by Laura Moore
He laughed and shook his head. “Not with you in that skirt, I can’t. You don’t mind if I walk a few paces behind, do you?”
Though Sydney knew Harry flirted as easily as he breathed, it occurred to her that it had been months since he’d directed that effortless charm her way. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed it.
“Looks like we’ll have time to enjoy a drink on our own,” he said. “Wilfrid Seigel from the Digest is stuck in traffic and Alan Graves makes it a point always to arrive an hour late. I tried to reach you on your cell, but it’s been busy. I was about to redial when I saw those gorgeous legs eating up the sidewalk.”
Not even the fact that Harry had noticed her legs could mollify her this time. Her stomach cramped again, awash with a bitter mix of hurt and jealousy. “I was at Alex’s office. He’s found the artist he wants for the painting,” she told Harry, her tone flat.
“Great, we can pass that along to Wilfrid.”
“She was there when I dropped by.” And Alex hadn’t even bothered to call and tell her he was meeting with Gen Monaghan. Consumed as she was by the thought, Sydney didn’t reply as they passed through the doors held open by the hotel porter, who offered them a polite “Good afternoon.”
Harry took Sydney by the elbow and guided her toward the softly lit bar on the left. A recording of Bobby Short singing Cole Porter blunted the background chatter of the couples who had already gathered and were relaxing on the plush velvet sofas, armchairs, and poufs while they sipped jewel-colored drinks. Harry chose a corner table where they’d be able to see anyone entering the bar and ordered two vodka martinis from the waiter. “So, whom did Alex pick?” he asked.
“A total nobody from Boston who looks like a scarecrow.”
Harry’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “And Miss Nobody’s paintings, do they look equally dreadful?”
“No,” Sydney said grudgingly. “Her paintings are beautiful.”
“So is there some reason we should care about Miss Nobody’s looks?”
“She’s going to be living with Mrs. Miller.”
“Ahh, now I see.” He leaned forward, elbows resting above his knees, fingers knitted together. His voice pitched low, he asked, “So you think Miss Nobody might decide to compete for Alex?”
“Her name’s Genevieve Monaghan,” Sydney informed him, “and of course she will.” What woman wouldn’t? she added silently. “I’m going out this weekend. I already called Nancy at La Plage and rescheduled the tasting.”
“What about the break you promised yourself before the curtains go up on Miller’s party? Weren’t you going to drive up to Maine and stay at that inn you discovered? The one with all the Shaker antiques?”
She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I’ll reschedule the trip for after the party. There’s too much to do right now anyway.”
“Bull,” he said, leveling her with his piercing green gaze. “We’ve got everything under control. All that’s left are the usual odd jobs we could handle in our sleep. Why are you doing this, Syd, chasing after Miller? Listening to you, I’m not even sure what bugs you the most—that you and Miller have broken up or that someone else might get him.”
“Why wouldn’t that bother me?” she demanded. “How am I supposed to show Alex how right we are for each other if Genevieve Monaghan is there, who, when she isn’t telling ridiculous stories about her ridiculously large family, will be painting a piece for the wing that Alex has built in memory of his own deceased family? How do I compete with that?” she asked, a betraying quiver in her voice as unhappiness welled up inside her. Her stomach cramped painfully. Instinctively she went for her purse, ready to dig out her Rolaids, Harry’s knowing eyes be damned, but then she realized the pain was lower down in her stomach. Oh, God, she wailed silently. Just what she needed. Her life was falling apart and she was getting her period. Instead of popping a Rolaids, she reached for her martini and took a healthy swallow.
“You do so, Syd, by doing the best damned PR job Miller’s ever had. A job which, by the way, I wish were ending next week instead of in two months. ’Cause then just maybe you could get over this idiotic obsession with Alex Miller.”
Sydney opened her mouth to object but then saw that Harry’s attention had shifted, his green gaze fixed on something behind her. “You can start following my excellent advice this very instant,” he informed her as he rose to his feet. “Wilfrid Siegel’s heading this way.”
Gen discovered it wasn’t difficult to settle into paradise.
She had a studio of her own and one of the most spectacular oceanscapes she had ever seen. She woke up every morning to a dawn that skimmed the sand and kissed the sea, lighting them with colors that blazed and glowed, capturing her imagination.
She knew people flocked to the Hamptons in the summer. They fell in love with the beauty of the setting and the ocean climate—sunny, dry days followed by nights cooled by ocean breezes—as well as for the glamorous social scene, a heady blend of billionaire moguls, bluebloods, and Hollywood superstars.
Gen fell in love with the Hamptons for the light.
It was a love affair that lasted from the first glimpse of rosy dawn until the very last glimmer had seeped from the sky, a time during which she sketched, painted, or simply looked, soaking up impressions, colors, and forms. When the light abandoned her, she would put away her art to sit and enjoy the calm of the star-studded evening with Mrs. Miller while the old lady sipped her glass of grappa, an Italian brandy that could also pass for kerosene. “So very good for the digestion, Genevieve, and I swear, it keeps the mind young.”
Gen couldn’t say for certain whether or not the grappa helped to preserve Mrs. Miller’s mind, but her stories and reminiscences of artists, paintings, and sights rivaled Scheherazade’s.
Mrs. Miller herself was a wonder. Gen delighted in the older woman’s somewhat idiosyncratic rituals, which began each day with an 8 A.M. breakfast in bed. The tray that Gen carried up to her bedroom always held a bud vase, a pot of hot cocoa made from melted slabs of Belgian chocolate, a soft-boiled egg, a single piece of unbuttered toast, and a copy of The New York Times, which Mrs. Miller read while wearing white cotton gloves.
By the third morning, Gen couldn’t resist. She asked Mrs. Miller if she might sketch her while at breakfast. Her reply won Gen’s heart: “Why, certainly, my dear. Just don’t paint me with egg on my face.”
It was during one of these sketching sessions that Mrs. Miller, after daintily patting her lip with an indigo cotton napkin, said, “Have you been getting ideas for what you want to paint?”
“For the commission?” Gen asked, glancing up from the sketch pad to the older woman’s lined face. The pencil in her fingers continued to fly over the paper.
“Yes. I noticed you’ve been doing a lot of cloud studies.”
Gen nodded abstractedly. “There were some incredible ones just floating on the horizon yesterday and the day before. I’m pretty sure I want the composition to include some sort of landscape. When I drove by the site with my mom I remember thinking that with all that glass, the space will be filled with light. I’d like to work with that idea, so that when people look at the work, they’re transported—at least temporarily—away from the hospital and their worries.” A smile flitted over her face. “But to tell you the absolute truth, Mrs. Miller, right now I’m just kind of absorbing everything around me. It’s so beautiful here. I won’t start roughing-out the composition until I see the new wing again.” Absently she worried her lip as she shaded the area beneath Mrs. Miller’s bent elbow.
“I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Again, Gen nodded. She’d call her parents once she figured out a date she could drive to Boston. “Can you tell me about this TLM Fund, Mrs. Miller? I’ve been wondering, does it have a specific mission? I thought I’d try to choose a subject that would connect the fund with the hospital in some way.”
“Hmm, well, you should probably ask Alex about that.”
She wouldn’t b
e asking Alex Miller for the time of day, not if she could help it. Now that she’d been in Mrs. Miller’s company she understood his wish to protect this wonderful and special woman. That didn’t give him license, however, to resort to background checks on her and her entire family. Who did he think he was? she asked indignantly for the umpteenth time.
Frowning slightly as if concentrating on the ornate carving of the mahogany bed frame, an area she’d already finished, Gen asked, “And why is that? Because your nephew is the director of the TLM Fund?”
“No, because he is the TLM Fund.”
The pencil in Gen’s hand stalled. “Excuse me?”
“I really can’t say more. Alex is a very private man. If you want to know about the TLM Fund, you’ll have to talk to him. I believe he’s coming out this weekend. Are you finished, dear?” she asked with a pointed glance at Gen’s sketch pad. “I need to take my walk early. I’m spending the day kayaking with a group of conservationists and scientists to raise money for the wetlands on the South Fork.”
“Oh! Yes, of course.” Gen scrambled up, tucking her sketch pad under her arm and stuffing her pencils in the left pocket of her baggy shirt, a hand-me-down from her brother Benjamin.
“I’ll pop into the studio before I leave,” Mrs. Miller said.
“All right.” Gen gathered up the breakfast tray in a distracted daze. What did Mrs. Miller mean, she wondered, by saying Alex Miller was the TLM Fund?
Curiosity consumed her as she carried the lacquer tray downstairs. Twice, she almost turned around to climb back to Mrs. Miller’s room. But she knew it was pointless to question her further. She’d heard the decisive, brook-no-questions tone in the elderly lady’s voice.
Well, didn’t Paradise always have a serpent? she asked herself. And as it looked now, if she wanted to taste from the Tree of Knowledge, she’d have to talk to the Devil himself.
To Alex’s chagrin he discovered that Genevieve Monaghan was as haunting as her paintings. The memory of her, of their meeting in his office, of the damning expression on her face as she’d roundly told him off, had preoccupied him; he couldn’t get her out of his mind. This in spite of the fact that his days had been crammed with meetings and last-minute teleconferences, working out the details for the IPO—initial public offering—of one of their companies, Cybyte, a software developer that had designed and patented what promised to be the leading antivirus program on the market.
Preferring to be unavailable for comment when Cybyte announced its stock offering and the media frenzy began, Alex left the office early on Thursday, hitting the Grand Central Parkway at that magic moment when the road was virtually free of commuters. His partners could field the calls from the magazines and provide the necessary sound bites for Lou Dobbs, CNBC, and the other cable channels devoted to the business world.
Alex was far more interested in seeing those beguiling blue-green-and-brown eyes again.
He wondered how they looked in the morning light, just opening, her face still flushed from sleep.
He wondered which color shone brightest when she made love.
His silver Aston Martin made the drive from midtown to East Hampton in record time.
The layer of gesso she’d applied to the canvas had dried overnight. Gen had discovered that in this coastal climate everything tended to dry more slowly than in the studio in New York. This slight inconvenience, not being able to work quite as quickly as she was accustomed, was a price she was more than happy to pay.
Today she’d angled her easel by the open windows where she had a view of the main house, the garden bordering it, bright with peonies and late-blooming tulips, and the expanse of emerald-green lawn that led to the edge of Georgica pond. Of all the homes in Georgica Estates, some dating back to the 1890s, Gen considered the Miller house, with its weathered shingles, wide windows, and twin porches, the loveliest.
But what was truly breathtaking was its site. Built on a stretch of land at the southeast end of Georgica pond, the view out the windows facing the north was of the pond and the stately houses nestled around its perimeter, a scene of calm tranquillity. One only had to stroll to the opposite side of the house to see, not more than five hundred yards away, the dramatic, ever-changing, and eternally beautiful Atlantic Ocean.
Gen had tuned the radio to a public station out of New London, Connecticut. An aria from Rossini’s Barber of Seville mixed with the sea air blowing in through the windows. Murphy lay flat on his side, legs straight out, dozing in the patch of sunlight that streamed in through the open door.
The background of the painting was taking shape. Gen’s brush flitted over the canvas, laying down the burnt sienna that she was using as a ground, when suddenly Murphy lurched to his feet. With a single joyous “Woof!” he bounded out the door.
Gen heard the unmistakable slamming of a car door.
She tore after Murphy, knowing as she did that it was too late to stop him or even attempt a “Down, Murphy.” She muttered a quick prayer that whatever friend of Mrs. Miller’s had come to call had a strong heart and equally strong bones.
Alex had just slammed the car door and was starting toward his aunt’s house when he heard a dog barking loudly. Looking around, he spotted an enormous gray dog running at him full tilt. Instinctively he braced himself. It skidded to a halt inches from him and before Alex could unfreeze his limbs, the dog, easily as tall as a Shetland pony, rose on its back legs. With a huge canine grin, it planted its front paws on his shoulders and proceeded to lick Alex’s face as if he were a human ice cream cone.
But it was the sound of a strangely familiar laugh that had Alex staggering backward in shock. With the extra weight of the dog he stumbled and fell onto the ground. An oof flew from his lips as the dog landed, too, straddling his chest. The canine wash resumed.
That was the sight which greeted Gen. Pulling up short, she clapped a hand over her mouth. Really, it wasn’t funny. But she was so relieved that it wasn’t a deliveryman or one of Mrs. Miller’s friends her dog had bowled over, she was giddy. . . . And she couldn’t help but feel just a tiny bit gratified to see the omnipotent and far too handsome Alex Miller brought low.
Way to go, Murph, Gen cheered silently and felt her grin widen against her palm.
Deciding it was time to take pity on the poor man, she said, her voice shaking with laughter, “Off, Murphy, right now.”
With a morose look Murphy stepped off Alex Miller’s chest, leaving a smudged trail of paw prints on what Gen knew must have been only seconds ago a pristine, snow-white shirt. She bit her lip hard to stop her snicker and then hazarded a glance at his face.
Alex Miller was staring at her, his eyes glazed with shock. Gen’s amusement fled, replaced by bone-deep fear. Could he have hit a rock when he landed? Was he injured?
She dropped to her knees beside him as he struggled to sit up. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault, I left the screen door to the studio unlatched. . . .” Her excuse died away when Alex closed his eyes and shook his head, violently, as though trying to clear it.
Slowly he opened them again. His gaze fixed on her then slid to Murphy. The dog, who’d been sitting, stood and wagged his tail enthusiastically the second he had Alex’s attention.
“Sit, Murphy,” Gen commanded. He sank back onto his haunches.
“He’s your dog.” His voice sounded odd, strained.
It hadn’t been a question but Gen answered as though it were. “Yes, his name’s Murphy. He’s really quite well trained, but as he’s only two years old, there’s a fair amount of puppy in him. He still loves to meet and greet. It’s funny, though,” she admitted, a slight frown furrowing her brow. “He’s not usually this, uh, enthusiastic in saying hi, at least not until he knows a person.” Suddenly convinced she sounded like some nutty dog owner, Gen fell silent. Only to realize with a start that she was sitting next to Alex Miller and that his face was very close to hers.
Unable to stop herself, she stared, mesmerized. He h
ad a strong, aquiline nose and a mouth that was firmly sculpted. . . . Gen was filled with a sudden yearning to run her fingers over that mouth, learn the shape of his lips, trace their sensuous curve. What was she doing? She really was nutty. Insane. This man was all wrong for her, from A to Z, the last person whose mouth should fascinate her. And besides, he was taken. At that last thought, she flinched.
Coming to her senses, she realized that he was staring right back at her with an alarming intensity. Feeling ridiculously self-conscious, she raked her fingers through her hair, only to remember that she’d pulled it back in an elastic band.
This was all his fault, she decided.
Alex Miller was making her nervous, the peculiar light in his eyes positively unsettling. She couldn’t understand why he kept looking at her and then at Murphy with that carefully blank expression on his face. Especially when she could feel the tension radiating from him. A terrible thought occurred to her. “Uh, you’re not scared of dogs, are you?” she asked.
“No. I love them,” he replied.
Gen’s shoulders relaxed.
“What is he, an Irish wolfhound?”
She nodded. “I got Murphy from the shelter when he was just a puppy. The owners had bought him without realizing how much exercise wolfhounds require.”
“You take him to Central Park.”
“Yes.” She eyed him quizzically. Maybe he did have a concussion and it was affecting his speech. Once again, his words had come out as a flat declaration rather than a question. But as she wasn’t exactly eager to bring up any injuries her dog might have caused him, she decided to stick to a somewhat safer topic. “Murphy loves to run. The beach in front of your aunt’s house is his favorite place now. It’s a nice change for me, too. I can actually look at the scenery instead of having it streak by in a blur when I’m following him on my blades. Hey!” she cried, startled. Alex had dropped his head onto his knees with a soft groan. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked anxiously.
Was he all right? Hell no. Alex felt as if he’d been walloped with a two-by-four to the head rather than merely being tackled by a hundred-plus-pound dog. He was still reeling, struggling to come to grips with the fact that Genevieve Monaghan was not only a painter whose art had the power to move him beyond words, a woman whose unique beauty and fresh charm triggered an undeniable response inside him; she was also his mystery woman, the Central Park speed demon whose laughter had lifted his heart. It was too much.