ago and heard that you’ve started working there again.”
“News certainly travels quickly,” Amy said.
“And what does Carol think of you making up with your father?”
If she knew the whole story she’d probably be thrilled.
“Why don’t you ask her?” Amy said coolly. “I’m sure she’d love to hear from her friends.”
The matron fixed her with a stare. “I don’t know what your father is thinking of, the old goat,” she said. “Taking up with a bimbo, at his age. No wonder his heart attacked him.”
She’s just fishing, Amy told herself. Trying to get a reaction. “Shall I tell him you’re devastated that another obligation will prevent you from attending his wedding?” she asked gently. “Excuse me, I see someone I must speak with.”
She moved through the crowd, nodding and smiling at people she didn’t even see, still shaken by the encounter.
She’d known, of course, that the Sherwoods’ friends would be startled by the divorce and stunned by Gavin’s choice of a new wife. And not only their friends objected, either—on the night of his heart attack, Amy had heard one of Gavin’s nurses mutter something about Honey being so dim she couldn’t spell CPR. But it hadn’t occurred to Amy that so many people would take the matter personally, much less feel they had a right to comment.
That very direct animosity wasn’t going to make her job any easier, Amy reflected. It wasn’t only Gavin’s heart attack that had threatened his business.
She reached the far end of the room and turned back, and her gaze snagged on the Picasso. It was hanging alone on a stark white wall, and nearby stood a woman who looked as much like the figure in the painting as it was possible for a living human to resemble the modernistic form. Her face was all sharp angles and shadows, and the individual features—though not unpleasing—didn’t seem to belong together. As Amy watched, the woman waved a hand casually toward the painting and spoke animatedly to the man standing next to her.
Amy studied the man and, recognizing him, allowed herself to breathe again. He was a bright light of local industry, not an appraiser or art expert or auctioneer, as she’d feared. For the moment at least, the Picasso was still within her reach.
“It’s a very nice painting,” said a man standing next to her. “But you shouldn’t look at it with that covetous expression, Amy. Mrs. Maxwell might object.”
Amy looked up at the editor of Connoisseur’s Choice. “Hi, Brad,” she said, trying not to sound breathless. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Oh, we get invited to all the best parties. It’s one of the perks of working for the magazine.”
“Speaking of the magazine,” Amy began, “I was going to call you tomorrow.”
“Getting anxious? It does seem to have taken the publisher forever to make up his mind. But he finally gave me the go-ahead this afternoon to offer you the job at the salary we discussed. When can you start?”
“That’s the problem, I’m afraid. Until my father’s back on his feet…”
She tried to explain why she was needed so badly at Sherwood Auctions for a while, but the hollow feeling inside her expanded as she watched Brad’s face darken.
“I was hoping to have a new roving expert on board next week,” he said. “Waiting a month or more…I don’t know what the publisher’s going to say, Amy.”
“He’s the one who’s taken three weeks to make up his mind that he wanted me at all,” she argued.
“As far as that goes, Mr. Dougal’s getting old and a bit unpredictable these days. We’ve learned not to expect him to make snap decisions. But when he does make up his mind—”
“But what’s the difference if it’s a little longer before I can start? Almost everyone you hire must have some loose ends to tie up before they can start work.”
Brad swirled the ice cubes which were all that remained of his drink. “I’ll have to run it past him again and let you know.” He turned toward the bar.
“Good,” Amy called after him. “By the time he gets back to you, I’ll be free. In the meantime, you can find me at Sherwood Auctions—working hard so I can get out of there in a hurry.”
With a sigh, she set her own glass on the tray of a passing waiter. The party was already starting to break up, she realized. The Maxwells, it seemed, not only expected their guests to arrive punctually but to depart the same way.
Amy hung back till the crowd thinned, hoping for a chance to have a private word with her hosts. If they were thinking of selling the Picasso…
Now that she’d seen it, she had no doubt of the painting’s value. It was a major work which would bring millions at auction, and the commission for Sherwood Auctions would be a significant chunk of cash.
She multiplied the figures in her head and concluded that this one deal could produce enough money to solve Gavin’s financial crunch in one blow. She wouldn’t even have to wait for the auction to actually be held. As soon as the Maxwells had signed an agreement, Amy could turn all the arrangements over to Dylan and go off to Connoisseur’s Choice with a clear conscience. She’d be happy and Gavin would be ecstatic. Dylan might not be thrilled, but he was certainly capable of carrying out the details.
If only she could pull it off.
Eventually there was a moment when the Maxwells were standing alone by the front door, and Amy seized her chance. “Thank you for letting me come in my father’s place tonight.” She held out her business card. It was part of the outdated supply that she should have thrown away after she resigned from the auction house. It still listed her as an appraiser—but at least the Maxwells would have her name right. “Gavin will be back to work in a few weeks, but he’s asked me to tell you that if you make a decision about the Picasso in the meantime he’s authorized me to act for him in arranging the sale.”
Mrs. Maxwell stared at the business card she was holding as if it had abruptly turned into a cockroach. She suddenly looked even more like the impossible woman of the painting, and her voice had turned to ice. “What are you talking about?”
Rex Maxwell shifted from one foot to the other. “Now, my dear…a mistake…anyone could misunderstand…Gavin must have thought…”
His wife turned on him. “You talked to Gavin Sherwood about selling my Picasso?” The accusation cut sharply across the remaining party conversation.
Rex Maxwell glared at Amy, but his voice was mild, almost pacifying. “The possibility came up,” he admitted. “I didn’t say yes or no.”
He was lying, and Amy knew it. The glare he’d sent her way told her that he and Gavin had seriously discussed the sale—but Rex Maxwell had never consulted his wife about it.
She felt unsteady on her feet, as if the apartment tower had suddenly begun swaying in a high wind.
Now it made sense that Gavin’s note had mentioned only the husband. The only remaining question was whether he had known his friend was working behind his wife’s back. Had he
