Fifty-one
With the gala’s string quartet warming up in the background, Anastasia found herself nearly skipping down the administrative office hallway, though four-inch heels and her chain-mail tunic made the going a little tricky, even by her standards.
By Monday she’d be director and Cam could go to London or not, it really didn’t matter anymore.
She checked her cell. Fifteen minutes before the first guests arrived.
She’d just duck into her office to snag her mink poncho and then—
“Well, howdy, stranger,” she said, covering her surprise in the most high-voltage smile she possessed.
Peter Lely sat at her desk, looking straight at her.
He wore a charcoal suit in a subtle pattern that spoke of old money and swirled a generous Scotch, which meant he’d helped himself to the bare-bones bar on her coffee table.
That was okay. She liked men who helped themselves.
In fact, she wondered if this unexpected visit meant he intended to avail himself of some of the office’s other charms, such as the couch and a locking door.
She assessed the couch with a quick sideways glance and saw the poncho, which in itself offered some interesting possibilities.
She let the door glide close with a quiet click, and he stood, though his movement felt more like a first move than a courtesy.
“Mind if I join you?” She tilted her head toward the decanter on the table.
“Suit yourself.”
His eyes were so smoky she wondered if they might actually ignite.
She made her way to the table and angled herself toward him over the bottle, offering the inquiring eye, should he possess one, a fine view of everything from her neck to her navel.
Even with her eyes downcast, she could feel the presence with which he filled the room.
A notebook dropped into view.
She froze. It was his sketchbook, the one he’d had at Orbis that day. She picked up her glass, settled onto the couch, and met his gaze.
“I guess you’re wondering about the letter.”
He didn’t reply, just stared.
She recognized the look in his eye now. It was a look she’d gotten a number of times over the years, mostly from women, rarely from men, and it left her feeling dirty and calculating.
“It’s too late,” she said. “Packard’s read it.”
“It’s a lie.”
“It hardly matters now.”
“Why would you do it?”
“Isn’t the more important question—and the one Cam will eventually ask: What were you doing with the letter?”
He slammed the glass into her wire wastebasket, where it exploded into a hundred glittering shards.
“I expect your position is just as dependent as Cam’s on the ability to distinguish the authentic from the false.
Know this: there will never be a major acquisition in your tenure that will escape doubt.
Your word will be poison—if it isn’t already. ”
Though she had anticipated the brutality of the sentiment, she was surprised to find her eyes welling with wetness. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“Someone who loves your sister, a position you yourself may want to consider at some point. You should be ashamed.”
And she was.