“Friends.” She glances at the profanely intimate painting, then back to me. “Were you in love with her?”
I shrug, considering. “For a while, I suppose, off and on. She’d been a part of my life longer than anyone else.”
“How long is that?”
“Nineteen years, give or take. She took me in when I first came to New York.” I say it as if the date is of no consequence, despite that it’s seared into me as indelible as a brand. Nineteen years ago in April, the day after my mother’s funeral, with both of my parents dead by then, I left the only home I’d ever known and boarded a bus bound for New York City.
“You couldn’t have been more than a teenager then,” Melanie says, a note of concern in her voice.
“I was sixteen.”
“Just a boy.”
I scoff under my breath. “Hardly that.”
“And she was older?”
“Much,” I say around a low chuckle that holds no malice whatsoever. “Kathryn Tremont was a friend, lover, savior, and mentor to a lot of young men over the years. She only took what was freely given, and her kindness knew no bounds. Neither did her generosity.”
“Kathryn Tremont?” Melanie gapes. “The Manhattan socialite and philanthropist? That Kathryn Tremont? Her name is on the art building at the university I attend.”
“One and the same,” I confirm with a smirk. “Kathryn lived out loud, no question about that. She was still keeping a handful of new companions at her side when she died of cancer last year.”
“I saw her obituary in theTimes. They dedicated an entire page to her and her countless charitable works. I’m truly sorry for your loss, Jared.”
“She was a good person,” I admit, unable to diminish Kathryn’s importance in my life, even if only to reject Melanie’s compassion. “I made that painting of her after she beat cancer the first time. I gave it to her unsigned, thinking it was so revealing she’d want to keep it private. Not Kathryn. She hung it in the main salon of her Fifth Avenue mansion for several years before lending it out to her favorite galleries for the public to enjoy.”
“She sounds like an amazing woman.”
“Yeah. She was.”
Melanie nods, then looks away from me. Continuing her exploration of my studio, she walks over to a paint-spattered table and plucks one of my old paintbrushes from a cup full of them. I watch her tap the soft, fan-edged bristles against her lips. My cock surges in response, going hard with hungered want.
“Where was home for you before you came to the city?”
“Kentucky.” The word sounds strangled, little more than a growl. “I grew up on a horse farm in Lexington.”
I shouldn’t tell her even that much. It cuts too close to the beginning of everything for me. The beginning of the end. She doesn’t know how much the words cost me, and right now, I’ll be damned if I let her know.
She turns a curious glance on me as she places the brush back in its container. “Now I understand why that smoky accent of yours makes me think of green, rolling hills and mist-covered mountain ranges.” A small smile plays at the edge of her mouth. “Were you a little cowboy as a kid, Mr. Rush?”
I give a gruff shake of my head. “No. We raised thoroughbreds. The farm had been in my mother’s family for five generations.”
Christ, why am I still talking? I have no desire to crack open my past right now, least of all with her. Impatient to be done with this entire conversation and the arousal that’s making my vision swim, I continue sketching at an even more feverish pace, hoping my lengthening silence will prove uncomfortable enough to close the subject.
Of course, it doesn’t work on this woman.
She only peers more intently at me now. When she speaks again, there is a note of caution in her quiet voice. “You said ithad beenin your family for generations. Past tense. What happened to it?”
“We lost it.” The words come out clipped and angry. “My father made a terrible mistake.”
“What kind of mistake?”
“He trusted the wrong man with all his investments. Turns out it was a Ponzi scheme. The bastard sold him and several other investors phony stocks while he pocketed all his clients’ money. When the scheme was exposed, there was nothing to be done. We lost everything, practically overnight.”
“Oh, my God. That must have been awful for you,” she says, her tone soft, compassionate. “I’m so sorry.”
Her sympathy over this loss feels like a rake chewing up unhealed wounds. “Why should you be sorry? It’s not like you had anything to do with it.”
