The Boss's Daughter

Her mother had called. Just to chat, she’d said, and to invite Amy to stop in over the weekend and see her new furniture. She sounded almost normal, Amy thought. Only someone who knew her very well would have detected strain in Carol’s voice.

The second call was from the head curator of the museum. She swore under her breath. Dylan had kept her so buried in files that she’d completely forgotten to make the necessary calls to warn her prospective employers of the sudden hitch in her plans.

Funny, she thought, how it had taken that speed bump to help her see what it was she really wanted to do. She didn’t mind calling the museum and the college to let them know that she wouldn’t be available after all. But the magazine…the magazine was a little different.

Connoisseur’s Choice was far from being the stuffy old publication that Dylan had suggested it was. It was a glossy, sophisticated monthly magazine which covered an enormous range of both genuine antiques and interesting collectibles. A sort of reference book which happened to be published in segments, the magazine had actually become a collectible itself, for there was a brisk demand for secondhand issues—even ten-year-old ones. If in doubt, buyers and collectors consulted Connoisseur’s Choice, and they ignored its suggestions at their peril. Just to be associated with the magazine was to become an instant authority.

As for the position of roving expert, it might have been fashioned especially for Amy. “We’re looking for someone who has experience with everything,” the editor had told her. “Not just priceless paintings or hand-hammered silver or Tang horses. Our readers are interested in those things, certainly, but not many of them will ever own one. We need someone who’s interested in, and knowledgeable about, things like political buttons and movie posters and patent medicine bottles.”

“Someone exactly like me, Brad,” Amy had said. And though Brad Parker hadn’t committed himself at the time, he had seemed to agree.

Earlier in the week, he had called to tell her that the publisher liked her credentials and he expected to be able to make her an offer within a few days. And now she was going to have to tell him that she wouldn’t be able to take the job for a month at least—and hope that he wanted her badly enough to wait.

It was a rotten shame, she thought, that Dylan Copeland hadn’t jumped at the chance to prove himself by taking over the helm at Sherwood Auctions. Odd, too. The one thing she would never have suspected of him was a shortage of initiative.

She hailed a cab to take her to the Maxwells’ apartment tower rather than risk finding a place to park, because she’d cut things a little finer than she’d planned. She was still trying to catch her breath as she rang the Maxwells’ doorbell on the top floor just a couple of minutes after the hour specified on the invitation.

A bluff, hearty man greeted her, and Amy apologized for being late. “I’m afraid I didn’t allow time for a security check, but the guard downstairs was quite troubled over the fact that I don’t look like a Mr. Sherwood.”

Rex Maxwell laughed heartily. “I’m glad to know Pete doesn’t need his eyes examined,” he said and guided her over to the bar. Immediately the doorbell chimed again and he moved off to answer it.

Just as well, Amy thought. She could hardly ask him straight off whether he’d decided to auction the Picasso.

With a glass in her hand, she began to wander through the apartment. The rooms were huge and bare-looking, with blocky steel furniture and the occasional modern painting on the walls. She saw nothing of the caliber of a Picasso, though. Did they keep it in a vault somewhere? If so, she understood why they were thinking of selling it, because there was little point in owning a painting like that if you couldn’t see and enjoy it.

Or had the painting already gone to some other auction house?

Until now, her feelings about Gavin’s fears of losing his clients had been almost academic, but suddenly the threat had become much more personal. She felt her chest tightening.

Remember the size of that stack of files, she reminded herself. Her father must have been working on a hundred prospective clients. Some of them simply had to come through; the percentages were in her favor.

Still, the sheer size of the number was not as reassuring as Amy would have liked it to be. If—despite all his experience and contacts—Gavin needed to work on a hundred prospects in order to end up with just a few auctions, then how could she hope to snare enough business to satisfy his needs?

She saw a familiar face here and there in the crowd, mostly people that she’d happened to notice when they had attended auctions but a few that she’d worked with directly in the last couple of years.

One of them, a blue-haired matron, came up to her. “How’s your mother doing these days, Amy?”

Amy flinched. Why, she wondered, did people insist on asking her about Carol’s health and Gavin’s marital plans? Because they felt uncomfortable calling up Carol or Gavin, she supposed. But did they honestly expect Amy to spill the gory details?

“I haven’t talked to her for a few days,” she said honestly.

The woman sniffed. “I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise, now that you’ve taken sides with your father.”

Unbelieving, Amy stared at her. “What on earth makes you think that?”

“My friend called me a few minutes ago. Cell phones are wonderful things, aren’t they?” She patted her handbag. “Our whole bridge club has them now. She was in the waiting room at Sherwood Auctions a few minutes ago and heard that you’ve started working there again.”

“News certainly travels quickly,” Amy said.

“And what does Carol think of you making up with your father?”

If she knew the whole story she’d probably be thrilled.

“Why don’t you ask her?” Amy said coolly. “I’m sure she’d love to hear from her friends.”

The matron fixed her with a stare. “I don’t know what your father is thinking of, the old goat,” she said. “Taking up with a bimbo, at his age. No wonder his heart attacked him.”

She’s just fishing, Amy told herself. Trying to get a reaction. “Shall I tell him you’re devastated that another obligation will prevent you from attending his wedding?” she asked gently. “Excuse me, I see someone I must speak with.”

She moved through the crowd, nodding and smiling at people she didn’t even see, still shaken by the encounter.

She’d known, of course, that the Sherwoods’ friends would be startled by the divorce and stunned by Gavin’s choice of a new wife. And not only their friends objected, either—on the night of his heart attack, Amy had heard one of Gavin’s nurses mutter something about Honey being so dim she couldn’t spell CPR. But it hadn’t occurred to Amy that so many people would take the matter personally, much less feel they had a right to comment.

That very direct animosity wasn’t going to make her job any easier, Amy reflected. It wasn’t only Gavin’s heart attack that had threatened his business.

She reached the far end of the room and turned back, and her gaze snagged on the Picasso. It was hanging alone on a stark white wall, and nearby stood a woman who looked as much like the figure in the painting as it was possible for a living human to resemble the modernistic form. Her face was all sharp angles and shadows, and the individual features—though not unpleasing—didn’t seem to belong together. As Amy watched, the woman waved a hand casually toward the painting and spoke animatedly to the man standing next to her.

Amy studied the man and, recognizing him, allowed herself to breathe again. He was a bright light of local industry, not an appraiser or art expert or auctioneer, as she’d feared. For the moment at least, the Picasso was still within her reach.

“It’s a very nice painting,” said a man standing next to her. “But you shouldn’t look at it with that covetous expression, Amy. Mrs. Maxwell might object.”

Amy looked up at the editor of Connoisseur’s Choice. “Hi, Brad,” she said, trying not to sound breathless. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh, we get invited to all the best parties. It’s one of the perks of working for the magazine.”

“Speaking of the magazine,” Amy began, “I was going to call you tomorrow.”

“Getting anxious? It does seem to have taken the publisher forever to make up his mind. But he finally gave me the go-ahead this afternoon to offer you the job at the salary we discussed. When can you start?”

“That’s the problem, I’m afraid. Until my father’s back on his feet…”

She tried to explain why she was needed so badly at Sherwood Auctions for a while, but the hollow feeling inside her expanded as she watched Brad’s face darken.

“I was hoping to have a new roving expert on board next week,” he said. “Waiting a month or more…I don’t know what the publisher’s going to say, Amy.”

“He’s the one who’s taken three weeks to make up his mind that he wanted me at all,” she argued.

“As far as that goes, Mr. Dougal’s getting old and a bit unpredictable these days. We’ve learned not to expect him to make snap decisions. But when he does make up his mind—”

“But what’s the difference if it’s a little longer before I can start? Almost everyone you hire must have some loose ends to tie up before they can start work.”

Brad swirled the ice cubes which were all that remained of his drink. “I’ll have to run it past him again and let you know.” He turned toward the bar.

“Good,” Amy called after him. “By the time he gets back to you, I’ll be free. In the meantime, you can find me at Sherwood Auctions—working hard so I can get out of there in a hurry.”

With a sigh, she set her own glass on the tray of a passing waiter. The party was already starting to break up, she realized. The Maxwells, it seemed, not only expected their guests to arrive punctually but to depart the same way.

Amy hung back till the crowd thinned, hoping for a chance to have a private word with her hosts. If they were thinking of selling the Picasso…

Now that she’d seen it, she had no doubt of the painting’s value. It was a major work which would bring millions at auction, and the commission for Sherwood Auctions would be a significant chunk of cash.

She multiplied the figures in her head and concluded that this one deal could produce enough money to solve Gavin’s financial crunch in one blow. She wouldn’t even have to wait for the auction to actually be held. As soon as the Maxwells had signed an agreement, Amy could turn all the arrangements over to Dylan and go off to Connoisseur’s Choice with a clear conscience. She’d be happy and Gavin would be ecstatic. Dylan might not be thrilled, but he was certainly capable of carrying out the details.

If only she could pull it off.

Eventually there was a moment when the Maxwells were standing alone by the front door, and Amy seized her chance. “Thank you for letting me come in my father’s place tonight.” She held out her business card. It was part of the outdated supply that she should have thrown away after she resigned from the auction house. It still listed her as an appraiser—but at least the Maxwells would have her name right. “Gavin will be back to work in a few weeks, but he’s asked me to tell you that if you make a decision about the Picasso in the meantime he’s authorized me to act for him in arranging the sale.”

Mrs. Maxwell stared at the business card she was holding as if it had abruptly turned into a cockroach. She suddenly looked even more like the impossible woman of the painting, and her voice had turned to ice. “What are you talking about?”

Rex Maxwell shifted from one foot to the other. “Now, my dear…a mistake…anyone could misunderstand…Gavin must have thought…”

His wife turned on him. “You talked to Gavin Sherwood about selling my Picasso?” The accusation cut sharply across the remaining party conversation.

Rex Maxwell glared at Amy, but his voice was mild, almost pacifying. “The possibility came up,” he admitted. “I didn’t say yes or no.”

He was lying, and Amy knew it. The glare he’d sent her way told her that he and Gavin had seriously discussed the sale—but Rex Maxwell had never consulted his wife about it.

She felt unsteady on her feet, as if the apartment tower had suddenly begun swaying in a high wind.

Now it made sense that Gavin’s note had mentioned only the husband. The only remaining question was whether he had known his friend was working behind his wife’s back. Had he even suspected it, or had he been as innocent as Amy herself?

Not that it mattered now what Gavin might have known, because the cat was most definitely out of the bag.

It was too bad the apartment tower was entirely air-conditioned and the windows were all the tightly sealed sort, Amy thought. Because right now would be a perfect time to throw herself out of one.

CHAPTER THREE

MUCH to Dylan’s surprise, Amy was already waiting for him when he walked up to the Neptune fountain, at the corner of the Plaza shopping district, at precisely six o’clock the next morning. She was sitting on a bench with her head in her hands, and she didn’t look up as he approached. In fact, she didn’t even flinch when his Irish setter plopped at her feet, panting from the run they’d already had, with her tail slapping against Amy’s ankles.

“You’d better stay a little more alert to your surroundings,” he suggested. “A mugger who saw you sitting there that way would think you’re a pretty tasty morsel.”

“Who cares?” Her voice was muffled by her palms. “Bring on the muggers.”

Dylan wrapped the dog’s leash around his wrist and put one foot up on the bench, stretching his muscles to keep them limber in the still-cool air of a mid-May morning. He didn’t look at her, and he kept his voice carefully neutral. “It must have been quite a cocktail party last night if it left you with a hangover of those proportions.”

She looked up at him with her small, pointed chin aggressively thrust out. “It wasn’t how much I drank that was the problem.”

“I suppose you’re claiming it was food poisoning instead,” he scoffed. “They all say that.”

“No, I didn’t get a funny-tasting sausage.” She sighed. “The problem is…well, I didn’t just put my foot in my mouth. I shoved it so far down my throat that a surgeon could remove my appendix and trim my toenails all in the same operation.”

Dylan stopped stretching and looked at her more closely. “That bad, huh? Who’d you insult?”

“The Maxwells, of course. I committed a major faux pax, and even though I apologized all over myself, I barely made it out alive.” She fixed her gaze on him. “If I thought for an instant that you knew Rex Maxwell was trying to sell that Picasso behind his wife’s back, and you didn’t warn me, I’d…I’d…”

She apparently couldn’t conjure up a punishment that was bad enough. Dylan decided not to give her a chance to think about it. “No, I didn’t set you up,” he said. “But now you see why I didn’t want to be the one in charge.”

“Thank you very much for the sympathy.”

“At least you’re efficient. Your methods leave no question that any more time spent on the Picasso would be wasted.”

She gave a little moan.

“I wonder why he wanted to put it up for auction in the first place,” Dylan mused, “if he knew his wife was likely to object.”

“He said Gavin misunderstood him and he never had any intention of selling.”

Dylan considered and shook his head. “You know better than to think Gavin makes that sort of mistake. More likely Rex Maxwell is in financial difficulties and doesn’t want to confess to the wife. Not that it matters to us. Scratch the Picasso and move on to the next possibility.” He felt a shudder run through her. “What’s the matter? From the sound of things, it can’t get worse than that experience.”

“I certainly hope not,” she said drearily. “Where’s a good, efficient mugger when you need one? If somebody hit me over the head, maybe I’d lose my memory along with my wallet.”

“Put the whole thing behind you.” He held out a hand to pull her up. “Come on. A couple of miles through the Plaza and you’ll be a new woman.” He stepped back to look at her appraisingly. “Nice shorts. Not only are they attention-seeking pink, but they fit just right.”

“Don’t flatter yourself that I’m out to impress you. This was the only pair I could lay hands on this morning in the dark.”

“I know perfectly well you’re not trying to impress me,” he said gently. “You were just trying to attract muggers.”

She began to stretch. The dog, who knew the routine, stood up and whined, eager to be off again, and for the first time Amy seemed to notice her. “Aren’t you a beauty?”

The setter tossed her head bashfully and sneezed.

“And she’s modest, too,” Dylan said. “Give her a compliment and she promptly proves that she’s only human. Or something like that.”

“How far have you run already?”

“A mile or so. Reggie would rather run in Loose Park, but she’ll make do with the Plaza if she has to.”

“Well, I don’t imagine she gets the same excitement from window-shopping that people do.” Amy dropped into step beside him, and Reggie loped easily ahead. “Do you live somewhere around here? If you usually run in Loose Park—that’s the one just south of the Plaza, isn’t it?”

Around the corner ahead of them, Dylan spotted a jogger turning into their path and interrupted her. “There’s Mitchell Harlow, right on time.” He lengthened his stride in order to catch up, and glanced over his shoulder to see if Amy was having trouble keeping the pace.

Her gaze was fixed on their quarry, and she looked startled. Dylan realized that from his description of Mitchell Harlow’s jogging routine, she’d probably expected an athlete instead of a short, prematurely balding, not-quite-rotund man in a purple running suit.

Amy speeded up till she was beside him again. “He doesn’t have a wife who’ll have a fit about selling his autograph collection, does he?”

“The last I heard, he wasn’t married.”

“And exactly how long has that been? Last week? A year?”

Dylan grinned at her and raised his voice. “Good morning, Mitchell.”

Mitchell Harlow turned his head to return the greeting, but he saw Amy first and the words seemed to stick in his throat.

It was the sort of reaction Dylan had expected—especially after he’d noticed the pink shorts himself. So he certainly had no reason to feel irritated by the bug-eyed way Mitchell Harlow was goggling at Amy.

It was obvious that Amy had also noted the interest in Mitchell Harlow’s eyes, for there was a gleam in her own. Dylan wondered if she was speculating whether in this case, unlike with the Maxwells, she had an advantage that her father didn’t.

Though Mitchell had been awestruck by Amy’s appearance, he found his voice quickly enough when Dylan introduced her. “Sherwood?” he said. “Are you related to the guy who’s always nagging me to sell my autograph collection?”

She shot a look at Dylan, who shrugged. He’d done his best; now it was up to her.

“I heard somewhere he’d taken up with quite a dish,” Mitchell went on. “But I had no idea what kind of dish we were talking about.”

Dylan glanced sideways at Amy, curious to see how she would react to being confused with Honey. She looked a little like a firecracker just before the explosion—sparks and all. He stepped nimbly into the breach. “That’s a different dish, Mitchell. This one’s his daughter.”

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