“Then you must like kids,” Hank said.
“Kids?”
“The good cause? Sending kids to camp?”
“Of course. I adore them.” Cecelia laughed again, glancing from Hank to Amelia. “I must say, you’re looking marvelous, Amelia.”
“Thank you, Cecelia.”
“I’ve always liked that dress. Didn’t you wear it to the symphony benefit a few years ago?”
“Yes, it’s one of my favorites.”
“And it suits you so well, I can’t blame you at all for bringing it out again. This season’s fashions are so problematic for anyone who isn’t a size two.” She moved her gaze down to Amelia’s stomach. “And it’s draped so cleverly you barely show.”
“Show?”
Cecelia leaned closer. “Congratulations.”
“For what?”
“I admire you for getting on with your life, especially after how publicly Spencer humiliated you with that woman.” Her lips pursed, as if she were savoring something tasty. “Has he heard yet?”
“Cecelia, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Why, your pregnancy, of course.”
Hank quickly deposited his full champagne glass on the tray of a passing waiter and slid his arm around Amelia’s waist. “It seems our secret’s out, darling. Obviously, Cecelia heard us mention the baby.”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She looked at Hank.
He smiled. “Will you excuse us, Cecelia? I see someone I promised to talk to.” Firming his grip on Amelia, he guided her away before either woman could say more. He didn’t stop until they reached a relatively vacant spot between a lush, potted fern and one of the room’s central pillars. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.
“Oh, just peachy.” She pulled away from him. “As if the gossips needed another tidbit to pass around.”
“Maybe she won’t say anything.”
“Yeah, right.” She looked down at her stomach and frowned. “I barely show?” she muttered, smoothing her dress over her hips.
“I hadn’t meant to make things awkward.”
“Doesn’t matter. And leave it to Cecelia to point out I’m wearing an old dress.”
“I thought she was giving you a compliment.”
Amelia rolled her eyes. “Men can be so dense.”
“Well, I think you look great. Like one of those creatures that lives in the bottom of a stream.”
“You’re saying I look like a salamander?”
“That’s not what I meant. I remember this picture I saw in a mythology book when I was a kid, of a water sprite or fairy or something. The mist flowed around her like a dress. She was...memorable.”
“Thank you, Hank.” Her gaze moved along his shoulders and down his chest. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but I know I look dull next to you. I’d had my heart set on one of those powder-blue tuxes with the ruffled shirt like the one that Bobby Caruthers wore to our prom, but they were all out of my size.”
Her lips twitched. “I remember Bobby’s tux. I couldn’t even look at you when he was around or we’d both burst out laughing. And we were trying so hard to be cool.”
“That blue outfit would have livened up this bash. The only one I could find that fit was this old black one. I shouldn’t have left it till the last minute, but as you pointed out, I’ve got no imagination.”
“Uh-huh. You manage okay for two thick planks.”
He skimmed his knuckles down her arm. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you with your friend.”
“She wasn’t my friend. As I said, I hadn’t seen her since Spencer was arrested. She hadn’t been one of our clients, so she hadn’t lost money because of him, but that didn’t stop her from avoiding me like the plague.”
“That was rotten.”
“Most people I had considered friends did the same, since they assumed that I was as guilty as my husband. The one person who did want to associate with me was my lawyer, and that’s only because he was getting three hundred bucks an hour.”
“I find that hard to believe. Seriously, you must have had some real friends who would have stood by you.”
She hesitated, her gaze playing over the crowd. “You’re right. Some did. They ended up being the target of the same kind of harassment and suspicion that I was going through, so I stopped talking to them, too.”
“For their sake.”
“What else could I do? It was bad enough that my reputation was in tatters. It wouldn’t have been fair of me to spread the contagion to people I cared about. Why do you think I waited as long as I did before moving back to Port Hope?”
He remembered the reporters who had nosed around town when the story had broken, and the comments from the folks down the street from the Goodfellows about the siege of their neighborhood. “You wanted to spare them the hassle.”
“It worked, too. Aside from the odd comment, most people don’t mention my troubles, as you called them, anymore. I’ve gotten used to being normal again. It’s been great. I should have realized what would happen if I came back to the city.”
“Do you want me to punch her for you?”
“What?”
“Cecelia. Not that I want to strike a woman, especially one without any padding to take a hit. I’ve never hit anyone, come to think of it. In Cecelia’s case, maybe all I’ll need to do is wave my hand and the breeze will knock her over.”
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“She was mean to you.”
The laugh she couldn’t stifle seemed to take Amelia by surprise. She swatted his arm. “Now who’s sounding as if they were back in Mrs. Milsom’s class?”
He caught her hand and twined their fingers together. “You do look beautiful tonight, Amelia.”
“Hank...”
“But it’s not because of your dress or what you did to your hair. I’m sorry...” He stopped talking when he noticed the approaching figure. He wasn’t sure what he would have said, anyway. Was he sorry that she’d had a rough time? Sorry she’d lost the life she’d known? He’d already covered that. Sorry that he couldn’t have been there for her? They’d both been responsible for that situation. Sorry he didn’t want to admit that she was a warm and generous person? That she wasn’t the hard-hearted, mercenary-minded, money-grubbing woman that his injured pride had wanted her to be?
The questions ricocheted through his brain. There was no time to find answers before Rupert Whitcombe was standing in front of them.
“I see you two made it after all. Splendid!” He scrutinized Amelia. “I hope you’re feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Whitcombe.” Amelia gave him the same lips-only smile she’d given Cecelia. “It appears as if you have a good turnout.”
“Indeed we do. The event has expanded every year since its inception,” he said, a smug expression on his face as he surveyed the crowded room. “I anticipate this evening’s contribution to the Kids’ Camp Fund will surpass all our expectations. And please, call me Rupert.”
Her gaze dropped to her bare wrist momentarily before she caught herself. “I’m looking forward to the auction. When does it start?”
“It won’t be long now. And I hope I may call you Amelia?”
Hank was certain they hadn’t introduced themselves at the gallery. He’d deliberately used endearments instead of Amelia’s name.
“I finally realized why you seemed so familiar when we met,” Whitcombe said. “You’re Amelia Pryce. Spencer’s wife.”
“Amelia Goodfellow,” she corrected. “Spencer and I are divorced.”
“My apologies. Under the circumstances, cutting your legal ties to him was prudent.”
Hank was still holding Amelia’s hand. He gave her fingers a squeeze and tucked them into the crook of his elbow, hoping to spare her another round of veiled barbs. “Will you excuse us, Rupert? Amelia tries to be brave but she shouldn’t be on her feet too long.”
“Thank you, Rupert, but that’s not necessary,” Amelia said. “There’s a couch right over here.”
“No, I insist.” Whitcombe signaled to the guards who were positioned near the exit. They appeared to come to attention. “There’s something we need to discuss,” he said. “It’s regarding your visit to my gallery last week.”
Hank didn’t like this. He shifted closer to Amelia. “Let’s talk here.”
“No, I’m positive this is a conversation you would prefer to hold in private,” Whitcombe said, looking squarely at Amelia. He smiled. “I understand why you were so eager to buy the Mathers. Let’s put our cards on the table, shall we?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THEY CROSSED THE lobby in silence. It was a good thing that Amelia was hanging on to Hank’s arm, because otherwise she might not have made it out of the lounge. Her knees had turned to jelly. Her lungs were still drawing in air because her senses were still functioning, but she didn’t have enough breath for speech. That was a good thing, too, because otherwise she might have given in to the urge to scream.
She could think of only one explanation for Whitcombe’s actions. He must have stumbled on the ticket.
Well, why wouldn’t he? Just because it had been in the frame when she’d last seen the painting didn’t mean no one would have noticed it during the ten full days that had passed since then.
Ten days. She’d known she shouldn’t have waited.
And she’d been so close. If only she’d found the storeroom ten seconds sooner, or if she’d kept her fingernails a few millimeters longer, or if Hank hadn’t grabbed her so quickly...
The enormous security guard who had been stationed at the hotel entrance joined them as they reached the elevators. He got on first, went to the back of the car and turned, his gaze easily passing over their heads. Her stomach lurched as the elevator whooshed to a stop at the top floor. Whitcombe led them down a short corridor lit with shell-shaped glass wall sconces and stopped at a set of double, maroon-painted doors. “We can talk in here,” he said, inserting a key card into the slot over one of the door handles. He swung the door open and swept his arm dramatically to invite them inside.
Not that she and Hank had much choice in the matter. The guard remained on their heels until they entered the suite, then backed into the corridor and closed the door. It creaked a moment later, as if he had leaned against it.
Whitcombe moved into the sitting room. It was done in plush, gold carpeting, glass tables and more of the white leather furniture that had decorated the lounge. Lights of neighboring buildings twinkled in the darkness beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Momentarily, anyway. Whitcombe picked up a remote control unit from one of the end tables, pressed a button, and a set of vertical blinds slid over the windows. He continued across the room to a set of French doors through which she glimpsed a bed and a desk. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said. “I’ll be right with you.”
The moment he was gone, Hank pulled her to the nearest couch. “Don’t say anything until we know what’s going on,” he whispered.
“We know what’s going on. He found the ticket!”
He sat, tugging her down beside him. “I don’t think so. If he did, he wouldn’t need to talk to us, would he? He wants something.”
“Maybe he wants to offer us a share of the winnings.”
Hank just looked at her.
No, Whitcombe would have no reason to offer them anything. He wouldn’t need her permission to cash the ticket, since she had no way to prove it was hers. “Maybe he wants to gloat,” she said.
“Whatever he wants, it’s important enough to motivate him to leave his guests.”
“And to bring the Hulk along.”
“I have a feeling something else is going on here. Let’s listen to what he has to say.”
She dropped her purse on the cushion next to her and clutched Hank’s fingers. “You think he didn’t find it?”
“Before we jump to any conclusions, we need to consider all the possibilities.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one, he might have talked to Hazel again, since she said he’d bought paintings from her before. She could have mentioned that we told her the Mathers was sold by mistake. He might be concerned we’ll make a claim on it.”
Some of her panic ebbed. “You really think so?”
“We can’t be sure of anything until we learn more. We need to draw him out.”
“How?”
“Listen to what he says and take our cue from that. He mentioned putting our cards on the table, so let’s bluff.”
“Bluff? This isn’t one of your penny-ante weekend poker games. We’re playing with fifty-two mill—”
“Shh.” He brought their joined hands to her mouth and pressed his thumb to her lower lip. His gaze bored into hers. “Just stay cool and work with me on this, okay? It’s not over yet.”
She wished he wouldn’t touch her like that. It made concentrating difficult.
Whitcombe returned moments later. He was holding what appeared to be one of the auction catalogs. “I must admit,” he said, seating himself in one of the armchairs that faced the couch, “I was puzzled by your behavior initially. With so many exquisite works on display, why would you be so insistent about purchasing the Mathers landscape? It is clearly the work of a second-rate amateur.”
After the gushing Whitcombe had done in the gallery, his sudden honesty surprised her. Amelia curled what nails she had into her palms. “Perhaps I saw something special in it.”
Whitcombe laughed, as if she had said something particularly witty. “Yes, undoubtedly you did, but I hadn’t understood how you would be able to. Your interest was, ah, troubling. It was only when I saw you tonight and someone mentioned who you were that I put the pieces together.”
“Amelia prefers to keep a low profile,” Hank said. “That’s why we were reluctant to pursue matters at our initial meeting. We felt it best to be cautious.”
“Completely understandable, considering her recent legal difficulties. It’s a shame you couldn’t have been more forthright with me, though,” Whitcombe chided. “It would have saved time.”
“We could say the same about you,” Hank responded. “You brought us here to talk, but we haven’t yet heard anything we don’t know.”
Irritation flicked across Whitcombe’s face. He returned his gaze to Amelia. “How much did Spencer tell you about my auctions?”
Spencer? This was the second time he had brought up her ex-husband’s name. Hank could be right. This conversation might have nothing to do with the lottery ticket.
The notion energized Amelia, giving her new hope. She thought fast, searching for cues in Whitcombe’s words. He sounded as if he’d known Spencer personally, and given Spencer’s fondness for collecting art, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that they’d met. Even though her ex-husband’s tastes ran to more established—and much more expensive—artists than the ones featured at the Whitcombe Gallery, it was quite possible he had attended one of the previous auctions. Simply because she didn’t remember hearing about it meant nothing, since there were many things he’d done without her knowledge. She hadn’t been totally oblivious, though. She would have noticed if he’d brought home a new painting.
She chose her words carefully. “As you know, Spencer was a discerning collector, so you can imagine how very disappointed he was after he lost the bidding on a particular piece that he’d hoped to buy. He was frustrated. He likes to win.”
The silence that followed couldn’t have lasted more than a split second, but it felt like an hour. To her relief, Whitcombe reacted as if he knew what she was talking about. He lifted a palm. “The terms of the auction were made clear to him. Everyone has an equal opportunity to bid on each work, including the special items.”<
br />
Special items? Why did that word ring a bell? She had a vague memory of a voice, but it wasn’t a man’s voice, it was a woman’s. It was Evangeline! She’d been talking on the phone while Amelia had been tiptoeing down the corridor to the storeroom. She’d been saying something about the auction....
The arrangements for payment and delivery after the auction will be the same as last year. We’ll courier the special catalog to you within the hour....
Amelia regarded what Whitcombe was holding. At first glance, it had seemed to be one of the auction catalogs, but now that she looked more closely, she realized the paper wasn’t as thick or as glossy as the copy that he’d given her at the gallery. It could have been made up in someone’s office rather than being produced by a professional printing firm. She still had no idea what was going on, so she took Hank’s advice and decided to bluff. “That’s true, Rupert. Even though Spencer came away empty-handed, he had been impressed by how well organized your event was. Is that the special catalog?” she added, as if it was an afterthought.
Her question seemed to please him. “Then you do know about it?” he asked.
“Of course. I was with my husband when you had the special catalog for one of your previous auctions couriered to him.”
He seemed pleased by her answer, too. “Yes, we always have them hand-delivered to our elite clients. They’re meant to be kept confidential.”
“That’s perfectly understandable,” she said, even though she understood zero. What on earth was going on?
“But evidently, someone allowed you to see this year’s copy before you came to the gallery.”
“Don’t blame—” She paused, as if she just caught herself from saying the name. In fact, she was buying time as she scrambled for what direction to take. “I hope you don’t blame the person who gave me a peek at that catalog. He was a good friend of Spencer’s and mine, and he understood how our recent troubles have curtailed my activities.” She sighed. “He was trying to do me a favor.”
“And is that why you came to the gallery?” Whitcombe asked.
This time she merely nodded, as if the answer was too obvious to state.
Winning Amelia Page 17
