Page 29 of Her Ex's Father
What is this, exactly? Some kind of pep-talk to nudge me into being a black widow?Plenty of ways to get rid of a man here Maddie…
I just can’t quite get a read on her, until she smiles again and says, “Normally Benedict spends time in the gallery. It’s on the first floor, in the west hall, but I’m sure Hugh wouldn’t have shown it to you; it’s a little secret that Ben likes to keep for himself.”
A wink.
Oh.
She’s telling me where to go snooping.
I press my lips together to hide a smile. “Thank you. That’s good to know. Maybe one of these days I’ll join him on a walk.”
Caroline hums in agreement, then briefly touches my shoulder before continuing on down the hallway. “It was nice to meet you,” she calls over her shoulder, and it seems genuine.
I wait until she disappears around a corner and then scurry down the stairs, feeling like a naughty kid all overagain; sneaking into the distillery with Stella when we weren’t supposed to, or hiding in the hay in the stables.
Only now I’m running through a lodge in Aspen, looking for a secret gallery.
Two staff members appear from the area of the dining room, most likely cleaning up after the near-silent dinner earlier. What do you talk about with a man who not only fucked you over a couch, but walked in on you naked only hours before?
“Oh, hello.” I slow down my pace, trying to look casual… despite the flush on my cheeks that appeared at the memory of Ben’s eyes raking down my body.
And the simmering tension I felt from him at dinner.
Now, though, somehow… I can tell he’s out of the house. I canfeelit. Caroline only confirmed that, and told me where he was.
Chin tipped up, I walk toward the archway of the west hall as if I’m meant to be there.
The gallery isn’t hard to find—it’s hidden behind an ornate wood door with an elk-head handle.
I open it slowly, fearing that it’ll creak. That somehow Ben will hear it out in the woods and know I’m here.
Why would he keep a gallery secret, or off-limits? Not that he told me directly not to come here… but Hugh must’ve been directed not to show me this.
When the door swings open, it all makes sense.
Because Benedict Bronson—therealBenedict Bronson—is here, in this hall.
The high-ceilinged walls are lined with paintings. Gorgeous, expressive paintings; some bigger than a man, others as small as the palm of my hand. I step in, enraptured and not sure where to look first.
The textures, colors, and depictions come to life as lights overhead snap on. Each painting has a little ticket next to it withthe artist’s name, medium, the year, the title. It’s like being in a museum.
And as I turn slowly, it isn’t hard to see what Benedict Bronson loves most in the world.
Allof this art, including a handful of sculptures in the center of the room, shows nature, wildlife. Not those classic hunting oil paintings or still-lives of pheasants and fish draped over tables, buttruenature.
Birch trees in endless stands, their shadows and bark like an optical illusion. Mink painted in pinks, blues, and greens, landscapes of lonely cabins in winter, a painting of a bison so life-like that when I step up to it I can see each individual eyelash.
I get so lost in the art that it takes a moment to notice just how long the shadows on the floor have gotten.
Benedict will be back soon—unless he’s insane and walks the grounds at night.Thatwould be dangerous.
Stepping slowly away from a collage that beautifully depicts Crystal Lake, I realize that I’m not going to say anything about this to him.
Not yet.
I’ve gotten a taste of the real Benedict Bronson; the man behind that iron gaze, that immoveable body.
If he wants to keep this a secret for now, fine; I’ll keep it for him.
