soon enough. He sighed. “I’m not sure I’ll be in town then. Maybe I can catch her some other time. I definitely am interested.” He looked again longingly at the rain photo.
The woman seemed to hesitate, and he knew he had her. “You know...I’m expecting her later today. She said about four. She’s coming in to do some work to get her photographs ready for the exhibit. Maybe you could catch her then.”
He couldn’t wait to meet Kat Hamilton.
MAX MADE A few calls to see what kind of interest there was in the photos of Senator Buckmaster Hamilton with his first wife, the back-from-the-dead Sarah Johnson Hamilton. There was always skepticism with something this big. But not one of the people he called told him to get lost.
“Where can you be reached?” they each asked in turn. “I’ll have to get back to you... Is there any chance of getting an exclusive if these photographs...?” The questions came.
Not one to count his chickens before they hatched, Max still couldn’t help feeling as if the money was already in his pocket. He could already taste the huge steak he planned to have as soon as he got Kat Hamilton to verify that the photos he’d taken were of her long-lost mother.
Then it was just a matter of waiting for the calls to start coming in and the bidding to begin. All he had to do was wait around until four for Kat.
He’d parked his pickup down the street so he could watch the art gallery, and see who came and went. A little after four, he spotted Kat Hamilton. She looked just as she had in her photo on her website. He watched her climb out of a newer model SUV, pull a large folder from the back and head across the street toward the gallery.
As he got out of his pickup, he admitted that he was flying by the seat of his pants. He wasn’t sure how he was going to play this. He just hoped that the Max Malone charm didn’t let him down. Passing a shop window, he caught his reflection and stopped to brush back his too-long hair. He really needed a haircut, and a shave wouldn’t hurt either, he thought as he rubbed a palm along his bristled jaw.
Well, too late for any of that. He straightened his shirt, sniffed to make sure he didn’t reek—after all, he’d spent the night sleeping under the stars in the back of his truck. He smelled like the great outdoors, and from what he could tell, Kat Hamilton might appreciate that. Most of her photographs he’d seen were taken in the great outdoors.
Still, he knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Kat Hamilton wasn’t just a rich, probably spoiled artist. She was a rich, probably spoiled artist whose daddy was running for president and whose birth mother was possibly unstable. He had no idea what it was going to take to get what he wanted from the unapproachable Kat Hamilton.
When he pushed into the gallery, the bell over the door chimed softly and both women turned in his direction. The gallery owner looked happy to see him. Kat? Not so much. He saw her take in his attire from his Western shirt to his worn jeans and boots. He’d left his straw cowboy hat in the truck, but his camera bag was slung over one shoulder.
“This is the man I was just telling you about,” the shop owner said.
Kat’s gray eyes seemed to bore into him as he sauntered toward her. Mistrust and something colder made her gaze appear hard as granite. She was dressed in an oversize sweater and loose jeans, that approach-at-your-own-risk look welded on her face.
“Max Malone,” he said extending his hand. “I’m a huge fan of your work, but I’m sure you hear that all the time.”
Her handshake was firm enough. Her steely gaze never warmed, just as it never left his. “Thank you.” Her voice had an edge to it, a warning. Tread carefully.
“I was especially taken with your rain photo,” he said, moving in that direction, hoping she would take the hint and follow.
“You should show him your latest ones you brought in today,” the gallery owner said.
Kat didn’t jump at that.
“Would you mind if I took a photo of this? I want to show it to my wife. This would be perfect for her office.”
“That would be fine,” Kat said, clearly not invested in his company. He was reminded that she came from a wealthy family. She didn’t need to make money from her photographs.
He snapped the shot of her rain photo and then walked back to where he’d left her standing. Every line of her body language said she’d had enough of him. He felt as if he was chipping away at solid ice. Charm wasn’t going to get what he wanted. He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to buy one of her photographs. The prices were a little steep, and he doubted cash would warm her up.
He was tempted, though, to buy the one she’d taken of the pouring rain. There was something about the shot... “I hate to even show you the photo I took, ” he said, stopping next to her to show her a scenery shot he’d taken on his camera while he’d been waiting for her to show up at the gallery.
She gave the photo a cursory glance and started to turn away when he flipped to the one he believed to be of her mother.
Kat Hamilton froze. Her gaze leaped from the camera to him. She took a step back, her gray eyes sparking with anger.
“I’m sorry,” he said innocently, even though he felt a surge of pleasure to see some emotion in her face. “Is something wrong?”
“Who are you?” she demanded. “You’re one of those reporters who have been camped outside the ranch like vultures for weeks.”
That pretty well covered it, while at the same time confirming what he already knew. The photo was of Sarah Hamilton.
“I guess I don’t have to ask you if the woman in the photo is your mother,” he said as he put his camera away.
“Do you want me to call the police?” the shop owner asked as she stood wringing her hands.
“No, this man is leaving,” Kat said, glaring poison darts at him. She looked shaken. Clearly, he’d caught her flat-footed with the photo.
“For what it’s worth, I really do like your photos.” With that, he left. She hurled insults after him. Not that he didn’t deserve them.
He was just doing his job. He doubted Kat Hamilton had ever had a real job. But even though he could and would defend his to the death, he was always sorry when innocent people got hurt.
It was debatable how innocent Sarah Hamilton was at this point, though. Unfortunately, her daughters would pay the price for her notoriety.
* * *
“WHAT DO YOU mean you’re finished with the job?” Angelina Broadwater Hamilton demanded of the private investigator after taking a seat across from him. She had flown in this morning after he’d told her he had to see her. “What did you find out? I know Sarah Johnson Hamilton is hiding something. Did you find out what it is or not?”
“I hit a dead end.”
The fifty-something Mike “Moose” McCallahan was tall and strapping with a full head of blond hair. Right now, though, the big, tough-looking man was avoiding her gaze.
