Danielle Steel - Impossible

“I thought he wanted you to meet one of his friends, to see his work.”

“Oh, that friend,” Sasha said, sounding relieved. “He was fine. We signed him.”

“Wow, he must be good. Lucky break for him.”

“He's very good. We're going to give him a show in New York next year.” She forced herself to sound serious and professional as she said it.

“I'll bet that made him happy.” Artists begged her all the time to introduce them to her mother. It always annoyed her. She didn't want to be used as a conduit to Sasha. Xavier was much more relaxed about it. “When are you coming to New York?”

“Not for a few weeks. I have a lot of work to do here. You can always come over for a weekend, if you want to.” Sasha loved seeing her children, and spending time with them.

“I hate it when it rains there. I talked to a friend who got back today. She said the weather was disgusting.”

“It's not lovely,” Sasha admitted to her. “It was sunny in London.”

“It's supposed to snow here tomorrow. I think I might go skiing this weekend.”

“Be careful on the roads. When do you start the new job?” Sasha yawned, it was late for her, and only six o'clock at night in New York.

“Tomorrow.” Tatianna sounded ecstatic, and for a moment Sasha envied her. Her life was just beginning. Sasha felt as though hers was ending. All her best years were behind her. The children had grown up. Arthur was gone. She had nothing to look forward to, except work, and one day grandchildren, which didn't interest her particularly. She felt like a very old woman after she said good-bye to her daughter and lay on her bed. As she did, she couldn't help thinking about Liam. It had been nice of him to send her roses. And foolish. “It's possible,” he had said on the card she tore up. She knew it wasn't.

She slept fitfully that night, thinking of him, and was at her desk at nine the next morning. It was only eight o'clock in London. She wondered what Liam was doing, and if he would try to call her. It was Saturday, and she didn't need to be at work, but she had nothing else to do. She had turned down several invitations to dinner parties and luncheons for that weekend. The weather was terrible, and it was too depressing just sitting in her house. She'd rather be working. He called her at four o'clock that afternoon, and she didn't take it. She asked the young woman working in the gallery to tell him she was out, and to call Bernard on Monday. Bernard, very sensibly, did not work on weekends. He had a wife, three children, and a house in Normandy where he took them on the weekends. When Arthur had been alive, she hadn't worked on weekends either. Now it was all she had to fill her days and distract her. Ever since Arthur's death, the weekends were brutal.

They closed the gallery at six, and she went back to her house at seven. She had brought a stack of art magazines home with her, and turned on the lights. It was dinnertime, and she wasn't hungry. She reminded herself yet again, as she made a cup of tea, that there was no point thinking about Liam. It would get her nowhere, except miserable and crazy. The doorbell rang as she poured the tea. It rang endlessly, which told her that the guardian was out. She ran across the courtyard to the big bronze outer door, with no idea who it could be. No one ever rang their doorbell at night.

She looked through the peephole and could see no one there, and then hit the buzzer to open one side of the big bronze door. Maybe someone had left something outside. As she pulled the door open and looked around, she saw Liam standing in front of her, drenched, in the pouring rain. He was carrying a small bag, and wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. He was wearing a pair of old cowboy boots, and his long blond hair was plastered to his head in the rain. She stood staring at him and said not a word as he looked down at her, and then she stepped aside so he could come into the courtyard at least, and stand sheltered from the rain.

“You told me not to call you from London,” he said, smiling at her. “So I didn't. I called you from Paris. I didn't call till I got here. I figured you'd be home by now.”

“What are you doing here, Liam?” She looked upset more than angry. And somewhere deep inside of her, she was frightened. With very little effort from either of them, this could get out of hand.

“I came to see you.” He looked more than ever like a giant child. “I haven't been able to think of anything but you since yesterday. So I figured I might as well come to see you. I missed you.” She had missed him, too, but he was a risk she just couldn't afford.

“The roses were beautiful,” she said politely.

“Were? Did you throw them away?” He looked instantly disappointed.

“Of course not. They're in my office.” They were still standing under the sheltered part of the courtyard. “I told my secretary they were from a new artist.”

“Why do you owe her an explanation? You're a free woman.”

“No one is free, Liam. Or at least I'm not. I have a business, children, employees, clients, responsibilities, obligations, a reputation. I can't go around acting like a love-starved schoolgirl.” She said it as much to herself as to him.

“Why not? It might do you good for a change to let your hair down.” It was the same thing her son had said, literally, when he saw her with her hair loose in London. But for some reason, Liam unhinged her. And that was not what she wanted. She wasn't going to throw her life away and make a fool of herself, falling for this crazy overgrown boy. “Can I take you to dinner somewhere?” As he asked her, she suddenly thought of her infuriating dinner with Gonzague de St. Mallory at Alain Ducasse the month before, when he had expected her to sleep with him to sell a painting. How insulting that had been. This wasn't. Foolish perhaps, but sincere, and not insulting. Gonzague was a lot less of a man, or even a gentleman, than this self-declared and proud-to-be-wacky artist.

“Why don't you come in, and I'll cook you something? The weather is too miserable to go out.” She led the way back to her house, the door was still standing open. “Where are you staying?” she asked nervously. If he had said with her, she wouldn't have let him in her front door.

“At an artists' hostel in the Marais, near the Place des Vosges. I stayed there last summer.” She nodded, and led the way into her living room. The house was eighteenth century, as was the furniture. The art was all contemporary and modern. It was an artful mixture that few could have accomplished. The end result was elegant, cheerful, and cozy. There was a huge fireplace in the room, which she had had rebuilt in white marble.

There was only one lamp lit in the room, a tall silver torchère she had bought years before in Venice. There were tall candlesticks with candles in them all over the room. She never bothered to light them. It was too much trouble. They walked through the living room, past the dining room, and straight into the kitchen, which was a big cozy room with French provincial furniture, an enormous marble table, and paintings by emerging artists on every wall. The predominant colors were yellow and orange, which conveyed an illusion of sunshine. There was a huge white Venetian chandelier over the table, and with the flick of a switch, she lit it. The room was warm and inviting, and when Arthur had been alive, they had always sat there for hours. They used it more than the living room. The chairs were covered in soft brown leather. “Wow, Sasha … this is gorgeous. Who did it?”

“I did.” She smiled at him. “It's a bit eclectic. The rest of the house is more formal.” As was the gallery, and the wing of the house where her father had lived. The antiques and paintings he had collected were exquisite. But Sasha liked her part of the house better. So did Liam. He loved it and felt instantly at home.