The Jewel of His Collection Read online

  The Jewel of His Collection

  When curator Violet Fabre approaches art collector Ian Carlisle for help saving her struggling museum, she’s shocked by the deal he offers her. He’s willing to donate one painting from his impressive personal collection to the museum for every article of clothing Violet removes in his presence. Violet can’t understand why any man would want to see her naked, but with the fate of the museum hanging in the balance, she’s willing to do anything—even strip.

  Ian never expected Violet to accept his deal, and he’s even more surprised by how wild her innocent strip-show drives him. Shy Violet is completely unaware of the effect she has on him, but Ian can see the passion she keeps bottled up inside of her. He’s determined to set it free and claim her for his own. As far as he’s concerned, her luscious curves make her the perfect addition to his collection.

  Genre: Contemporary, Rubenesque

  Length: 51,249 words

  THE JEWEL OF HIS

  COLLECTION

  Fae Mallory

  EROTIC ROMANCE

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Erotic Romance

  THE JEWEL OF HIS COLLECTION

  Copyright © 2015 by Fae Mallory

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-63259-315-3

  First E-book Publication: April 2015

  Cover design by Christine Kirchoff

  All art and logo copyright © 2015 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of The Jewel of His Collection by Fae Mallory from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

  Regarding E-book Piracy

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

  The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

  This is Fae Mallory’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Fae Mallory’s right to earn a living from her work.

  Amanda Hilton, Publisher

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  www.BookStrand.com

  DEDICATION

  For Ann and Tina—Thanks for all the inspiration and cheerleading!

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  THE JEWEL OF HIS

  COLLECTION

  FAE MALLORY

  Copyright © 2015

  Prologue

  Violet Fabre gazed into the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door and heaved a sigh. She’d taken extra pains with her hair and makeup, piling her blonde curls on top of her head and letting a few loose in an effort to disguise the fullness around her jawline. Her blue eyes were rimmed with three times as much mascara as she normally wore to make them stand out, but despite her efforts, her gaze kept wandering south to the rest of her reflection.

  Muttering a curse, she gave her body a critical look. As a child and a teenager, she’d always been slim, able to eat anything she wanted with the knowledge that she’d burn it off during her explorations of her small town’s many nature trails. All that changed when she left Maine for New York City to go to art school despite her parents’ strident objections. Long hours locked in a studio had left her with a fine arts degree and an extra thirty pounds on her once slender figure. A taller woman could have carried the extra weight with ease, but at barely five foot two, Violet now felt as if she were as round as she was tall.

  Dieting made an occasional dent in her weight, but as soon as she dared eat more than green tea and kale, the pounds crept back on, and she coped by wearing loose swing dresses to camouflage her figure and avoiding mirrors as much as possible. This wasn’t the life she’d envisioned for herself. By now, she was supposed to be happily married and earning her living with her paintbrush, but a disastrous string of blind dates after her college boyfriend cheated on her with a thinner girl was enough to convince her that no man was interested in a woman with her overly generous curves.

  If her career had taken off, the lack of male companionship wouldn’t have bothered her so much, but once she graduated, Violet had discovered that her parents were right all along—New York City was filled with talented young artists, and she was just another face in the endless crowd. When her attempts at having her work noticed met with resounding silence, her inspiration dried up, leaving her incapable of even putting a brush to canvas. Single, overweight, and suffering from a case of artistic block that made her want to tear out her hair, Violet gave up on her grandiose dreams.

  By her twenty-third birthday, she already felt old and burnt-out. Pursuing a career in art had been a risk, and it had proved to be an absolute disaster. Risks didn’t pay off. She’d learned that the hard way. Violet vowed to herself that from this point on she would be responsible and do the smart thing. When a position as assistant curator opened up at her hometown’s museum, she jumped at it, crawling back home to Owensport, Maine, to lick her wounds. From the moment she moved into her tiny apartment ten blocks from the museum, she knew she’d made the right choice. It was comforting to be back in familiar territory, the peace of Owensport enveloping her like an old friend’s embrace.

  The Owensport Museum had always been small, but it had once been highly regarded. During Violet’s lifetime, it had fallen on hard times, and when her boss, Archibald Murray, retired and moved to Florida four years after Violet joined the staff, she inherited the curator position and a collection o
f moldering exhibits. At twenty-seven, she was a washed-up painter in charge of keeping a sinking museum afloat.

  It was probably too late for her, but at least the museum still had a chance. Like her, Ian Carlisle, the CEO of Carlisle Enterprises, preferred the quiet of Maine to fast-paced city life. No one Violet knew had ever been inside his mansion on the edge of town, but she’d been hearing stories about his famed art collection ever since she returned to Owensport. According to local legend, a good portion of his millions was tied up in art, and the painter in Violet longed to be let loose to admire his collection. However, the curator in her was interested in a single facet of it—Ian Carlisle owned the largest collection of paintings by Hunter Madden in the world.

  Before his untimely death, Madden had been celebrated as the new Jackson Pollock, and after a car accident ended his life ten years ago, interest in his work had skyrocketed. Any museum or gallery that could display an exhibit of his work would have a license to print money, and if Ian Carlisle could be persuaded to share his paintings, the Owensport Museum would have a new lease on life.

  Unfortunately, sharing didn’t seem to be part of Carlisle’s vocabulary. Murray, the former curator, had placed a call every six months requesting a meeting to discuss the possibility of showing Carlisle’s Madden collection, and the businessman had ignored him every time. When Violet took over the curatorship, she’d assumed her entreaties would also fall on deaf ears, but since the worst he could do was say no, she’d made the call anyway.

  To her surprise, Carlisle had been happy to discuss the possible loan of his paintings to her, which brought her back to the present moment. Turning away from the mirror, Violet examined the outfit she’d laid out for herself. The pinstripe black suit had a knee-length flared shirt and a tailored jacket that would hold in as much of her body as possible. She’d added a black waistcoat for additional support, completing the look with a modest white blouse. It wasn’t as forgiving as the trapeze dresses she favored, but it had more components, which made it a better choice for today’s activities.

  With shaking hands, she donned the suit, feeling like a knight assembling pieces of armor. Beneath the pinstriped material, she wore more layers, covering her bra and panties with a camisole and half-slip. Instead of hose, she’d tracked down an old-fashioned garter belt and stockings, and once she was dressed, she completed the look by tying a blue silk scarf around her throat for a pop of color.

  When she was finished dressing, she took a final look in the mirror and winced. All of the layers she was wearing under the suit had the unfortunate effect of making her look a bit like a sausage stuffed into a too-tight casing. Exhaling deeply, Violet reminded herself that it didn’t matter. It was the layers that were important. If she’d been able to find one, she’d be wearing a crinoline under her skirt, too.

  She stepped into her sensible black pumps and headed for the door. Even though it was a warm spring afternoon, she made certain to put on her coat and gloves before she left, additional layers that would serve her well for what was to come.

  As Violet got behind the wheel of her car and inserted the key, Carlisle’s words flitted through her mind, a reminder of the deal they’d made.

  “I will loan your museum one painting for every article of clothing you remove in my presence.”

  Chapter 1

  Violet made the drive to Carlisle’s house on autopilot, cranking up the radio in an effort not to think about what was about to happen. When they made the deal, it had all been very businesslike. Once she finally finished choking and sputtering, Carlisle had laid out the rules for her. “For every article of clothing you remove in front of me, I will allow you to choose one painting to be displayed at the museum for a period of two years. Although designing the exhibit will be your task, I will maintain final approval. There will be no cameras in the room with us. I will maintain a minimum distance of six feet from you at all times. You may stop at any time.”

  On one hand, it was ridiculous—who the hell wanted to see her naked body? Maybe Carlisle didn’t know what she looked like. On the other hand, it was a deal that had the potential to get the museum out of the red once and for all. After verifying that Carlisle didn’t mean for her to touch herself in front of him or do anything but take off her clothes, she’d accepted and they’d set a date.

  It still didn’t seem real.

  “You’re out of your mind, Violet,” she said aloud as she drove up the long, circular drive, parking her car directly in front of the mansion. Sucking in a deep breath, she headed up the stairs, her senses alert for any sign that a camera crew was about to leap out at her and reveal that this entire scenario was a practical joke.

  When no one did, she rang the bell, the door opening almost at once on a middle-aged man with sandy hair wearing an impeccable suit. “Mr. Carlisle?”

  The man gave her a faint smile. “No, Miss Fabre. He’s waiting for you in the Madden Gallery. May I take your coat?”

  Carlisle had a butler. Of course he did. Clutching her hand at the collar of her coat, Violet tried to smile. “No, thank you.”

  The man nodded and gestured for her to follow him. Violet fell into step, her face heating as she wondered if he knew why she was there. To distract herself, she looked around, her nervousness fading into awe as she took in the wealth on display. Clearly, rumor hadn’t exaggerated Carlisle’s fondness for art, and it was all she could do not to stop and gawk as they passed paintings and sculptures by artists she’d studied and admired for years. His collection put the museum to shame, and this was just the hallway. If she could talk him into allowing tours of his home, she’d make a mint.

  The walls were painted the most neutral gray she’d ever seen, all the better to concentrate focus on the treasures hanging on them. Thick rugs covered the hardwood floors, her shoes making no sound as they sunk into the rich velvet. Even the air seemed quiet and still, the only living thing in this house the art on display. Somehow, Violet had a feeling that Mr. Carlisle didn’t open his door to many people, and she felt strangely flattered that he was allowing her inside.

  “Here you are, Miss Fabre,” the butler said as they came to a wooden door that looked just like all the others they’d passed. He opened it for her with a slight bow, and Violet stepped inside, her jaw dropping as she realized that this single room was bigger than her entire apartment. The floor was pale marble, the walls a creamy white to better reflect the natural light that poured in from the enormous skylights overhead.

  “Wow,” she breathed, automatically stepping closer to the first painting. She’d seen a print of Sea Glass at Dawn, but nothing could have prepared her for the size of the original or the tiny strokes that composed it. Torn between a desire to press her nose to the glass to better see each individual application of paint and the urge to step back so she could take in the sheer size of the entire canvas, Violet remained planted where she was, dimly aware of eyes upon her.

  “How do you like my collection, Miss Fabre?” a smooth voice asked.

  “It’s amazing.” She sighed, tears pricking at her eyes. She already felt utterly overwhelmed, and she’d only really looked at one painting. Her throat tightened as she thought about her own amateurish efforts with a brush. How could she have ever considered herself an artist when there were people in the world who could create things like this?

  Tearing herself away from the painting, Violet turned to take in the rest of the room. At least forty of Madden’s paintings hung on the walls, variously colored sticky notes attached to each frame with the painting’s name on them. Compared to the splendor of the room, it seemed like an oddly tacky labeling system.

  Four low benches upholstered in black leather ran down the center of the room, and she blinked when she finally noticed the man sitting on one of them. In contrast to the butler’s formality, Carlisle was dressed casually in dark jeans and a black shirt with the first few buttons undone, making him blend into the bench itself. His long, dark hair was pulled back in a low ponyt
ail, emphasizing the angular planes of his face and his piercing green eyes. He was younger than Violet had expected him to be, perhaps in his mid-thirties, and when he stood up, she instinctively shrank back. In contrast to her own short stature, Carlisle had to be at least six feet tall, and he loomed even from halfway across the room, his dark shirt unable to conceal the strength of his upper body. He didn’t look like an art collector, she decided as he approached her. He looked like a predator, and Violet had a feeling that she was in over her head.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said politely, extending his hand.

  Telling herself that she was being ridiculous, Violet reached out, feeling a jolt not unlike an electric shock when she felt the warmth of his skin through her glove.

  Looking down at their clasped hands, Carlisle’s mouth twisted at the sight of her glove. “Clever,” he approved.

  Remembering why she was there, Violet cleared her throat and took a step back, fidgeting with her gloves. “How are we going to do this?”

  “There’s no need to rush. Take your time and look around. Can I offer you something to drink or eat?” he asked.

  The offer of food felt like a punch to the gut. One look at her should make it obvious that she wasn’t missing any meals. Violet wondered if he was disappointed by the reality of her. “I’d rather get started,” she said more sharply than she’d intended.

  “As you wish,” Carlisle agreed easily.