this story or he wasn’t a journalist. ‘Why did you give it up?’
‘Can we skip this part?’ Ellie asked with a wobble in her voice.
‘I’d really like to know.’ Jack lowered his voice, made it persuasive.
‘You ask me all these questions but you won’t talk about yourself,’ Ellie complained.
True. ‘I know. I’m sorry. But tell me anyway.’
‘Short story. He was the owner of an exclusive art gallery in Soho.’ Grigson’s, Jack remembered. The short blond from that photo in his room. ‘He offered me an exhibition, told me I was the next big thing. I fell deeply, chronically in love with him. I found out later that was his modus operandi . I wasn’t the first young artist he’d seduced into bed with that promise.’
Jack winced.
‘I was swept away by him. He dealt in beauty and objects of art. He was a social butterfly—had invitations to something every night of the week. But he never took me along to anything. Like my father, he dropped in and out of my life. I kept asking him about the exhibition, spending time with me, taking me along, but he kept fobbing me off.’
‘Bastard,’ Jack growled.
‘I told him that I wanted to break it off and he responded by proposing. I thought that meant that he’d change, but nothing did. I saw less of him than ever.’
‘So what precipitated the break-up?’ Jack briefly wondered why he was so interested in her past, why he felt the need to find the jerk and put him into a coma.
‘I told him that I was done with waiting around for him. He responded by telling me that I was a mediocre artist who’d never amount to anything. That he’d just wanted to sleep with me occasionally but I wasn’t worth the hassle...that it was, essentially, not worth my being around, him trying to keep me happy.’
Forget the coma. He now had the urge to put the guy six feet under. When Mitch had mentioned him he’d initially felt sorry for him, because he’d thought that she must have been pushing him into marriage, but he was the one who’d messed her around, messed her up. No wonder she tried so hard to be indispensable to the people she loved; she thought she had to try harder to be loved.
The two men she’d loved the most had hurt her, damaged her the most. God, the ways that love could mess up people. Just another reason why he wanted nothing to do with it...
‘Anybody since then?’ Jack asked, although he knew there hadn’t been.
‘No.’
Needing to move, to work off his anger, Jack jumped up and jogged up the stairs to inspect another painting. He placed his hands on his hips and looked around at the art covering the walls.
‘Good grief, Ellie, some of these paintings are utterly fantastic. I’m trying to work out which ones are yours, because not all of them are.’
‘Some are by fellow art students; others I’ve picked up along the way,’ Ellie said, pride streaking through her voice. ‘You like art?’
‘I love art. Sculpture. Architecture,’ Jack confirmed, quickly moving up the stairs to examine a seascape.
He placed a hand on his hip and winced at the movement. Ellie watched his body tense. His face was illuminated by the spotlight above his head. The violet shadows beneath his eyes were back and his face was pale beneath his slight tan.
Jack Chapman, she decided, had no concept of how to pace himself. He’d recently suffered a horrendous beating, had a nasty knife wound, and yet he’d spent the day sightseeing. She could see that he was exhausted and in pain, and she knew that he was one of those men who would carry on until he fell down.
He came across as easygoing and charming but there was a solid streak beneath the charm, a strength of character that people probably never saw beneath the good looks and air of success. His thought-processes were clear-headed and practical. While he’d challenged her decisions and her actions she didn’t feel as if he was judging her .
He’d coaxed her past out of her and he was a
‘Can we skip this part?’ Ellie asked with a wobble in her voice.
‘I’d really like to know.’ Jack lowered his voice, made it persuasive.
‘You ask me all these questions but you won’t talk about yourself,’ Ellie complained.
True. ‘I know. I’m sorry. But tell me anyway.’
‘Short story. He was the owner of an exclusive art gallery in Soho.’ Grigson’s, Jack remembered. The short blond from that photo in his room. ‘He offered me an exhibition, told me I was the next big thing. I fell deeply, chronically in love with him. I found out later that was his modus operandi . I wasn’t the first young artist he’d seduced into bed with that promise.’
Jack winced.
‘I was swept away by him. He dealt in beauty and objects of art. He was a social butterfly—had invitations to something every night of the week. But he never took me along to anything. Like my father, he dropped in and out of my life. I kept asking him about the exhibition, spending time with me, taking me along, but he kept fobbing me off.’
‘Bastard,’ Jack growled.
‘I told him that I wanted to break it off and he responded by proposing. I thought that meant that he’d change, but nothing did. I saw less of him than ever.’
‘So what precipitated the break-up?’ Jack briefly wondered why he was so interested in her past, why he felt the need to find the jerk and put him into a coma.
‘I told him that I was done with waiting around for him. He responded by telling me that I was a mediocre artist who’d never amount to anything. That he’d just wanted to sleep with me occasionally but I wasn’t worth the hassle...that it was, essentially, not worth my being around, him trying to keep me happy.’
Forget the coma. He now had the urge to put the guy six feet under. When Mitch had mentioned him he’d initially felt sorry for him, because he’d thought that she must have been pushing him into marriage, but he was the one who’d messed her around, messed her up. No wonder she tried so hard to be indispensable to the people she loved; she thought she had to try harder to be loved.
The two men she’d loved the most had hurt her, damaged her the most. God, the ways that love could mess up people. Just another reason why he wanted nothing to do with it...
‘Anybody since then?’ Jack asked, although he knew there hadn’t been.
‘No.’
Needing to move, to work off his anger, Jack jumped up and jogged up the stairs to inspect another painting. He placed his hands on his hips and looked around at the art covering the walls.
‘Good grief, Ellie, some of these paintings are utterly fantastic. I’m trying to work out which ones are yours, because not all of them are.’
‘Some are by fellow art students; others I’ve picked up along the way,’ Ellie said, pride streaking through her voice. ‘You like art?’
‘I love art. Sculpture. Architecture,’ Jack confirmed, quickly moving up the stairs to examine a seascape.
He placed a hand on his hip and winced at the movement. Ellie watched his body tense. His face was illuminated by the spotlight above his head. The violet shadows beneath his eyes were back and his face was pale beneath his slight tan.
Jack Chapman, she decided, had no concept of how to pace himself. He’d recently suffered a horrendous beating, had a nasty knife wound, and yet he’d spent the day sightseeing. She could see that he was exhausted and in pain, and she knew that he was one of those men who would carry on until he fell down.
He came across as easygoing and charming but there was a solid streak beneath the charm, a strength of character that people probably never saw beneath the good looks and air of success. His thought-processes were clear-headed and practical. While he’d challenged her decisions and her actions she didn’t feel as if he was judging her .
He’d coaxed her past out of her and he was a
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