Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
C amille and Dane were out and about in San Francisco for the morning, though Fernsby suspected that, as soon as he left the flat, they’d sneak back into bed. Young love. Those two had googly eyes for each other, even if Dane was now just shy of forty.
But it was the perfect opportunity for Fernsby to visit Clay Harrington’s warehouse.
He had yet to see Charlene Ballard’s latest sculpture, and Lord Rexford needed a long walk on this beautiful Friday morning in spring.
As did Fernsby. It was how he kept fit. How he kept the mini dachshund fit, too, with all the treats Dane sneaked to the dog behind his back.
He’d stopped at the bookstore along the way—another reason for the excursion.
As he entered Clay’s warehouse of artists’ studios, he was elated to find the statue gleaming in the morning sunlight that fell through the skylight above.
Charlene Ballard was indeed a magnificent metal artist. He read the piece’s title plaque— The Discus Thrower —then took his time surveying the sculpture from all angles.
As he made the full circuit, he became aware of Clay watching him.
Beside him stood the most beautiful of ladies, with flawless skin, silky dark hair, a delightful flowery tunic sweater, and black leggings showcasing toned calves as if she, like he, walked or hiked.
Even the combat boots she wore, Doc Martens or some such thing, somehow suited her despite her delicate frame.
He perused the couple even as he appeared to peruse the statue.
Clay stood a smidge too close to the woman who, Fernsby concluded, was somewhere in her early thirties, despite a costume that might be worn by someone ten years younger.
A sensual aura surrounded them, like a bubble that would burst if he poked it.
Well, well, well. Had the dear fellow been caught at last?
He’d known Clay Harrington for sixteen years, since he’d first come to work for Dane as his most excellent butler.
He’d seen Clay grow from a high school boy to a green university student receiving his inestimable education at Harvard to the impressive man who stood before him now.
In all that time—Fernsby knew the ins and outs of the entire family—he had never seen that enchanted yet somewhat mystified look on the young man’s face.
As though he’d stumbled onto something he hadn’t expected, hadn’t wanted, and suddenly found he couldn’t live without.
Fernsby wanted to applaud. Or perhaps dance a jig around Charlene Ballard’s amazing sculpture. But being Fernsby, he merely said, “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” waiting a beat before adding, “Sir,” and letting his gaze settle upon the young woman.
Instead of introducing him, which Clay should have done as propriety dictated, the young man asked, “What are you reading?” He pointed at the book under Fernsby’s arm.
Fernsby held it up. “It’s the latest Mathilda Sullivan mystery. I’ve read all her books.” He did not extol the virtues of Mathilda Sullivan’s writing nor admit the books were marvelous. He had the entire series in hardback and had read each more than once.
Someday, perhaps, if the deity willed it, he might have them autographed.
Then he announced, “Lord Rexford and I—” He never called the long-haired dachshund T.
Rex, the way everyone else did. “—were out for a stroll and decided to stop by to see Charlene Ballard’s latest creation.
” He looked down his nose at Clay. “It would be mere politeness to introduce me to your lovely friend.” Again, after a pause, he added, “Sir.”
“Of course,” Clay said, as if he were so enamored that he thought Fernsby would naturally extract her name from his very thoughts. “This is Saskia Oliver. I’m negotiating a commission with San Holo, the famous street artist, and Saskia is his assistant.”
“And I am Fernsby.” No further explanation was necessary. He raised a brow, looked at the young woman, liked her without knowing another thing about her, and held out his hand. “So nice to meet you, Saskia.”
She shook with a good grip. He liked a woman who had a good grip.
He perambulated around the sculpture once more, stopping at a point where he could see the two of them standing close together. “Ms. Ballard’s latest work is once again amazing.”
Charlene Ballard patrolled junkyards and garage sales for bits and pieces she melded into the most intricate artwork. She was also engaged to Maverick media mogul Sebastian Montgomery.
When on earth would the two get married? Perhaps he needed to work his magic with them, as he had with Dane and Camille, and with Ransom and Ava, Clay’s older sister.
So many unmarried couples. So many unattached Harringtons.
His work was cut out for him.
But now he needed to give his unbiased analysis of the sculpture. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It feels as though the subject is angry. Throwing away his work because he thinks it doesn’t measure up.” He glanced at Clay. “Is that the message you hope to give the artists here?”
He gazed at the artist’s palette in The Discus Thrower ’s hand. He couldn’t imagine that had been Charlene’s intention.
But instead of Clay defending his choice, the young woman stepped forward. Saskia. Such a lovely name. Hopefully she didn’t shorten it to something appalling like Sas.
“Look at the young man’s face.” She pointed to The Discus Thrower , his face in bronze while the rest of his body was metal gears and other odds and ends welded together.
“He’s glowing. Look at the palette. It’s the only color in the entire statue.
All the colors he could want to use. He’s not throwing away his art.
He’s throwing everything into his art—all his energy, all his creativity. That’s what it represents to me.”
This incredible insight from an assistant? She was absolutely right. She had read its true meaning. While Fernsby, on purpose, because he’d wanted to gauge their reactions, had expressed the opposite view.
She was like Clay. He wasn’t an artist, but he lived in the art world, and he understood both artists and their work. Though she might be an assistant, this young woman knew the artistic temperament.
Fernsby gladly admitted his error. “Sometimes you believe art says one thing. But when you look closely, you find it says exactly the opposite. Thank you for pointing this out to me, young lady.”
She smiled, a radiant smile, which she then turned on Clay.
Shooting stars exploded between them. They’d spent the night together. Fernsby was absolutely sure. Because Clay Harrington had never looked at a woman like that.
This young woman was real. She had depth.
She was perfect for him.
Saskia met Adrian for lunch on Saturday at a trendy restaurant on Market Street, elegant with white tablecloths, crystal wineglasses, and busboys carrying little scrapers to scoop away breadcrumbs. The tables were separated by planters, giving the patrons a sense of privacy.
Adrian had chosen a window table, because she enjoyed watching the passersby. “This place is owned by Ransom Yates.”
Saskia gave her a gentle, “Mmm,” not terribly interested in who owned the restaurant.
Adrian raised one eyebrow. “Ransom Yates is now dating Ava Harrington.” She paused, waiting for Saskia’s reaction.
Saskia didn’t feel like giving one. She studied the menu instead.
“She’s Clay Harrington’s older sister.” Adrian sat back, giving Saskia a self-satisfied smile.
“Are you trying to worm information out of me about what I’ve been doing with Clay over the last couple of days?”
Adrian gave a dramatic eye roll. “I can’t believe I actually have to drag the details out of you.” She ended on a note of exasperation.
Adrian had waited two days before she’d forced a meeting with Saskia—which for Adrian was being quite patient. Normally, she’d have called right after that first meeting. Saskia had let things slide because the commission was with Clay. And because she’d slept with him.
It wasn’t just one night. It wasn’t just two nights. She had no intention of stopping. Still scrutinizing the menu, she admitted, “I slept with him again. In fact, I’ve been at his place every night.”
Adrian clapped once, not enough to draw attention. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from him. Out of his bed, I mean.” A gleeful sparkle lit her eyes.
Saskia set down her menu, leaned her elbows on the table, laced her fingers, and rested her chin on them as she looked at her friend. “Here’s the problem.”
Adrian choked out a laugh. “How can there be a problem when you’re sleeping with a disgustingly sexy billionaire who wants to give you a commission where you command the price?”
Saskia pursed her lips.
Adrian rushed on, “Don’t tell me it’s because he’s Clay Harrington.”
“I’m over that problem,” Saskia said. “Now I feel bad that I’m not being truthful with him.”
Adrian stared at her long enough for their waiter to step up to the table. Dressed in a white shirt and black pants, he was far above casual. All he needed was a tie and a suit jacket and he could have been in a boardroom. “What can I get you ladies? We have an amazing peach mimosa.”
Adrian jumped on the offer immediately. “We’ll both have one.”
“Could we also have water, please?” Saskia added.
“Of course,” the waiter said effusively.
Before he could leave to get their drinks, Adrian said, “We’re ready to order as well.” She raised an eyebrow at Saskia, who simply nodded. “I’ll have the sand dabs.”
“Excellent choice.” He scribbled on his pad and turned to Saskia.
Still undecided, she said the first thing that popped into her mind. “Shrimp Louis, please.”
The man beamed. “Also excellent. I’ll be back with your drinks.”
“They’re very attentive here.” Adrian turned to Saskia when he was gone. “You probably thought I’d forget about what you just said.” She leaned forward, mirroring Saskia’s elbows on the table. “You’ve never had a problem playing the assistant before. What makes Clay different?”