Second Chance Temptation. Joss WoodЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Like that other famous auction house on the other side of the pond, Murphy’s boasted a canvas portico in front of its main entrance with Murphy International written in white across the bloodred canvas. It was simple, effective and attractive, and Tanna felt the familiar kick of pride as she stared up at the letters spelling her surname.

      Her great-grandfather started the company, passed it on to her grandfather, then to her father and now her brothers were running the world-famous auction house with satellite offices across the world.

      She was the only Murphy who’d ever stepped away, who was working in a completely different field.

      The thought made her sad.

      Tanna jammed her hands into the pockets of her coat, conscious of her heart beating out of her chest. Just like always, she’d planned to avoid Murphy’s, but she needed to talk to Carrick and he was, if she remembered correctly, leaving for Tokyo shortly. She needed to tell him she was moving out of the Beacon Hill house, moving in with Levi...

      But only to help him, of course.

      She definitely could not tell her brother she hoped, as insane as it sounded, that somehow, some way, she and Levi would finally get naked and she’d find out what making love with her ex-fiancé felt like.

      She’d spent many nights imagining the way his hands would feel on her skin, how strong and hard he’d be when he pushed into her, filling up those empty and desperate spaces no man had ever managed to fill.

      She needed to know because, honestly, her sexual education was incomplete.

      She and Levi were done, over, their time had passed...

      But, not having slept with him, Tanna was convinced there was a puzzle piece missing, like she’d never quite seen the complete picture. Like she’d never read the last chapter in a sad but compelling story.

      Tanna heard the incoming message on her phone and pulled it out of her pocket. She swiped the screen and read the text from Carrick.

      Security just warned me about a suspicious-looking woman casing the joint. Get your ass in here before you get arrested.

      Tanna grinned. She knew Murphy’s security firm employed facial recognition software and she’d been identified within a few seconds of arriving at the entrance. Carrick was just yanking her chain.

      Tanna greeted the doorman and walked inside the iconic building, her boots echoing on the polished concrete floor. In front of her was the concierge, and to the left and right were the main viewing rooms.

      Tanna was a frequent visitor to Murphy’s website and knew there was an upcoming auction of Henry Moore sculptures and a collection of vintage clothing and accessories. She wanted to lose herself in both exhibitions but she knew she couldn’t afford to step inside either room—there were too many memories here that she wasn’t quite ready to deal with.

      Tanna watched as a young woman wearing a black pencil skirt and sky-high red heels half ran up the marble steps leading to the private offices on the floors above. She pushed down a wave of envy. How lucky that woman was to be working here, to be interacting with art lovers, with collectors, with the beautiful objects. How fortunate she was to be immersed in art, surrounded by beauty.

       She could be you. You worked here, before you left. You chose to leave, Tanna Murphy, nobody chased you away.

      Tanna had left because she didn’t have a right to live her dream life, the life she’d been born to. Addy’d never had that chance and it was Tanna’s fault. For Addy she had to do more, be better, be useful.

      Art was lovely but it wasn’t important...

      She shouldn’t have come back here. She should’ve just called Carrick...

      Feeling sad and emotional and teary-eyed, Tanna ran up one flight of stairs, through a security door and up another flight of stairs. Her feet took her down the hallway to Carrick’s large, third-floor office and after greeting Marsha, Carrick’s PA, she knocked on his partially open door.

      Carrick looked up at the knock and his smile broadened as he waved her in. Standing up, he kissed her cheek and shook his head, bemused.

      “Why are you looking at me like that?” Tanna asked him, dropping her bag onto one of the chairs on the opposite side of his desk.

      “Just happy that I’ve finally gotten you to come into Murphy’s. I’m also thinking about how much you look like Mom,” Carrick replied, his voice gruff. Tanna appreciated the observation but she knew she couldn’t hold a candle to her obscenely beautiful mother.

      “I know I don’t talk about her often, Tan, but I still miss her. I miss them both.”

      Tanna’s eyes misted over. “I do too. But I don’t remember them as well as you do.”

      Carrick gestured to his messy desk. “I could do with Dad’s help today,” he admitted, slapping his hands on his hips.

      Tanna dropped into the other chair and crossed her long legs. “Problems?” She couldn’t help asking the question. She might be completely devoted to her career but Murphy’s was, and would always be, a huge part of her.

      Carrick walked around his enormous desk and rested his butt against the edge. “When are there ever not?”

      “Tell me.”

      Because, just for a minute or two, she wanted to pretend she was still part of this business, still a Murphy. Tanna never got the chance to talk art with her colleagues. For the most part, art didn’t interest them and they were also too damn busy saving lives.

      But she wasn’t at work now and she could spend time talking about Murphy clients and collections with her elder brother.

      It didn’t mean anything...

      “For someone who professes to have no interest in the family company, you still ask pertinent questions and make sensible suggestions,” Carrick said later, sending her a sly grin.

      “I could still use you here at Murphy’s, in public or client relations. You enjoy people, love art and you’re naturally warm and charming, just like Mom. Do you still enjoy being an EMT?” Carrick asked her before she could think of a suitable response.

      Tanna crossed her legs and stared at the tip of her leather boot. “It’s an important job, Carrick. I make a difference.”

      “You didn’t answer my question,” Carrick persisted. “Do you enjoy it?”

      She didn’t hate it.

      She looked at the painting sitting on the easel in the corner of his office and lifted her chin. She wasn’t going to spoil her trip to Murphy’s by fighting with her brother over her return, something she couldn’t consider. So she changed the subject. “Is that a Homer?”

      Carrick, thank God, didn’t push.

      “We’re not sure,” Carrick said, looking at the painting of two children and their African American mother.

      “It’s an intensely powerful painting and if it isn’t a Homer, then it’s a superb fake.”

      “I have an appointment shortly with an art detective we are hiring to chase down provenance and run tests.”

      “I