After Hours

A peremptory rap came on the door. Much relieved, Marcia said, “Your public awaits you. You’d better go, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Quentin. Are you going to Lucy and Troy’s place when this shindig is over?”

“I am not.”

The door opened and Emily Harrington-Smythe poked her head in. “Quentin? I really need you out here.”

“I’ll be right there.” He reached out and took the glasses from Marcia’s nose. “You have truly beautiful eyes. Who are you hiding from?”

“From people as aggressive as you.”

She grabbed for the glasses. Laughter glinting in his own eyes, he evaded her. “You can have them back if you promise to have lunch with me tomorrow.”

“I’m sure any number of women in this gallery would be delighted to have lunch with you—but I’m not one of them.”

“I’ll wear my jeans.”

His smile was very hard to resist. Marcia resisted it with all her will power. “My glasses, please.”

“I’ll get your phone number from Lucy.”

“My telephone displays the number of the person calling me. If I think it’s you, I won’t answer.”

“It’ll take more than modern technology to defeat me, Dr. Marcia Barnes. Because you still haven’t told me why my painting made you cry.” He passed her the glasses and dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. “See you around.”

He strode out of the room. For the space of five minutes he hadn’t felt the least bit lonely. Taking Emily by the arm, he said urgently, “Composition Number 8 in the catalog—I want you to put a ‘Not for Sale’ sign on it.”

Emily said bluntly, “I can’t do that. Not when it’s listed.”

“Then mark it ‘Sold’.”

“It’s not,” Emily said with indisputable logic.

“It is. I’m buying it.”

“Quentin, what’s wrong with you? I’ve never seen you behave so erratically at an opening.”

“I’m buying Number 8,” he repeated patiently. “There’s nothing particularly erratic about that.”

“You can’t buy your own painting! Anyway, Mr. Sorensen has his eye on it, and he wields a lot of influence in this city.”

“Too bad. Mr. Sorensen isn’t getting it. I am.”

“But-”

“Do it, Emily,” Quentin said with a pleasant smile. “If you want another Quentin Ramsey show next year.”

His shows were enormously successful financially. “Very well,” Emily said huffily. “But I’ll have to charge you the full commission.”

“After tonight I’m sure I can afford it,” he said. “That looks like the last of the cabinet ministers. I’ll go and do my bit.”

Trying to push out of his mind the image of a woman’s long-lashed violet eyes swimming in tears, wondering how she’d react when he presented her with an extremely expensive painting, he made his way toward the man in the gray pin-striped suit.

CHAPTER TWO

MARCIA stayed behind in the room that she now decided must be the gallery owner’s office, struggling to subdue a mixture of rage at Quentin’s effrontery and a truant amusement at his persistence. Mr. Quentin Ramsey, she’d be willing to bet, wasn’t used to women who said no. Not that she’d been playing games with him. She was in enough trouble at work, without adding a man who asked questions she didn’t want to answer, who had blue eyes that seemed to burn their way into her very soul and who was—she could admit it now that she was alone—sexual dynamite.

It wasn’t just his body, its hard planes ill-concealed by his tailored suit. His fingers were long and sensitive, the backs of his hands taut with sinews, and his face with its strong bones had character more than standard good looks—a character hinting at the complexities of the man within. It was an inhabited face, she thought slowly, the face of a man who’d tasted deeply of life, experiencing its dark side as well as its light.

She’d noticed an awful lot in a very few minutes. Too much for her own peace of mind. Altogether too much.

Every instinct she possessed urged her to head straight for the coat rack and leave. But if she did so Lucy and Troy would have a fit. She squared her shoulders and marched back into the gallery, purposely not looking at the painting so unimaginatively called Composition Number 8.

She picked out Quentin immediately; he was talking to a man in a pin-striped suit with every evidence of courteous attention. But then his eyes swiveled to meet hers, as though he’d sensed her standing there watching him. He winked at her. Marcia tilted her chin, turned her back and headed for the far gallery.

Lucy and Troy were gazing at a small work in one corner. Troy had his arm draped around Lucy’s shoulders while Lucy’s body language said more clearly than words that the man holding her was the man she adored. Again hot tears flooded Marcia’s eyes. I’ve got to stop this, she thought frantically. Right now. I’ve avoided marriage and commitment like the plague. So why does the sight of my sister’s happiness make me feel like a failure? Smarten up, Marcia! she made a gallant effort to gather the shreds of the control for which she was so famous. Then, her lips set, her chin high, she said casually, “Hi, Lucy... Troy.”

Lucy whirled, ducking out of the circle of Troy’s arm. “Marcia—I’m so pleased to see you!”

Marcia had never encouraged hugging. Lucy contented herself with kissing her sister on the cheek and Troy brushed his lips in the vicinity of her other cheek. Then Lucy stood back, scrutinizing her sister. “You look tired,” she said. “Are you all right?”

Exactly the question Quentin had asked. “I’m fine—-I’ ve been exceptionally busy at work. What do you think of the show?”

“There are four silk screen prints on the other wall that I lust after. And I think the acrylics are brilliant—such a departure.” Lucy put her head to one side. “This one, for instance—it’s a jewel.”

In exquisite detail Quentin had painted three little girls running through a meadow full of wildflowers; it was a tribute to his talent that the work was entirely without sentimentality. “They look like us,” Marcia blurted.

“Oh...I hadn’t thought of that. You and I and Cat, you mean. You’re right—two brunettes and a redhead!” Lucy laughed. “Maybe he saw the photo I have of the three of us on the piano.”

“Would you like to have it?” Troy asked, his slate-gray eyes resting affectionately on his wife.

“I would,” Marcia heard herself say.

Lucy was gazing at her speculatively and Troy’s eyebrows had shot halfway up his forehead. Aghast, Marcia sputtered, “I didn’t really mean that—I don’t want it, of course I don’t. You get it, Lucy.”

“Have you met Quentin?” Lucy asked.

“Yes. Very briefly. Please, Lucy, forget I ever said I wanted it. Buy her the painting, Troy.”

“I’ll get it for you, sis,” Troy said. “I didn’t give you anything for your last birthday.”

“But we never give each other expensive presents!”

“This will be the exception that proves the rule... I’ll be right back.”

And Marcia, for the third time that evening, found her eyes brimming with tears. Lucy drew her further into the corner, shielding her from the other guests. “You’re not yourself—what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.”