the olive green and red outfit Bain hadn’t seen when he didn’t turn up at the auction. “If at first you don’t succeed…” she told Dolly, who jumped into her pouch, happy that she didn’t have to stay home alone.
In the taxi to the restaurant, she thought about Bain. She was ready for a new romance. She’d enjoyed a fabulous summer with a marvelous man—they’d shared his house in Sag Harbor on weekends—sailing, swimming, fireworks, sunshine, moonlight. But after Labor Day, they’d mutually agreed it was time to part. No acrimony, no regrets. But she’d like to meet an autumn companion. Walks in Central Park, while the crimson and golden leaves fell. New plays on Broadway. Fires in the fireplace. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Snow. Could Bain be the one?
Eight
Wednesday night
Bain’s dinner was in a private dining room at Brasserie 8½, famous for its elegant sweeping staircase and stunning modern design, the creation of the eminent architect Hugh Hardy. Like the Red Dragon, the restaurant was below street level and popular with the art crowd, partly because it featured signed Matisse lithographs in the lounge and a stained glass mural by Léger separating the kitchen from the dining room.
Coleman left thoughts of ArtSmart , the spy, and Jimmy La Grange outside the door of the dining room. She needed to concentrate on her interview, and on Bain. This was the first time she’d seen Bain up close. She had rarely met a better-looking man—those intense gray eyes, with their heavy fringe of black lashes, the brilliant smile in his tanned face, his high cheekbones. She admired his clothes, too; he was perfectly dressed. Artists tended to wear messy, bohemian clothes, or like Zeke, they were tweedy and academic-looking. Heyward Bain’s suits were a work of art, as were his handmade shoes.
Even his height suited her—she didn’t like big men. They towered over her, reminding her of bears, and bullies she’d encountered as a child. Bain had something else she couldn’t quite define. She hadn’t exchanged a word with him, but she felt a kind of recognition, a sense that she’d met him somewhere, although she knew she hadn’t. Her New Age friends would say she’d known him in another life. Whatever.
She toyed with her veal, nibbled her salad, refused dessert, struggled to take notes—eating and writing at the same time was almost impossible. She exercised all of her charm, hoping to make a connection that would at least lead to a good story, if not a social relationship. But it wasn’t working. Maybe he was distracted by his audience? She wished they were alone instead of in a room full of people, all of whom were listening to every word she and Bain spoke.
Debbi was uncharacteristically silent. Ellen Carswell was also quiet, and seemed to be effacing herself, although with her sumptuous looks and striking clothes she could never be inconspicuous. Tonight she wore an Issey Miyake white silk pantsuit and magnificent pearls. Everything about her screamed money, even the Mont Blanc she used for note-taking. But if a lover were supporting her, Coleman didn’t think it was Bain. Their relationship seemed businesslike, even distant.
The elephantine bodyguards were also trying to be invisible, as if anyone that big could disappear. Why did Bain need those ever-present guards? Lots of rich people—even billionaires—in New York managed without hired muscle. Maybe his size made him feel vulnerable. More likely, he’d made enemies in the world he came from. Was that why he wouldn’t discuss his past?
She tried to persuade him to talk about his background, but he never let the conversation become personal, at least about himself. When she asked him about his family, where he grew up, he shook his head and smiled. “I prefer that your readers evaluate the Print Museum on its merits, not on anything I may have done before I came to New York.”
“Won’t you at least tell me where you went to
In the taxi to the restaurant, she thought about Bain. She was ready for a new romance. She’d enjoyed a fabulous summer with a marvelous man—they’d shared his house in Sag Harbor on weekends—sailing, swimming, fireworks, sunshine, moonlight. But after Labor Day, they’d mutually agreed it was time to part. No acrimony, no regrets. But she’d like to meet an autumn companion. Walks in Central Park, while the crimson and golden leaves fell. New plays on Broadway. Fires in the fireplace. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Snow. Could Bain be the one?
Eight
Wednesday night
Bain’s dinner was in a private dining room at Brasserie 8½, famous for its elegant sweeping staircase and stunning modern design, the creation of the eminent architect Hugh Hardy. Like the Red Dragon, the restaurant was below street level and popular with the art crowd, partly because it featured signed Matisse lithographs in the lounge and a stained glass mural by Léger separating the kitchen from the dining room.
Coleman left thoughts of ArtSmart , the spy, and Jimmy La Grange outside the door of the dining room. She needed to concentrate on her interview, and on Bain. This was the first time she’d seen Bain up close. She had rarely met a better-looking man—those intense gray eyes, with their heavy fringe of black lashes, the brilliant smile in his tanned face, his high cheekbones. She admired his clothes, too; he was perfectly dressed. Artists tended to wear messy, bohemian clothes, or like Zeke, they were tweedy and academic-looking. Heyward Bain’s suits were a work of art, as were his handmade shoes.
Even his height suited her—she didn’t like big men. They towered over her, reminding her of bears, and bullies she’d encountered as a child. Bain had something else she couldn’t quite define. She hadn’t exchanged a word with him, but she felt a kind of recognition, a sense that she’d met him somewhere, although she knew she hadn’t. Her New Age friends would say she’d known him in another life. Whatever.
She toyed with her veal, nibbled her salad, refused dessert, struggled to take notes—eating and writing at the same time was almost impossible. She exercised all of her charm, hoping to make a connection that would at least lead to a good story, if not a social relationship. But it wasn’t working. Maybe he was distracted by his audience? She wished they were alone instead of in a room full of people, all of whom were listening to every word she and Bain spoke.
Debbi was uncharacteristically silent. Ellen Carswell was also quiet, and seemed to be effacing herself, although with her sumptuous looks and striking clothes she could never be inconspicuous. Tonight she wore an Issey Miyake white silk pantsuit and magnificent pearls. Everything about her screamed money, even the Mont Blanc she used for note-taking. But if a lover were supporting her, Coleman didn’t think it was Bain. Their relationship seemed businesslike, even distant.
The elephantine bodyguards were also trying to be invisible, as if anyone that big could disappear. Why did Bain need those ever-present guards? Lots of rich people—even billionaires—in New York managed without hired muscle. Maybe his size made him feel vulnerable. More likely, he’d made enemies in the world he came from. Was that why he wouldn’t discuss his past?
She tried to persuade him to talk about his background, but he never let the conversation become personal, at least about himself. When she asked him about his family, where he grew up, he shook his head and smiled. “I prefer that your readers evaluate the Print Museum on its merits, not on anything I may have done before I came to New York.”
“Won’t you at least tell me where you went to
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