“Not bad if you like sunsets,” announced a masculine voice from just behind Guinevere’s left shoulder. “A little trite in some respects, but this is one of his earlier works. Mason has changed a lot during the past couple of years, and it shows in his painting, don’t you think?”
Guinevere turned to face the short, wiry young man who was eyeing the painting behind her. Something about his features reminded her of a ferret. “I’ve just met him recently. I don’t know much about his earlier work.”
The man smiled with an air of superiority. “I see. You’re new on the scene around here?”
“If you mean new on the art scene, the answer is yes. I’m Guinevere Jones.”
“Henry Thorpe.” He waited impatiently for some sign of recognition, and when it didn’t come, he frowned. “I’ve had a couple of showings here myself, but I guess if you’re new in the art world, you wouldn’t have known about them.”
“I see.” One of Mason’s freeloading fellow artists, Guinevere decided. There was a certain nervous energy about Henry Thorpe that she found curious, almost unnatural. It was as if he were operating at a higher internal speed than most of the others in the room. Perhaps Henry Thorpe indulged in other substances besides free champagne. Anything for the sake of art.
“You don’t look like you’re here for the free food,” Thorpe announced, scanning her neat suit. “So I assume you’re a potential buyer?”
“I’m very interested in Mason’s work,” Guinevere said politely.
“Yeah, so are a few of the others,” Thorpe said slightly grudgingly. “I guess it’s the superficial accessibility of the stuff. People who don’t know much about art like it because they think they can understand it.”
Detecting more than a small measure of professional jealousy, Guinevere deliberately turned back to study the painting of the bay. But Henry Thorpe edged closer.
“You’d never guess it from that sweet little painting of sunset on the water, but ol’ Mason wasn’t exactly a sweet character when he did that picture. He was running pretty wild a couple of years ago. Hung out with a weird crowd.”
Guinevere frowned. “Mr. Thorpe, I’m really not interested in hearing this.”
“If you want to buy a painting from a guy who used to run around with witches, that’s your business. But personally I—”
“Witches!” Astonished, Guinevere swung around to confront Henry Thorpe. Memories of a black pentagram flashed into her head. “Witches? What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Thorpe?”
Sensing that he may have blundered socially, Thorpe tried to back off. “Oh, well, it was no big deal. You know how it is. People sometimes get mixed up in strange things, and Adair was pretty strung out a couple of years ago. Had a bad time with his family back East, and I think he tried to forget his problems by getting involved in something really off-the-wall. But that’s all over now. I mean, it’s not like he would have painted hidden symbols of the occult into these canvases or anything. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“What doesn’t she have to worry about, Thorpe?” drawled Mason Adair as he came up behind the smaller man. Carla was still firmly tucked into his grasp.
“Nothing, Mason,” Thorpe assured him hastily. “Just talking about some of your paintings. Not a bad crowd tonight. Any buyers?”
“Most people seem to be here for the same reason you are,” Mason said, assuring him smoothly. “The free champagne.”
Thorpe risked a cynical smile. “You can’t hold that against us, friend. You’ve been known to hit a few showings for the free food yourself. Excuse me.” With a nod for both women Henry Thorpe slipped back into the crowd.
Mason watched him go with a wry expression. “He’s right, you know. I have made a few meals off a showing like this. Can’t blame the others for turning up tonight. I just hope they don’t elbow all the potential buyers aside in their lunge for the food.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Carla said with a certain satisfaction as she watched the gallery owner hang a SOLD sign on a painting across the room.
Mason followed her gaze and whistled silently. “Jesus. Theresa put a price of fifteen hundred on that sucker.”
Guinevere grinned. “Congratulations. You’re going to have something to celebrate when this is all over.” And then, remembering the comment Thorpe had made about Mason’s past, she couldn’t resist adding, “Your family will be excited.” The reaction was immediate and grim. Mason’s expression of dazed pleasure vanished beneath cold, hard lines.
“My family,” he said far too calmly, “can go to hell. That’s where they sent me.” Then he saw the concern on Carla’s face and made an obvious effort to shake his suddenly savage mood. “Hey, forget it. It’s no big deal. My family and I don’t exactly communicate these days. My old man wrote me off the day I made it clear I was going to make a career in art instead of law. That’s old history. Let’s get some more champagne.”
Several more SOLD signs went up before the evening ended. A certain subdued excitement had infected the crowd. Theresa, the gallery owner, was bubbling over with heady enthusiasm as she darted about, answering questions. By the time he and Guinevere had put Carla into a cab to send her back to her Capitol Hill apartment, Mason’s mood was euphoric. He stood on the sidewalk until the cab was out of sight and then started walking Guinevere back to her apartment building. It was nearly midnight and the streets were empty.
“Hey, it went okay, didn’t it?” Mason said for what must have been the fiftieth time. “It really went okay.”
“It went better than okay,” Guinevere said, assuring him. “You heard Theresa. She’s ecstatic. You’re all set, Mason.”
“Are you kidding? This is just the beginning. There’s no such thing as being all set in this business. Every new painting gets judged against all the others you’ve done. But at least I’ve proven I can sell. Dad never thought I would get this far, you know.”
“Didn’t he?”
“Hell, no, he—” Mason broke off abruptly. “Forget it. I don’t want to talk about him. Not tonight.”
“How about witches, Mason?” Guinevere asked gently. “Want to talk about them?”
He stopped short and stared at her under a street lamp. “Witches! You mean that stupid pentagram business?”
“Mason, that man, Henry Thorpe, said something about your once having been involved in some kind of occult group. And that damage to your painting last night looked pretty vicious. If there’s any possibility of a connection, don’t you think you ought to tell the police?”
Mason muttered something that sounded quite disgusted. “Thorpe. God knows what he was running on tonight. He hasn’t been able to paint decently for almost a year, and it’s eating him alive. What did he tell you about witches?”
“Nothing much. Just that for a while a couple of years ago you’d been mixed up with some sort of odd group.”
Mason shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “Yeah, it was odd, all right. But it wasn’t dangerous. Bunch of folks sitting around playing games with stuff they learned out of old books. For a while it was just a friendly group that met to get a little high on some homegrown agricultural products and have a few laughs. An excuse to party. A couple of the members started taking things too seriously, though, and I got out. So did almost everyone else. The partying was getting in the way of my painting.”
Guinevere frowned, considering. “You don’t think there’s any possibility of a connection between what happened last night and that group?”
Mason shook his head impatiently and resumed walking. “Not likely. Most of the people I knew who were part of the crowd have long since dropped out. Like I said, it was just an excuse to party. I haven’t seen any of the original group for months.”
“Where did you do all this, er, partying?”
“One of the members, a guy named Sandwick, had inherited an old house. Mostly we used it. Had a spooky old basement that was soundproof. Neighbors couldn’t hear us if we got too loud, not that the neighbors would have cared. It wasn’t exactly a high-class area.”
“Where was it located?”
“Near Capitol Hill.” Mason sounded totally uninterested. “Let’s talk about something more to the point.”
“Such as?”
“Such as your sister, Carla.”
Guinevere smiled. “As I told you, she’s an organizer. She used to be an executive secretary, but lately she’s been working for me.”
“Is she free?”
“No, actually, she can be quite expensive,” Guinevere remarked, remembering certain incidents from her sister’s recent past.
“Come on, Gwen, you know that’s not what I meant.”
“All right. She’s not involved with anyone special at the moment. Does that answer your question?”
“It does.”
“There’s just one other thing, Mason,” Guinevere went on slowly. “Please excuse the big-sister spiel, but I’m afraid it comes with the territory. I am her big sister and I don’t want her hurt. She went through a bad experience a few months back. She’s over it now, but I wouldn’t want anyone undoing all the progress she’s made.” Carla’s “progress” had cost a bundle in therapy, Valium prescriptions, and patience. It had also led directly to Guinevere’s first meeting with Zachariah Justis. That first encounter had been very unnerving. It had taught her right from the start that Zac could be quite ruthless.
Mason grinned. “You do sound like a big sister. But don’t worry. I’ll take good care of Carla. If she’ll let me.”
“Be prepared to be organized.”
“I can’t wait.” Mason stopped in front of Guinevere’s security door. “Here we are. I’ll walk you up the stairs like a good Boy Scout. I really appreciate you and Carla coming to the gallery tonight. I was not exactly cool and calm ahead of time, and it was good to know there were going to be some friends there.”
“It was a very successful evening, Mason. You should be proud of yourself.” Guinevere dug her key out of her shoulder bag as she climbed the second flight of stairs.
“Relieved is the word, I think.” He waited, lounging against the wall, while she slipped the key into her lock. “Well, good night, Gwen, and thanks again for showing up tonight.” Mason straightened and turned to start down the stairs.
“There seems to be something wrong with the door.” Guinevere pushed tentatively against it. “I was sure I left it locked. I always lock it.”
Mason paused, glancing curiously back over his shoulder. “Anything wrong?”
Guinevere shoved open the door and stood looking into the living room. “Nothing you can do anything about, Mason. Good night.” She closed the door very gently in his face and turned to confront Zac.
Zac put down the glass of tequila he had been holding and leaned his head back in the chair where he had been sitting for the past two long hours. The expression in his ghost-gray eyes made Guinevere think again of glaciers.
“I think,” Zac said in a voice that showed all the rough edges, “that we have a communication gap here.” He got up out of the chair and came forward with grim deliberation. “You and I are supposed to be having an affair. That, for your information, implies exclusivity. What the hell do you mean by coming in at midnight with that goddamned artist?”
Chapter Three
“I’m not an errant wife coming home late after a night on the town,” Guinevere managed to say in a surprisingly even voice. She wasn’t feeling at all even inside. She’d never seen Zac in quite this mood. There had been times when he’d been annoyed with her, and she’d seen him concerned and had been around him when his temper grew a little short. But she’d never seen such blatant anger and outrage.
“No, you’re not an errant wife, are you? You’re a bored mistress coming in after a night on the town.”
Guinevere’s head came up with a snap. Furiously she tossed her shoulder bag down onto a black leather chair. “Don’t you dare call me your mistress, Zac. A mistress, for your information, is a kept woman. And you don’t keep me, Zac Justis. Lately you haven’t even kept me company!”
“So you decided to go out and find someone else to keep you company?”
“It’s none of your business what I did tonight.” She was moving farther and farther out on the thinnest possible ice, but her own anger was in full sail. “You have no right to yell at me like this.”
“No right? You come home at midnight with that naked artist in tow, and you tell me I don’t have any right to yell?”
“He wasn’t naked.”
“How long would it have taken him to get naked after you invited him into your apartment?”
“I didn’t invite him in, not that it would have made any difference. Mason walked me home after his gallery showing tonight. He invited Carla and me to attend. Since I didn’t have anything else to do tonight and since he’s a very nice person, I decided to accept the invitation. I had a couple of glasses of free champagne and half-a-dozen salmon canapés. I resisted the impulse to buy one of his paintings. Primarily because I couldn’t afford one. That, Zac, is the sum total of my wild night on the town. Mason and I left the gallery about fifteen minutes ago, and I can produce witnesses if necessary. Is there anything else you’d like to know?” Summoning up a courage she wasn’t sure she actually felt, Guinevere walked right past Zac, flung herself down onto the black sofa, and glared across the room at the egg-yolk-yellow floor-to-ceiling bookcase. She refused to glance at Zac, who was watching her the way a predator watches its prey.
“Yes, goddammit, there are a few other things I’d like to know. Were you planning on inviting him in for a nightcap? What’s his view of the evening’s entertainment? Is it as charmingly innocent as yours?”
Guinevere swung her gaze from the bookcase to Zac’s glittering gray eyes. “Mason is falling rapidly for my sister. A typical male reaction around Carla. She’s about all he talked about on the way back here this evening. Now, if we’re going to discuss innocent evenings, why don’t we dissect yours? How long did the after-work session with Elizabeth Gallinger go? Did you find it necessary to conclude your business over dinner and a few drinks? Did you go to her place or yours after that?”
Zac ran a hand through his dark hair, his expression turning frustrated. “My meeting with Elizabeth was all business.”
“Really? No more chitchat about babies and biological clocks?” His eyes narrowed quickly, and Guinevere knew she’d struck gold. “Oh, I see. The subject did arise, then? Before or after you gave her your analysis of Gallinger’s security needs?”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I left Elizabeth several hours ago, went home, and started trying to call you. I thought you might be in the mood for a late dinner. When you failed to answer your phone for over two hours, I finally decided to come over here and make sure everything was all right.”
Guinevere couldn’t stand the way he was starting to pace back and forth in front of her. The movement reminded her too much of a stalking cat waiting to pounce. Uneasily she kicked off her pumps and got to her feet. She walked past him, ignoring his glare, went into the kitchen, and turned on the light. The mini blinds were raised, and she could see that Mason hadn’t yet let himself into his apartment. The studio window was still dark. Guinevere reached for the teakettle. She didn’t feel like waiting for the new coffeepot to crank through its elegant ritual. Zac appeared in the kitchen doorway as she switched on the burner.
For a long moment they looked at each other without saying a word. With a woman’s instinct Guinevere knew that some of Zac’s initial fury had cooled.
“Everything was just fine, Zac. There was absolutely n
o need for you to be concerned. We don’t have to account to each other for every moment, do we? We’re having an affair. We’re not married. The simple truth is that Carla and I spent a pleasant evening at the gallery. Mason walked me home afterward. That’s all there was to it.” She kept her tone quiet and remote.
He was silent for a moment. “I discussed business with Elizabeth and then went home and started calling you. That’s all there was to my wild evening, too.”
“I don’t like being called your mistress.”
“I’m sorry. Lately I’ve been feeling”—he paused—“possessive.” His gaze was steady. “What should I call you?”
“The name is Gwen. You don’t have to use any other labels.” She turned away to reach for a couple of mugs and saw the light come on across the street in Mason’s apartment. There was no sense adding new fuel to a fire that was starting to die out, Guinevere decided. Catching sight of Mason through the kitchen window would probably not set well with Zac. Out of sight, out of mind. She put the mugs down on the counter and went to lower the blinds. Her hand was on the cord when an abrupt movement in the studio caught her eye.
“Zac!”
He was at her side instantly. “What is it?”
“Zac, there’s someone in Mason’s studio. Oh, my God, look!”
Mason had sauntered into the high-ceilinged room, automatically turning on the lights. A dark, hooded figure, who had apparently been inside the apartment when Mason opened his door, dashed across the floor, hand upraised. From their vantage point Guinevere and Zac could make out Mason’s startled reaction, and then the hooded figure was upon him.
“Call 911.” Zac was already on his way out of the kitchen, heading for the front door.
The Sinister Touch Page 4
