She nodded.
“This is who you are.”
Her lips lifted into a smile at his repetition of her phrase. “So you see, I’m just another in a very long line of struggling artists.”
He closed the cover of the book so that he could look at the first half of her works. He flicked through the pages, and paused when he came across a sketch of two hands. They were, unmistakably, his hands.
Emily’s cheeks, bright pink, confirmed his realisation. “It’s what I do,” she downplayed unsuccessfully. “I see things and I draw them. Actually, I paint them.”
There was urgency in his gut. He had opened a piece of her, and he was greedy to see more. “Show me. Show me your paintings.”
Emily wanted to. She realised that she really, really wanted to. But she shook her head from side to side slowly. “Andrew will be here any minute. You have to go.”
It angered Sabato. Her obvious desire to push him from her life, to hide his presence from her brother; it rankled.
“I want to see your paintings. Will you show me tomorrow?”
Emily frowned in consternation. “I have to work tomorrow, and you’re flying out.”
“I will change my plans.”
Emily bit down on her lower lip. She didn’t want to owe him anything, and yet she needed to see him again. Knowing she may well come to regret it, Emily found herself nodding. “Yes. Okay.”
Chapter 7
Sabato scanned the contract for the tenth time that morning. It was all exactly as he’d outlined the night before. His chief counsel had done an excellent job of compiling it quickly. It was nothing like he’d ever offered before, but he suspected it might tick all of Emily’s boxes and allow her to accept help, without feeling like she was taking favours.
He tucked it into his coat pocket and eyed the building thoughtfully. There were some spectacular parts of Elephant & Castle. He’d spent a considerable amount of time in London’s East, taking in the boroughs that might be suitable for his investment. Yes, her little pocket had some beautiful history and a sort of urban chic that made it youthful and vibrant. Unfortunately, those areas were a far cry from where Emily lived. Her street was the ultimate in depression and dank filth.
He stepped out of the Rolls Royce he favoured when in London. “Wait here,” he commanded his driver John, not caring that the car was parked on a double yellow line.
“Yes sir,” John tilted his cap and closed the door behind Sabato.
Emily was waiting in the foyer. Her smile, when he approached the door was nervous. Sabato could do nothing but stare at her through the grimy glass of the entrance way. It was the first time he’d seen her in clothes other than her uniform. If he’d thought about it at all, he might have imagined that she got around in jeans and sweatshirts. She had a very fresh and energetic vibe that would suit casual clothes. And yet she was wearing a bright floral skirt that reminded him of his mother’s marimekko cups, and a fitted black sweater. She looked … stunning and natural.
His stomach flipped on its side as he closed the distance between them. Her hair was freshly washed and hung in loose waves down her back. Her makeup was minimal – only a slash of bright red lipstick showed that she’d gone to any special effort for him. His chest squeezed painfully.
“I presumed you wouldn’t want to dice with death again,” she said jokingly, nodding towards the elevator.
He levelled her a look of mock appreciation. “Thank you, Emily.” His eyes devoured her face. His hands ached to pull her to his chest. “How did you sleep?”
How had she slept? She hadn’t been able to sleep, for thinking of him. “Fine, thank you.” Had it been the same for him? Had he lain awake for hours, remembering every detail of their lovemaking? “My work’s downstairs.”
“Lead the way.”
She nodded and walked swiftly through the foyer, to a small emergency exit door behind them.
A narrow, dark staircase gave way to a small storage area. It was lit with fluorescent lights, and a persistent drip, drip, dripping sound told of a leak somewhere nearby.
“Just over here,” she nodded to their left and he walked as she did, carefully dodging old chairs and ladders.
She stopped in the corner. “Here.” She pulled at the edge of a grey blanket, and Sabato moved to the other side. He lifted it with her, to reveal a swag of eight or nine canvasses. “I’ve done hundreds, but these are the best.”
He didn’t gasp. He was not prone to such obvious emotional displays. His silence spoke volumes. His eyes took in every detail of the top canvas. This was a young boy, and he knew, without even asking, that it was Andrew. His eyes were the same as Emily’s, and his smile had the same irreverent knowingness to it.
Without commenting on it, he set it aside so that he could look at the next one in the series. It was Ewan, the manager from the hotel. It brought back a wave of envy, but he ignored it. The man was nothing. Simply a bug he could squash any time he wanted to. He flicked past the canvas. It was brilliant in its execution, but the subject was a source of irritation.
Within ten minutes, he’d studied each of her most finished artworks – work that she’d poured her heart and soul into – and he’d said not a word. Anxiety was chewing at the corners of her gut.