by Nora Robets
"Goes without saying."
"I did, of course, call Mrs. Karterfield, who, as expected, asked us to hold it for her until she could come down personally to see it. Next week. And what happens when our darling Mrs. Karterfield from Pittsburgh comes into The Gallery to see a Deco figure?"
"She buys it. And often at least one other piece. If she comes in with a friend, which is usually the case, she harangues her companion until she buys something too. It's a good day when Mrs. Karterfield comes to town."
"Pamela sold it out from under her."
It took Malory ten seconds to find her voice. "What? What? How? Why? Mrs. K's one of our best customers. She always gets first look at Deco bronzes."
His lips folded into a thin, derisive smile. "A bird in the hand. That's what the twit told me when I found out. And how did I find out? I'll tell you," he said with a triumphant ring in his voice. "I found out when Mrs. K came in unexpectedly yesterday afternoon to see it. Just couldn't wait, she told me. And she brought two friends. Two, Mal. I could cry."
"What happened? What did she say?"
"I took her over to see it, and there's a Sold sign tucked under the base. I assumed it was a mistake, but I went to check. Pamela sold it that morning, apparently while I was in the back on the phone trying to soothe Alfred because Pamela the Putrid had accused him of overcharging for the crating for the marble nudes."
"Alfred? Overcharging?" Malory pressed her hands to her temples. "I can't keep up."
"It was horrible, just horrible. It took me twenty minutes to talk him down, and even then I wasn't sure he wouldn't stomp in and beat her with his hammer. Maybe I should've let him," Tod considered, then waved the thought away with both hands. "Anyway, while I was busy with Alfred, Pamela sold Mrs. K's Deco to a stranger . To some fly-by-night, some wanderer in off the street!"
He flopped back, splaying a hand over his chest. "I still can't believe it. Mrs. K was, naturally, very upset, and demanded to see you. Then I had to tell her you weren't with us any longer. And the doo-doo hit the fan. Big time."
"She asked for me? That's so sweet."
"It gets sweeter. Pamela came down. And they got into it. Boy, did they. Mrs. K asking how an item on hold for her could be sold. Pamela getting snippy and says how it's not gallery policy to hold a piece without a cash deposit. Can you imagine ?"
"Cash deposit?" Horrified, Malory could only goggle. "From one of our oldest and most reliable clients?"
"Exactly! Then Mrs. K's all, Well, I've been patronizing The Gallery for fifteen years, and my word has always been good enough. And where is James? And Pamela's, I beg your pardon, but I'm in charge here. And Mrs. K shoots back that if James has put a moron in charge he's obviously gone senile."
"Oh, go, Mrs. K!"
"Meanwhile, Julia runs into the back and calls James to let him know there's a big, fat problem. Pamela and Mrs. K are practically coming to blows over the bronze when he comes rushing in. He's trying to calm them both down, but they're too into it. Mrs. K's saying she won't deal with this woman . I loved the way she said it. This woman . It sang. And Pamela's saying The Gallery's a business and can hardly run on one customer's whim."
"Oh, my God."
"James is frantic, promising Mrs. K he'll sort all this out, but she's furious. Her face is positively puce. She tells him she won't set foot in the place again as long as that woman is associated with The Gallery. And, you'll love this—if he let a jewel like Malory Price slip through his fingers he deserves to go out of business. And with that she sails out the door."
"She called me a jewel." Delighted, Malory hugged herself. "I love her. This is good stuff, Tod. It's really started my day off on a high note."
"There's even more. James is pissed. When's the last time you've seen James pissed?"
"Um. Never."
"Bingo." Tod punched a finger in the air. "He was pale as a sheet, his mouth was all tight and grim. And he told Pamela between clenched teeth"—Tod clamped his together to demonstrate— "'I need to speak with you, Pamela. Upstairs.' "
"What did she say?"
"Well, she stormed up, and he went behind her. Then he closed the door, which was very disappointing. I couldn't hear much of what he said, even though I went up and lurked around hoping to. But you could hear her clearly enough when she started raging. I'm making something out of this place, she tells him. You said I was in charge. I'm tired of having Malory Price thrown in my face every time I turn around. Why the hell didn't you marry her instead of me?"
"Oh." Malory thought about that scenario for a couple of seconds. "Eeuuw."
"Then she started crying, saying she was working so hard and nobody appreciated her. And she ran out. I barely scrambled away in time. It was all so exhausting, yet oddly exhilarating."
"Crying? Damn it." A little worm of sympathy crawled into Malory's chest. "Were they I'mreally-hurt-and-sad tears, or were they just I'm-really-pissed-off tears?"
"Pissed-off tears."
"Okay, then." She squashed the worm without mercy. "I'm probably going to hell, right, for getting such a charge out of all this?"
"We'll get a nice little condo together. But while we're still shuffling on this mortal coil, I think James is going to ask you to come back. In fact, Mal, I'm sure of it."
"Really?" Her heart gave a quick leap. "What did he say?"
"It's not so much what he said, as what he didn't say. He didn't go running after the weeping Pamela to dry her beady eyes. In fact, he stayed for the rest of the day, going over accounts. And he looked grim when he left. Absolutely grim. I'd say Pamela's reign of terror is at an end."
"This is a good day." Malory let out a long sigh. "A really good day."
"And I've got to get started on it. Not to worry," he said as he got up. "I'll keep you updated with bulletins. Meanwhile, the painting you were wondering about? The portrait?"
"The what? Oh, yes. What about it?"
"Remember how we both thought there was something familiar about it? It came to me. Do you remember, about five years ago, the oil on canvas, unsigned? Young Arthur of Britain, on the verge of drawing Excalibur from an altar of stone?"
Chilly fingers brushed the nape of her neck as the painting floated into her mind. "My God. I remember. Of course I remember. The color, the intensity, the way the light pulsed around the sword."
"Definitely the same style and school as the one you showed me. Might be the same artist."
"Yes… yes, it might. How did we acquire it? Through an estate, wasn't it? In Ireland. James went to Europe for several weeks to acquire. That was the best piece he brought back with him. Who bought it?"
"Even my razor-sharp memory has its limits, but I looked it up. Julia sold it to Jordan Hawke. The writer? Local boy, or was. Lives in New York now, I think."
Her stomach did a long, slow roll. "Jordan Hawke."
"Maybe you can contact him through his publisher if you want to talk to him about the painting. Well, got to run, sugarplum." He leaned down to give her a kiss. "Let me know the minute James calls you to grovel. I want all the deets."
There were half a dozen people at keyboards and phones when Malory reached the third level of the Dispatch , where Flynn had his office. She saw him immediately, through the glass walls.
He paced back and forth in front of a desk, tipping a bright silver Slinky from one hand to the other. And appeared to be holding a conversation with himself.
She wondered how he could stand the lack of privacy while he worked, that constant sensation of being on display. And the noise, she thought. With all the clacking, ringing, talking, and beeping, she would go mad trying to formulate a single creative thought.
She wasn't sure whom to speak with. No one looked particularly like an assistant or secretary. And despite the retro toy that Flynn was currently playing with, it suddenly dawned on Malory that he was a busy man. An important man. Not a man she should pop in on without notice.
As she stood, undecided, Flynn sat on the corner of
his desk, pouring the Slinky from right hand to left and back again. His hair was mussed, as if he'd spent some time playing with it before he'd gotten hold of the toy.
He wore a dark green shirt tucked into casual khakis and very possibly the oldest athletic shoes she'd ever seen.
There was a quick tingle in her belly, followed by a helpless little thud just under her heart.
It was all right to be attracted to him, she told herself. That was acceptable. But she couldn't let this move to the level it was headed for so quickly. That wasn't smart, it wasn't safe. It wasn't even…
Then he looked out through the glass, his eyes meeting hers for one fast, hot beat before he smiled. And the tingle, the thud, became more intense.
He flicked his wrist and the Slinky fell back into itself, then he gave her a come-ahead gesture with his free hand.
She wound her way through the desks and the din. When she stepped through the open office door, she saw with some relief that he hadn't been talking to himself, but on a speakerphone.
Out of habit, she closed the door behind her, then looked toward the sound of heroic snoring to see Moe sprawled belly-up between two filing cabinets.
What did you do about a man who brought his big, silly dog to work with him? she wondered. Maybe more to the point, how did you resist such a man?
Flynn held up a finger to signal one more minute, so she took the time to study his work area. There was a huge corkboard on one wall, jammed with notes, articles, photographs, and phone numbers. Her fingers itched to organize it, as well as the maze of papers on his desk.
Shelves were full of books, several of which seemed to be law and medical journals. There were phone books for a number of Pennsylvania counties, books of famous quotations, movie and music guides.
In addition to the Slinky, he had a yo-yo and a number of warlike action figures. There were several plaques and awards—to the paper and to Flynn personally, stacked together as if he hadn't gotten around to hanging them. She didn't know where she would have hung them either, as what little wall space he had was taken up by the cork-board and an equally large wall calendar for the month of September.
She turned around when he ended the call. Then stepped back as he moved toward her.
He stopped. "Problem?"
"No. Maybe. Yes."
"Pick one," he suggested.
"I got a tingle in my stomach when I saw you in here."
His grin spread. "Thanks."
"No. No. I don't know if I'm ready for that. I have a lot on my mind. I didn't come here to talk about that, but see—I'm already distracted."
"Hold that thought," he told her when his phone rang again. "Hennessy. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. When? No, that's no problem," he continued and scribbled on a pad that he unearthed from the rubble. "I'll take care of it."
He hung up, then unplugged the phone. "It's the only way to kill the beast. Tell me more about this tingle."
"No. I don't know why I told you in the first place. I'm here about Jordan Hawke."
"What about him?"
"He bought a painting from The Gallery about five years ago—"
"A painting? Are we talking about the same Jordan Hawke?"
"Yes. It's of young Arthur about to draw the sword from the stone. I think—I'm nearly sure—it's by the same artist as the painting at Warrior's Peak and the one your other friend owns. I need to see it again. It was years ago, and I want to be sure I'm remembering the details of it correctly and not just adding them in because it's convenient."
"If you're right, it's an awfully big coincidence."
"If I'm right, it's not a coincidence at all. There's a purpose to it. To all of it. Can you get in touch with him?"
Because his mind was racing through the details and possibilities, Flynn filled his hands with the Slinky again. "Yeah. If he's traveling, it might take a while, but I'll track him down. I didn't know Jordan had ever been in The Gallery."
"His name's not on our client list, so I'm assuming this was a one-shot deal. To my mind, that only makes it more important."
Excitement rose in her throat and bubbled out in her voice. "Flynn, I nearly bought that painting myself. It was beyond my budget at the time, but I was doing some creative math to justify the purchase. It was sold on my morning off, just before I was planning to go to James to ask him if I could buy it on a payment plan. I have to believe all this means something."
"I'll get in touch with Jordan. My take would be he bought it for somebody. He's not much on stuff, unlike Brad. He tends to travel light and keep the acquisitions to a minimum."
"I need to see the painting again."
"Got that. I'm on it. I'll find out what I can today and fill you in over dinner tonight."
"No, that's not a good idea. It's a really, really bad idea."
"Dinner's a bad idea? People have embraced the concept of the evening meal throughout history. There's documentation."
"Us having dinner is the bad part. I need to slow things down."
He set the toy down. He shifted his body, and when she would have countered to keep that distance between them, he grabbed her hand, tugged her forward. "Somebody rushing you?"
"More like something." Her pulse began to skip—in her wrists, in her throat, even at the back of her suddenly shaky knees. There was something about that cool calculation that came into his eyes, the sort that reminded her he tended to think two or three steps ahead. "Look, this is my problem, not yours, and… Stop," she ordered when his free hand cupped the back of her neck. "This is hardly the place for—"
"They're reporters." He inclined his head toward the glass wall between his office and the newsroom. "As such, they're aware that I kiss women."
"I think I'm in love with you."
She felt his hand jerk, then go limp. She saw the amusement and purpose on his face slide into blank shock. And twin demons of hurt and temper stabbed at her heart.
"There. Now I've made it your problem too." She pushed back from him—a simple matter, as he was no longer touching her.
"Malory—" "I don't want to hear it. I don't need to hear you tell me it's too soon, too fast, you're not looking for this level of a relationship. I'm not stupid. I know all the brush-off lines. And I wouldn't be in
this position right now if you'd taken no for an answer in the first place."
"Wait a minute now." Panic washed over his face, into his voice. "Let's take a second here."
“Take a second." Mortification was quickly outweighing the hurt and the anger. "Take a week. Take the rest of your life. Just take it someplace where I'm not."
She stormed out of his office. Since bloodcurdling terror still had a grip on him, he didn't consider going after her.
In love with him? She wasn't supposed to fall in love with him. She was supposed to let him seduce her into bed, be sensible enough to keep things simple. She was supposed to be careful and practical and smart enough to keep him from falling in love with her .
He'd worked it all out, and now she was messing up the plan. He'd made himself very specific promises when his engagement had fallen apart. The first of which was to be sure he didn't put himself in that position again—a position where he was vulnerable to someone else's whims and wishes. To the point that his own ended up shattered around him.
His life was nothing like he'd thought it would be. Women—his mother, Lily—had shifted the lines on him. But damn it, he liked his life now.
"Women." Disgusted, he dropped into the chair behind his desk. “There's no figuring them."
"Men. They want everything their way."
Dana lifted her glass of wine in Malory's direction. "Sing it, sister."
Hours after she'd stalked out of Flynn's office, Malory was soothing her wounded pride with a nice Pinot Grigio, female companionship, and salon treatments in the comfort of her own home.
There were a number of things to discuss, but she couldn't think about paintings and keys and destiny until she'd vented her spleen.
"I don't care if he is your brother. He's still a man."
"He is." Dana looked mournfully into her wine. "I'm sorry to say, but he is. Have some more potato chips."
"I will." With her hair pulled back from a face coated with a green-clay refining mask, Malory sipped and munched. She studied the folds of tinfoil Zoe was layering in Dana's hair. "Maybe I should have highlights too."
"You don't need them," Zoe told her and painted another section of Dana's hair. "You need shaping."
"Shaping involves scissors."
"You won't even know I've cut it, except it'll look and feel better."
"Let me drink a little more first. And see how it looks after you've whacked at Dana's."
"Don't say 'whack' in a sentence about my hair," Dana cautioned. "Are you going to tell us what you and Flynn fought about?"
Malory sniffed. "He just wants sex. Typical."
"Pig." Dana reached into the chip bowl. "I really miss sex."
"Me too." Zoe set another square of foil. "Not just the sex part, but the leading up to it and the coming down from it parts. The excitement and the nerves and the anticipation beforehand. Then all that skin and movement and discovery during, and the full and floating feeling after. I miss that a lot."
"I need another drink." Malory reached for the bottle. "I haven't had sex in four months."
"Got that beat." Dana raised her hand. "Seven and a half and counting."
"Sluts," Zoe said with a laugh. “Try a year and a half."
"Oh, ouch." Dana took the bottle, topped off her glass and Zoe's. "No, thanks all the same, but I don't think I want to try a year and a half of celibacy."
"It's not so bad if you keep busy. You're set for a while." Zoe patted Dana on the shoulder. "Just relax while I take off Malory's mask."
"Whatever you do to me, make sure I'm gorgeous. I want Flynn to suffer the next time he sees me."
"Guaranteed."
"It's really sweet of you to do all this."
"I like it. It's good practice."
"Don't say 'practice' when I've got a headful of tinfoil," Dana complained around a mouthful of chips.
