“He was on one of our lists. That’s all that matters. If Hamilton Merrick is the one who hired a killer to get rid of you so that your sister would inherit your share of your father’s estate, it will be fascinating to see what he does now that he’s in danger of having his second chance at a Brazier bride canceled.”
Chapter 29
You’re worried about your sister, aren’t you?” Nick asked.
It was midafternoon. He and Vivian were standing in front of the Ashwood Gallery in the center of Burning Cove’s fashionable shopping district. Vivian had brought her portfolio with her. You never know, she had said.
Rex was with them, ambling along at the end of a leash, investigating interesting scents.
Vivian was contemplating a large, matted photograph displayed in the window. Nick was examining the reflections in the glass. There was no indication they were being followed by Ripley Fleming or anyone else. He reminded himself that, even in Burning Cove, where celebrity sightings were common, it would be impossible for a movie star of Fleming’s stature to venture out in public without causing heads to turn—not unless he was very, very good when it came to the art of disguise.
At first glance the movements of the individuals strolling on the wide sidewalks appeared random. Some sauntered, relaxed and unconcerned. Most were enjoying the warm sunshine and the ambience of the glamorous town. Those who wanted to see and be seen were sprinkled about like confetti. Here and there acquaintances recognized each other and stopped to chat. Others were intent on getting to an appointment on time.
And then there were the lovers; all sorts of lovers. They ranged from the secretive type, who pretended not to notice each other in public, to the dreamy-eyed couples, who did not give a damn if the whole world knew they were in the grip of transcendent passion.
Nick reminded himself that he was not interested in transcendent passion—at least not at that particular moment. Thinking of transcendent passion had a way of disrupting his focus.
The trick was to spot the one person in the crowd who did not fit into the pattern, an actor in disguise who was wearing the wrong shoes, for example.
“It’s not like Lyra to take off without telling anyone where she was going,” Vivian said. “I don’t think this is a case of bridal jitters. Hamilton must have said or done something to break her heart. Damn it. I knew this would happen. To be honest, I hoped it would. But I wanted to be there for her when she finally realized that Hamilton was not Mr. Perfect. I don’t know where she is so I can’t even call her.”
“Take it from me,” Nick said, “she’s a whole lot better off finding out the truth about him now rather than after the wedding.”
Vivian shot him a quick, irritated glance.
“I’m aware of that,” she said.
“Sorry. Voice of experience.”
“I know.” Vivian took a deep breath. “But she’s my sister.”
“And you think you should have protected her. I understand. But sometimes a person has to run headfirst into the brick wall in order to see it.”
“Voice of experience again?”
“Yep.”
Vivian turned back to study the large photograph.
“I’ve had some experience in bad choices myself,” she said. “Thankfully I never got as far as the altar but things ended badly. There was a ghastly scandal. My parents were mortified. It was one of the reasons why I left San Francisco a year ago.”
“Married man?” Nick asked.
“Nope.” Vivian made a face. “He was an artist. I took a class in pictorialism from him.”
“Right. The Carousel of the Damned photograph that I saw hanging in your office?”
“If you took a close look at the specters riding the horses, you probably noticed they all had the same face.”
“I noticed. That’s the face of the man who took advantage of you?”
Vivian looked surprised. “He didn’t take advantage of me. I knew exactly what I was doing. I got what I expected—lots of drama. Lots of fascinating conversations about the future of photography. I also recall a great many discussions about how artists had to be free. We could not be bound by social conventions, et cetera, et cetera. Things went splendidly for a while. But I made the mistake of falling for his line.”
“He told you that he loved you?”
“No.” Vivian narrowed her eyes. “The bastard told me that he admired my art.”
“Ah.” Nick tried to process that. “He lied?”
“Yes. And I caught him red-handed. I overheard him talking to the owner of a very prestigious San Francisco gallery. He went on and on about how female photographers would never be able to produce high art. Their work is too sentimental. Too emotional. It lacks artistic vision. It’s suitable only for greeting cards. He didn’t break my heart. He made me furious. There was a huge scene, of course.”
“Because that’s what artists do?”
“Absolutely. Things got rather personal. Observations about each other’s inadequacies in bed were exchanged.”
“In front of the gallery owner?”
“Yep. Word of the scene spread like wildfire. Needless to say, I got a reputation for being fast. The gossip got worse when I turned down Hamilton Merrick’s proposal and left town to pursue my art in Adelina Beach.”
“What about the reputation of the artist?”
Vivian waved that off. “His reputation didn’t suffer a bit. He’s an artist, after all. And male.”
“Right. Double standard and all that.”
Vivian studied him for a long moment. “Your romance disaster was a lot rougher than mine. You nearly got killed. Think you’ll ever take another chance on love and marriage?”
The question stopped him cold. A couple of days ago he wouldn’t have hesitated. His answer would have been a flat no. He was not so sure now. The kiss in the garden last night had changed some crucial element in the equation. He needed to recalculate.
When in doubt, dodge the question.
“I don’t know about love and marriage,” he said, going for a lighter note, “but I’ve got nothing against passion.”
She nodded, deeply serious. “People say that passion is a reckless, potentially destructive force, and I’m sure that is frequently the case. But I think love is infinitely more dangerous. Passion blazes hot and fierce and then it burns out. You’ll get scorched but you’ll probably survive. Love is more complicated. More mysterious.”
They were like a couple of gamblers playing high-stakes poker, he thought.