Da shook the man’s hand.
“I’m pleased you are here,” Mr. Davenport continued, “although I regret to inform you that all of Bellamy’s paintings sold within the first hour of the showing.”
“Is that so?” Da peered at the room now with more interest.
“Bellamy!” Zaira reached for his hand. “I’m thrilled for you.”
As soon as their hands connected, the heat was instantaneous. She felt the connection all the way to a place deep inside. From the way Bellamy’s eyes widened, she guessed he’d felt it too.
Mr. Davenport had stepped back and was waving them toward the display. “If you do see any landscapes you particularly like, Bellamy has offered to paint on commission.”
Bellamy finally seemed to notice the gentleman, and he tore his attention from Zaira to speak to the man. “Mr. Davenport, if the Shanahans are interested in any of my paintings, I will gladly give them anything they’re wanting. They’ll not be paying me a single cent.”
“I see.” Mr. Davenport’s brows rose.
“It’s time.” Bellamy gave the man a knowing look.
He seemed at a loss for a moment, then he nodded. “Oh yes. I’ll do it right away.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Davenport scurried away, on a mission of some sort.
Bellamy made small talk with her parents for a few minutes before smiling again at Zaira, then slipping his fingers through hers. The pressure was intoxicating. She wanted to pause and examine every nuance of every finger that was intertwined with hers. She wanted to imprint the memory of all the sensations it evoked so she could write about it later. But as he led them toward the gallery, she knew now wasn’t the time. This was his special night, and she couldn’t focus on herself.
Several other guests attempted to garner his attention ashe passed by, but he didn’t stop to talk to anyone. His attention was fixed solely upon her, his eyes brimming with something that made her breathing stutter.
Was it affection? Attraction? Or something else?
Her imagination all too often got the best of her, and she didn’t want to get carried away. She needed to stay realistic.
As they reached the display room, he paused, glanced in, nodded—presumably at Mr. Davenport—then he stepped back out. “Close your eyes.”
She did his bidding, letting her lashes fall. She loved surprises, and she would gladly play along with him if he had a surprise for her.
He guided her forward again.
She kept her eyes closed and let him lead. “What is it?”
“There’s something I need to show you.”
She could feel the attention of the guests, the conversations tapering to silence, the curiosity of the others now mirroring her own. What was Bellamy doing?
He halted and positioned her, then took a step away but didn’t let go of her hand.
She supposed she ought to disentangle their fingers, but she loved the feel of his palm against hers, the firmness of his hold, the confidence in his stance. With him, she felt as if she could do anything.
“Ready?” he whispered.
“Aye.” More than ready for whatever he was doing.
He waited several heartbeats as if fortifying himself for her reaction. Then he spoke. “Open your eyes.”
She lifted her lashes and found herself positioned in front of three easels, each containing a landscape painting butwith a woman in the background. A young woman with long red hair. Her.
The first painting was familiar. It was at Dover’s Pond, and she was sitting on the bank in the tall grass with a stack of papers in front of her and was looking up at someone and smiling playfully.
The second painting was along the Mississippi River, and in this one, she was riding upon a horse, glancing over her shoulder at someone, again with a teasing glint in her eyes. Had that been the day when they’d gone to the immigrant camp to hunt for the children?
