Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
JO
Ipace slowly between the racks. Every step I take echoes on the hard floor, and with every step it becomes more and more obvious: this is no ordinary workspace.
This place is almost reverent, like a church.
Housing masterpieces, irreplaceable, each one carrying centuries of history…
and now, by some surreal twist of fate, restoring them to their original glory has become my responsibility.
The wonderful silence is disturbed by the soft click of the door’s locking system.
I freeze. The door swings open, and Axel steps in.
He’s impeccably dressed. His green eyes catch the light as they scan the room and come to settle on me.
His gaze is cold, but my stomach does a crazy somersault.
A familiar pang of something unnamable, something I shouldn’t feel for such an insufferable man, goes through me. My pulse quickens despite myself.
“Jo,” he says, his voice calm but clipped. There is no warmth, no sign of the anger with which he stormed out of Gavin’s office earlier, just controlled authority.
“Axel.” I raise a sarcastic eyebrow, even though I am acutely aware of the electricity throbbing in the air. “What can I do for you?”
“Gavin informs me you’ve agreed to the… stipulations of Joseph’s will. I trust he told you I have too?”
The tension in my shoulders tightens, but I nod.
He nods back, the movement precise and controlled. “Good. I suppose we should draw some rules that will make this situation more bearable.”
“What sort of rules?”
“We live in our respective suites and have as little interaction as possible, while we fulfill our obligations – me within the business, you with the art collection.” He frowns. “And while we find a way to produce an heir each by the end of the stipulated year.”
“Agreed,” I answer, my voice steady despite the turmoil in my chest. I’m not being totally honest. I might not produce the heir. If I don’t find the right guy, I’m not making a baby just to fulfill my father’s demand for an heir. I might just stay around to clean the paintings.
We stare at each other, our agreement hanging awkwardly between us.
I feel as if there is a silent battlefield of wills going on between us.
He doesn’t like me, and I’ve just lied to him.
Then, as if by mutual understanding, we both turn away at the same time and walk away in opposite directions, him towards the door he entered by, and me back to my workstation.
I find a binder in the top drawer of the desk and open it to find detailed instructions on the order I am to work on the paintings.
I go and find the first one and bring it over to the workstation.
For a moment, I sit in front of the first painting I’ve been assigned in silence.
Wow! My hands tremble slightly as I unwrap it from its protective covering.
The air around it smells of dusty varnish, old canvas, and aged wood.
I take a moment to breathe it in. Then I place my fingers lightly on the surface, feel the texture of the old master beneath my touch, and experience a thrill of anticipation.
This is what I’ve been trained for. This is me in my element.
The world outside, with its peculiar stipulations and unreasonable demands, can wait.
I’ll start with the angel’s face.
Hours pass by unnoticed by me as I work.
I become completely absorbed in the meticulous task of cleaning and lifting centuries of grime off the canvas without damaging the paint.
To the great satisfaction of restoring the original vibrancy of the painting.
As tiny flecks of old varnish come away under my careful ministrations with a cotton bud, and reveal hidden depths of color and shadow, my pulse slows down.
For those few hours, I am entirely in my element, a restorer of beauty, a caretaker of history.
But after a while, the vault’s sterile air and artificial light press down on me. I need some real air and to be somewhere open. I replace the painting’s protective sheet and stretch, letting my back pop audibly, before walking towards the door.
Leaving the vault, I find my way back to the familiar part of the mansion. From there, I step out of a side door into the bright afternoon sun.
Manicured lawns stretch in every direction, bordered by flowering shrubs, tall trees, and winding pathways. Fountains glint in the sunlight, and the air carries the mingled scents of roses, earth, and fresh greenery. I walk slowly, letting my hands brush over the hedges, the breeze cool on my skin.
I round a corner and stop short when I spot Axel.
My stomach starts fluttering like a mad thing, even as I try to look away.
He is crouched down near a boy Betty has pointed out to be the head gardener’s young son.
As the boy chats away happily, Axel’s hand comes up and gently strokes the boy’s head, ruffling his hair in a way that is real, tender, almost fatherly.
The boy laughs softly, and Axel’s lips twitch into a genuine smile, an expression I’ve never seen on his face until now.
It suits him. It makes his eyes sparkle, and he looks younger and beautifully carefree.
He should smile like that more often. Maybe at me.
I push that thought aside the second it lands inside my head.
But I remain motionless, watching Axel interact with the child.
Perhaps he isn’t the monster I imagined then, not entirely.
He has a human side, one that is capable of being gentle and kind, and a capacity for care I couldn’t possibly have guessed from his interactions with me.
My mind flashes to Betty’s words when I asked her about him at my father’s wake: a reachable and decent guy.
I guess she’s seen this side of him before.
And then, from somewhere deep down, a dangerous thought rises.
I wonder what he’s like in bed? I shake my head and chastise myself.
This is madness. While it is true that he is smoking hot, the attraction is dampened by the fact that he is also infuriating, abrasive, and absolutely impossible to deal with.
But looking at him now, and seeing this softer side to him, I know I can’t deny it anymore; there’s a large part of me that is very much taken by him. Quite smitten, actually.
The angle of his jaw, that sexy slant of his mouth, the green granite of his eyes, and the controlled power in his movements.
My mind starts wandering to places I shouldn’t let it go, imagining him in ways that are completely inappropriate, considering him in ways that feel like a betrayal of my own senses.
I stop my little mind movie abruptly.
Focus, I tell myself.
The paintings, the work. That’s what matters. Axel, with his beauty, his dangerous allure, his heartbreaking looks, none of those things matters. Not now. Never. Besides, for whatever reason, he can’t stand the sight of me.
I turn sharply and head back towards the house, going straight back to the vault.
My steps are brisk and determined, but my heart is still hammering.
The chemical smell of varnish strippers and aged wood greets me again, and I sink back into my work, glad to have a focus other than Axel.
The paintbrush feels solid in my hand, the bristles soft against the delicate surface of the canvas.
I immerse myself completely, losing myself in the tiny details, the careful removal of decades of accumulated grime.
But even as I work, I can feel the tension coiled inside of me. I have been doing restoration work long enough that I can do it on autopilot and still let my mind wander to other things. Things I shouldn’t dwell on, if I know what’s good for me.
Things like the way Axel was with the gardener’s son.
As if his natural state were of tenderness.
Seeing that side of him both fascinates and frustrates me.
He’s an enigma, infuriating in his coldness towards me, yet impossible to ignore.
I had kind of made my peace with him just being an asshole, but now I am left wondering why he dislikes me so strongly.
Is it because he feels like I shouldn’t be here or I shouldn’t get any of my father’s money?
Maybe. But he was rude to me before we even heard the will.
I push the thoughts away and concentrate on the delicate task before me, and for a while, it works.
Betty brings some dinner. Blackened cod, steamed asparagus, creamed potatoes, and two warm soft rolls of bread. There is a glass of cold wine to go with it. I eat and drink alone, which I quite enjoy.
Night falls although I only know it because of the time on my watch, as the vault is constantly bathed in the soft artificial light of the gallery lamps.
Feeling exhausted but satisfied with the progress I’ve made, I put the painting away safely, tidy up my workstation, and step out of the room.
The mansion is quiet now, the corridors dimly lit, the gardens outside dark but still fragrant.
The floral scent drifts in through the slightly open windows in the hallway.
In my suite, I strip off, have a cold shower, and slip into bed, letting the silk sheets of the bed invite me to sink into them.
I lay back, my eyes closed, and let the events of the day wash over me: the reading of the will, the ridiculous stipulations, the video from my father, the confrontation with Axel, the hours spent restoring the painting, the brief, unsettling glimpse of Axel’s gentleness in the garden.
And then, despite my best efforts, my mind sticks on the image of Axel.
I cannot help it. Thoughts of Axel, of his strength, his control, his rare tenderness, worm their way through my conscious thoughts, teasing me, taunting me.
The rush of sexual desire and my suppressed curiosity about him collide, and I feel a dangerous heat spread through me like fire.