“Now, Mama, it’s worth more than that. How much does the Charleston Historical Society charge these days?” Ben queried wickedly.
His mother ignored him and ushered Isabel across the hall and into the downstairs drawing room.
Isabel did not sleep very well, even though she was tired from the long drive. She knew what was keeping her awake, but was incapable of doing anything about it. Quite simply, she was nervous about meeting Leo Sinclair tomorrow, especially since she had learned he was not enthusiastic about having his portrait painted. If she were to do a good job, Isabel needed his full cooperation.
She was afraid Leo would turn out to be an older, smoother version of his brother, Ben: aware of his own charm, a little spoiled, a little selfish. He was extraordinarily good-looking; she knew that from the photographs she had seen. Yet what Isabel looked for in a face was not good looks but that elusive something one could only call character. She would love to do a portrait of Mrs. Sinclair and would find it difficult to do Ben. She was beginning to fear she would have trouble with Leo.
The senator’s credentials would lead one to believe him the last of the Renaissance men. He had been an outstanding college-football player; in fact, he had won the coveted Heissman Trophy as the best college player of the year. Although he had been the number-one draft choice in the NFL and could have commanded a huge sum of money to sign a football contract, Leo Sinclair had accepted a three-year Rhodes scholarship and gone off to Oxford, where he took a degree in History.
Returning home after his Oxford sojourn, he signed to play for the Dallas Cowboys. For four years he had been All-Pro and had three times been to the Super Bowl.
When Leo’s knees had given out, he had campaigned for the Senate, and had won handily. South Carolina was distinctly enthusiastic about Leo Sinclair, and the chances looked good for him to become a fixture on the national political scene. He was thirty-four years of age. And unmarried.
How could he help but be complacent? Isabel thought, tossing restlessly in her antique bed. He was the man who had everything. And he had it effortlessly, it seemed. Everyone loved Leo Sinclair; he was the original Golden Boy. Isabel, who had had to fight hard for every break she ever had, was very much afraid she was not going to like the senator at all.
* * * *
She looked over the house in the morning and decided to set up her easel in the library, where the early light was excellent. Isabel preferred to work in the morning. Mrs. Sinclair was completely agreeable; Isabel was to consider the house at her disposal.
Neither Paige nor Ben had been at breakfast when Isabel ate. Paige was at a tennis lesson, Mrs. Sinclair said as she poured coffee, and Ben had gone to work.
“He’s taken over at the development office,” his mother informed Isabel with noticeable pride. “Ben has his father’s head for business. He’s only been there two years, since he left college, but he’s taken hold wonderfully.”
“Your husband was one of the first people to see the resort potential of the Sea Islands, wasn’t he?” asked Isabel.
“Yes. He built Island Views you know. It was the pioneer resort and retirement community in the area. He did very well with it,” Mrs. Sinclair said with truly monumental understatement. Isabel knew from her reading up on the family that Charles Sinclair had parleyed his inherited forty-five hundred acres of seafront property into a resort that had made him millions.
“Ben is interested in real estate and development, then,” Isabel said politely.
“Yes. He’s going to develop one of the islands off Island Views next.” Mrs. Sinclair sipped her coffee. “As I said, Ben is very like my husband.”
“And Leo?” asked Isabel in a carefully neutral voice.
Mrs. Sinclair’s face broke into its lovely warm smile. “Leo,” she said, and her voice was very soft, “Leo is Leo and like no one else in the world. You’ll see. He’ll be here after lunch.”
* * * *
Later in the morning Isabel went out for a walk. The city enchanted her, for she felt as if she had been whisked back to another, more gracious time. She walked slowly, enjoying the sunshine, the flowers, and the old houses with their great verandas.
It was early spring and there were many other tourists around. Isabel’s tall slim figure attracted a great deal of attention, though she was unaware of this interesting phenomenon. She was an unusually striking girl, with her long ebony hair and dark intent face in vivid contrast to the bright scarlet of her sweater. She moved among the crowd of tourists, absorbed, aloof, and alone, not noticing the interested and admiring glances that followed her along the narrow streets of old Charleston.
She was gone for longer than she had planned, and when she arrived back at the Sinclair house, it was to find that the senator had arrived. Simon practically beamed as he informed her of this fact, and she climbed the stairs to the second-floor drawing room valiantly trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach.
He was sitting and talking to his mother, but he stood as soon as Isabel entered the room.
“Leo, this is Isabel MacCarthy,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “Isabel, allow me to introduce my son.”
“Miss MacCarthy,” Leo Sinclair said as he came forward to take the hand she offered.
Isabel had been prepared for the Viking good looks. She had, after all, seen numerous photos of the senator. But she had not been prepared for the quality of his presence.
“How do you do, Senator,” she said, she hoped, calmly, and looked up into his face. His coloring was amazing, she thought. Thick blond hair was like a golden helmet; his eyes shone like twin sapphires. Unconsciously, her own eyes narrowed. He wasn’t at all pretty. Indeed, the impact he made on one was thoroughly male.
“Were you out seeing the sights of the city, Miss MacCarthy?” he asked. His voice was distinctly Southern: gentle, slow, and drawling. It also sounded faintly amused.
Isabel realized she had been staring and felt her cheeks grow a little warm. “Yes,” she said, and looked determinedly at his mother. “I’m afraid I rather lost track of the time.”
“That’s quite all right, dear,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “Leo and I have been so busy talking that the time quite flew. Have you had lunch? Shall I order tea?”
“I haven’t had lunch,” said Isabel, “but I’m not hungry, Mrs. Sinclair, really.”
“Well, I am, Mama,” said the senator.
“Didn’t they give you lunch on the plane?” his mother asked with a little frown.
He grinned, a slow smile that brought a look of lazy sunshine to his face. It was a marvelous smile, thought Isabel, her eyes once again on Leo Sinclair. “Yes,” he said.
Mrs. Sinclair laughed. “Sit down, Isabel, and I’ll order tea.”
Isabel complied, taking a wing chair by the beautiful carved chimneypiece, and Leo sat down on the sofa next to his mother. Isabel’s observant eyes noted that he moved with extraordinary grace for so big a man.
“You drove all the way down from New York, Miss MacCarthy?” He pronounced it “New Yawk.”
“Yes, Senator. I thought I’d see a little bit of the country while I had the chance.”
He smiled at her. I can’t wait to paint this man, Isabel thought and smiled back. “I don’t blame you,” he said.
Simon came in with the tea try, and as she poured, Mrs. Sinclair told her son that Isabel had decided to work in the library.
“Fine.” The deep soft voice took on a note of affectionate teasing. “Do you want me to dress up in eighteenth-century garb, Mama?”
“Of course not. You will wear ...” Mrs. Sinclair broke off and looked at Isabel. “Whatever shall he wear, Isabel? A business suit is much too dull.” She looked at her son doubtfully. “Your dinner jacket, perhaps?”
He gave her a reproachful look. “Mama. Please.”
His mother shrugged helplessly and two pairs of blue eyes turned to look at Isabel. Isabel didn’t think it mattered very much what he wore, really, but obligingly she put her mind to the problem.
“Something blue,” she said after a minute. “A sweater, I think. I’ll do you standing in front of the mantelpiece.”
“Standing,” said Leo resignedly. “Oh, well.”
“You can wear your blue V-neck sweater,” his mother said. “Isabel is right. It will be a good foil for your eyes.”
Leo looked amused and ate one of the sandwiches Simon had brought with the tea.
“Delicious,” he said, and held the plate out to Isabel. “Have one, Miss MacCarthy.”
Isabel accepted. The sandwich was crabmeat and it was delicious. Isabel took a hungry bite.
“I can stay until Thursday,” Leo said, and Isabel put her sandwich down abruptly and stared at him.
“Thursday? But today is Saturday.”
“Won’t that be enough time, dear?” asked Mrs. Sinclair worriedly.
Isabel was really upset. “Of course it won’t be enough time. I need at least two weeks of sittings if I’m to do a portrait.”
“Well, I cannot give you two weeks.” The senator’s voice was quiet but firm. “Congress is in session and I must be in Washington.” He turned to his mother. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
Hell, Isabel thought explosively. Bloody bloody hell. Her face, however, showed none of her agitation; when it came to concealing feelings, Isabel was an expert.
“I was not aware, when I accepted this commission, that your time would be so limited, Senator,” she said now in a cool, clipped voice. She looked directly into the astonishing blue eyes of the man seated opposite her and thought, you bastard. You’re just like the rest of your kind. What do you care that I’ve come all this way for nothing? It’s not convenient for you to sit for your portrait, and that’s that.
“You don’t work from photographs?” he asked her.
“No.”
The blue eyes moved from her face to his mother.
“This is all my fault,” Mrs. Sinclair said in obvious distress. “I should have thought of this sooner.”
Leo shrugged, his big shoulders moving easily under his expensive jacket.
Damn, thought Isabel.
Leo looked at her. “Well, Miss MacCarthy,” he said in his soft voice, “I reckon you’ll just have to come back to Washington with me.”
Isabel’s dark eyes widened. “Washington!” she said in astonishment.
“Yes, Washington. I have a house in Georgetown and there’s plenty of room. I can give you a few hours every morning.” He cocked a golden eyebrow. “What do you say?”
Isabel took a deep breath. She had not realized how much she wanted to do this portrait. “I say it seems I don’t have a choice in the matter,” she answered.
He grinned at her. He was a devastatingly good-looking man. “Not if you want to paint my portrait, you don’t.”
He probably mowed down women by the dozens with that smile, Isabel thought. She looked back at him a little austerely.
“Really, Leo, will it be proper?” Mrs. Sinclair asked worriedly. “I’m afraid I simply cannot accompany you at this time.”
“Mama,” said Leo affectionately, “how I love you. It will be perfectly unexceptional, I assure you. Of course, I reckon I could always hire a duenna ...”
Mrs. Sinclair laughed as she was meant to. “How absurd you are, Leo. Well, if you’re sure ...”
“I’m sure,” he replied firmly, and Isabel realized with a flash of amusement that Mrs. Sinclair was far more worried about her son’s reputation than she was about Isabel’s.
Leo met Isabel’s eyes and divined, instantly, what her thought was. His blue eyes laughed at her, although his face remained grave. “Well, Miss MacCarthy? Are you willing to chance it?” he asked.
Isabel leaned back in her chair. “I want to paint your portrait, Senator,” she said pleasantly, “and, so I will come to Washington with you.”
* * * *
Over dinner that evening Isabel got a chance to see the entire Sinclair family in action. Leo’s father, she knew from her reading, had been killed in a plane crash three years earlier, so it was just Mrs. Sinclair and her three children.
Isabel sensed very clearly that the four of them were indeed a family. It had been a long time since she herself had experienced anything like the casual, comfortable family atmosphere that prevailed at the Sinclair dinner table. They sat there, blond and beautiful, rich and privileged, and Leo, at the head of the table, outshone them all. It was difficult to relate to people who had been so blessed by the gods, Isabel thought wryly.
“We’ll have our coffee in the drawing room,” Mrs. Sinclair said as she rose gracefully from the table.
“Cal and I are going to a party at Kathleen’s,” Paige reminded her mother.
“Ah ha,” said Leo good-naturedly. “Cal. Now that’s a new name. Who is he, Paige? And what happened to Johnny Montgomery?”
Paige laughed at her big brother as they left the dining room, and for a moment Isabel felt a stab of sharp envy for this lovely, self-assured girl who had brothers to tease her and protect her. When Cal, a slender, brown-haired, polite boy, arrived, Leo left the drawing room to see them out. When he returned, there was a slight frown between his brows.
“What’s the matter?” his mother asked imperturbably. “I’ve found him to be a nice boy.”
“He is nice. I just hate to see her getting into a car with a teenage driver, that’s all.” He gave his mother a half-humorous look. “I’d be a terrible father. I hate to let go.”
Mrs. Sinclair sighed. “I know. But Paige is a sensible girl. She knows she can call anytime, and either Ben or I will come and get her. I think she has enough sense not to get into a car with a boy who’s been drinking.”
“I hope so,” said Leo, and for the first time there was a look of grimness around his firm, well-cut mouth.
Ben put down his coffee cup. “Well, I’ll be on my way too,” he said, and stood up. He grinned down at the relaxed figure of his brother. “If Paige calls, you’re on duty tonight. I have a date with Susan Deboise.”
“Well, well, well,” Leo drawled. “You’re more faithful than Paige, little brother. Am I going to be called on to be best man one of these days?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Ben said. “If I wait for you to make the jump first, I’ll be old and gray.”
Leo’s blue eyes glinted. “Give my regards to Susan,” he said.