by Amanda Quick
Vivian went very still, a dark thought crowding out some of her delight.
“You’re not the anonymous collector who bought those pictures from the Burning Cove gallery, are you?” she asked.
Nick put the entire sandwich into his mouth and gave her one of his patented enigmatic looks.
“Why?” he said around the sandwich.
She cleared her throat, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “While it would be a lovely gesture and much appreciated, it wouldn’t be quite the same as a genuine sale to a real collector.”
Nick nodded, swallowed, and reached for another sandwich. “I thought about buying those pictures anonymously but I knew it wouldn’t give you the validation you wanted. So, no, I didn’t buy them and I don’t know who did.”
Vivian relaxed. “Good. Thanks.”
Lyra chuckled. “See? Those sales were the real deal.”
Nick groaned. “I suppose this means I’m going to have to live with a steady stream of half-naked Muscle Beach men wandering in and out of Vivian’s studio.”
Vivian got a warm, giddy feeling. Across the table Lyra met her eyes and winked.
“I intend to finish the Men series,” Vivian said. “But after that I’m moving on to another subject.”
“I’m afraid to ask what that will be,” Nick said.
“Good, because I haven’t decided yet,” Vivian said.
“As it happens, I’ve got a little good news myself,” Nick said. “Raina called to let me know she checked with the front desk staff of the Burning Cove Hotel. Ripley Fleming’s secretary booked his room there a full month before the events here in Adelina Beach. He stays there frequently and prefers one particular villa.”
“Hah.” Vivian smiled. “So there is such a thing as coincidence, after all. If you want more proof, just look at how the two of us met.”
Nick smiled. His eyes heated. “That wasn’t coincidence. That was fate.”
Lyra jumped to her feet and stole a cup and saucer from a nearby table. Seating herself again, she poured tea for Nick. Then she raised her cup in a toast.
“Here’s to wild women everywhere,” she said.
Nick smiled at Vivian once more. “I’ll drink to that.”
Chapter 49
I look forward to hanging the rest of the pictures in your Men series,” Joan Ashwood said. She surveyed the glamorous crowd that filled her gallery. “I’ve already sold the three images on display here tonight and I’ve got orders for most of the limited-edition prints. I will definitely be raising the price on your next series.”
“I can hardly believe it,” Vivian said. “I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity.”
As the night of the Ashwood Gallery show approached she had grown increasingly anxious. Nothing Nick or Lyra said could reassure her. On the day of the event she had been convinced she was doomed to a humiliating public failure. The knowledge that said failure would likely take place in front of Winston Bancroft did not help her nerves.
But when the doors opened, Luther Pell and Raina Kirk had been among the first to arrive. Oliver Ward and his wife, Irene, had soon joined them. A short time later, Ripley Fleming, Lyra on his arm, strolled into the room, making the kind of entrance that only a true star could manage. They had been accompanied by a couple of studio publicists.
Ripley paused to congratulate her. He winked before moving on with Lyra to examine a large abstract sculpture made of gleaming chrome.
Vivian smiled at Joan. “I think I know the identity of the anonymous collector who bought the first two pictures in my Men series.”
Joan chuckled. “I believe there was some mention of a debt that needed to be repaid. But the circumstances aren’t important. What matters is that a collector snatched up those first pictures. That automatically tripled the price on the next ones.”
Several press photographers were gathered on the sidewalk outside the entrance, lighting up the night with their camera flashbulbs as they took pictures of the fashionable celebrities and socialites who were arriving.
The only person who had not yet appeared was Winston Bancroft.
Joan had instructed Vivian to stay close, at least for the first hour, so that Joan could introduce her to everyone. Every time the door opened on a new arrival, Vivian took a deep breath and waited to see if Winston would appear. After an hour she began to hope that he might not show up. Maybe he had a bad cold. Or a flat tire.
When there was a slight lull in the wave of introductions, Vivian could not stand the suspense any longer. She looked at Joan.
“Evidently Mr. Bancroft has been delayed,” she said, trying not to sound too relieved.
“Winston?” Joan chuckled. “Don’t worry, he’ll show up. He’s definitely not the reclusive, socially awkward, painfully shy artistic type. And when he does finally walk into the room, you’ll know it. He’ll make an entrance that will rival Ripley Fleming’s.”
“Right,” Vivian said.
Joan’s brows rose. “Have you met him?”
“Took a course in photography from him in San Francisco.”
“I see. Interesting. You obviously went on to develop your own style. Most of the photographers I know who took a course from him try to imitate his approach and techniques. Imitation is usually a mistake when it comes to art.”
“Mr. Bancroft is . . . very confident. In a classroom setting he can be somewhat intimidating.”
Joan smiled. “Obviously you weren’t intimidated by him. Your work is very, very different.”
“Yes, but my last news photo was a picture of a dead woman,” Vivian said.
“No, it wasn’t,” Joan said. “Your last photograph was a picture of a dead murderess, a staggeringly evil woman who just happened to be the Dagger Killer’s partner in crime. Your photo told a story of insanity hidden behind the mask of respectability and the gloss of artistic pretension.”
“Wow.” Vivian was lost in admiration. “No wonder you’re good at selling art.”
“It’s more fun than selling hats, that’s for sure.”
Vivian was about to respond but at that moment the front door opened again. A slight hush fell over the crowd. Everyone turned to look at the new arrivals.
A tall, dramatically handsome man with shoulder-length dark hair brushed straight back from a sharp widow’s peak strode into the room and stopped just inside the entrance. He was not alone. A very pretty, very tiny blonde clung to his arm.
“About time he got here,” Joan said. “Come with me, Miss Brazier. I’m sure you’ll want to say hello to Winston.”
Not really, Vivian thought. But she dutifully followed Joan through the crowded room to where Winston stood surrounded by a group of admirers. Occupied with playing the role of the Great Artist, he did not appear to notice Joan and Vivian until Joan spoke.
“Winston, I’m so glad you could make it,” Joan said. “I was starting to think you might have been delayed.”
Winston made a show of turning toward Joan, his vampire eyes flashing with his trademark smoldering sensuality. He tried to pretend he had not noticed Vivian but she caught the faint telltale narrowing of his gaze.
He kissed the back of Joan’s hand and smiled his charming smile, the one that showed the dimple. “Miss one of your shows, Joan? Not in a million years. I understand you have some pictures by one of my former students on display tonight. I’m interested to see if she has made any progress since she left the classroom.”
Joan started to make the introductions but Vivian forestalled her.
“Hello, Winston,” she said.
“Vivian, darling, how nice to see you again.” Winston’s eyes glittered. “I understand you’ve had a rather exciting time of it lately.”
“Yes.” Vivian smiled at the blonde. “Are you going to introduce me to your companion?”
Winston frowned,
evidently having forgotten about the woman on his arm.
“I’m Ginny,” the blonde said in a soft voice. “I’m one of Winston’s models.”
“I see,” Vivian said. “That must be very interesting work.”
“Yes, it is.” Ginny glowed. “I was the model for the pictures on display here tonight.”
Before Vivian could respond, Winston gave her an icy smile.
“Your photo of Fenella Penfield lying dead on the floor of her gallery was in all the papers. So you’re pursuing a career in news photography on the side? A wise choice, considering your lack of appreciation for fine art photography.”
There was a short silence during which everyone, including Joan, seemed nonplussed. Before Vivian could come up with a suitable response to the unveiled insult, Nick made his way into the circle around Winston. He had a glass of champagne in his hand. He gave it to Vivian.
“Here you go,” he said. He gave no indication that he had noticed Winston. “Figured you could use this.”
“Thank you,” Vivian said. “You’re right. I did need this.”
“By the way, there are ‘sold’ cards under all three of your photographs,” Nick continued in a conversational tone.
“Yes,” Vivian said, going for demure. “Miss Ashwood said they were snapped up by one of her clients.”
Winston’s brows rose in a parody of amazement. “Congratulations. I suppose it’s not surprising that there are a few people here in Burning Cove who are comfortable with your sentimental greeting card approach to your subjects.”
It seemed to Vivian that the entire room was holding its breath. She gave Winston a steely smile and reminded herself that the last thing she wanted to do tonight was escalate the situation into a scene that would embarrass Joan.
“Lucky me,” she said evenly.
Satisfied, Winston smirked and started to turn away.
Nick spoke into the breathless silence. “I don’t know much about art but I’m not surprised that the images from your Men series are outselling those old-fashioned pictures of naked women on the other side of the gallery.”
Stunned horror leveled the room. Winston looked as if he had been struck by lightning. His eyes stopped smoldering.
“You’re right,” he said with a savage smile. “You don’t know much about art. It’s always a good idea for a man to know his limitations.”
“What I know,” Nick said, “is that the images in the Woman in the Window series remind me of the collection of dirty postcards I found in Uncle Pete’s attic. He said he picked them up in Paris on his way home from the Great War.”
“Your uncle evidently taught you everything you know about art, which amounts to absolutely nothing,” Winston shot back.
The scene was getting out of hand. Vivian was torn between laughter and outright panic.
Pete materialized out of the crowd. There was an unholy gleam in his eyes that looked very familiar. There was a remarkably similar glint in Nick’s eyes.
“Someone mention my name?” Pete asked.
“We were discussing dirty postcards and your name came up,” Nick said.
Pete got a reminiscent look. “I do have a nice collection up in the attic. Those pictures of naked ladies on the other side of the gallery remind me of some of those postcards.”
The entire room was electrified now. Winston turned on Joan.
“I expected to encounter a more sophisticated clientele here tonight,” he said.
“Eye of the beholder and all that,” Joan said. She spoke in soothing tones. “Don’t worry, Winston. I have clients clamoring for your pictures. Now, why don’t you get a glass of champagne and mingle. I see a crowd of admirers gathering around your pictures. This would be an excellent opportunity for you to explain the artistic values of pictorialism.”
“Right.” Winston exhaled a theatrical sigh. “I suppose it is my job to help educate the masses.”
Satisfied that he’d had the last word, he stalked toward the far side of the gallery. The crowd parted for him. He was soon surrounded by a gaggle of admirers.
He had apparently forgotten about Ginny. For a moment she just stood there, stricken. She finally pulled herself together and fixed Vivian with an unreadable look.
“I apologize for the scene my friends just made,” Vivian said. She shot Nick and Pete a quelling glance and turned back to Ginny. “That was uncalled-for.”
Ginny blinked and then she started to smile. The smile turned into a mischievous laugh.
“No apologies necessary,” she said. “He had it coming. Between you and me, I thought the pictures looked a lot like dirty postcards, too. But I told myself I was working for a real artist so it had to be real art.”
“You are working for a real artist,” Vivian said. “Winston really is brilliant in his own way.”
“Do you really think so?” Ginny looked unsure.
“I’m positive,” Vivian said. “His style is different from mine, that’s all.”
Pete snagged a glass of champagne off a passing tray. “A glass of champagne, ma’am?”
Ginny brightened. She took the glass and emptied half of it in a single swallow. She smiled at Pete.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Anytime.” Pete cleared his throat. “Would you care to tour the pictures on display with me? I’m sure you know a lot more about art than I do.”
Ginny’s smile got a few watts hotter. “It would be my pleasure.”
She slipped a graceful hand around his arm. Pete escorted her through the crowd.
Vivian groaned. “I’m sorry, Joan.”
“Don’t be,” Joan said, radiating satisfaction. “There is nothing more entertaining than a loud argument about what constitutes true art. You’ll notice that no one is walking out the door. Mr. Sundridge and his uncle have guaranteed that this show will make tomorrow’s edition of the Herald. My gallery will be the talk of the town tomorrow.”
Vivian shot Nick another ferocious glare. “I just hope they didn’t hurt your gallery’s reputation.”
“Nope, not a chance,” Joan said. She gave Nick a speculative look. “Out of curiosity, do you really think that Miss Brazier’s Men will outsell Winston’s Woman in the Window series?”
“Damned if I know,” Nick said. “I was being honest when I said I didn’t know much about art. All I can tell you is that it’s clear from Bancroft’s pictures that he doesn’t really like women. If they have secrets, he doesn’t care about them. He shoots them the way you’d shoot a doll or a statue. Vivian cares about her subjects and it shows. She knows they all have secrets and she knows how to make sure the viewer understands that, too.”
Joan nodded. “I agree.”
Vivian thought about that for approximately thirty seconds.
“And therein lies my problem,” she said. “You know what? I think Fenella Penfield and Winston Bancroft are right.”
Joan and Nick both looked at her.
“What do you mean?” Joan said.
“I do try to capture something real and personal about my subjects. I’m not going for an idealized composition or lighting. I’m not creating an abstract vision that must be appreciated on purely aesthetic grounds. I’m interested in hinting at a subject’s secrets because those secrets are what make us human.”
Joan laughed again. “Got news for you. A lot of people would call that art. I certainly do. And here is what I know for certain: I can sell it.”
Chapter 50
Burning Cove
A few days later . . .
Nick picked up the bottle of champagne that he had just opened and filled the two crystal flutes.
“I don’t know about you, but this has been a thrilling day for me,” he said. “My first real wedding. And my first real honeymoon.”
Vivian smiled. “I’m pretty thrilled mysel
f.”
The wedding had been a simple affair at the Burning Cove courthouse followed by a small reception at the Burning Cove Hotel. The guests had included Ripley Fleming, Oliver and Irene Ward, Luther Pell, Raina Kirk, and of course Lyra and Uncle Pete. Lyra had taken charge of the wedding photos.
A telegram had been sent to London informing Mr. and Mrs. Brazier that their eldest daughter was at long last a respectably married woman.
It had been a glorious day, Vivian thought, a perfect day for a wedding with the golden sun and the diamond-bright Pacific Ocean providing the setting.
It was almost midnight. Their guests had moved on to the hotel’s lounge to enjoy the jazz trio. She and Nick had slipped away to walk back through the lush gardens to the honeymoon suite.
They were on the patio savoring the scented night together. Vivian smiled at the sight of Nick in his elegant black-and-white formal clothes. He looked so good, she thought. Solid. Strong. A man a woman could depend on.
She was still in the ankle-length, silver satin gown that Lyra had chosen for her.
Rex was under the table, relaxing after another meal of steak and eggs.
“We look a lot more respectable now than we did the first time we checked into the Burning Cove,” she said.
“True.” Nick sat down on the edge of a chaise lounge and touched the rim of his flute to her glass. “But I will always have good memories of that morning.”
“Even though someone had tried to murder us the night before?”
“No first date ever goes smoothly.”
“True.” Vivian smiled. “It’s what happens afterward that matters.”
Nick smiled. His eyes burned in the shadows. Joy and a deep sense of certainty thrilled her senses.
They finished their champagne and set the flutes on the table. Vivian reached out and slowly, deliberately loosened the knot of Nick’s black bow tie.
He got to his feet and scooped her up off the lounger. The silver skirts of her wedding gown cascaded over his arm, gleaming in the moonlight.
“What happened afterward is that we got married,” Nick said. “For real.”