no privacy. She hated being shadowed every waking hour. No bodyguard! Not in the United States. Unless there was obvious cause, she refused to believe she needed such extreme caution.
When the entrées arrived, Quint took one bite of the slab of beef on his plate and proclaimed it the “second-best steak he’d ever had.” He informed them that number one was beef slaughtered on his own ranch and cooked up by his grandma from Alabama. “But Grandma’s true specialty is barbecue. Melts in your mouth and sets your tongue on fire at the same time.”
“Of course,” Natalie said. Her own lemon-grass chicken seemed dry and unappealing.
“Are you a good cook, Miss Natalie?”
“I’m not half bad.”
“She’s brilliant,” Whitney said. “When we were in boarding school, she used to make pizza from scratch with fresh mozzarella. Any project that Natalie undertakes, she does well.”
“Cooking is no big deal. It’s just following a recipe.” She sliced her buttered asparagus. “I was wondering about Sheik Khalaf. If he has a bone to pick with Quantum, why wouldn’t he send the nasty little notes to my father?”
“Because,” Whitney said, “your father is an incredibly principled man who would walk into fire rather than back down to a threat.”
“An incredibly stubborn man,” Natalie agreed.
“On the other hand, your father would do anything to protect his family. A threat to you would make him sit up and take notice.”
Though Natalie hated to think of her presence at Quantum causing a weak link in the company’s moral armor, she had to admit that Whitney had a point. “Why would Sheik Khalaf warn me to keep my mouth shut in Washington? What could I say that would damage him?”
“You’re the spokesperson for Quantum,” Whitney said. “Which makes it look like you’re advocating sanctions against Imad.”
“Also Nurul,” Natalie said. Nurul was where Prince Zahir Haji Haleem might become powerful. Should she worry about him?
She laid her fork across the plate, lacking the desire to eat or to discuss the threats. She turned to Quint and said, “The best steak I ever had was in Cartagena, Colombia. I still don’t know all the seasonings, but they were delicious.”
“There’s some fine cooking in South America,” he said.
“My father mentioned that you had done a lot of wildcatting. Have you been to Colombia?”
He blinked. A shadow darkened his eyes. “That’s where I met my late wife, Paula.”
“I’m sorry,” Natalie said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay. I like thinking about when we met. Those are good memories.”
His thumb rubbed against the braided surface of the ring he wore on his left hand. After Paula died, he had taken the remains of her wedding band to a jeweler, where he had the gold of her ring entwined with the silver of his own. Together forever.
After their lunch, Whitney talked Natalie into letting her take the threatening note to Solutions, Inc. for computer analysis. When Whitney described the software and telecommunication services provided by Solutions, Quint almost believed it was a real business instead of a front for Chicago Confidential.
They bid her farewell, then he and Natalie caught a taxi to the Art Institute. Though the mention of Paula had tossed him into a more introspective mood, he remained alert to his assignment, scanning the faces of bystanders on the street. In the taxi, he played the sightseer, giving him an excuse to twist his head around to see if they were being followed. With all the identical yellow cabs, that was a near-impossible effort.
When they disembarked on Michigan Avenue outside the Art Institute, he noticed another vehicle, half a block away, that came to a sudden stop. Only one man got out. Average height. Longish brown hair and a Vandyke beard. Probably in his early thirties. He wore a shiny black windbreaker. Though he took out a cell phone and started talking, Quint had the sense that he was waiting for them to make the first move. Had they picked up a tail?
When Quint started up the wide marble stairs leading to the fluted columns of the Art Institute’s entryway, he lightly touched Natalie’s elbow, politely escorting her, trying to protect her from unseen, unnamed threats.
She glanced up at him. “Is something wrong?”
It was hard to sneak anything past her. “I’m just looking around, enjoying your city.”
The man in the windbreaker stayed a good distance away, a few stairs behind them, doing a fairly good job of hiding among the visitors to the Art Institute.
“Miss Natalie, do you mind if I take a gander at those shops across the street?”
“Not at all. And, by the way, I prefer when you call me Natalie. ‘Miss Natalie’ doesn’t suit me.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” As they backtracked down the stairs, Quint watched the black windbreaker. Would he follow them?
The man with the Vandyke continued up the stairs and disappeared into the shadows of the columns. He must be just an innocent tourist, here to appreciate fine art.
When they reached the curb, Quint said, “Changed my mind. I’ll shop for souvenirs later. Let’s go see some art.”
“Fine.”
A slight edge of irritation crept through her professional politeness, and Quint figured he was driving this lady crazy.
Inside the Art Institute, Quint felt relatively safe. There were plenty of guards on every floor. Nobody was going to grab Natalie in here.
He allowed himself to relax.
“What sort of art do you like?” Natalie asked. “Old masters? Asian? Photography?”
“I like Remington.”
“Pictures of cowboys,” she said. “Of course.”
In his wildcatting years, Quint had blown through life like a Texan tumbleweed. He’d viewed art collections around the world from the Louvre in Paris to the Georgia O’Keefe Gallery in Santa Fe. In fact, he’d visited the Art Institute of Chicago once before.
As they toured the postmodernists, he stopped in front of a painting by Edward Hopper depicting a night scene of a near-deserted cafeteria on a city street corner. “Must be lonely living in the city,” he said. “After the crowds go home, there’s nothing but you and the concrete walls.”
“Sometimes, it’s lonelier in a crowd,” she said.
He stepped back, supposedly to get a better perspective on the painting. His gaze rested on the back of Natalie’s head. Her smooth, thick, brown hair fell in a delicate swoosh to her shoulders. Highlights of gold shimmered in the light. Her hair looked soft, touchable. He hated to think she might be lonely.
In another part of the gallery, he paused in front of the famous portrait by Grant Wood of a bald farmer with a pitchfork and his plain wife, American Gothic.
