What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One by Mara Purl Page A

well-known Jones family in San Francisco.
Yet the girl is determined not to use the benefit of her name—or her presumed fortune—for her own advancement. Why in heaven’s name not?
    Raw ambition was something Zelda understood. She had it herself. But while she and other people dreamed of success and all its trappings, Miranda apparently dreamed of other things: wildlife protection, environmental purity, peaceful coexistence. If the girl had an ambition, it seemed to be that her paintings would change the world.
Well, in order for that to happen, the world has to know about her. Her paintings have to sell—and that’s where my own expertise is already making the critical difference
.
    The tasteful sign in her second-story window read
Art Placements & Artists Representations
. The business side of Zelda’s building faced Victoria Street in Santa Barbara’s downtown. On the floor below, she rented to an antiques emporium, and to a gallery, thus covering the building’s expenses with her tenants’ rent.
    APAR was Zelda’s second art business, and was proving equally as successful as the first had been. Corporate Art Professionals—CAP—had placed appropriate art in business offices across the country. Now, Zelda preferred a far more individual approach, working as a personal art shopper for select clients, and that was the “placements” part of her work.
    In addition, the smaller, quieter side of the business was “representations”—repping a short list of promising artists. She prided herself in having a superb eye for excellent work, and for true talent. She also knew a vast majority of artists were clueless about the business side of their own profession.
    Turning away from the window, Zelda walked back toward her desk, where on its corner a spray of white orchids arced gracefully from a blue porcelain pot. I
did buy myself the perfect birthday gift
.
    Zelda had just celebrated her fiftieth. She glanced along the mullioned windows—where long floral drapes were gathered between sections—and then around the suite she’d furnished with French antiques.
I do love that desk
. Though quite large, its veneer of inlaid flowers on the dark wood gave it a feminine touch.
    She’d chosen the colors for her home as carefully as she had for her clothing. This office suite was neutrals with tasteful floral accents—nothing too fussy or elaborate, but clean, classic lines and good quality pieces of rich, gleaming wood.
    The bedroom was a good deal more sensual—not that anyone other than herself had seen it lately. She’d had the primary wall painted in a rich shade of deep plum, had the four-poster bed layered in coverlets and pillows of amethyst and lavender, grape and violet.
    Yes, quite perfect
. Her home, her business, her wardrobe—all were in order.
Yet something is missing
. She’d already made her fortune once, but was ready to do it again, this time perhaps sharing a bit less of it with an “ex.”
    Zelda never thought of herself as someone who’d been married. Her so-called marriage, such as it was, had only lasted for about ten minutes on the emotional clock. She’d never had the slightest inclination to risk repeating the fiasco—unless she could find a true equal.
    She’d been a plain-looking girl who now just missed being a beauty, but had grown into a handsome woman, and one who’d taught herself how to make use of her appearance. She’d learned to dress expensively. Her wardrobe of Chanel and Dior suits encompassed a careful selection of fabrics—silk twill and
crêpe de Chine seemed
to work best in this climate. Some mightcall her color palette limited. But after sessions with fashion consultants and personal shoppers, she knew the reds, burgundies and purples she favored made the most of her black hair, pale skin and violet eyes. Her collection of softly draped pashminas and Hermes scarves was by now a signature.
    The minute she’d graduated as an Art History major from Cincinnati