скачать книгу бесплатно
Slowly, afraid of what she would see, she lifted her eyes to his.
CHAPTER TWO
EVEN as she raised her head to look at him, Susannah told herself it was impossible. The Marc Herrington she’d known hadn’t even owned a necktie, much less a pin-striped suit, and he was far more likely to flash a rude slogan on the front of a sweatshirt than his initials embroidered on a cuff.
Impossible.
She’d set herself up, that was what had happened. The walk through the cemetery had prompted her to think of Marc—and once those memories had been activated, all it took to set them spinning out of control again was a baritone voice and a chance monogram....
It was quite a coincidence, those initials. But the voice was easily explained; this man did sound a little like Marc—or, to be more accurate, her eight-years-old memory of Marc.
Susannah fixed a smile on her lips so she could properly greet a man who was not—who could not be—Marcus Herrington.
And she looked up into a pair of wide-set brown eyes, surrounded with a forest of long, dark, curly lashes. Eyes she had thought, once or twice, that she could drown in. Including that day eight years ago in the cemetery, when he had kissed her so long and so well that her scattered senses had allowed the worst idea of her life to look like a winner.
Marc’s eyes. It was impossible—but it was also undeniable.
“Well,” he said. In his rich baritone, the single word seemed to carry an entire encyclopedia of meaning. Or did it only seem that way to Susannah’s guilty conscience?
Not guilty, she reminded herself. She’d been foolish, yes—and impetuous and perhaps even idiotic—but she had nothing to feel guilty about.
She held out her hand to him and willed her voice to stay steady. “Marc.”
His hand was warm and firm and strong. Susannah’s fingers felt fragile and shaky in his grip.
Pierce stared down at her. Though he was obviously thunderstruck, he recovered in moments. “You know each other? But—but that’s wonderful! Old friends, I suppose?”
Prompted, Susannah stumbled through the introductions.
“Marcus Herrington,” Pierce said thoughtfully. “I don’t believe I’ve heard the name.”
“Oh, of course Susannah wouldn’t have mentioned me,” Marc said. Only the slightest emphasis set the last word apart, but there was no more doubt in his voice than there was humor in his smile.
Irritation surged through Susannah’s veins. His meaning could hardly have been clearer even if he’d come straight out and said they’d been lovers. Of course, if he had, she could not only have denied it, but any listener would have doubted his motives. This was far more cunning. The implication was perfectly obvious—she could see from the expression in Pierce’s eyes that he’d gotten the message loud and clear. And yet Marc hadn’t really said a thing.
“No, I don’t believe I ever brought up your name,” she said coolly. “You were hardly important enough.”
Marc lifted his eyebrows. “But of course, my dear. What else could I possibly have meant?”
That you were too important to talk about. Which was precisely what Pierce was thinking right now.
Susannah’s annoyance was mixed with reluctant admiration at the way he’d so neatly boxed her into a corner. The Marc she’d known had been as transparent as glass. Just when—and how—had the man learned to be so smooth?
Not that it mattered, Susannah told herself firmly, what Pierce—or anyone else—thought.
Marc had turned back to Pierce. “It’s rude of me to bring up ancient history. You shared Cyrus’s interest in art, you said?”
The tinge of irony in Marc’s voice was so subtle that Susannah almost doubted her own ears, despite the demonstration she’d just suffered at his hands. For an instant she wondered if he’d recognized Pierce’s name, and therefore doubted the casualness of his interest. But she concluded that wasn’t likely; the Dearborn was far from prominent as yet, and its director was hardly a household word across the country.
Then she followed Marc’s gaze over Pierce’s shoulder to one of Cyrus’s favorite and most recent acquisitions, and knew why he was feeling ironic.
“I find his taste—shall we say, interesting?” Marc went on. “Personally, I’d probably use that thing to wipe the mud off my shoes.”
Susannah braced herself.
The work was a long way from being her favorite. The artist—and she used the term loosely where Evans Jackson was concerned—had used a housepainter’s bush to smear three slashes of blood-red pigment on a huge white canvas, and then left it to drip. Susannah thought it looked like something from a butcher’s shop.
Pierce, on the other hand, considered the painting a master work. When he’d taken Susannah to the gallery to see Cyrus’s new purchase, Pierce had been shocked by her lukewarm reaction. He’d spent the next half hour instructing her on artistic genius and the intricacies of expressionistic symbolism—at least Susannah thought that was what he’d called it. Her eyes had begun to glaze only a couple of minutes into the lecture.
She couldn’t wait to see Marc’s reaction to that same speech.
Pierce, too, had turned to look at the painting. “Oh, well, that sort of thing,” he said tolerantly. “Cyrus would have his little jokes now and then.”
Susannah blinked in surprise, remembering the outlandish price he’d told her Cyrus had paid. Then the metallic taste of fear rose in her throat. She’d forgotten, for just a moment, Pierce’s implication that he only dabbled in art. Surely, she thought, he wasn’t crazy enough to continue that charade, now that he’d had a chance to take Marc’s measure...
“Not all the collection is so blatant,” Pierce went on. “Cyrus actually had a few pieces which aren’t half bad.”
A voice in the back of her brain told her to stop him, no matter what it took, before he offered to do Marc a favor by taking the problematic pieces off his hands. But she was mesmerized by the pressure of Pierce’s fingers on her elbow, and unable to protest.
“Blatant,” Marc murmured. “What an interesting choice of words.”
“In fact,” Pierce went on, “if you’re looking for someone to help value things for the estate—”
“That’s very thoughtful,” Marc said. “I wonder where Joe Brewster went. He’s the one who’ll handle all that.” He glanced around the foyer, his six extra inches of height giving him the advantage of being able to look over most of the crowd, and gestured to someone Susannah couldn’t see.
Joe Brewster. The name hit her like a rock. Brewster was Cyrus’s attorney—the one Pierce had talked to about the will. If Joe Brewster recognized Pierce’s name...
Pierce, however, seemed unconcerned. His smile was firmly in place.
A short, round man hurried up. “You wanted me, Marcus?”
“Joe, I’d like you to meet Susannah...” Marc paused.
Doesn’t he even remember my name? Susannah thought irritably. “Miller,” she said coolly.
“Still? Or again?”
Susannah felt marginally better. Marc’s hesitation made sense after all; there was a good chance that in eight years she’d have married—and perhaps divorced, as well. At least he hadn’t assumed she’d married Pierce; maybe she should award him a point or two for that. “Still.”
“What a shame,” Marc said softly. “I seem to remember you were determined to have a wedding. And with good reason, too.”
Fury rose in Susannah’s throat. And if he solicitously asks what went wrong with my plans, she thought grimly, I’ll strangle him!
But Marc had moved straight on to introduce Pierce. “He’s offered to help appraise Cyrus’s collection, Joe.”
The attorney stretched out a hand. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Reynolds. Your opinion would be valuable. As the director of the Dearborn—”
Pierce’s fingers tightened on Susannah’s elbow; it was the only sign of surprise she could detect. “Actually,” he said casually, “I didn’t exactly volunteer my services. The time constraints which come along with my job prevent me from doing appraisals. What I meant to say was, if you’d like help valuing the estate’s art, I’m sure Susannah would be happy to pitch in.”
Susannah opened her mouth to protest, and closed it again. She felt like a balloon with a slow leak. Now she knew that tightened grip of Pierce’s hand hadn’t been due to surprise after all; it had been more in the nature of a warning. He’d had this planned all along.
She could feel Marc’s gaze drifting over her face, appraising every feature, every expression. “And Susannah is...qualified?” he asked.
She couldn’t stay silent any longer. “Pierce, I hardly think that I—”
“Nonsense,” Pierce said firmly. “Of course she’s qualified. Don’t underestimate your talent, Susannah.”
“Or your resources,” Marc added, very gently. “You know, Joe, I believe I just might take more of an interest in Cyrus’s collection myself—under the circumstances.”
His hand still on her elbow, Pierce guided Susannah across the foyer and into the broad hallway that led toward the dining room at the back of the house. Most of the crowd had moved on toward the buffet tables, and for a few moments, in the shadow of the staircase, the two of them were completely alone.
“I think that went very well,” Pierce said.
The note of self-satisfaction in his voice grated on Susannah’s nerves. “Then all I can say is that I’d like to see your definition of a disaster. The only thing that could have made it worse was if you’d offered to buy everything outright at some bargain-basement price.”
Pierce tipped his head to one side and considered. “It’s an idea. Herrington might actually have gone for it.”
Susannah went on ruthlessly. “But Mr. Brewster would know you were trying to scam his client, and then you’d be in the soup and the museum would lose all credibility.”
“That’s an interesting point,” Pierce mused. “Why he knew me, I mean—I didn’t mention the museum when I called about the will. Cyrus must have told him about me along the way. Susannah, do you really believe I’m so shortsighted I’d try to pass myself off as an amateur?”
“It looked to me as if you were making a pretty good. stab at it.”
“I did nothing of the sort. I simply didn’t boast of my position, my education, or my background. If the man wanted to draw conclusions—”
Susannah stood her ground. “You deliberately tried to convince him that the Evans Jackson canvas is worthless.”
“I was being diplomatic. Feeling out his tastes. Trying to establish a bond. All good gallery owners do that sort of thing, or they’d never sell a single piece. It’s no thanks to you, by the way, that I read him so clearly. Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?”
“Because I didn’t know it myself till it was too late to run,” Susannah admitted.
“You did look a little stunned,” Pierce admitted. “What was all that stuff about weddings, anyway? You didn’t marry the man, did you?”
“No.” Susannah’s throat was dry, her voice taut.
“That’s good. If you had, I’d really wonder about your judgment. I grant you, for a couple of minutes I was a bit unsure about him, myself. His clothes weren’t bad, not bad at all. And the name... I wonder how somebody like that ended up with such an aristocratic name.”
“Funny,” Susannah muttered. “My mother asked almost the same thing once.”
“But I knew as soon as he looked blankly at that magnificent Evans Jackson canvas that my first instinct was right.” Pierce shuddered. “The very idea of threatening to wipe his feet on it! I only hope Evans doesn’t hear what I said about his work.”
“I doubt the two of them hang around in the same circles.”
Pierce laughed. “That’s certainly true.”
“And all good gallery owners talk that way, don’t they, to gain the customer’s confidence?” Susannah didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Pierce, about this assignment you’ve saddled me with... Surely you don’t expect me to pass myself off as a staff member, because I won’t do it.”
“Oh, no. We’ll refer to you as—let’s see...”
She cut in ruthlessly. “We’ll call me exactly what I am—the museum’s public relations representative.”
“Actually,” Pierce mused, “that’s ideal. Because of your inexperience—”
“I thought you told Marc I was qualified.”
Pierce shrugged. “I didn’t say expert. So any errors can easily be passed off—”
“Are you saying you want me to make errors?”
“Susannah, my dear, you’ll have all of the museum’s resources to draw on. And I expect you to use all the expertise the Dearborn can provide. Including me.”
“I suppose that means you’ll make the errors? Never mind.”
“I’m still determined to end up with this collection, Susannah. So just remember—if you value things high, you’ll have to raise the money to pay for them and explain to the board why they’re worth so much.”
“And if I value them low, I’ll end up looking like a fool.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Pierce said easily. “Didn’t you see the way he was looking at you—sort of like a hungry wolf? I imagine, if you play your cards right, you’ll be able to keep Marcus Herrington from asking any questions at all.”
Tryad’s office, a converted brownstone not far from the green expanse of Lincoln Park, was quiet when Pierce dropped Susannah off early that evening. The same couldn’t be said of the rest of the neighborhood; since it was still mostly residential, the streets really came alive after work and school were over. And with the newly warmer weather to celebrate, kids were out in force.
Susannah dodged two roller skaters, paused to observe a cutthroat marbles tournament, finished teaching the two little girls next door a rope-skipping rhyme from her childhood, and stopped to study a hopscotch layout drawn in chalk on Tryad’s own front walk.
“You know,” she told the hopscotch artists, “this doesn’t make us look very professional, having big white-numbered squares drawn on the concrete leading straight to our offices.”
The girls looked stricken. “But we drew it as neatly as we could, Susannah,” one of them said.
Another chimed in, “And it’s only chalk, you know. It’ll wash off when it rains.”
The third added, “Maybe we could use colored chalk next time. It’d be prettier. Would that help?”
Susannah laughed, shook her head, and skirted the carefully drawn hopscotch field. The hopscotch craze would last only a few weeks; good neighbors—of any age—went on forever.
Almost automatically, she waved at the bay window of the house on the other side, the twin half of Tryad’s brownstone. She wasn’t surprised to see the white lace curtain flutter as if the corner had been hastily dropped. Mrs. Holcomb might be a recluse, but there wasn’t a move made in the neighborhood which escaped her.
What did startle Susannah was a glimpse of a hand behind the curtain, half raised in what might have been a hesitant wave. It was the first time Mrs. Holcomb had ever responded directly to any approach Susannah had made, and she was surprised at the surge of pleasure which swept over her.
Such a little thing a wave was, to cause such a reaction. And yet, for Mrs. Holcomb—who, so far as Susannah knew, had left her house only once in the three years since Tryad had moved in next door—it was a major overture of friendship.
Inside, the office was dim and quiet. A few rays of late sunshine found their way in through the stained-glass panel at the top of the main stairway, and security lights glowed here and there, lighting the way to the exits. The usual hum of copy machines and computers, and the muted chime of the telephones, had stilled into silence.
In the receptionist’s office, once the brownstone’s living room, Rita’s desk was neat, the blotter empty except for tomorrow’s to-do list. The in-basket marked with Susannah’s name was empty.
That was one minor miracle, Susannah thought. At least she was no farther behind than she’d been early this afternoon—it felt like a million years ago—when she’d left the office to attend Cyrus’s funeral...
Except, of course, for the job Pierce had dumped on her. Putting a value on an art collection was hardly a public relations job, but Susannah liked both art and research, and under other circumstances she might have found it an enjoyable challenge. If she had plenty of time, if she didn’t have a dozen pressing projects...
“Be honest,” she told herself. “If it didn’t involve Marc Herrington, you’d like the job a whole lot better.”
