Sherryl Woods - Treasured

“Why not?”

His gaze challenged her. “Why should I? I don’t need the money.”

“Critical acclaim?”

“Not interested.”

“Really?” she asked skeptically. “Or are you afraid your work won’t measure up?”

He frowned at that. “Measure up to what? Some other artist’s? Some artificial standard for technique or style or commercial success?”

“All of that,” she said at once.

“None of it matters to me.”

“Then why do you paint?”

“Because I enjoy it.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “And that’s enough?”

He grinned at her astonishment. “Isn’t there anything you do, Ms. Dugan, just for the fun of it?”

“Of course,” she said heatedly. “But you’re wasting your talent, hiding it away from others who could take pleasure in seeing it or owning it.”

He was astounded by the assessment. “You think I’m being selfish?”

“Absolutely.”

Ben looked into her flashing violet eyes, and for an instant he lost his train of thought, lost his desire to argue with her. If they’d been alone, he might have been tempted to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until she forgot all about this silly debate over whether art was important if it wasn’t on display for the masses.

“What are you passionate about?” he asked instead, clearly startling her.

“Art,” she said at once.

“Nothing else?”

She flushed at the question. “Not really.”

“Too bad. Don’t you think that’s taking a rather limited view of the world?”

“That from a man who’s known far and wide as a recluse?” she retorted wryly.

Ben chuckled. “But a passionate recluse,” he told her. “I love nature. I care about my family. I feel strongly about what I paint.” He shot a look toward Richard. “I’m even starting to care just a little about politics.” He turned toward Mack. “Not so much about football, though.”

“Only because you could never catch a pass if your life had depended on it,” Mack retorted amiably. He grinned at Kathleen. “He was afraid of breaking his fingers and not being able to hold a paint brush again.”

“Then, even as a boy you loved painting?” Kathleen said. “It’s always mattered to you?”

“It’s what I enjoy doing,” Ben confirmed. “It’s not who I am.”

“No ambition at all?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. None. Richard and Mack have more than enough for one family.”

Kathleen set down her fork and regarded him with consternation. “How do you define yourself, if not as an artist?”

“A reclusive artist,” Ben corrected, quoting the usual media description. “Why do I need to pin a label on myself?”

She seemed taken aback by that. “I don’t suppose you do.”

“How do you define who you are?” he asked.

“I own an art gallery. A very prestigious art gallery, in fact,” she said with pride.

Ben studied her intently. He wondered if she had any idea how telling it was that she saw herself only in terms of what she did, not as a woman with any sort of hopes and dreams. A part of him wanted to unravel that particular puzzle and discover what had made her choose ambition over any sort of personal connection.

Because right here and now, surrounded by people absorbed in their own conversations, it was safe enough to ask, he gazed into her amazing eyes. “No man in your life?”

A shadow flitted across her face. “None.”

“Why is that?”

Eyes flashing, she met his gaze. “Is there a woman in yours?”

Ben laughed. “Touché.”

“Which isn’t an answer, is it?”

“No, there is no woman in my life,” he said, waiting for the twinge of guilt that usually accompanied that admission.

“Why not?” she asked, proving she was better at the game than he was.

“Because the only one who ever mattered died,” he said quietly.

Sympathy immediately filled her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I’m surprised Destiny didn’t fill you in,” he said, glancing in his aunt’s direction. Though Destiny was engaged in conversation with Richard, it was obvious she was keeping one ear attuned to what was going on between him and Kathleen. She gave him a quizzical look.

“Nothing,” Ben said for her benefit. He almost regretted letting the conversation veer away from the safe topic of art. But since Kathleen had sidestepped his question as neatly as he’d initially avoided hers, he went back to it. “Why is there no special man in your life?”

“I was married once. It didn’t work out.”

There was a story there. He could see it in her face, hear it in the sudden tension in her voice. “Was it so awful you decided never to try it again?”

“Worse,” she said succinctly. She met his gaze. “We were doing better when we were sticking to art.”

Ben laughed. “Yes, we were, weren’t we? I was just thinking the same thing, though I imagine there are those who think all the small talk is just avoidance.”

“Avoidance?”

“Two people dancing around what really matters.”

Kathleen flushed. “I’m perfectly willing to avoid delving into my personal life. How about you?”

“Suits me,” he said easily, though a part of him was filled with regret. “Want to debate about the talent of the Impressionists versus the Modernists?”

She frowned. “Not especially.”

“Know anything about politics?”

“Not much.”

“Environmental issues?”

“I think global warming is a real risk,” she said at once.

“Good for you. Anything else?”

She held up a forkful of turkey. “The food’s delicious.”

“I was thinking more in terms of another environmental issue,” he teased.

“Sorry. You’re fresh out of luck. I could argue the merits of free-range turkey over the frozen kind,” she suggested cheerfully. “Everyone says free-range is healthier, but they’re just as dead, so how healthy is that?”

Ben chuckled. “Now there’s a hot-button topic, if ever I heard one.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic,” she said. “I told you I have a one-track mind.”

“And it’s totally focused on art,” Ben said. “I think I get that.” He studied her thoughtfully. “This man you were married to, was he an artist?”

She stiffened visibly. “As a matter of fact, he was.”

Ben should have taken comfort in that. If an artist had hurt Kathleen so badly that she wasn’t the least bit interested in marriage, then he should be safe enough from all of Destiny’s clever machinations. She’d miscalculated this time. Oddly, though, he didn’t feel nearly as relieved as he should. In fact, he felt a powerful urge to go find this man who’d hurt Kathleen and wring his neck.

“People get over bad marriages and move on,” he told her quietly.

“Have you gotten over losing the woman you loved?”

“No, but it’s different.”

“Different how?”

Ben hesitated. They were about to enter into an area he never discussed, not with anyone. Somehow, though, he felt compelled to tell Kathleen the truth. “I blame myself for her death,” he said.

Kathleen looked momentarily startled by the admission. “Did you cause her death?”

He smiled sadly at the sudden hint of caution in her voice. “Not the way you mean, no, but I was responsible just the same.”

“How?”

“We argued. She was drunk and I let her leave. She ran her car into a tree and died.” He recited the bare facts without emotion, watching Kathleen’s face. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t look shocked or horrified. Rather she looked indignant.

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” she said fiercely. “She was an adult. She should have known better than to get behind the wheel when she was upset and drunk.”