by Laura Moore
“I believe the decision’s up to Ms. Monaghan,” Alex said, inclining his head toward Gen. His blue eyes glittered with an unmistakable spark of challenge. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was toying with her somehow, like a cat with a mouse.
“No, I don’t mind answering some questions,” Gen forced herself to reply. Though she did. She prized her privacy. But Alex had said Sydney was in charge of the publicity for the TLM Fund, in which case she had a legitimate need for whatever information Gen provided. Somehow, though, Gen doubted her motives or interest were purely professional.
She waited while Sydney reached over and opened the slim attaché case that rested against the front of the sofa, and then pulled out a leather journal along with a silver fountain pen.
Pen poised, Sydney smiled. “Why don’t we start with the basics? Would you mind telling me where you went to school?”
“In Boston, my hometown. I have a BFA from Boston College.”
“Oh, what a coincidence. Alex and I went to school near there.” From Sydney’s tone, Gen instantly guessed what was coming next and resisted the urge to yawn loudly when Sydney supplied the name “Harvard.”
“How nice for you both,” she murmured under her breath, surprised at the quick flash of white when Alex grinned.
Sydney, jotting notes on gilt-edged paper, didn’t notice the exchange between them. “So you grew up in Boston?” she asked. “Is your family still there?”
“Actually I grew up just outside of Boston. My mother and father live in Somerville. They still have the same house I grew up in. As for the rest of my family, my eleven brothers and sisters all live within a couple hours’ drive. I’ve pretty much bucked the trend, coming to New York. . . .”
Gen didn’t bother to continue.
Sydney wasn’t listening. No doubt stuck on “eleven brothers and sisters,” she stared, slack-jawed, as if Gen had just confessed to having an extra head hidden under her sweater. “How very, uh, tiring for your mother,” she murmured.
“Oh, no,” Gen contradicted cheerfully. “I’m sure Mom would have gone on having babies. She loves them. But our house only had four bedrooms. Things were getting a mite crowded by the time I came along. Do you need any information about my brothers and sisters, too?”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary.” Sydney paused. “Not unless they’re famous somehow.”
“Sorry.” Gen shook her head mournfully. “Can’t help you there. But none of us has ended up in the clink, so that’s a relief. We are a little worried about Tessie, though. I guess she’s what you’d call the black sheep of the family. Mom and Dad are good about hiding their concern. . . .” Lowering her gaze to her lap, Gen’s voice became a fretful whisper. “We’re worried it might be too late to save her. She’s announced she wants to become an investment banker.”
Alex’s bark of laughter had Gen’s chin snapping up. Nonplussed, she stared at him, at the amusement shaking his shoulders. She’d been absolutely certain he would be wearing the same affronted expression as Sydney.
Sydney was staring at him, too, her lips pressed into a flat line, clearly displeased with Alex’s reaction. “I guess that will do for now,” she said coolly. “I can always contact you if I need more information. Oh, wait,” she added, as if she’d suddenly remembered something. “I did have something I wanted to ask. When I was looking at the labels in your portfolio I noticed your paintings aren’t very large. Given the dimensions of the new wing’s atrium, the painting will have to be on a far more monumental scale.”
“That’s a good point,” Gen said, reluctantly impressed. Sydney Raines wasn’t stupid, she realized. Far from it. Indeed, she seemed extremely good at her job, and sharp enough that she’d caught an essential detail. “I do have a larger work that’s currently on display at the Alicia Kendall Gallery in SoHo, but the transparencies haven’t come back from the lab yet. Day One is eight by ten feet.”
Listening to their exchange, Alex knew he could have interrupted and vouched for the visual impact of that particular piece, but he deliberately chose to remain silent. He didn’t want Gen to suspect that it was he who’d purchased Day One. He didn’t want her to know that he’d been so moved by her painting that he’d been compelled to buy it. That even as he’d written the check out to the gallery, he was already envisioning precisely where it would hang in his living room. In any case, experience had taught him that one learned more by listening than by talking. And he very much wanted to learn all he could about Gen Monaghan.
“The hospital piece will probably need to be even bigger than that,” Sydney said, a hint of challenge in her voice.
Gen shrugged, unconcerned. “I assumed as much. But I’ve paced off the length of Mrs. Miller’s studio. Its walls are more than long enough to accommodate either a large single work or a series of panels. Once I’ve hashed out the composition, I’ll have a better idea what format I want to use.”
“What?” Sydney said, her voice sharp with surprise. “She’ll be using your aunt’s studio?”
“Actually my uncle’s. It appears Aunt Grace has invited Ms. Monaghan to live at the house and use the studio while she works on the commission.”
“Do you mean to say she’ll be living in Georgica and have free use of your uncle’s studio? Doesn’t this rather exceed the normal boundaries of charity, Alex?”
Gen’s temper flared, annoyed at being talked about in the third person—something her parents had taught her was the height of rudeness—and insulted at being categorized as some sort of charity case, an undeserving one at that. “Not that it’s either of your business, but nobody’s giving me anything. I’ve already talked to Mrs. Miller about staying with her and have told her I’ll be happy to work in exchange for the use of the studio space. I’m neither sponging nor taking charity.”
Sydney’s dark eyes narrowed on her. “And what sort of work qualifications do you have?” she demanded, as if she had a right to ask. Upon hearing that Gen had been invited to live at Mrs. Miller’s, her hostility had returned in full force.
Gen wasn’t particularly interested in analyzing the reasons behind Sydney’s animosity. She didn’t care what Sydney thought of her. The only thing Gen wanted was to head back downtown and pack her belongings. Then afterward, she’d take Murphy out for a generous evening walk and start to bid her good-byes to the neighborhood as Murphy sniffed and peed along his merry way.
Still, Sydney’s rudeness rankled. So with a tight smile Gen said, “Gosh, I’m sorry. I forgot to bring my résumé. But let’s see. I’ve worked as a chambermaid, stagehand, short order cook, bartender, waitress, and auto mechanic. Which means I can clean, cook, hammer together a stage set, and do a lube job in twenty minutes flat. . . . Hmm, what else?” She pretended to think for a second. “Oh, yeah, I can also draw, paint, and sculpt. And I can weld like nobody’s business. So I’m pretty confident I can handle whatever light housekeeping, errand running, and cooking Mrs. Miller needs while the paint dries on my canvases.” For a second her gaze clashed with Sydney’s.
Sydney turned to Alex. “Alex, this is utterly absurd. How can you allow—” But she didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence.
“I think you’ve gotten all the background information you require, Sydney,” Alex said smoothly. “I wouldn’t want you to miss your meeting with the writer from Architectural Digest. Call me when it’s over and let me know how everything went.” He stood and Sydney, looking distinctly put out, rose too. Gen seized the opportunity to gather up her portfolio, shoving it into her backpack.
“If you’d stay a minute longer, Ms. Monaghan, I’d like to speak with you about my aunt.”
Oh, brother, thought Gen, there goes that commanding tone again. Alex Miller speaks and the world obeys. Well, he was unfortunately doomed to disappointment. No way was she hanging around here. Shouldering her bag, she turned around just in time to see Sydney wrap her arms around Alex’s neck and kiss him full on the lips. Unable to avert her gaze, Gen stood, a captiv
e, unwilling audience.
The kiss would have continued, she knew, had Alex not pulled Sydney’s arms down and away, and then stepped back out of reach. “Good-bye, Sydney,” he said.
Sydney stared at him, her face a mask from a Greek tragedy. Then pivoting on her high heels, she said to Gen, “We’ll need the painting very soon. I hope you can work quickly.” The sound of her exit was punctuated by the thud of the solid wood door hitting its frame.
“I apologize for that.”
“Apologize?” Gen asked, her voice cool with dislike. Tilting her head, she regarded him with a critical eye. Was the flush that colored his cheekbones from embarrassment, arousal, or anger? She found it mildly fascinating that she couldn’t tell which it was. The man was obviously a master at hiding his thoughts and feelings from others. Abruptly recalling the photographs of his lovely wife and children, Gen decided it was far more likely that Alex Miller had no feelings for anyone other than himself.
“Sydney,” he replied, a distinct coolness entering his own voice. “She’s a bit high-strung and sometimes has a tendency to go overboard. By the way, I’m not married.” A mocking smile curved his lips as he watched her struggle and fail to hide her surprise. “The woman in the picture there? My sister, Cassie.
The drawings were made by my niece and nephew— her kids, not mine.”
At his words, a thought slipped slyly into Gen’s head, like a dangerous temptation. Alex Miller is free, unattached.
But of course that wasn’t true. Sydney Raines couldn’t have been more obvious in demonstrating her prior claim. So what he’d just told her meant nothing. Besides, Gen realized her first instincts about him had been right on the mark: Alex Miller was most definitely out of her league. She shrugged lightly. “Well, Sydney seems very capable at what she does.”
Alex didn’t miss the double entendre. He’d learned a great deal about Gen Monaghan in these forty minutes. He knew that she was clever and possessed a rich if offbeat sense of humor. He knew, too, that those beautiful eyes of hers were far too perceptive. Although she’d have had to have been blind to miss Sydney’s theatrics.
He was still furious about the kiss, it being exactly the sort of unprofessionalism he’d been worried about. But it had been impossible to tell Sydney off with Gen right there. If he’d left with Sydney, both women would have assumed that he only wanted to go out and neck in private. After witnessing a kiss like that, Gen obviously assumed that he and Sydney were involved. The knowledge needled Alex more than he cared to admit. Why? asked a voice inside his head. Is it because you want to see whether you can get Genevieve Monaghan’s eyes to change from cool and indifferent to the way they were when she first saw you—sparkling with that tantalizing hint of feminine interest? But that was a question he refused to answer.
Instead he said, “Yes, Sydney’s quite capable. Still, you held your own against her quite nicely. I liked the creative touch you used in describing your family. It was especially intriguing to note which details you omitted, such as the fact that your father is an emeritus professor at Boston College. Or that your brother Nolan is a distinguished neuroscientist, and that your sister Alana, the architect, worked on one of the plans submitted for the World Trade Center Memorial. . . . Actually, every one of your eleven brothers and sisters is pretty damned brilliant.”
“Yes, they are. But our parents raised us to make our way in the world without riding on others’ coat-tails. Besides which, what Nolan, Alana, or any of my siblings has accomplished has nothing to do with my painting.” Her brows drew together. “How is it you know so much about them anyway?” she asked sharply.
Alex acted as if he hadn’t heard her question. “Of course,” he continued, “you also neglected to mention a few things about yourself. For instance, you’re the only Monaghan to boast a criminal record. What was it again? Willful destruction of private property?”
“That wall in South Boston was soul-destroying.” The words were out of her mouth before she could call them back.
“Unfortunately the judge didn’t agree.”
“The judge was a pompous, Beacon Hill snob who had never set a privileged foot near a low-income project in his entire life,” she burst out. “I was trying to bring beauty and color to the neighborhood. Besides, I was only nineteen.”
“Old enough to be tried as an adult,” he replied coolly.
Her eyes narrowed angrily. “How do you know all this about me, about my family?” she demanded through clenched teeth.
His smile was hard. “I had a background check run on you. You don’t think I would let you live at my aunt’s otherwise?”
Gen looked around. Spotting her coffee cup on the table, she snatched it up and drained it. “The bathroom?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll need to use the bathroom.” She waved the empty cup at him. “I expect you’ll be wanting a urine sample.”
His expression turned glacial. “Don’t be ridiculous—”
Gen ignored him as she replaced the cup on the tabletop. Stepping toward him, she shoved the loose sleeves of her sweater up above her elbows. Long and slender, the insides of her arms were dotted with tiny freckles. She peered at them, searching. “Sorry. It’s awfully hard to see the needle tracks.”
His angry gaze connected with hers. They stared at each other in tense silence. “You don’t understand,” he ground out.
She understood only too well—that Alex Miller had been toying with her. He’d sat beside Sydney, letting her ask Gen all those questions, when he’d had all the answers—in spades. And then he’d pounced.
Her heart pounding with righteous fury, she pulled the sleeves back down her arms. “You’re right, I don’t. I don’t understand invading my privacy when all you had to do was ask. Instead like some grand inquisitor you summoned me here and waited to see whether I’d trip up.”
“I won’t risk my aunt being hurt in any way.”
“So you investigate anybody who comes into contact with her?” she asked scathingly. Not waiting for his reply, she continued, “You know, when I had lunch with Mrs. Miller, she seemed awfully sharp.”
“She is. She’s also eccentric and given to flights of fancy. And generous to a fault.”
“God bless her for that. Me, I’m not nearly so forgiving. In fact, I can’t decide whether I loathed you more when I believed you an adulterer or now that I know you’re a prying manipulator. Good-bye. It was interesting meeting you.”
“We haven’t discussed your fee.”
She let her eyes widen as if shocked. “You mean you still want me to create a piece for the hospital?”
“I find your art exceptional.”
“And I find your character offensive,” she said, perfectly mimicking his cool tone. For a second she contemplated demanding a truly outrageous sum for her work, just to see Alex choke on it. But that would involve staying in his office a couple of seconds longer, so she tossed the idea. “I’m not interested in your money. I already informed your aunt that I’d be happy to donate the painting.” She caught the swift frown that crossed his face and felt a sweet triumph that her gesture had taken him by surprise. Alex Miller could pry as much as he’d like—he still would never understand her. “I’ll have her contact you when the piece is finished.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll be coming to East Hampton quite often to monitor your progress on the painting.”
Gen didn’t believe for a second that was all Alex would be monitoring. “Nobody looks at my work without my permission.”
“And you don’t think I could persuade you?” he asked and stepped closer.
Suddenly the air in the Park Avenue office became charged with electricity.
Lord, the man was lethal, with a sexual potency that was a-thousand-percent proof. And the worst thing she could do was to let him see that she was even remotely affected.
“And with what could you possibly persuade me? Your winning ways? That pretty face of yours?” She shook
her head and gave a light, mocking laugh. “Sorry. You might appeal to the likes of Sydney Raines, but I’m interested in more than a rich boy wearing a flashy suit.” She shouldered her backpack and added, “But don’t worry, no matter what I think of you personally, I’ll make sure your aunt is well taken care of. Family is important.”
This time when Gen turned to leave, Alex Miller didn’t stop her.
SEVEN
Sydney was on her cell, talking as she climbed out of the cab, slammed the door, and strode down Twenty-third Street toward the chic Chelsea Hotel, where she and Harry had arranged to meet for a drink with the Architectural Digest staff writer and the architect who’d designed the TLM wing. Her agitated walk was faster than the clogged traffic around her. “Nancy, I’ve changed my mind about the tasting. We’ve got to reschedule. No, that won’t do, I can’t make it out during the week. It’s got to be this weekend. Well, I guess it depends whether you care enough to keep me as a client, because if you don’t switch my appointment, I will take every penny of my business elsewhere.” Her tone relaxed at the response on the other end. “Yes, Sunday would be fine. Thanks a million, Nancy. You’re the best.” And Sydney flipped her cell closed.
As distracted as she’d been, her mind teeming with rearranged dates and revised schedules, Sydney nevertheless spotted Harry standing by the hotel’s entrance. Dressed in an olive green suit that up close would make his eyes resemble an alpine forest, he was watching her walk toward him. Instinctively, Sydney’s gait changed, slowing to enhance the swing of her hips. His reaction, a wide grin of masculine appreciation, was a soothing balm to her wounded pride.
“New skirt?” he asked by way of greeting.
“Barney’s is having a sale,” she answered. “Why?”
“Because I don’t remember seeing it. And given the way your legs look in it, Syd, I’d need to make an appointment with the optometrist if you’d said, ‘What, this old rag?’ ”
“You can rest easy.”
