by Laura Moore
Sam said nothing, merely quirked a dark brow.
But Brody had been a cop as well as a bodyguard in his former life, before creating his own security firm, a start-up company in which Alex had invested a fair amount of his own money. Sam was one of the most perceptive men Alex had ever met. Very few things slipped past those keen amber eyes. Fortunately he was as discreet as he was intelligent, another reason Alex valued his friendship. Outside of his family, there were very few people Alex trusted implicitly. Sam Brody was one of them.
Banks of hot steam floated thick and heavy in the tiled chamber, swirling about them as they made their way to the far side and dropped down on the tiled ledge. “You want to talk about it?” Sam asked quietly.
Alex absently rubbed the flat of his stomach and sighed. “Shit. I suppose so, yeah. It’s times like these I miss my brother, Tom, the most. I’m sorry you never met him, Sam. You’d have liked him. A damned good man, loyal as the day is long. All day, I’ve been hearing Tom’s voice inside my head, razzing me about Sydney. Christ, I was stupid enough to forget every one of Tom’s cardinal rules concerning women, right down to the most important one: Extricate before the lady latches on. Sydney was thinking marriage, Sam. She told me her blasted mother was already reception shopping.” He dropped his head back against the wall with a groan of self-disgust and closed his eyes.
Glancing at him, Sam saw the lines of tension etched around Alex’s mouth, the weariness that hung about him, as tangible as the thick clouds of steam wafting about them. He shook his head.
He was sitting opposite the man who’d attained the stature of a god by age thirty-three. In the world of finance, people spoke Alex Miller’s name with a hushed awe. It wasn’t simply that Miller had had the genius to make himself a couple of fortunes within an astoundingly short period of time as a Wall Street bond trader. It was that he was a true phenomenon. A breed apart. After scaling the very top of the financial world’s Mount Olympus as a bond trader, Alex Miller had stunned Wall Street by deciding to tackle a new challenge—as if the high-stakes gamble involved in anticipating the crest and fall of the world markets simply wasn’t enough to satisfy him any longer. He had walked away from a corner office in one of the Street’s most powerful firms to head a company of his own, only this time not as a trader, but as a venture capitalist.
Sam understood enough about the business world to realize that everyone had fully expected Alex to crash and burn. It was simple, fundamental, a law carved in stone: Bond traders weren’t venture capitalists. The whole mind-set was different—from the training, to the background, to the gut instincts involved. So Miller was doomed, the vultures already circling high above, ready to swoop down and pick apart his sorry carcass.
But instead of going belly-up, Alex, along with three other wizards he’d invited to join him as partners in the Miller Group, had a tidy portfolio of twenty companies. And while everyone else in the business world was clutching their heads and bitching about the economy, Alex’s firm was posting profits.
There was, however, a definite downside to Alex Miller’s untrammeled success. It had made him a target for all the marriage-hungry women from coast to coast. Handsome, richer than Croesus, Alex was the most sought after bachelor in New York. Women fell over themselves in their maddened chase to catch him. In the two years since he and Alex had become friends and business associates, Sam had witnessed the scene many times. Sydney Raines was one of the more talented huntresses. She’d used her brains as well as her beauty to capture Alex’s attention, first landing an account with his firm, and then a place in his bed. Sam didn’t dislike Sydney herself, only the way she seemed to glory in her role as Alex Miller’s lover, parading before the other women in her set like a lioness with her kill. He wasn’t terribly surprised to learn that she’d decided it was time to solidify her exalted position by becoming Mrs. Alex Miller. “So how’d she take the news?” he asked.
“Sydney doesn’t deal well with failure, Sam. The damnable thing is, despite my telling her it was over, she’s acting as if nothing’s changed between us. We had a meeting this afternoon to go over the schedule for the final phase of the wing TLM is donating to the Children’s Hospital. When it was over, she invited me to dinner. At her place.”
“Major denial, huh?”
“Yeah, I’d guess you’d call it that. Thank God I’ll be spending time in the Hamptons this summer.” Alex smiled. “Cassie and Caleb are coming up from Charlottesville and lending me the kids while they’re at some horse shows in the area.”
“Next time you talk to her, give your sister my best.”
“I will. Thanks.” Rubbing the stiffness from his neck, Alex said, “Yeah, it’ll be great to see Cassie and the kids and get away from all this. . . . Sydney will have to give up her marital hopes fairly soon.”
Sam’s grunt held a wealth of skepticism. Alex couldn’t blame him. He wasn’t particularly optimistic, either. “Christ, Sam, I don’t want to hurt her any more than I have. And I really don’t want to add injury to insult by firing her—she’s been great at dealing with all the minutiae between the hospital and my foundation.”
“Sounds like a lousy situation.”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s a fair assessment. It’s not as if she’s in love with me, Sam. She’s just settling because I happen to satisfy a few other requisites: success, money, the right background . . . all that bullshit.”
“Well, you do make a hell of a consolation prize.”
Alex managed a wry laugh. “Thanks, Brody. You really know how to cheer a guy up.”
“You’re more than welcome, pal. Let me know if there’s any way I can help.”
“I’ll do that.” Alex stood and went over to the metal door and held it open for Sam. After the junglelike humidity of the steam room, the air felt as if they’d stepped into a meat locker.
“So have you talked to the Duchess lately?” Sam inquired as he shrugged into his shirt and began buttoning it. “Still ruling the Hamptons?”
Chin raised, Alex paused in the midst of knotting his tie and grinned. As far as he knew, Grace Miller hadn’t a single royal connection, but Sam’s nickname for Alex’s elderly aunt was apt. Sam was probably the only person on earth who’d ever get away with calling Grace Miller “Duchess” to her face. He and Alex’s aunt had become fast friends when Alex sent him to her house in East Hampton to install one of his high-tech security systems. She’d ended up convincing Sam to give her computer lessons. Aunt Grace now surfed the Web almost as efficiently as Alex.
“She’s terrific,” he replied. “Busy as a whirlwind since I put her in charge of commissioning an artist to create a work for the new wing of the Children’s Hospital. We spoke on the phone yesterday. She asked after you, of course. Demanded to know when you were going to come by for tea and chess.”
“That sounds irresistible. Best offer I’ve had in some time.”
Alex grinned. “Does this mean the beautiful divorcée Lizzie Osborne is still leading you on a merry chase?”
“Oh, yeah, she’s putting her all into it, dodging left and right,” Sam acknowledged wryly. “Maybe I’ll mention Mrs. Miller’s invitation to Lizzie. It’ll do her good to know there’s another woman in my life, one who clamors for my attention.” His grin turned into a smile. “And if I tell her I’m also going to drop in on Ty and Steve Sheppard and check on my mare, Cassis, that should be enough to send her into a full-blown snit.” Sam’s light brown eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Lizzie is damned cute when she’s mad.”
Sam Brody was a lucky man, Alex thought. He’d found the woman he loved. Indeed, so confident was Sam in the strength of his feelings that none of the many obstacles Lizzie Osborne threw in his path fazed him. From what Alex had observed, Sam relished each and every challenge, since winning meant claiming the ultimate prize—the heart of tempestuous Ms. Lizzie Osborne.
Alex envied him. It seemed as if all of his own relationships had been like the one he’d just ended with Sydney: while th
e sex had been hot, his emotions had remained coolly detached. By this point Alex had accepted that he wasn’t the type to make a deep, lasting connection with a woman. This recent affair with Sydney, a beautiful, intelligent woman, only confirmed what he knew—love just wasn’t in the picture.
FOUR
The studio was nearly silent as Gen dragged her thickly loaded paintbrush over the rough weave of the canvas. Only the occasional whirfling of Murphy dreaming broke the quiet. Even the city sounds— the honks, the clangs, the hammerings and shouts of construction crews, the wailing sirens of ambulances and police cars—seemed muffled, as though coming from a distant land.
In the rare quietude, the buzz of the intercom resounded loudly. Murphy jumped up from the dog bed, tail extended, his hairy ears twitching expectantly. Gen ignored the sound, ignored everything but the brush in her hand and the blurred trail of black and gray paint she was applying to the stretch of canvas.
Only when she’d reached the very edge did she step back and examine the painting she’d been working on for the past three days. It was a passable beginning, but she had a long way to go before this latest work came close to resembling the image that filled her mind.
Patience, Gen, she thought, squashing the impulse to disregard the second, now more insistent peal of the intercom and reimmerse herself in her private world of color and form. Instead, she dropped the broad paintbrush into a water-filled coffee can and wiped her hands on the dishrag she’d tucked into the waistband of her jeans. She walked over to the intercom and, with an unconscious sigh, pressed the speaker button. A male voice barked the name of an international shipping company. They were here to pick up Jiri’s art.
Seconds later, from the hallway, came the heavy rumble of the elevator starting. Murphy stared at the door, his tail wagging in anticipation.
Unfortunately, not everyone appreciated Murphy’s meet-and-greet mode. Deciding to avoid a potential lawsuit, Gen went and kneeled by her backpack and dug out a smoked bone she’d bought at the pet store. It was nearly as long as her forearm. She held it out, baton style. “Hey, Murph . . .”
Murphy needed no further entreaty. Ears flattened, he trotted up, a wide grin splitting his enormous muzzle. Without breaking his stride, he wrapped his jaw around the bone. His body brushed hers, a body check of thanks as he returned to his bed and got down to business.
Gen was grateful that Murphy possessed a clear set of priorities, in which smoked bones ranked well above security issues. She only hoped the bone was big enough to keep him happily engaged while the movers tackled their job.
The crew entered the studio with a clang of metal dollies bouncing over the loft’s threshold, three burly men who looked like they’d just climbed off their choppers, with faded bandannas wrapped around the domes of their heads and colorful tattoos across their bulging biceps. Momentarily distracted by their appearance and busy contemplating various poses for a group portrait, Gen didn’t notice the older woman who trailed in behind them, her sophisticated couture as different from these rough-hewn men as night from day.
So when a patch of pink entered her field of vision, Gen blinked, startled. With a cry of delight she rushed over and hugged the other woman.
“Phoebe! What are you doing here? When did you get back? It’s wonderful to see you!”
“It’s good to see you too, darling.” Phoebe smiled. “I came in this morning. I had some news that I couldn’t wait to tell you about. You’ve eaten already?”
Gen glanced at the large face of her wristwatch, astonished to find it was already 3 P.M. “Uh, I was just about to break and fix myself something,” she said.
“No doubt,” Phoebe returned skeptically. “I had George stop at Balducci’s on my way here—just in case you’d forgotten to feed yourself again.”
Gen glanced toward the open doorway, where four bulging, distinctively green-and-white paper bags lay propped against one another. Her stomach rumbled at the sight and she abruptly remembered that she’d missed breakfast too, having hurried back to her painting after taking Murphy out for his morning run.
“Hey, lady, d’you mind?” One of the movers, who Gen assumed was the foreman, tapped a clipboard with the back of his hand, an impatient drumroll. “We’re kinda on a schedule here.”
“Oh, yes! Sorry, let me get the list.” Turning back to Phoebe, she said, “This shouldn’t take long. Would you like some tea? I think there’s some souchong in the cupboard.”
Phoebe followed her over to the tiny kitchenette’s countertop and watched as Gen scooped up the sheath of papers lying there. “Where’s Jiri?”
“Oh, he’s gone already. He left Friday.”
“Leaving you to handle all this.” Phoebe waved her manicured hand at the numerous crates.
Busy checking that she had the papers in order, Gen gave a distracted shrug. “It’s no big deal—mainly tons of signatures and customs forms to fill out.”
“Whatever will he do without you, love?”
Gen glanced up. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Nothing. Go deal with these charming men. I’ll make us lunch. A celebratory lunch,” she added with a smile.
Gen sat at the table, its surface covered with the remains of Phoebe Hayes’s shopping spree at Balducci’s. There was still enough food left to feed an army but Gen had long finished eating. She was turning the pages of the exhibition catalog that Phoebe, with a magician’s flourish, had pulled from her leather tote, offering a careless, “Look at what I picked up today at Alicia’s” as she handed it to Gen.
“They did a terrific job with the transparencies,” Gen murmured, gazing at a full-page reproduction of one of her paintings. Looking up, she grinned. “I just can’t believe it! There I am.”
“Indeed you are. Can’t be too many Genevieve Monaghans in Manhattan who are exhibiting at a major gallery,” Phoebe teased. “And high time, too, Gen. Do you remember that day, years ago, when you came for lunch and brought your portfolio with you? It was bursting apart with your drawings. You were, what, seventeen? You hadn’t even started college and already you were so talented.”
“Talented? I don’t know about that, but I definitely had the fire in the belly, as Dad would say.” Gen laughed.
“Robert’s got the wrong body part—it’s the lightning from your fingers when you create that sends shivers through the beholder. I only wish we could have included this latest work of yours in the catalog, too,” Phoebe said, her gaze returning once again to the large canvas hanging on the wall. “At least Alicia will be able to have it in time for the opening—as the pièce de résistance.”
“But, Phoebe, it’s not finished. And I couldn’t possibly ask Alicia to reconfigure the whole show to accommodate a work this large—”
“She’ll be jumping at the chance once she sees the painting.” Phoebe rose from the table and crossed the studio, coming to stand before the painting. “You know I’m not one to praise idly, Gen. Alicia will shoot you if you don’t include this piece. Have you given it a title yet?”
“I’m calling it Day One.”
Phoebe pivoted and regarded Gen, her gaze bright and piercing. “Yes, that’s very fitting,” she said and turned back to the painting.
Gen kept her own eyes averted from the unfinished canvas. If she looked at it, she’d be compelled to grab her brushes and resume working until the image filling her mind became blurred, lost in a fog of exhaustion.
That Phoebe Hayes admired this recent work meant a great deal to her. In addition to being Gen’s godmother, Phoebe was also a passionate art collector. Over the past thirty-five years, Phoebe had amassed one of the most important collections of contemporary art—including several Monaghans. Yet despite her encouraging words, Gen wavered. “Phoebe, I can’t show this piece—it’s not nearly where I want it to be.”
“When did you start painting it?”
“Friday morning.”
“Ahh, so that’s why you haven’t been answering the phone. This one’
s really got you in its grip, hasn’t it? No wonder you’ve forgotten to eat and sleep. Thank God for Murphy.” At his name, Murphy’s tail thumped once, letting them know that even asleep he was on top of the situation.
A guilty flush stole over Gen’s cheeks. Noting it, Phoebe laughed.
Okay, her godmother was right, Gen admitted silently. The only times she’d been out this past weekend were to give Murphy his exercise.
“Why don’t you let Alicia see Day One so she can judge its strength,” she suggested. “And since I know how much you hate promoting yourself, I’ll give her a ring. You realize, of course, what a huge sacrifice this is on my part. If you exhibit Day One, it’ll be snatched up opening night.”
Gen laughed at Phoebe’s outrageous prediction. “At Alicia’s prices? No way. Remember, the majority of the people coming to see my work at the gallery opening will be poor-as-church-mice Monaghans.”
An amused smile lifted the corners of Phoebe’s lipsticked mouth. “I think you’re in for a surprise. Word’s spreading fast around town. Genevieve Monaghan is the new sensation.”
Gen instinctively scrunched her face as if she’d caught a whiff of something unpleasant.
“Now, now,” Phoebe chastised lightly. “You mustn’t bite the hand that’s going to feed you—which reminds me, I haven’t told you about my big surprise; your painting made me forget. Hold on to your chair, dearie, you may fall out of it.”
Gen grinned. “Okay, what’s the surprise?”
“You’re being considered for a commission. And from what I can tell, it’s a very short list.”
“Excuse me?” she said blankly.
“That’s right,” Phoebe said. “A commission. Do you remember my telling you about a woman named Grace Miller?”
“Yes, I think so.” Gen’s brows furrowed as she searched her memory. “She’s an older lady, involved in the arts?”
Phoebe nodded. “Yes. I’ve known Grace forever. She and her husband, Alexander Miller, took me under their wing the summer after your mother and I graduated from college. After Tansy and Robert went off on their honeymoon, I was at loose ends without my two best friends. So Grace and Alexander invited me to travel with them to Europe. They introduced me to the artists, collectors, and art dealers they knew in Paris, London, Cologne. . . . It was thanks to the Millers that I started collecting. Alexander had such a wonderful eye. A true connoisseur—in addition to being quite a talented artist in his own right. He passed away several years ago.” Phoebe’s usually animated voice became laced with sadness. For a minute she was silent. Re-collecting herself, she said, “Where was I? Oh, yes! I was staying with Grace this weekend in her house in East Hampton. Naturally we spent most of the time talking about art. Well, I happened to have some slides of your work. . . .”
