Paint Me A Dream

By Serena Fairfax

Francesca saw instantly that the chair was too low to be comfortable for his height, his long legs encased in designer jeans jack-knifed against his jaw. Brushing back a strand of her straight, fine blonde hair, she hurried towards him from her tiny office at the rear of Craig Fine Arts - a Bond Street art gallery.
He was straight off a red-eye transatlantic flight. She hadn't expected him until much later when, with her boss Alec Craig, the gallery's founder, they would discuss business with him over a leisurely lunch. But he’s here now and far too early. Francesca steeled herself for the encounter.
'Rafe Rostov.' He uncoiled his lean, powerful body at six feet topping her by several inches. ‘I’m meeting with Alec Craig.' The voice was a deep, eastern seaboard drawl and long forgotten echoes from the past rushing back reminded her how soft-almost seductive - it could sound.
Francesca held out her hand. 'Did you have a nice flight?' she asked taking refuge in the usual pleasantries. Her level voice surprised her as her gaze met those piercing cobalt blue eyes that flickered appraisingly over her slim figure, registering the tender curve of the mouth below gypsy brown eyes, the clean line of chin and the soft colour in the high cheek bones.
Francesca kept her face composed but her body tensed with the bittersweet of reunion and her heart began to race wildly. She hadn't set eyes on Rafe for nine years, since she was seventeen. But that gut wrenching feeling was back even though he’d altered considerably, his height now carried with easy assurance, the smart-casual designer wear that spoke of success - the ungainly youth now a lionised sophisticate whose paintings adorned the homes of Texan oil barons and discriminating international collectors.
'Sure – that’s what you pay for and ought to get in first class! And it looks as if I'm gonna have an even nicer day,' he grinned engagingly and raked fingers through that still unruly coal-black hair. 'So you're Alec's assistant, Frankie. You're the girl who’s been liaising with my New York agent. I guess I should have known.' So he remembered, too. He paused and added gently, 'you’ve a very short memory and I guess I’ve a very bad one. Let's keep it that way, Frankie. Pardon me, I reckon you’re Francesca here.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Serena Fairfax
• Release date: Dec 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9780956974860

Serena Fairfax

I qualified as a Lawyer in England and joined a large London law firm. My first romantic novel STRANGE INHERITANCE (published by Robert Hale Ltd in 1990) went into UK and USA large print editions in 2004 (published by BBC Audio Books Ltd and Thorndike Press) and is a Kindle and Smashwords eBook 2011. The next romantic novel was PAINT ME A DREAM (published by Robert Hale Ltd in 1991) which went into UK and USA large print editions in 2004 (published by BBC Audio Books Ltd and Thorndike Press) and is also a Kindle and Smashwords eBook 2011. Fast forward to a sabbatical from the day job when I embarked on WHERE THE BULBUL SINGS a time-zone saga set in India span-ning the last days of the Raj to the present day. This saw the light of day in 2011 as a Kindle eBook, Smashwords eBook and a printed edition. IN THE PINK (Kindle ebook 2011) is a departure in style and content. GOLDEN GROVE, another romantic novel, is a Kindle and Smashwords eBook 2011. WILFUL FATE is a Kindle ebook 2012 and is a romance with a horse riding theme.THE BOARDROOM is a short story. I'm now writing a new time-zone saga with an exotic backdrop.I am a member of the Romantic Novelists Association. It’s a wonderfully supportive organisation.I live in rural Kent (Charles Dickens said: Kent, sir. Everybody knows Kent. Apples, cherries, hops and women) with my golden retriever, Inspector Morse.

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PAINT ME A DREAM

By Serena Fairfax

Copyright ©2011 by Serena Fairfax

Smashwords Edition

http://www.serenafairfax.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

The right of Serena Fairfax to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN: 978-0-9569748-6-0

Paint Me A Dream

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Paint Me A Dream

Chapter 1

Francesca saw instantly that the chair was too low to be comfortable for his height, his long legs encased in designer jeans jack-knifed against his jaw. Brushing back a strand of her straight, fine blonde hair, she hurried towards him from her tiny office at the rear of Craig Fine Arts - a Bond Street art gallery.

He was straight off a red-eye transatlantic flight. She hadn’t expected him until much later when, with her boss Alec Craig, the gallery’s founder, they would discuss business with him over a leisurely lunch. But he’s here now and far too early. Francesca steeled herself for the encounter.

‘Rafe Rostov.’ He uncoiled his lean, powerful body at six feet topping her by several inches. ‘I’m meeting with Alec Craig.’ The voice was a deep, eastern seaboard drawl and long forgotten echoes from the past rushing back reminded her how soft - almost seductive - it could sound. Francesca held out her hand.

‘Did you have a nice flight?’ she asked taking refuge in the usual pleasantries. Her level voice surprised her as her gaze met those piercing cobalt blue eyes that flickered appraisingly over her slim figure, registering the tender curve of the mouth below gypsy brown eyes, the clean line of chin and the soft colour in the high cheek bones.

Francesca kept her face composed but her body tensed with the bittersweet of reunion and her heart began to race wildly. She hadn’t set eyes on Rafe for nine years, since she was seventeen. But that gut wrenching feeling was back even though he’d altered considerably, his height now carried with easy assurance, the smart-casual designer wear that spoke of success - the ungainly youth now a lionised sophisticate whose paintings adorned the homes of Texan oil barons and discriminating international collectors.

‘Sure - that’s what you pay for and ought to get in first class! And it looks as if I’m gonna have an even nicer day,’ he grinned engagingly and raked fingers through that still unruly coal-black hair. ‘So you’re Alec’s assistant, Frankie. You’re the girl who’s been liaising with my New York agent. I guess I should have known.’ So he remembered, too. He paused and added gently, ‘you’ve a very short memory and I guess I’ve a very bad one. Let’s keep it that way, Frankie. Pardon me, I reckon you’re Francesca here.’

Francesca met his steady gaze. ‘Alec and I work together and yes, most people know me as Francesca Marsham...’

‘Marsham,’ he cut in. ‘Any links with Terence Marsham, the art critic?’

Francesca’s mouth curved into a delighted smile. ‘Of course - how nice. You’re bound to know Terence, my Dad’s cousin. I’m sure he’d love to see…’

‘I don’t remember your telling me all those years ago that you were related to that jerk.’ His tone sounded as if he’d make her pay for that. ‘Hell, to me he’s off limits. Now how come Alec’s not around?’

‘Mr Rostov-’ Francesca took refuge in formality.

‘Mr Rostov,’ Rafe mimicked her tone. ‘Heck, you English are so uptight. I’m still Rafe to you.’

‘Rafe,’ she repeated softly and just saying his name moved the past to the present. She said not unreasonably, ‘your agent said you wouldn’t be here before mid-day. Alec’s at an auction sale but he’ll be back shortly.’ She hoped Rafe would vanish until then. It wasn’t going to be easy having him hovering when there was still much for her to do in order to launch the gallery’s next mixed media show in a fortnight’s time at the end of April.

‘Meanwhile, perhaps some shopping?’ The suggestion was clumsy and uncharacteristically tactless as she fought the tide of old familiar feelings his appearance evoked.

‘Boy, if I go that sure will be the last you guys will see of me,’ he chided her softly. He leaned forward his eyes dropping to her breasts and settling on the delicate level brows and the rise of the slim throat.

That mustn’t happen. Over the past four years she’d worked with Alec, she’d built up a reputation for her diplomatic handling of their temperamental clientele, artists and customers alike. Those skills couldn’t desert her now.

‘I’m sorry - I didn’t mean it like that.’ Her tone was placatory the wide smile showing even white teeth.

Rafe shrugged, signalling he accepted her apology.

‘I’ll organise coffee for you,’ Francesca beckoned to Gary, the Cockney teenager employed by them under the government youth training scheme, ‘that I guarantee will be worth drinking,’ she added, a mischievous glint in her eyes forestalling the comment that she sensed he’d make, as did most Americans, about the inability of the British to brew a decent cup of coffee. ‘But if you’ll excuse me, I’ve some paperwork to see to, although do feel free to look around.’

Francesca returned to her desk but it wasn’t easy to forget that once they’d been good together. She sighed and turned to her laptop. Rafe’s American dealer had warned Alec that Rostov wasn’t the easiest of persons.

‘Show me an artist who is,’ Alec had retorted taking it all in his stride.

‘The guy’ll make you sweat,’ the dealer had confided when Alec signed up to the contract that appointed Craig Fine Arts as Rafe’s sole United Kingdom agent. ‘Rafe’s a hot shot and he’s wound up a fair number in the art world but boy, he’s brilliant and he, we and they know it.’

Unbidden, Francesca’s thoughts recalled that spring day in Florence when it had all begun, the playback magically recapturing the immediacy.

I’m up to here with culture, Francesca decided grimly, having spent the previous weeks in earnest pursuit of the noble and the beautiful. But there was more to Florence than the treasures of the Renaissance or the skulduggery of the Medici - there was high fashion, there was food, the wine, and best of all Italian men, whose opening remark was invariably E sposata? Are you married?’

A warm spring sun on her face encouraged her to linger along the smart Via de Tornabuoni, her eye caught by chic boutiques lining the street that she was too nervous to enter in the worn jeans and tee-shirt that hugged her skinny frame. She looped her large brown bag over her shoulder, bought the previous day from a shop in one of the tiny streets that led off the main square, drawn to it by the familiar smell of leather, where she was shown everything from wallets to tooled bookmarks. The city was a gem - a cool shady courtyard, glimpsed through a palazzo doorway, a street shrine - its oil lamp flickering, and flowing through the centre the muddy green Arno bordered by wide embankments. And all this funded by cousin Terence determined that she experience at first hand Florence’s phenomenal range of riches. Terence Marsham, whose contributions on art to a major national newspaper were read as much for their know-how as for their biting wit, was the same cousin Terence, who had gained a ferocious reputation for making or breaking a painter.

The breeze teased the silky strands of hair escaping from her long braided plait as she came in sight of the Ponte Veccio - the 300 year old bridge lined with unique goldsmiths and jewellers’ shops – that spanned the broad river. It was a favourite rendezvous with young Florentines and she often spent lazy hours there with a noisy gang of friends spearheaded by gregarious Sandro Camilli, a young post-graduate from a wealthy aristocratic family to whom Terence had given her an introduction. But for the past few weeks Sandro was incommunicado in the family villa as the deadline loomed for submission of his Masters dissertation.

She was good humouredly jostled as she peered at the ornate gems and craftwork in the windows, temptingly displayed. Her bag swung loosely from her shoulder and then it was ripped from her - a squirt in her eyes from a water pistol was followed by the sound of racing feet. It was all over in a flash, and she could do nothing but blink at two vanishing figures.

‘Hey! Alt al ladro - stop thief!’ He’d materialised from nowhere and gone in hot pursuit, then retraced his steps sensing the futility of giving chase - the muggers having sprinted into the warren of alleys that led away from the bridge.

‘I guess your bag and they have gone for good. Are you ok?’ he asked in English. Francesca was shaking, her legs felt wobbly, her shoulder throbbing where the assailant had wrenched it from her. She clutched blindly at the gangling figure in faded Levis and open-necked check shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, sunlight glinting on the dark chest hair and strong sun-tanned arms.

‘You can speak English!’ she burst out chokily into his chest, feeling miserably for her hanky that had vanished like the rest of her things.

'So can you.’ His eyes were teasing. ‘You are English, aren’t you?’

'You guessed right.’ She stifled a sob, blowing hard into tissues he had pressed into her hand. His arm went round her, strong and comforting, his hand gently stroking her hair.

‘Only-’ But he stopped himself and grinned broadly instead and Francesca wondered if he’d been about to say that only the English would walk along like her, a dangling bag an open invitation to be robbed.

‘C’mon, let’s get outta here.’ He took charge, his fingers gentle under her elbow as he steered her into the inner recesses of a cool, dark cafe. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that he was about twenty-three. Thick, undisciplined hair flopped across his forehead meeting large, long-lashed eyes below curved eyebrows, the lean face tapering to a firm chin.

‘What’s the damage?’ His probing gaze settled on her mouth as he stirred his cappuccino the milk froth topped with shredded chocolate.

Francesca spread her palms in a helpless gesture. ‘Everything’s gone.’

‘Hell, your passport, too?’

'That’s the one consolation. I left it in my lodgings.’ Francesca cheered up at the thought that she had, at least, was spared that. ‘The red tape I’d have had to navigate before the consul issued a replacement would’ve been horrendous.’

‘Praise be!’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling and thumped the table with his fist, making the crockery rattle. The colour mounted in her cheeks and her heart beat unevenly at his easy smile.

‘But I’ll have to call home