunning woman with trusting eyes.

He crossed his arms. “Coming here repeatedly until I break down isn’t going to work. I won’t change my mind.”

She pursed her lips. “Are you sure?”

At least she didn’t deny her intentions. “Positive.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I came all the way to Paris for you. At least show me what I’m missing.”

“I don’t show my paintings to anyone.”

“You showed them to Jasmine.”

“Marcel showed them to Jasmine.”

“Where’s Marcel, then?” Viola craned her neck to look around him. “I’ll talk to him instead.”

Finn folded his arms, trying not to be amused. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I prefer persistent.” She sighed and speared him with a frank gaze. “Just one look, and then I’ll leave. I promise.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll hound me until I give in?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t doubt it.

He could just close the door in her face. He could lock himself in his workshop and refrain from answering the door or phone. But that’d mean not seeing her again, and that displeased him. How had she wiggled her way under his skin so quickly?

She smiled sweetly, as though she could tell he was crumbling. “Just one peek. Please?”

He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Stepping away from the threshold, he said, “Come in.”

“You’re so kind to invite me in,” she replied with buoyant cheer. She unwrapped her scarf and set it with her purse on the floor. Unbuttoning the top of her coat, she shook the water off, hung it on a nail by the door, and surveyed the front area of his workshop. “What is it you do out here?” she asked, running a hand along a large chisel on his worktable.

Distracted by the way her hand was caressing his tool, he barely heard her question. He had to turn away so he’d be able to keep his wits. “I restore antiques.”

“Statues and furniture?”

He glanced over his shoulder in time to see her bend over and examine one of his tools up close. He stared at the curve of her arse, and then he mentally cursed. “I never should have invited you into my space.”

She turned around, amused. “Am I a vampire?”

“If the cloak fits.”

She grinned, and her entire face lit.

It took his breath away. He stood stunned, his heart seizing, wanting to say something clever again so he could be the cause of that smile.

Before he could say anything, she turned and walked into the back room, where he kept his easel, paints, and finished canvases.

“Wait,” he said, hurrying after her.

But she paused in the doorway of her own accord. He heard her gasp, and when he reached her side, she had a hand covering her mouth.

He frowned, surveying his studio to try and see it as she did. It was a little messy, but not overly so. A large wooden table held his oil paints and extra brushes. Another table to the side had his watercolor supplies, for those times when he wanted a lighter medium. Against one wall, he put his finished works, several rows deep. Along the other wall, he leaned the paintings that were drying.

Right now, it was a series he’d done of his friends in their natural habitats. The first abstract was of Marcel, playing his trombone. He’d painted Anne-Marie, elbows leaning on the counter of her café, and the butcher in the market brandishing his cleaver. At the end, there was one of Jasmine, as he also thought of her: alone, in a crowd of faceless people.

“This …” Viola shook her head.

He frowned. “I said you wouldn’t like it.”

“I don’t like it,” she said. “I
love
it.”

The tension in his chest eased as he watched her walk up to the canvases and study them closer. “This is Jasmine,” she finally said, glancing at him for confirmation.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, overwhelmed by the urge to grab her. He told himself it was just because she was admiring his artwork. It was a natural reaction on his part.

Marcel’s mocking laughter sounded in his head.

“These are so honest and insightful. Truth and beauty, passion in simple everyday actions,” she went on, oblivious of his plight. She stared at the painting of Marcel. “I can practically hear him playing, but the colors and depth are breathtaking.”

He grunted, trying not to take on her compliments. He didn’t paint because he wanted kudos; he painted because it was in his soul.

She whirled to face him. “What are you working on now?”

A safe enough subject. “I’m finishing up a restoration project.”

“The restoration of a painting?”

“No.” He nodded to the front room. “The chair.”

Her brow furrowed. “You’re restoring a
chair
? Why aren’t you painting?”

“Because I restore furniture.” He crossed his arms and glared at her.

She nodded slowly. “I see.”

He could tell she did, and he relaxed a little.

She studied him steadily. Then she put a hand on his arm. “Let me sell your artwork. I’ll list you under a different name to protect your privacy, if you’d prefer.”

He shook off her distracting touch. “It’s my art I want to keep private, not my name.”

“But that’s so
wrong
.” She shook her head, gesturing to the paintings. “It’s criminal keeping this sort of beauty from the world.”

He shrugged. “It’s not for sale.”

“Hmm.” She tapped a finger against her chin, staring at him.

He hated that he found her adorable, because she was plotting how to convince him. He’d paint her just like that, determination radiating from her face, turning her beauty into something formidable.

Or he’d paint her naked, sprawled in his bed.

He scowled, liking the image too much. “You’ve seen it all. You can leave now.”

Turning, he went to the chair he was working on, hyper aware of Viola rustling around behind him. He reached for his phone and began to play jazz through his Bluetooth speakers, hoping it’d be enough diversion.

“This is nice,” she said, coming to stand next to him. “I’m surprised you like jazz.”

“What did you think I’d like?” He reached for a sheet of sandpaper without looking at her—it was safer that way.

“I don’t know.” She picked up his chisel and turned it around in her dainty hands. “I don’t have much experience with music aside from classical.”

The way she said it, with sadness and regret, made him glance at her. “Do you want to listen to music other than classical?”

She blinked as though surprised. “I do.”

“Then just listen to it.” He lowered his head to run the sandpaper gently over the piece, trying not to notice the way her fingers slid over the chisel.

“I think I want to listen to pop music,” she said finally. “Have I told you I have a daughter? I wonder what she listens to. She’d probably hate whatever I chose simply out of principle.”

“What’s her name?” he asked, despite himself. Her face animated in a way that captivated him when she spoke of her daughter. The sandpaper crinkled in his fingers as they clenched with the need to get his charcoals and sketch her.

“Chloe. She’s sixteen and so fierce. But underneath her shell, she’s soft, and I don’t want anyone to hurt her.”

The way she’d been hurt, Finn heard between the lines.

Viola sighed. “Chloe is special. She’s so smart, so unique. I think you’d like her, because she says what she thinks. Do you have children?”

The question startled him into looking at her. “Of course not.”

She shrugged. “You never know. You may be single now, but any man who’s over forty—”

“I’m thirty-eight,” he said, oddly affronted.

“—likely has at least a marriage and children hidden somewhere.”

“I don’t.” He took the chisel out of her hands and set it on the table.

“You’ve never been married,” she stated rather than asking.

“Good God, no.”

“Hm.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, staring at her.

“Nothing.” She pursed her lips. “Do you need help?”

He imagined her hands brushing his, and he started to go hard. “
No
,” he replied emphatically, sanding with determined vigor.

Pulling her stool closer, she said, “We’re a family of girls. I have five sisters. I mean, six.”

“You have a sister you forget?” he asked, glancing at her.

“We have one we didn’t know about until a year ago. She’s one of us now, but sometimes I still lose count. Six is a lot of sisters. Do you have tequila?”

He raised his brow.

“I like tequila. It’d help me relax.” She undid a button on her blouse, fanning herself.

“You don’t need to relax,” he said weakly, transfixed by her pale cleavage. Any more relaxed and she’d be naked, and as much as he wanted that, he
didn’t
want it even more.

To distract her—and him—he said, “Why did your ex-husband leave?”

She froze and he immediately regretted asking, even if it had the desired result.

He didn’t expect her to reply, but then she lifted her head as though fighting for pride. “He found someone he loved. It turned out that had never been me.”

What an arse.

“Do you think that’s code for leaving me because I was lacking?” she asked softly.