The Playboy Assignment

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.”