Chapter 3
Charlie thought about the evening before over breakfast, and how best to proceed. He called the gallery and told them who he was and that he wanted to meet the artist.
They told him everything from the show that was available had been sold.
He asked her prices, which were very steep, almost shocking, but worth it.
He said again that he wanted to meet her.
They were noncommittal and said they’d get back to him.
They were used to important people inquiring at the gallery about her work.
They were respectful but not impressed, and called him back half an hour later, telling him that Devon was fully committed until the end of the year and she was not taking commissions for next year yet.
He said he’d like to speak to her himself.
They said she wasn’t accepting calls. She was working.
The more they refused him, the more determined he was to see her and talk to her.
Charlie asked if they would deliver something to her, and they said of course, since they knew he was an important man.
But they explained that Devon’s rules were strict and they abided by them.
Charlie wrote her a note saying he saw her as she left the gallery, was bowled over by her work and would like to speak to her, and that he was only in New York for another day.
He added that he would stretch it for her.
She was rapidly becoming an obsession, which he didn’t say but he could feel it overwhelming him. He felt breathless writing the note.
He dressed and left the apartment and walked to a florist five blocks away.
He ordered a huge bouquet of flowers he picked himself to be delivered to the gallery, or her home if the gallery would tell them the address.
He left an enormous tip, and walked back to his apartment.
He had put his cell phone number on the letter to her.
He had meetings all day and he worked at the apartment that night.
He was surrounded by papers, charts, and his computer when his cellphone rang.
It was Devon Darcy. Her voice was as soft as silk, and as powerful in its effect as the look in her eyes had been the night before.
“That’s an enormous bouquet, Mr. Taylor,” she said in a low, smooth voice. There was the hint of a smile in her tone. There was that same gentle strength about her.
“I’m glad it got to you. I was afraid it wouldn’t,” Charlie said, feeling shaken when he heard her voice, which was as delicate and sensual as her face and her perfume.
“The gallery is very good about getting things to me. The flowers are beautiful,” she said, sounding shy.
“I love your work,” he said, his voice was gentle, yet masculine and strong. “Your paintings are incredible.”
“I love doing my work.” She sounded happy when she said it.
“I need a portrait,” he said simply. Suddenly it seemed crucial, and urgent.
“Would you have coffee with me?” he asked her.
He wanted to see her again to determine if she was as mysterious and beautiful as he remembered.
Maybe it was just an illusion with a fleeting glance—they had crossed paths so quickly.
Maybe he had imagined the electricity between them.
She hesitated. “I can’t. I’m working. I’ve just started a portrait.
I don’t see people when I’m painting. I’m fully booked through December, and I haven’t started booking for next year.
” His invitation felt more like a date than a commission, and she had too much work lined up to be frivolous.
She was always serious about her work. It was her priority, as his work was his.
“Just have coffee with me.” He sounded so persuasive.
She wondered why. “Half an hour. I promise I won’t keep you longer.
” There was something so sensual and appealing about his voice, both soft and strong.
She could tell he was a man who was used to getting his way.
She wasn’t sure why, but she succumbed to his persistent charm.
Normally, she never saw anyone but her subject when she painted.
“Half an hour,” she said firmly. “An hour at most.”
“Where?” His heart was beating faster, and he felt like a boy again. She gave him the name of a café he’d never heard of in the Village.
“Tomorrow. Does five p.m. work for you?” she asked him politely.
The sitting would be over by then. He wanted to ask her for dinner, but he didn’t dare.
He was sure she wouldn’t accept. He already knew after talking to her that he wanted her to do his portrait, and wondered what it would take to convince her.
He had to extend his stay in New York by a day to see her and change a meeting in Chicago, but he did it gladly to meet with her.
Normally, he’d have expected her to adjust to his schedule, but he was certain she wouldn’t.
She was hesitant about seeing him and could have refused to meet him.
“Five is great, at Luigi’s café,” he confirmed. It sounded like an adventure to him. He was excited at the prospect and his spirits soared. It was like winning a prize to have gotten the appointment with her.
“See you then, Mr. Taylor, and thank you again for the flowers,” she said formally, with just a hint of irony in her tone.
“Charlie,” he corrected her.
“See you tomorrow,” she said in her soft voice, and hung up.
Charlie sat holding the phone in his hand after she ended the call.
He was staring into space, thinking about her, remembering her voice, wondering what it would be like meeting her, talking to her.
She seemed so mysterious right now, so talented, so far away, and yet when he heard her voice she felt as close to him as she had in the crowd.
He couldn’t figure out who she was, or why she had such a powerful effect on him.
Maybe he was imagining it, and she was just an ordinary person.
But the paintings she created were anything but ordinary.
They were the work of a fascinating, very unusual woman.
He wanted to know her better, and was grateful she had agreed to meet him.
When he didn’t hear from her all day after he sent the flowers, he had been sure she wouldn’t see him.
Her call that night had been a surprise and a gift.
He had trouble sleeping that night, and kept dreaming about her.
He would wake up with a start when she vanished in the dream.
He finally fell into a deep dreamless sleep for the last hour and woke up with a feeling of excitement.
Knowing he was going to see her energized him.
He organized a meeting to fill the time that day until he saw her, and he could barely keep his mind on the subject.
It was a relief when he finally got into the car at four o’clock to go downtown to meet her.
There was heavy traffic on the way, as he gazed out the window, thinking of her.
In spite of the traffic, Charlie got to the café in the Village ten minutes early.
It had a European-style terrace, lively, busy, crowded.
It had taken him nearly an hour to get there in the end-of-day traffic from his apartment.
He was wearing a gray business suit and blue shirt, open at the neck, without the tie he’d worn that day to the meeting he’d arranged to make use of the extra day in town.
Charlie had a thick head of dark hair, and his shoulders looked broad in the custom-made shirt. He took off the jacket while he waited. The terrace was crowded, the waiters were busy, the day was warm. It felt more like Paris or Rome than New York.
Devon arrived at precisely five o’clock, in a white T-shirt, jeans, and black ballet flats.
Her hair shone like copper in the sun. He had texted her a description of what he looked like to the number she’d called from the night before.
She had done the same, once she got his text, but he knew exactly what she looked like.
He couldn’t get her out of his mind. She had the slim body of a young girl, the posture of a dancer—she was shorter than he remembered and must have been wearing heels at the opening of her show.
She remembered him immediately and sat down next to him at the table.
He could smell the exotic perfume she’d worn before.
He exuded the same magnetic pull she had felt in the crowd when she saw him.
There was something powerful within him, mirrored by the strength in her.
He ordered a glass of white wine, and she a glass of lemonade.
“I don’t drink when I’m working,” she explained.
The people around them were fun to watch, like a scene in a movie.
There was something unreal about meeting her.
It was all so unexpected and atypical of his daily life, meeting an artist to paint his portrait.
“You don’t look American,” he commented, mesmerized by her green eyes and red hair. Her eyes were a deep true green, with the translucence of emeralds, just as he remembered. His were a striking blue.
“I am American,” she confirmed. “Born in New York. I lived here until I was five. My parents died then. My mother was French so I went to live with my grandmother in France, and stayed there until I was twenty-eight. I came back here to live fourteen years ago.” He rapidly did the math, and was surprised by her age.
She looked so much younger. She made it all sound so simple, and didn’t say that she left France and came back to New York because Axel had died.
She felt private about it. Axel belonged to her.
“You look French,” he said, admiring her, as they sipped their drinks. Even in a white T-shirt and jeans, she had a distinctive style. She had looked chic at the gallery, the night before. He liked seeing her informally in the T-shirt and jeans.