Page 37 of Blown

Jake could only shake his head and pray that Rafe didn’t abandon him.

TWELVE

At first,everything hung suspended, like Jake and Hélène might burst into laughter at any moment, proving the entire thing was a joke at Rafe’s expense. But as the awkward silence between the three of them filled with the sounds of London traffic, the faint, throbbing bass of Cupid’s Arrow across the street, and groups of people laughing or talking in the false light of the city at night around them, reality sunk in.

He'd been played. Jake had fed into his deepest hopes and fears, coming up with exactly the right bait to trick him into his mad marriage scheme.

“I didn’t mean to,” Jake said quietly, his eyes growing rounder with fear by the moment. “You have to believe me, Rafe. I didn’t mean to deceive you.”

“Yes, you did,” Rafe replied, fighting to pull himself together. “That was the entire point, wasn’t it? To deceive me so you could get what you wanted?”

“I—”

Rafe turned away from him to Hélène. “I’m so terribly sorry, Madam Rénard,” he said. “There’s been a grievous misunderstanding.”

Hélène stood to the side, watching the seething confrontation with mild, gallic interest. “Not at all,” she said with a shrug of one shoulder. “I quite frequently fight with my lover. It is what gives love its spice.”

Rafe’s mouth hung open for a moment as he tried to digest that. Jake wasn’t his lover, not really. One afternoon in the sheets didn’t make them lovers. Those words didn’t begin to cover the way he felt about the audacious liar who stood beside him, looking like he might spontaneously combust. He’d let himself believe that Jake could be so much more than just a lover, but now he wasn’t certain they could even be friends.

He snapped his mouth shut and stood straighter, grasping onto the stiff upper lip he was supposed to have by right of birth. Jake might have lied about his connection to Hélène, and he’d probably lied about a hell of a lot of other connections he supposedly had, but that didn’t change who Hélène was, or the fact that knowing her could do incredible things for his career.

“I’m terribly sorry about all of this,” he said, doing what he could to turn on as much charm as possible. “I’ve been a great admirer of yours for such a long time, Madam Rénard?—”

“Please, call me Hélène,” she said, smiling and holding out her hand to Rafe.

Rafe smiled with relief and brought her hand to his lips to kiss it. It was embarrassingly old-fashioned and he felt like a fool as soon as he did it. There was something about Hélène that begged for an old-fashioned gesture like that. The woman was a picture of silver-haired, bohemian elegance, rather like his mum, really. In fact, his mum would probably get along famously with Hélène. They were both strong women of a certain age and artistic goddesses to boot.

“Did you say your name was Rafe Hawthorne?” Hélène asked while Rafe stood there in wonder, scrambling for any way he could think of to get Hélène to like him.

“Yes,” Rafe said with a nod. “I recently finished a residency at the Corning Museum of Glass, and before that, I was privileged to have a few shows of my glassware in galleries around the world.”

It was mortifying. Who did he think he was to rattle off his entire artistic CV to Hélène Rénard on a street corner in front of her hotel near midnight on a Friday? It was silly and amateurish. It was the kind of thing Jake would do.

It wasexactlythe kind of thing Jake would do, and Rafe understood why. He understood the desire to impress someone, especially when they were someone you looked up to in your field. Which meant maybe Jake’s stupid actions weren’t as horrific as he wanted to make them out to be.

He ignored his conscience’s attempt to show Jake a shred of forgiveness and focused his attention on Hélène.

“I believe I have seen your work,” Hélène said, nodding slowly. “Was it you whose neo-Venetian vase was featured in Glass Art Magazine?”

Prickles of excitement filled Rafe’s gut. Hélène Rénard knew who he was.

“Last year, yes,” he said beaming. “I’m surprised you took notice.

Hélène shrugged. “I take notice of all rising stars of the glass world.”

Rafe drew in a breath, basking in the praise. It was the sort of recognition he’d waited to have for a very long time. It was proof that all his years of trial and error, his efforts to be noticed and to let his art speak for itself had paid off. And he hadn’t had to lie about who he knew or any of his accomplishments to get there.

Buoyed by that, he shifted his stance, bubbling with anticipation, and said, “I’m not sure how long you are in London, but if you have time, I would love for you to come visit us at Hawthorne House.”

“Hawthorne House?” Hélène asked, looking interested.

“It is my family’s ancestral home,” Rafe said, falling into the aristocratic mien that he hated, but that he couldn’t help but slip into, like a velvet dinner jacket, when he was trying to impress important people. “My father is the ninth Earl of Felcourt, not that that means anything these days. Hawthorne House has been in the family since the sixteenth century. It’s been converted into an arts center now, of course. We teach all varieties of art classes to the community, but I also have quite an extensive hot shop on the property.”

“Do you?” Hélène’s expression lit with interest. “And the entire house has been dedicated to art?”

“And the family, yes,” Rafe said. “It would be an honor to all of us if you could join us there while you’re in London.”

“To view your studio?” Hélène asked. “And your current work?”

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