by Jessica Bird
Grace punched the fourth-floor button and the elevator lurched upward. She realized that, had they been alone, she would have asked Callie what she was thinking, because she wanted to help. She had a feeling the emotions she herself was struggling with were similar to the ones that had drawn Callie's lips tightly together and caused her brows to ride low over her eyes. Grace just wasn't sure what she could do.
Maybe they could help each other, she thought.
When the doors reopened, they stepped out into a long hallway. "Miles's office is down here to the right."
Grace took Callie to him and then decided to stay and chat with some of the museum's administrators while she waited for Jack to arrive. To her relief, everyone was excited about the Copley and, in spite of Lamont's dire predictions, the consensus was that the bidding at the auction was going to get lively.
A while later, Jack emerged from the elevators and a couple of the staff members who were waiting to get on stepped out of his way with deference. He was dressed in a black suit, walking in his forceful gait, and Grace thought he cut a powerful figure. Like John did, only in a different way.
"I'm all ready to see my ancestor again," he drawled as he kissed her on the cheek. He and John nodded curtly at each other.
At that moment, Callie's voice drifted into the hall.
"Again, thank you for the advice." She was backing out of Miles's office, a smile on her face as she waved.
Jack's head snapped in her direction just as she turned around. When she met his stare, her eyes widened as she looked up into his face.
Grace smiled, thinking Jack tended to have that affect on women. And then she hesitated, unsure of how to introduce Callie.
Her friend took care of it by putting his hand out. "I’m Jack Walker."
Callie paused before sliding her palm against his. As soon as contact was made, she retreated and looked at Grace. "Er—thank you for getting me in to meet Miles. It's always good to talk to a fellow conservationist."
"What's your name?" Jack asked, his eyes scanning her face.
Her eyes went to his. "Callie Burke."
"And you are?"
Grace flushed, aware of her own rudeness. "She's a friend of mine. She came here to meet with Miles."
"You're in the art world?"
Callie nodded, looking as if she wished the man would stop focusing on her. Grace had to wonder if Jack had offended her, but then saw the way Callie's eyes went back to him.
As if she were intrigued as well as wary.
"If you like art, then you must come meet Nathaniel," he said laconically.
"Nathaniel?"
Grace explained. "It's John Singleton Copley's portrait of Nathaniel Walker. Why don't you stay and have a look? It won't take long and I'd be curious to hear what you think of it."
Callie's eyes flipped to Jack. And then, with a nod, she followed the small group into the conservation workshop.
Grace loved visiting the lab and seeing the works in progress. The room smelled like varnish and paint and there was always some kind of classical music playing in the background. At stations all around the room, paintings in various stages of conservation were held upright in wood blocks. Next to each was a rolling cart of supplies that carried dark jars full of solutions as well as paintbrushes and cotton swabs.
The staff had left for the evening but she knew where the Copley was.
"He's over here, in lockdown," she said, going over to a bank of cabinets that were segmented into five-foot-wide, shallow drawers. With a key ring she'd brought with her, she unlocked one, slid it out, and rolled back a cloth. She heard Jack's sigh of satisfaction as he looked at his ancestor.
"Let's take him out," Grace said. She reached in and tried to lift the painting, but because of the massive, gilded frame she could barely budge the thing. Smith picked it up carefully and walked it over to one of the worktables, laying it down fiat.
"He's beautiful," Callie murmured, standing to the side.
"But the brooding sort, or so I understand." Jack leaned over, looking closely at the face staring up out of the canvas. "This is a particularly good likeness of him, I think."
"His eyes are extraordinary," Callie murmured. "So expressive. Too bad they have the look of a tormented man."
Jack stared across the portrait at her for a long moment. "Yes. They do."
Grace stepped forward, pointing to the lower right-hand corner. "Here's the signature and date. This was right about the same time Copley did the portrait of Paul Revere that hangs in the MFA in Boston."
"Do you mind if I take a closer look?" Callie asked.
"Not at all."
Callie turned on one of the crane-necked lamps on the table and angled it toward the surface of the painting. Getting in close, she hovered about three inches above the canvas, moving slowly around the edges toward the center. When her body got close to Jack's, he didn't step away.
A soft smile was playing across her lips when she stood up.
"What do you see?" Jack asked.
"He needs some work. There's about seventy-five years of smoke and dirt stuck to a varnish coat that has yellowed with age. He's going to have to be handled very carefully, with a lot of love, but the canvas is sound."
"Maybe you'd like to do the work."
Callie glanced at him in surprise. "Excuse me?"
Grace tried to cover up the awkward silence that followed by laughing softly. "You have to buy him first, you know, before you hire someone to work on him.''
"No matter what he costs, he will come back to the family." He turned to Callie. "Are you interested in the project?"
It was a long time before she answered. "This painting carries a huge historical significance because of both the subject matter and the artist."
Jack shrugged. “So are you saying you're not interested? "
"It's more than I've ever handled before."
"Then if you do it right, it'll make your career."
"I do it wrong and both the painting and my reputation are ruined."
Grace glanced back and forth between the two of them. Callie was staring at Nathaniel Walker. Jack was looking-at her.
She wondered what he was thinking and decided that perhaps he just saw in Callie the opportunity to give someone a chance in the big leagues.
* * *
Smith had just lit a cheroot and was leaning back against the headboard in his room when his cell phone rang. "Yeah?"
"Hey," Tiny said. There was a lot of static cutting through the connection.
"Tell me you're somewhere over New Jersey."
"Not even close. We were delayed because of a bomb scare, then rerouted away from bad weather. I won't be in New York until midmorning tomorrow. Where do you want me?"
Smith cursed and then gave him the Hall Building's address. "We'll be in her office. Top floor."
"Righto. Now what's up with this Gala thing? "
"Standard issue glamour party. About five hundred people coming. I've talked with Marks. If you decide it's safe, his boys are willing to crawl all around the place. You'll have plenty of backup if you need it."
"Good to know. What do you think?"
Smith blew out his frustration. "I don't know. The victims have been killed in their homes and I'm pretty sure the guy works alone. You need to get a sense of the space before you decide. If you think you can keep her safe, it would mean a lot to her to be able to go."
"Will you be reachable?"
This was something Smith had been debating. If he wasn't on the job, he shouldn't be floating around in the background. One person, and only one person, had to be in charge and there was no way he could play second fiddle, even to Tiny, in a situation involving Grace. The best course of action was for him to get the hell out of town, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Not until the Gala was over and she woke up the next day safe and sound.
"I've booked a room nearby. You can reach me anytime and I'll be there in a heartbeat if things head south."
"Sounds good to me."
"Vic," Smith paused. He never used Tiny's given name. "Take good care of her."
Crackling came over the line and then his friend said, "Look, I've got to ask. What's this woman to you, anyway?"
Everything, Smith thought.
"Just another client." He stabbed out the cheroot.
"Yeah, sure, Boss. In five years of working with you, I've never seen you like this."
"All you have to do is make sure she stays alive, okay? Do that and I might even promote you."
"To what?"
"Maybe I'll start calling you Medium."
Tiny laughed.
As soon as the call ended, Smith dialed another number. Senator Pryne's private line was answered briskly by the man's chief of staff.
"It's Smith," he said. "When does he want to leave?"
"Will you be able to be in Washington the day after tomorrow?" The smoothness of the woman's voice, the diction, the stench of political power made Smith sick.
"Yes."
"Good. The senator will be pleased. You come highly recommended, Mr. Smith."
As he hung up the phone, his heart ached as if he'd been shot through the chest.
* * *
The next morning, Grace made a decision. She was going to call Blair and ask the woman to come take a look at her father's office. Her office. It was time to make that space her own. Lighten up the walls. Throw some drapes around the windows.
She'd already ordered a replacement desk. It was going to take two months to make but it was just what Grace wanted. Made of pale yew wood, it had clean lines and drawers on rollers so she wouldn't feel like she was going to dislocate her shoulder trying to get at her files. The chair was likewise on wheels and kitted out in cream leather.
And there were some other things she was going to do. She'd always wanted a dog.
A golden retriever, she thought. Something big and happy.
Her father had disapproved of owning a sporting dog if they weren't used to hunt. Her mother had despised anything that made noise or shed fur and, for his part, Ranulf hadn't wanted anything that competed for her attention.
That's what she wanted. A dog.
As she fantasized about floppy ears and kindly brown eyes, Grace realized she was finally taking control of her life. Courtesy of the change, she was reexamining everything she'd once simply accepted as the way things were. She'd lost her father's domineering hand when he'd died and now she was questioning everything she'd ever known about him. She was slowly learning to stand up to her mother. And thanks to-what John had dug up about Ranulf and the von Sharones, she'd gotten a divorce settlement that seemed reasonable.
The losses that came with the recent events in her life were hard to bear, but they were balanced by her sense that it had all been inevitable and overdue. And she'd definitely take the hard truth over appearances any day. Like youth, illusions faded and withered, but the trade-offs, of wisdom and independence and freedom, were well worth the degradation of a pretty exterior.
Buck up, Starfish. Let's see that smile.
"Not anymore. Not unless it's real," she said out loud.
She picked up the dress she was going to wear at the Gala and her jewelry case, and left her room. John was waiting in the foyer, and she walked by him with a stiff nod. She kept expecting his partner to arrive at any moment and felt as though the netherworld of him being on the verge of leaving would never end.
They got in the Explorer and she made an effort to chat with Eddie about his writing. He'd started a manuscript as his final project, a children's book about safety, and she told him she knew an agent who might read it when he was done.
Grace spent all morning down in the atrium, supervising the arrangements for the Gala. The audiovisual people had erected a small stage near the entrance to the museum and brought in a screen on which to show the brief homage to her father's life. The caterers were milling around, setting up tables for the food and bars, and the florist had arrived with thousands of fragrant blooms.
It was early afternoon by the time she was satisfied with how things were progressing. After a quick lunch with some members of the press, she and John went back up to her office.
The elevator doors had just opened when his cell phone rang. She didn't pay much attention to what he said until she heard, "You have him in custody?"
She stopped walking as John's eyes bored into hers.
"When did you apprehend him?" There was a period of silence. "Can you make it stick?"
As soon as he hung up the phone, she said, "Did they find..."
He nodded and she was surprised when he didn't look relieved.
"So tell me," she prompted, feeling a sweet rush of release.
"Isadora came around early this m orning. She identified the man who attacked her as an associate of her husband's. Marks and his boys arrested the guy."
"Who is it?"
"Someone named Margis. You ever heard that name before?"
She nodded, dumbstruck by the news. "Of course I have. He's an investment manager and a real bon vivant. He was always chasing after women, especially the richest ones. I know he worked with Mimi's husband on a deal and I think he took care of some of Cuppie's money. I'm not sure if Suzanna had any contact with him but it wouldn't have surprised me if she had. As for Isadora, he was very close to Raphael Cunis. They were partners."
"What about you? Did you ever deal with him?"
Grace thought for a moment.
"Now that you mention it, he did approach me right after my father's death. He told me with the change in my net worth, I needed more personal attention and he wanted to take care of things for me. I told him no. I'd heard that his firm was struggling because of the downturn in the markets and there was something I didn't trust about him."
John seemed to be thinking deeply.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Marks says that Isadora admitted to having had an affair with the guy. Evidently, she was trying to break it off, which was why she came back to town. That's a very personal connection, unlike the business ones Margis had with the other women. Although I suppose it's possible he'd been having affairs with them, too."
"His name was on the list," Grace blurted. "Those lists from the buildings—I saw his name on them that day you were looking at them."
"Yeah. Marks's boys checked and the man had been in van der Lyden's and Lauer's buildings on the days of those murders."
"Well, I'm relieved," Grace said. As she measured John's expression, she felt almost defensive about her optimism. "What does Marks think?"
John shrugged. "He thinks the guy did it. Apparently they found a collection of weapons in Margis's house. He likes knives."
"So it's over," she murmured. "And I can get back to my life."
She stared at him and his eyes met hers intensely. For a moment, she held her breath in her chest as all of her painful, secret hopes came back.
Tell me you've changed your mind, she thought. Tell me that you love me and you're going to stay. Tell me that I was right and you were wrong and you can't imagine a life without me. Tell me that I'll be waking up next to you tomorrow.
Not wondering where you are.
But when he remained silent, she turned away and walked down the hall. There were no tears. They would come later, she was quite sure.
Kat looked up from her desk. "There's a man here to see you."
Grace glanced over her shoulder and saw the blond giant, Tiny, get to his feet. Her heart sank as he came forward, a duffel bag hanging off one heavy shoulder, a bright smile directed toward John. The man's expression became downright suspicious when he looked at her.
Smith clapped his partner on the back but Grace didn't hear what was said between them because of a loud ringing in her ears.
She walked into her office and sat at the desk. Moments later, the men came in, John with a serious expression on his face and Tiny looking like he'd been asked to take char
ge of a ticking bomb. The man's luggage hit the floor with a dull thud.
When the door was shut, she addressed them in her most commanding voice. "Although I appreciate you coming all this way, Mr...." She waited for the man to fill in the name.
"Just call me Vic," he said.
"Vic. But I don't believe I require the services of a bodyguard any longer." She started to shuffle papers around, trying to look busy.
"Yes, you do," John countered.
"No," she flashed him an angry look, "I don't."
"Grace—"
She ignored him. "So, Vic, you can pick up that duffel and haul out. No doubt you're relieved by the dismissal. You don't look happy to be here."
The guy flushed.
Smith came quickly across the room. "Tiny's staying and that's final."
"Why? They have the man behind bars so the danger is gone. I'm not a minor and I'm not a mental case so I don't need a guardian. I also didn't ask for your opinion."
Without looking away from her, he said, "Vic, give us a minute."
His partner disappeared without a word.
But left the damn duffel.
"I don't think we have anything else to say to each other." Grace was having trouble meeting his eyes so she picked up a piece of paper from the desk. It was a memo she'd written about the new expense account policy.
"Look at me." When she refused, Smith slammed his fist into the desk. She jumped and caught a pen before it rolled on the floor. Reluctantly, she shifted her eyes to his. "Dammit, it's not like Marks has a confession from the guy. He may not be the one. You've got to take care of yourself."
"I am. I'm dissolving my relationship with Black Watch. The exposure I've had to you boys so far has been as traumatic as anything else in my life lately." She let out a tense laugh. "You know, I always figured there'd be some dramatic moment when you'd come out of nowhere and save me. Somehow, I don't think the job you did on that porch door quite counts. But then real life doesn't have much in common with the movies, does it?"
Because in Hollywood, they would have ended up together, she thought.
She reached for her purse and pulled out the check she'd written before, the one he'd turned down. "Are you ready to accept this now?"
