How Sweet It Is (5 page)

“
Thank you.
” She surprised him by grasping his hand.

He felt the desperation in her grip and wanted to pull away and wipe it off. He didn’t need to save her—it wasn’t his job.

“I know you’ll come to the
right
decision,” she said sweetly. “I’ll walk you out. You’ll call me as soon as you decide? I’ll give you my mobile and my home number as well.”

Reluctantly, he took all her numbers, leaving Westminster Abbey as quickly as possible. He didn’t put it past her to have him kidnapped and held prisoner until he fixed the chair.

Outside, as he hailed a taxi, he checked his mobile for messages. Two from Philippe, which he ignored. One from Jasmine, which he knew better than to ignore.

You will meet me for tea
, she’d texted him.

Typical Jasmine, ordering him about. Smiling, he replied that he could meet her now. She answered immediately, telling him she was waiting. He told the driver to take him to Harrods and sat back, looking forward to seeing his friend.

Jasmine sat at a table, her head lowered over her mobile. She looked the same as the day they’d first become friends, when they were five: stylish and expensive, topped with a mane of dark hair and tilted eyes. Exotic and beautiful.

Her head lifted, and she smiled when she saw him.

That was the only thing that was different, he realized sadly: her smile was shadowed with a cynicism it hadn’t had twenty years ago.

She tipped her head up to let him kiss her cheeks. “Tell me you’ve come to your senses and are moving back.”

“I’m only here to look at an antique that needs to be refurbished.” He hung his coat on the back of his chair and sat next to her.

She waved her hand for the waitress. “I don’t understand how you can do menial labor.”

He smiled, amused. “We can’t all be princesses, sitting idly on our hands.”

“And you were always good using yours, or so the other girls said.” She sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately, I never got to find out for myself.”

“Much to our mothers’ dismay.” He nodded at the waitress and ordered a pot of tea for them plus scones and clotted cream. Besides Jasmine, clotted cream was the thing he missed most about England.

“Mother is
very
excited to hear you’re back,” Jasmine said after the waitress left. “She still harbors hopes that you’ll whisk me off my feet.”

“Do your feet want to be whisked?”

“Good lord, no.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m perfectly happy doing what I do.”

“Which is?”

“Not much, darling.” She smiled, but it was brittle. Then it faded into seriousness. “Are you going to see your family?”

“No.” He wasn’t sure why she even bothered to ask.

Jasmine paused, but then she said, “You should.”

“Why?”

She looked away. “Because you haven’t been home in decades.”

“Their house isn’t my home. Paris is. You of all people should understand that.”

“Your father is a terrible person, I understand. But he’s still your father.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I need to spend time with him.” He frowned. “Of all people, I can’t believe
you’d
tell me to see my father.”

She looked away. “Your father had your best interests at heart. Mine only cared about himself.”

Finn could argue that James was just as selfish. “They’re both bastards, Jas. It’s not a contest.”

Leaning in, she lowered her voice. “What happens when they die?”

He thought about that a lot as the years had passed, and he had no idea how he’d handle it. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be as glib as he thought. “We throw a party?”

Sitting back, she crossed her arms. “You’re still impossible.”

“There’s comfort in the immutable, isn’t there?”

“So why are you here?” she asked sullenly.

“I told you. A restoration project.”

“Are you still painting?”

“Jasmine.”

“Wait. Let me show you something.” She reached for her phone and began swiping.

While she searched her phone, his eye caught on a tall blonde who entered the tearoom. She was stunning—a little thin, but her sparse curves were intriguing. She wore a red dress that was shorter on one side, showing off a long, shapely leg. On top, she had on a white leather jacket and a colorful scarf, neither of which looked to be warm enough for the weather.

Her hair was completely unlike the museum curator’s. Full and lustrous and messed as though her lover had just let her out of his bed.

Finn let his gaze linger on her lips. She’d taste sweet, like the caramels his mother used to say would make him sick.

Shaking his head, he looked up and got caught in her eyes. They were the same blue as the Parisian sky in October and just as profound. She stopped for a moment, staring at him as though surprised, and then as though she might ask him to her bed.

He shifted in his seat, feeling himself fill with desire. Probably just as much due to lack of sex for longer than he cared to admit. He tried to ignore the blonde’s gaze and the fact that she chose to sit at the table next to theirs.

Trouble
, he said to himself and returned his attention to Jasmine.

“Here it is,” his friend said. She put the mobile under his nose. “You did this painting.”

He arched his back so he could see the screen. It was a canvas he’d done a couple years ago. Jasmine had taken a photo of it without his permission. He hadn’t even shown it to her—she’d bribed Marcel with chocolate truffles to open his workshop when Finn hadn’t been around. “I know I did this painting.”

“It’s brilliant,” Jasmine declared. Then she scrolled to the next one. “And this one, too. All your paintings are awe-inspiring.”

“I know.” He loved to carve and whittle, because that was what Henry taught him first, but painting was his true passion.

“Then why aren’t you selling them?”

“I don’t sell my art. You know that.” He became aware of someone listening and looked up.

The blonde leaned, looking over Jasmine’s shoulder. She flushed, caught, but then shrugged and smiled hesitantly as she resettled in her seat.

Before Finn could say anything, a man barged into the teahouse, heading straight to the blonde with a brilliant smile that left no doubt how happy he was to see her. He held his arms out and exclaimed, “Where’s my proper hello?”

Finn couldn’t blame him. If he had a woman who was that stunning, he’d want a proper hello, too.

Suddenly, the man grabbed his heart. “Crikey, woman, what have you done to yourself?”

Finn studied her. She looked delectable to him. Whatever she’d “done to herself” was working for him.

Jasmine put a hand on his cheek and shifted his attention back to her. “Isn’t it time you got over the spat you had with your father?”

“Spat?” He gaped at her. “I’m justifiable in my anger. James killed Henry.”

Jasmine shook her head. “Henry killed himself.”

True—his uncle Henry had swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills and had never woken up, but it was James who had driven him to it. “James was the one who kept pressuring Henry to produce more and more art.”

“But it was Henry’s choice to play along,” she insisted.

“Henry never had a choice when it came to James.” He crossed his arms and glared. “You know how high-handed and manipulative James is when he wants something.”

“Of course I do. There’s no wonder that he’s one of the world’s most successful gallery owners.” She crossed her arms, too, her chin defiant. “But Henry chose the role he played in the family.”

“Did he?” He remembered the last time he’d seen Henry alive; he remembered the pain in his eyes. His uncle’s voice had cracked with sadness as he said, “
Finn, always guard your soul. It’s all you have, and worth more than any gold.”

Scowling, he crossed his arms. “Does this mean you’re forgiving your father for running off the only man you’ve ever loved?”

She winced, but she looked him in the eye. “Maybe it’s time I did.”

As if that was going to happen.

Jasmine tossed her mobile on the table, the screen still displaying his artwork. “Fine. If you don’t want to paint, don’t paint. At least come back to London long enough to do this project.”

He shook his head. “Why are you suddenly so interested in this project?”

“Because you’ll be close again, if only for a short while.” She pouted prettily. “You’re my only partner in crime.”

“You’re still a terrible liar, love.” He kissed her cheek. “I’m off, Jas.”

“Aren’t you always?” she said with only a hint of reproach.

“I’ll call you.” He turned to leave, but not without meeting that blonde’s sea-blue gaze one last time.

Chapter Five

Viola walked into the teahouse, her nerves blistered by the enormity of everything she’d done today. She hated tea—she should have had Rowdy pick someplace different. Someplace that had tequila.

But then she noticed
him
.

He sat at a table in the middle of the room with a gorgeously exotic brunette. He looked like Gerard Butler in all the best ways: built, with broad shoulders that filled his shirt to perfection. His collar was unbuttoned and the sleeves turned up, and there was just enough dark hair peeking out to be manly rather than trollish. His face had a faint shadow, and his lips looked like they knew how to kiss.

Sexy.

He looked up, and when his dark eyes met hers she felt a flare of life in her belly—shocking, because she hadn’t felt physical urges in longer than she could remember. She reheard Bea tell her she needed sex. Looking at this man, she had to agree.

Except he was with that brunette.

Viola sat at the table next to theirs, studying them. From the way they sat close to each other she could tell they had history. Neither one wore rings, so they must have been dating a long time or maybe just living together. The brunette looked like the sort of woman who’d demand a large ring if she were married.

Viola looked down at her left hand and thought of the simple band Charles had given her seventeen years ago. She’d been too young and naive to demand anything. She’d taken it off last year when Bea’s private investigator had confirmed that Charles was seeing someone else. She’d hated it anyway.

If only they had tequila here. She looked around, knowing the best she could hope for was sherry or champagne. Neither was strong enough to calm her nerves.

She’d changed the course of her life today. Chloe’s too, and that worried her most—that she’d possibly disrupted Chloe’s life with what she’d done.

Bea had been right, of course; her real estate broker Bonnie had found the perfect spot. Vi had gone to the bank and taken out a loan against the house to cover the cost of opening her gallery. Then she’d gone and signed a year lease for the space. She even knew what she’d called it: What You Will, after Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, which she’d been named for.

With opening costs and the high rent, plus increased mortgage payments, she figured she had six months covered. Six months was a lot of time.

It also made no difference, because if her first show flopped, no one would buy anything from her ever. Art galleries were ten a penny in London. To be successful, she needed to stand out from the first day she opened her doors.

If she wasn’t successful, she’d lose her house.

The entire thing was mad—she knew it. She didn’t need the lecture Bea had given her, or any of the warnings. She was taking the biggest gamble of her life.

But none of it meant anything if she was unhappy, and today she felt more alive than she ever had. She supposed stark fear did that to a person.

The space she’d leased was bigger than she’d wanted, but it was the one that’d felt most right. She just had to make sure she exhibited a great show. She may never have run her own business, but she’d attended enough gallery openings to know what worked, and what worked miracles.

A miracle seemed like a tall order. She pressed a hand to her stomach.

Sebastian had offered to help her, but she hadn’t utilized him yet—even if she decided to trust him, she had no idea how to use him. So she’d put him on hold until she could figure out what to do.

That she’d figure it out felt very optimistic at this point.

The waitress came over. “Can I offer you anything while you wait for your friend? Some tea or water?”

“Do you have macarons?” she asked hopefully.

“Certainly. I’ll bring you a selection.”

“Thank you,” Viola murmured, not sure she could manage to eat even the biscuits.

But when the waitress came back with a colorful selection, Viola bit into one, let the flaky meringue melt on her tongue, and sighed in pleasure. Instant bliss. She took another bite.

“You did this painting,” the brunette sitting with the Gerard Butler look-alike said.

Painting? Viola glanced over, unable to help herself. She tried to see what the woman was showing him on her mobile, but the angle was wrong.

The waitress came back to the table. “Shall I bring some tea to go with that?”

She nodded faintly at the girl, not caring. She wanted to see the man’s art.

“Why aren’t you selling them?” the brunette demanded of her companion.

“I don’t sell my art,” he replied, sounding matter-of-fact. “You know that.”

Why didn’t he? She craned her neck, dying to know.

Vi realized he was watching her. She felt her face get hot, but she tried to smile as though she weren’t listening to their private conversation.

Fortunately, Rowdy walked in right then and drew everyone’s attention. He smiled at her as he approached, holding his arms out. “Where’s my proper hello?”

But as she began to stand, he grabbed his chest, his eyes wide. “Crikey, woman, what have you done to yourself?”

She stopped, touching her new hair. “Do I look bad?”

“You were already pretty, but now you’re knock-your-socks-off stunning.” He dropped onto a seat. “Jesus. Warn a dude, why don’t you?”

“Shh,” she hissed at him, leaning to try to hear the rest of the conversation to her left.

“What?” Rowdy asked, looking around.