for composure, “If you and Lucy have talked about me, you know I’m a very private person. My reaction is my own affair. Not yours.”
Certainly Lucy had talked about Marcia. Not a lot, but enough for Quentin to realize that although Lucy loved her sister, she didn’t feel close to her. He had gained a picture of a woman utterly absorbed in her work to the exclusion of her family and of intimacy. A cold woman who would do the right thing out of principle, not out of love, refusing to involve herself in all the joys and tragedies of everyday life.
And this was the woman he’d been waiting to meet for the last ten years? Or—more accurately—the last twenty-five? His intuition was giving him that message. Loud and clear. But maybe it was wrong.
He’d made a mistake when he’d ignored his intuition to marry Helen. Could he be making another—if different—mistake now? Had he willed Marcia into existence just because of his own needs? Because he was lonely?
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Marcia said fretfully.
Quentin made an effort to pull himself together. “The woman Lucy described to me wasn’t the kind of woman who’d start to cry because some guy streaked paint on a piece of canvas.”
Marcia wasn’t sure what made her angrier—that Lucy had talked about her to Quentin or that his words were so accurate. “Oh, wasn’t she? What—?”
A peremptory rap came on the door. Much relieved, Marcia said, “Your public awaits you. You’d better go, Mr. Ramsey.”
“Quentin. Are you going to Lucy and Troy’s place when this shindig is over?”
“I am not.”
The door opened and Emily Harrington-Smythe poked her head in. “Quentin? I really need you out here.”
“I’ll be right there.” He reached out and took the glasses from Marcia’s nose. “You have truly beautiful eyes. Who are you hiding from?”
“From people as aggressive as you.”
She grabbed for the glasses. Laughter glinting in his own eyes, he evaded her. “You can have them back if you promise to have lunch with me tomorrow.”
“I’m sure any number of women in this gallery would be delighted to have lunch with you—but I’m not one of them.”
“I’ll wear my jeans.”
His smile was very hard to resist. Marcia resisted it with all her will power. “My glasses, please.”
“I’ll get your phone number from Lucy.”
“My telephone displays the number of the person calling me. If I think it’s you, I won’t answer.”
“It’ll take more than modern technology to defeat me, Dr. Marcia Barnes. Because you still haven’t told me why my painting made you cry.” He passed her the glasses and dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. “See you around.”
He strode out of the room. For the space of five minutes he hadn’t felt the least bit lonely. Taking Emily by the arm, he said urgently, “Composition Number 8 in the catalog—I want you to put a ‘Not for Sale’ sign on it.”
Emily said bluntly, “I can’t do that. Not when it’s listed.”
“Then mark it ‘Sold’.”
“It’s not,” Emily said with indisputable logic.
“It is. I’m buying it.”
“Quentin, what’s wrong with you? I’ve never seen you behave so erratically at an opening.”
“I’m buying Number 8,” he repeated patiently. “There’s nothing particularly erratic about that.”
“You can’t buy your own painting! Anyway, Mr. Sorensen has his eye on it, and he wields a lot of influence in this city.”
“Too bad. Mr. Sorensen isn’t getting it. I am.”
“But-”
“Do it, Emily,” Quentin said with a pleasant smile. “If you want another Quentin Ramsey show next year.”
His shows were enormously successful financially. “Very well,” Emily said huffily. “But I’ll have to charge you the full commission.”
“After tonight I’m sure I can afford it,” he said. “That looks like the last of the cabinet ministers. I’ll go and do my bit.”
Trying to push out of his mind the image of a woman’s long-lashed violet eyes swimming in tears, wondering how she’d react when he presented her with an extremely expensive painting, he made his way toward the man in the gray pin-striped suit.
CHAPTER TWO
MARCIA stayed behind in the room that she now decided must be the gallery owner’s office, struggling to subdue a mixture of rage at Quentin’s effrontery and a truant amusement at his persistence. Mr. Quentin Ramsey, she’d be willing to bet, wasn’t used to women who said no. Not that she’d been playing games with him. She was in enough trouble at work, without adding a man who asked questions she didn’t want to answer, who had blue eyes that seemed to burn their way into her very soul and who was—she could admit it now that she was alone—sexual dynamite.
It wasn’t just his body, its hard planes ill-concealed by his tailored suit. His fingers were long and sensitive, the backs of his hands taut with sinews, and his face with its strong bones had character more than standard good looks—a character hinting at the complexities of the man within. It was an inhabited face, she thought slowly, the face of a man who’d tasted deeply of life, experiencing its dark side as well as its light.
She’d noticed an awful lot in a very few minutes. Too much for her own peace of mind. Altogether too much.
Every instinct she possessed urged her to head straight for the coat rack and leave. But if she did so Lucy and Troy would have a fit. She squared her shoulders and marched back into the gallery, purposely not looking at the painting so unimaginatively called Composition Number 8.
She picked out Quentin immediately; he was talking to a man in a pin-striped suit with every evidence of courteous attention. But then his eyes swiveled to meet hers, as though he’d sensed her standing there watching him. He winked at her. Marcia tilted her chin, turned her back and headed for the far gallery.
Lucy and Troy were gazing at a small work in one corner. Troy had his arm draped around Lucy’s shoulders while Lucy’s body language said more clearly than words that the man holding her was the man she adored. Again hot tears flooded Marcia’s eyes. I’ve got to stop this, she thought frantically. Right now. I’ve avoided marriage and commitment like the plague. So why does the sight of my sister’s happiness make me feel like a failure? Smarten up, Marcia! she made a gallant effort to gather the shreds of the control for which she was so famous. Then, her lips set, her chin high, she said casually, “Hi, Lucy... Troy.”
Lucy whirled, ducking out of the circle of Troy’s arm. “Marcia—I’m so pleased to see you!”
Marcia had never
