He couldn’t contain a laugh at her look of outrage.
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” she finally said. “Auntie Q isn’t about to let anything come in the way of this opening. Great-uncle Joshua loved Mardi Gras. ‘A celebration of being alive,’ he used to call it. She has had her heart set on this weekend ever since he died. I won’t even bother trying to convince her otherwise.”
Great-uncle Joshua. Damn, but that reference to his grandfather brought him back a lot of years. Lennon wasn’t related, yet his grandfather had been as much a part of her family as his. Her posthumous concern for this memorial showed a graceful acceptance of the sordid triangle of man-family-mistress that Josh couldn’t help but admire.
Though he’d grown up knowing his grandfather divided his time between two families, he couldn’t help perceiving the entire situation as strange. True, people had done things differently back then. Otherwise his grandmother might have divorced his grandfather after realizing she wanted no part of marriage save the social and economic position it provided her.
She hadn’t. Instead, she’d suggested her husband tend his needs outside their marriage. Her solution had offended his noble grandfather, who’d resisted for well over a decade—until Quinevere McDarby had come to work for Eastman Antiquities. Thus the Eastman-McDarby connection had been born, and this gorgeous woman before him had become a part of Josh’s life.
“I tried reasoning with your great-aunt,” he admitted. “Didn’t work.”
“So she wants you to investigate. Isn’t this a little out of your normal line of work? I heard you freelance for a bunch of government agencies. Looking for missing people and heavy stuff like that.”
Evidently Lennon knew a lot about him, and for some reason the realization pleased him. He nodded.
“How’d Auntie Q rope you into this, then?”
“She called me Josh Three and I caved. I haven’t been called that since she gave me the nickname to distinguish me from my father and grandfather. It was a time warp.”
“Joshua Eastman the third sounds so…highbrow.”
“Confusing.” At least while he’d been home.
“That’s it?” Lennon eyed him doubtfully. “All a girl has to do is call you Josh Three to get her way with you?”
“And heap on the guilt. Works every time.”
She tipped the cup at him and said, “Aha! I knew it.”
“She laid a whole trip on me. Told me that she and my grandfather had been watching every move I’ve made during my career. She knew all about my college education, the civil and criminal programs, the certifications and the police training seminars. She even knew the exact date when I graduated with my master’s degree.” He shook his head, still staggered by Miss Q’s revelation. “She said they’d thrown a party for every damned milestone, that they still had the right to celebrate my accomplishments, even if I chose not to be there.”
“Whoa. She worked you over big time.”
“Like a pro.” He had to force a smile. “She resorted to threats, too. Told me my grandfather would haunt me for the rest of my life if I let her—or you—get blown into bits all over the parish. Then there’d be no one left to fund-raise for the Eastman Gallery until the museum can afford to support it. It would be sold off piecemeal…all my grandfather’s acquisitions, his life’s work—”
“Gotcha.” Lennon laughed, then sobered. “Is she in danger?”
“After fifteen years in my business, I’ve learned it’s never wise to ignore this type of incident. I can’t rule out the possibility of a threat, and that’s enough for me.”
Lennon nodded and jumped on his reasoning like a speeding bullet. “We’ve already had some trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
She rose in a lovely display of slim curves and sleek lines, then strode toward his grandfather’s portrait to retrieve an envelope from beside the display case below. “Negative letters and some picketing. Given the, er, sensitive subject matter…” she said, studiously avoiding the marble sculpture propped erect beside her. “There are always supporters and detractors.”
“Let me see.”
She sat back down and passed him the envelope, which he opened to reveal a bold message in computer-generated type: “Erotic art is just an upscale name for smut. Smut doesn’t belong in our museums.”
“Have they all been like this—computer printouts with no signatures?
Lennon shook her head, sending pale hair slipping over her shoulder in a sleek wave. “Most, but not all. Some have been handwritten.”
“I’ll investigate and find out what’s going on.”
“Thanks. But I’m still worried about Auntie Q’s safety.”
“For the time being Olaf will be a more than adequate bodyguard. Not too many people would want to mess with him, based on his size alone, and he promised me he won’t let her out of his sight. But I’ve got to tell you that Miss Q has the exact same concerns about you.” Josh paused for effect before adding the kicker. “She wants me to be your bodyguard.”
A golden brow arched skeptically. “Oh?”
“She hired me for round-the-clock protection. She’s afraid if there’s a personal threat it might place you at risk, since you’ve been active in opening the gallery, too.”
“What do you think?”
He brushed stray hairs from her cheek, knowing he had no right to touch her, yet unable to help himself all the same. “I’d hate to see anything happen to you, chère.”
She leaned away from him and forced a smile—an act of sheer determination if ever he saw one. “Well, it’s very nice of you to be concerned, but you don’t want to get stuck baby-sitting me through all the erotic activities we’ve got scheduled.”
Josh could think of any number of erotic activities he’d willingly get stuck in with Lennon, but before he could see past pImages** of her long legs naked and twined with his, she said, “I’ll be fine. I understand why Auntie Q is worried, but no one has thrown a grenade at me.”
He shrugged. “I promised.”
Leaping off the bench, she handed him the empty coffee cup, cocked her fists on her hips and glared at him. Josh settled back against the wall while she came up with an astonishing number of reasons why she didn’t need protection.
He didn’t buy a single one. Her heart-shaped face revealed barely suppressed panic. He considered the possibility that he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the chemistry between them. The lady clearly found something disturbing about sharing close quarters for the long weekend.
“What’s the trouble, chère?”
“I just told you—”
“The real trouble.
