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Even from this distance, she could see the lightning flash of surprise smoldering in the depths of his eyes. Lennon paused in her unpacking, holding a slinky beaded sheath in front of her, and met his gaze with a carefully blank expression of her own.
He must have seen right through her, though, because he recovered with impressive speed and rose to her challenge. “What’s risqué about the masque?”
“The guests have to impersonate characters who’ve contributed to enhancing erotic culture.”
“I hope you’re going as Lady Godiva. Riding naked through the village…I’d say she did her bit to support the arts.”
At his quicksilver grin, Lennon’s heart thudded dully in her chest. “I can’t tell you or I’ll spoil my debut.”
She couldn’t tell him or he’d know her bravado was all an act. She might sound unaffected by discussing risqué events with this man, but she wasn’t. The sight of him sprawled across that shiny bedspread—long muscled lines of his body making it impossible not to think of how it would feel to snuggle against him—disconcerted her completely.
Mr. Wrong, Mr. Wrong, Mr. Wrong.
His grin widened, and Lennon suspected her efforts went for nothing, because he probably already knew she was bluffing.
“Seeing you dressed in nothing but hair will be worth the wait, chère.”
He was definitely on to her.
Lennon jammed the sheath dress onto the rack and tried to segue back to business, without appearing to admit defeat. “Auntie Q likes to mix business with pleasure, so fund-raising isn’t so dry and stuffy. Talking business with Lady Godiva should liven things up, don’t you think?”
“The Eastman Gallery could expect some hefty donations.”
“Humph.” Lennon didn’t need to turn around to see his grin. She heard amusement loud and clear in his voice.
“Okay, I got the risqué part. Now I need to know how the finances work, but let me grab something to take notes on.”
From the corner of her eye she saw him sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. Lennon waved him off and said, “I’ll get something. Where?”
“My briefcase on the table.”
She sailed out of the room without a backward glance, relishing the activity and the breather from being bombarded with testosterone at close range. “Do you think money could be the motive, Josh?”
“I always cover all the angles. You never know what’ll motivate people.”
Lennon didn’t reply, just dug through his briefcase and told herself to get a grip. She couldn’t think of Josh as a romance hero. Sure, he looked the part of some Navy SEAL or Cold War spy, but he needed a quick demotion to a more human plane.
Palming a day planner from his briefcase, she weighed its worn leather cover in her hand. Businessmen used day planners. Businessmen from the twenty-first century. Day planners hadn’t been around when swashbuckling romance heroes had inhabited the earth. Except the hero she currently wrote about. A spy for England during the Napoleonic Wars, he was also a titled lord, which meant he had an estate to manage and would own a leather-bound journal to record his activities, one very similar to this….
Arrgh! Heading back into the bedroom, she tossed the day planner at Josh, ignored his politely murmured thanks, and sought refuge in the closet. “The finances are really very simple. In a nutshell, your grandfather bequeathed his collection to Auntie Q along with the pieces they owned jointly. She took those and included some she owned herself and donated them to the museum. Together, they included a financial endowment large enough to construct the gallery and the sculpture garden.”
After hanging up her dress for the cocktail party, she stowed her empty garment bag on the closet floor, out of the way. “Technically, the museum owns the collection now, but there’s overhead it can’t swing until the exhibition starts bringing in income. That’s where the fund-raising comes in. We need to collect enough to carry the Joshua Eastman Gallery until it establishes a name for itself.”
Lapsing into silence, she stacked her shoe boxes to the sound of Josh’s pen strokes.
“Sounds like a lot of work,” he finally said.
“It has been. Pulling this together has consumed Auntie Q for the past two years.”
“I’m sorry my grandfather wasn’t around to help her.”
Lennon didn’t have to turn to know he watched her. She sensed his gaze, felt her heartbeat thud in response. “Auntie Q’s convinced he meant to keep her busy after he died.”
“What do you think?”
“She’s probably right.” Steeling her nerves, Lennon swung around, leaned back against the wall and tucked her legs beneath her. “Great-uncle Joshua used to talk about his plans for this gallery. It was his passion. But whenever I’d ask when he was going to break ground, he’d just smile and say he wasn’t done collecting yet. He told me not to worry, though, that he’d been given Auntie Q as a gift to help him focus on what was important, and that she’d make sure things got done. I remember thinking he knew he might not be around to get the gallery started because he was older than she was.”
“You knew an entirely different side of my grandfather.”
She heard regret in Josh’s voice, a realization that he’d missed out on something special. She wanted to reach out and smooth the tight edges from his mouth, say something to erase his hurt, but squelched the crazy urge. She had no right to comfort this man. She hadn’t seen him in years and hadn’t really known him even back then.
Sure, he’d sometimes showed up on their doorstep, and Auntie Q had whipped out her stash of cookies. But Lennon had been eight years his junior and not particularly interested in hanging around to listen to whatever her great-aunt coaxed out of him.
“Damned bizarre situation.” His gaze pierced the distance, and Lennon felt the connection as if it were physical. Two people bound by the actions of others, each clinging to their parts of the whole and wondering what they were missing.
Then, in an instant, Josh shuttered his expression behind a grin. “Are you scarred forever?”
“Naw. Just focused. Despite the unusual gestalt of the situation, what’s not to like about love?”
“Ah.” He gave a brisk shake of his head that sent his black ponytail brushing his collar. “The romance writer.”
“I can write it however I like it.”
“And how do you like it, chère?”
The intensity of his expression made her pulse quicken. “If you want to know, you’ll have to read my books to find out.”
She hadn’t meant her reply as a challenge, but it was definitely taken as one. She could see fire leap into Josh’s eyes, his smile broaden appreciatively.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Swinging those long legs over the side of the bed, he planted his booted feet on the floor. “Right now I’ve got to get hotel security on the phone about the letter that was waiting for Miss Q when she arrived. I want them to question the desk clerks to see who dropped it off. Be ready to leave for the cocktail party at four.” He crossed the length of the bedroom in a few quick strides. “I’ll need a copy of your guest list. Miss Q said you had one.”
Lennon nodded, feeling a bit off balance, disappointed that she’d been so easily dismissed from their bantering.
She squelched that feeling fast. “I’ll get it for you. Josh?” she added, causing him to stop in the doorway. “Auntie Q got a threatening letter last night at the museum, one this morning at home and another today when she arrived here at the hotel. Do you think whoever’s harassing her may decide that frightening her isn’t getting the point across? Do you think he might try to really hurt her?”
His expression sobered, but he met her gaze with a promise in his. “Don’t worry. Olaf and I won’t let anything happen.”
For the first time since Josh had shown up, Lennon felt that perhaps Auntie Q had been right to call him.
4
A MAN WHO HADN’T HAD SEX since creating his own fireworks with a flight attendant over July Fourth weekend had no business holing up with a woman who looked like Lennon, Josh decided. Not if he expected himself to act with any self-control.
Dressed for the cocktail party, she was a vision in a clingy dress that molded her curves as though she’d been dipped in gold. Delicate chains flashed around her neck and wrists, drawing his attention to all the creamy skin exposed in between.
And her legs… Those strappy sandals should have been illegal the way they showed off graceful ankles, defined sleek calves until her legs seemed a mile long.
Josh’s pulse kicked hard, a reminder that July Fourth weekend had been seven months ago.
“Wow, black sheep. You clean up nicely.” She paused in the bedroom doorway and eyed him in a way that he didn’t think his several-years-old tux warranted. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you actually still belonged in our world.”
“Must have me confused with someone else.” The thought of making small talk at this party tonight was killing him.
“Nope, don’t think so.” When she smiled, shiny peach lipstick made her lips look ripe for kissing. “You may not choose to live the part, but you can’t rub off good breeding. It sticks like sugar on Monkey Bread.”
“Makes years of chasing bad guys a total waste.”
“Not necessarily.” Slinging the gold-chain strap of a handbag over her shoulder, she sauntered into the living room, each fluid stride making her dress shimmer over sleek curves.
Josh swallowed hard.
Popping open her handbag, she rooted through its contents, the smooth fall of blond hair sexily hiding her profile. “I thought I stuck my key in here. Lipstick. Blush. Mints.”
“I’ve got mine.”
“Ah, key.” She glanced at him, apparently ignoring the fact that she wouldn’t be out of his eyesight long enough to need her own key. “All set.”
“Let’s go. We need to do a walk-through of the gallery.” Preceding her to the door, he held it wide as she passed through, catching a whiff of her subtle spicy scent.
“I’m ready.”
And Josh was, too—damn his long-ignored libido.
But the protesters they encountered when their cab pulled up to the museum’s main entrance soon demanded his attention.
“I can’t believe they’re here so early,” Lennon said, peering out at the small crowd crossing streets and turning corners. It was a group of seemingly normal people Josh might expect to see commuting home on a Friday night for a weekend of watering lawns and family picnics.
Except for the signboards.
Don’t Confuse Art With Pornography!
Keep Smut away from our Local Treasures!
Lennon inhaled deeply, as though steeling herself for the unpleasant encounter ahead, and reached for the door handle.
“Not yet, chère.” Josh stayed her hand, before telling the driver, “Circle the block. We’ll let museum security deal with them, so Miss Q and Olaf won’t have to when they arrive.”
He retrieved his cell phone, dialed and waited for the call to connect. “Josh Eastman with private security for the Eastman Gallery. I’ve got protesters outside the main entrance….”
While they drove around waiting for security to disperse the crowd, Josh scanned the nearby rooftops for any signs of a threat and pondered the connection between the messages on the protesters’ signs and the letters Miss Q had received today.
Their messages mirrored almost exactly, but the format of the letters surprised him. To date, Miss Q had received only handwritten and computer-generated letters, yet both messages today had been pieced together from cutout magazine letters, like cheesy warnings from a B flick.
The connection between the messages and the protesters’ signs seemed obvious—too obvious. He mentally filed the concern, and by the time the entrance had been cleared and he’d paid the driver, Josh decided to have security arrange for the police to patrol the museum to keep any other such groups from forming.
Protesters provided the perfect cover to involve the police without raising the museum’s suspicions about the flash-and-bang attack. But unfortunately, the process took another thirty minutes and put them way behind on the walk-through of the sculpture garden and the new gallery.
As it was, they arrived at the reception along with the guests, but Miss Q didn’t seem to mind.
“Did you case the joint?” she asked breathlessly, apparently relishing being part of an active investigation.
Josh let Lennon explain about the protesters, and then mentioned the security measures he’d implemented.
“Oh, Josh Three,” Miss Q said. “I just knew you’d take care of everything. Now I don’t have to worry about this letter that was waiting for me when I arrived.” She plucked a folded white envelope from her handbag and handed him what proved to be another cut-and-paste warning: “Museums shouldn’t have XXX ratings!”
“How’d you get it?” he asked.
“From the clerk at the information desk. He said someone left it on the counter.”
Any of the protesters could have slipped inside the building unseen, so Josh didn’t hold much hope of discovering who’d delivered it. “I’ll talk with security.”
Miss Q beamed as though he’d made her day, and Josh couldn’t help feeling pleased that he’d reassured her. Her approval had always had a way of pumping him up.
“Olaf,” he said, extending his hand.
“Mr. Joshua would expect us to keep his ladies safe.”
Olaf obviously meant business. Josh recognized the outline of a shoulder holster under the man’s formal wear. The way his pants pulled suggested another weapon tucked in the waistband. And if his personal arsenal wasn’t enough, he hovered over Miss Q like a Saints’ defensive lineman.
“Agreed.”
Miss Q darted an approving gaze from one to the other. “I’m not surprised about the protesters, though. Given the amount of coverage the media gave us today.”
“I haven’t had a chance to look at the paper yet.” Lennon frowned. “They haven’t said anything awful, have they?”
Olaf met Josh’s gaze and laughed, a sound like the rumble of an avalanche. “Miss Q and Lennon resent the collection being termed a pornography exhibit.”
“Pornography, bah!” Miss Q waved an impatient hand. “It boggles my mind to see how many narrow-minded and misinformed people there are in this world. Sensuality is part of every culture. Even the earliest tribes had sexual rituals. Why shouldn’t those rituals be appreciated as part of history?”
“No reason I can think of,” Josh said. “I’m sure you and the Eastman Gallery will heighten society’s awareness.”
Miss Q beamed once more. “The media is doing its part, too, which is why we have detractors lining up at the doors. Nothing negative today, though, except Agnes, the old bat, made sure the cultural society wasn’t officially connected.”
“Agnes is the current president of the society,” Lennon whispered as an aside.
Josh nodded.
Miss Q fixed a laser-blue gaze over the rim of her champagne glass. “Agnes is miffed because I didn’t ask that smarmy grandson of hers to participate in the bachelor auction.”
Lennon shrugged. “Some might consider him a good catch.”
“Wilfred the weird, dear? Perish the thought. He may have money, but he didn’t earn a penny of it. It’s all his grandfather’s. Not to mention that Olaf caught him slinking around Bourbon Street with a person as tall as he is, who was dressed prettier than a debutante at her coming out party, if you take my meaning.”
Lennon must have, because she barely swallowed back a laugh at her great-aunt’s delicate description of a cross-dresser.
“If that’s where his tastes lie,” Josh said, “then you’re right not to include him in the auction. His grandmother would only be more annoyed if no one bid on him.”
Olaf laughed. Lennon arched a fine golden brow.
