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She just couldn’t admit it all and see the regard Clay had for her drain from his gaze.
Wrapping her hands around the coffee mug, she sipped gratefully, then took a croissant.
When she bit into it, it felt almost as though she were biting into Eve’s apple.
Chapter Twelve
Camille 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.”