Villiers Touch by Brian Garfield

sometimes I wish you’d quit jumping to conclusions.”
    â€œAre you sure that’s what I’m doing? Look, if what you say is true, why not keep the ‘Hastings’ but change the ‘Mrs.’ to ‘Miss’?”
    â€œBecause it just isn’t done.”
    â€œOh! A thousand pardons, memsahib!” Cynthia bowed elaborately from the waist. “You must forgive my gauche ignorance. I have lousy table manners too.”
    â€œThe result of your disadvantaged childhood, no doubt.”
    Cynthia grinned. “Okay. Touché. But if you can be defensive about sex, I can be defensive about my po’-white-trash background. Let’s be fair about it.”
    Diane made a face and reached for the stack of correspondence in her In tray, indicating that so far as she was concerned, the conversation was ended. But Cynthia said stubbornly, “Have you met Emiliano Upton?”
    â€œNo. Why?”
    â€œKnow who he is?”
    â€œHe paints, doesn’t he?”
    â€œYou could call it that. He used to paint enormous canvases of, ah, human sexual organs—in exquisitely enlarged detail. A real howl, but it didn’t find much of a market outside of a few rich voyeurs. Your ordinary dimestore-art buyer would hardly hang one on his living-room wall. I persuaded him to try something a bit more genteel, and I’m going down next week to see the results. He’s a big sumbitch, really hung—I think maybe I’ll fix you up with him for openers.” Cynthia grinned furiously.
    â€œWhen I want a matchmaker,” Diane snapped, “I’ll let you—”
    The phone rang, cutting her off. She punched the blinking button and lifted the receiver. “Mrs. Hastings.”
    A man’s voice laughed. “Answering your own phone now? Have they knocked you down that far?”
    She recognized his voice immediately but refused to give him the satisfaction of it; she said coolly, “Who is this?”
    â€œI was hoping you’d know my voice,” he said. She gave him no encouragement. After a moment he said, “It’s Mace Villiers. Remember?”
    â€œYes, I do.” Giving away nothing, she was trying to make up her mind whether to be pleased or angry.
    â€œI left a message I’d call. Didn’t you get it?”
    â€œIt must have slipped my mind,” she lied.
    He said, “I thought we might have dinner.”
    â€œTonight?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “I have a date.” She saw Cynthia’s ferocious frown and headshake.
    â€œBreak it,” Mason Villiers said. •
    â€œWhy should I?”
    â€œBecause I want to see you. It’s a business matter as well.”
    She thought, As well as what? But what she said was, “I’m sorry. I can’t.” She realized she was smiling; she composed her face and added, “I’m afraid the rest of the week is blocked in quite solidly.”
    â€œOh, come on. Let’s make it tomorrow night. Do I have to horse-trade with you? I’m altogether serious, and it’s an important matter.”
    â€œWhat business could you possibly have to discuss with me? We’re hardly in the same line.” She ignored Cynthia’s impatient scowl.
    â€œI don’t do business over the phone,” he said. Then his voice turned low and ultramasculine: “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven, your apartment.”
    â€œDo you always press so hard?”
    â€œMy luck? I always push that. You walked away from me once.”
    â€œAnd you’d like to have me believe that never happened to you before, and you can’t stand it.”
    He laughed. “Exactly. I’ll see you at seven tomorrow.” He hung up.
    She put the receiver slowly in its cradle.
    Cynthia said immediately, “Villiers?” And when there was no reply, she assumed she had guessed correctly; she said, “You’re