After Hours

I never cry.

“Are you all right?”

She would have known the voice anywhere. Trying to swallow the lump that was lodged tight against her voice box, Marcia muttered, “Go away.”

A tear was hanging on her lashes. The sight of it piercing him to the heart, Quentin said flatly, “I’m sorry I was so rude to you. You’re right. What’s between you and Lucy is none of my business.”

Orange, yellow, a flare of scarlet; the colors shimmered in Marcia’s gaze, swirling together like the glowing heart of a fire that would burn her to a crisp were she to approach it. With an incoherent exclamation Quentin seized her by the arm, urged her toward a door near the corner of the room and opened it, pushing her inside. He snapped the door shut and said, “Now you can cry your eyes out—no one will see you here.”

You will, she thought, and tugged her arm free. “I’m not crying. I never cry!”

“Then you must be allergic to paint. Your eyes are watering and your nose is running. Here.”

He was holding out an immaculate white handkerchief. Marcia said the first thing that came into her head. “You don’t look like the kind of man who’d go in for white handkerchiefs.”

If she’d been looking at him rather than at the handkerchief, she would have seen his eyes narrow. “What kind of man do I look like?”

Blinking back tears that she still didn’t want to acknowledge, Marcia glanced up. “When I was a little girl I used to play with paper dolls. You know the kind I mean? Cardboard cutouts that you put different outfits on with little paper tabs. Your suit looks like that—as though it’s been stuck on you. With no regard for the kind of man you are. You should be wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. Not a pure wool suit and a Gucci tie.”

“I’ll have you know I spent a small fortune on this suit.”

She said recklessly, “And begrudged every cent of it.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “How true!”

Marcia’s jaw dropped. His throat was strongly muscled and his teeth were perfect. Even his hair seemed to crackle with energy. This was the man who had created that painting—all those vivid colors suffused with a life force beyond her imagining. She took a step backward, suddenly more frightened than she’d been when the director had announced the cutbacks. More frightened than she could ever remember being. “The suit fits you perfectly,” she said lamely. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

It did fit him perfectly. But it still gave the impression of shoulder muscles straining at the seams, of a physique all the more impressive for being so impeccably garbed. She took another step back. “You’re not at all what I expected.”

“Nor were the paintings,” Quentin said shrewdly.

She didn’t want to talk about the paintings. She took a tissue and a mirror from her purse, dabbed her nose, checked her mascara and said, “We should go back—you’ll be missed.”

He wasn’t going to let her go that easily. “Why did that particular painting make you cry?”

Because it’s what I’ve been missing all my life. Because it filled me with a bitter regret. Because it was as though you knew me better than I know myself. She said aloud, fighting for composure, “If you and Lucy have talked about me, you know I’m a very private person. My reaction is my own affair. Not yours.”

Certainly Lucy had talked about Marcia. Not a lot, but enough for Quentin to realize that although Lucy loved her sister, she didn’t feel close to her. He had gained a picture of a woman utterly absorbed in her work to the exclusion of her family and of intimacy. A cold woman who would do the right thing out of principle, not out of love, refusing to involve herself in all the joys and tragedies of everyday life.

And this was the woman he’d been waiting to meet for the last ten years? Or—more accurately—the last twenty-five? His intuition was giving him that message. Loud and clear. But maybe it was wrong.

He’d made a mistake when he’d ignored his intuition to marry Helen. Could he be making another—if different—mistake now? Had he willed Marcia into existence just because of his own needs? Because he was lonely?

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Marcia said fretfully.

Quentin made an effort to pull himself together. “The woman Lucy described to me wasn’t the kind of woman who’d start to cry because some guy streaked paint on a piece of canvas.”

Marcia wasn’t sure what made her angrier—that Lucy had talked about her to Quentin or that his words were so accurate. “Oh, wasn’t she? What—?”

A peremptory rap came on the door. Much relieved, Marcia said, “Your public awaits you. You’d better go, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Quentin. Are you going to Lucy and Troy’s place when this shindig is over?”

“I am not.”

The door opened and Emily Harrington-Smythe poked her head in. “Quentin? I really need you out here.”

“I’ll be right there.” He reached out and took the glasses from Marcia’s nose. “You have truly beautiful eyes. Who are you hiding from?”

“From people as aggressive as you.”

She grabbed for the glasses. Laughter glinting in his own eyes, he evaded her. “You can have them back if you promise to have lunch with me tomorrow.”

“I’m sure any number of women in this gallery would be delighted to have lunch with you—but I’m not one of them.”

“I’ll wear my jeans.”

His smile was very hard to resist. Marcia resisted it with all her will power. “My glasses, please.”

“I’ll get your phone number from Lucy.”

“My telephone displays the number of the person calling me. If I think it’s you, I won’t answer.”

“It’ll take more than modern technology to defeat me, Dr. Marcia Barnes. Because you still haven’t told me why my painting made you cry.” He passed her the glasses and dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. “See you around.”

He strode out of the room. For the space of five minutes he hadn’t felt the least bit lonely. Taking Emily by the arm, he said urgently, “Composition Number 8 in the catalog—I want you to put a ‘Not for Sale’ sign on it.”

Emily said bluntly, “I can’t do that. Not when it’s listed.”

“Then mark it ‘Sold’.”

“It’s not,” Emily said with indisputable logic.

“It is. I’m buying it.”

“Quentin, what’s wrong with you? I’ve never seen you behave so erratically at an opening.”

“I’m buying Number 8,” he repeated patiently. “There’s nothing particularly erratic about that.”

“You can’t buy your own painting! Anyway, Mr. Sorensen has his eye on it, and he wields a lot of influence in this city.”

“Too bad. Mr. Sorensen isn’t getting it. I am.”

“But-”

“Do it, Emily,” Quentin said with a pleasant smile. “If you want another Quentin Ramsey show next year.”

His shows were enormously successful financially. “Very well,” Emily said huffily. “But I’ll have to charge you the full commission.”

“After tonight I’m sure I can afford it,” he said. “That looks like the last of the cabinet ministers. I’ll go and do my bit.”

Trying to push out of his mind the image of a woman’s long-lashed violet eyes swimming in tears, wondering how she’d react when he presented her with an extremely expensive painting, he made his way toward the man in the gray pin-striped suit.

CHAPTER TWO

MARCIA stayed behind in the room that she now decided must be the gallery owner’s office, struggling to subdue a mixture of rage at Quentin’s effrontery and a truant amusement at his persistence. Mr. Quentin Ramsey, she’d be willing to bet, wasn’t used to women who said no. Not that she’d been playing games with him. She was in enough trouble at work, without adding a man who asked questions she didn’t want to answer, who had blue eyes that seemed to burn their way into her very soul and who was—she could admit it now that she was alone—sexual dynamite.

It wasn’t just his body, its hard planes ill-concealed by his tailored suit. His fingers were long and sensitive, the backs of his hands taut with sinews, and his face with its strong bones had character more than standard good looks—a character hinting at the complexities of the man within. It was an inhabited face, she thought slowly, the face of a man who’d tasted deeply of life, experiencing its dark side as well as its light.

She’d noticed an awful lot in a very few minutes. Too much for her own peace of mind. Altogether too much.

Every instinct she possessed urged her to head straight for the coat rack and leave. But if she did so Lucy and Troy would have a fit. She squared her shoulders and marched back into the gallery, purposely not looking at the painting so unimaginatively called Composition Number 8.

She picked out Quentin immediately; he was talking to a man in a pin-striped suit with every evidence of courteous attention. But then his eyes swiveled to meet hers, as though he’d sensed her standing there watching him. He winked at her. Marcia tilted her chin, turned her back and headed for the far gallery.

Lucy and Troy were gazing at a small work in one corner. Troy had his arm draped around Lucy’s shoulders while Lucy’s body language said more clearly than words that the man holding her was the man she adored. Again hot tears flooded Marcia’s eyes. I’ve got to stop this, she thought frantically. Right now. I’ve avoided marriage and commitment like the plague. So why does the sight of my sister’s happiness make me feel like a failure? Smarten up, Marcia! she made a gallant effort to gather the shreds of the control for which she was so famous. Then, her lips set, her chin high, she said casually, “Hi, Lucy... Troy.”

Lucy whirled, ducking out of the circle of Troy’s arm. “Marcia—I’m so pleased to see you!”

Marcia had never encouraged hugging. Lucy contented herself with kissing her sister on the cheek and Troy brushed his lips in the vicinity of her other cheek. Then Lucy stood back, scrutinizing her sister. “You look tired,” she said. “Are you all right?”

Exactly the question Quentin had asked. “I’m fine—-I’ ve been exceptionally busy at work. What do you think of the show?”

“There are four silk screen prints on the other wall that I lust after. And I think the acrylics are brilliant—such a departure.” Lucy put her head to one side. “This one, for instance—it’s a jewel.”

In exquisite detail Quentin had painted three little girls running through a meadow full of wildflowers; it was a tribute to his talent that the work was entirely without sentimentality. “They look like us,” Marcia blurted.

“Oh...I hadn’t thought of that. You and I and Cat, you mean. You’re right—two brunettes and a redhead!” Lucy laughed. “Maybe he saw the photo I have of the three of us on the piano.”

“Would you like to have it?” Troy asked, his slate-gray eyes resting affectionately on his wife.

“I would,” Marcia heard herself say.

Lucy was gazing at her speculatively and Troy’s eyebrows had shot halfway up his forehead. Aghast, Marcia sputtered, “I didn’t really mean that—I don’t want it, of course I don’t. You get it, Lucy.”

“Have you met Quentin?” Lucy asked.

“Yes. Very briefly. Please, Lucy, forget I ever said I wanted it. Buy her the painting, Troy.”

“I’ll get it for you, sis,” Troy said. “I didn’t give you anything for your last birthday.”

“But we never give each other expensive presents!”

“This will be the exception that proves the rule... I’ll be right back.”

And Marcia, for the third time that evening, found her eyes brimming with tears. Lucy drew her further into the corner, shielding her from the other guests. “You’re not yourself—what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.”

“Have lunch with me tomorrow.”

“I can’t. I’ve got to go into work.”

“Darn your work, Marcie!”

Lucy only used Marcia’s childhood name when she was upset. Marcia said, “I’m going to phone Mother in the morning—could you and Troy come for dinner on Sunday? Catherine’s free.”

“Love to,” Lucy said promptly.

“Come around six, then... I do wish Troy wasn’t buying me that painting.”

“Too bad we can’t take it home right away. It’d look perfect in your bedroom.”

A painting of Quentin Ramsey’s in her bedroom? No way, thought Marcia, and from the corner of her eye saw Emily Harrington-Smythe parting the crowd with Troy in her wake. “An excellent choice,” Emily said, sticking a little red circle beside the painting. “Congratulations, Dr. Donovan.”

“Happy birthday, Marcia,” Troy said, with a lazy grin at his sister-in-law.

The painting was hers. Whether she wanted it or not. Standing on tiptoes, Marcia kissed Troy on the chin and said limpidly, “Thank you, Troy, that was sweet of you.”

“Let’s go and find Quentin and tell him what we’ve done,” he rejoined.

In sheer panic Marcia said, “I’ve really got to go—I was in the lab at six this morning. But I’ll see you both on Sunday.” Giving them a quick smile, she almost ran from the room.

Quentin was standing in the far corner of the gallery with three very attractive women—two of them blondes, the other a voluptuous creature with glorious black curls. He was laughing at something one of them had said. Marcia pulled on her coat, picked up her umbrella and scurried out into the rain.

Marcia’s mother, Dr. Evelyn Barnes, was a forensic pathologist, a poised and gracious hostess and a demon golfer. But when Marcia phoned her from work the next morning, Evelyn sounded unusually flustered.

“Dinner? On Sunday? With the family? Let me get my book... I—Marcia, could I bring someone with me? A friend?”

“Of course. Is Lillian in town?”

Lillian was her mother’s best friend, who had moved to Toronto only a month ago. “No—no, it’s not Lillian. It’s a man.”

Evelyn always had an escort to the concerts and dinner parties she frequented, but never allowed these undoubtedly very fine men to mingled with her family. “You’re being a dark horse, Mother. What’s his name?”

“Henry Woods. He’s a broker. I—I’d like you to meet him.”

Trying very hard to hit a balance between unmannerly curiosity and diplomatic uninterest, Marcia said soothingly, “That’s just fine. Six o’clock?”

“Lovely. We’ll see you then.” Evelyn, who usually liked to catch up on all the family news, smartly cut the connection.

More slowly, Marcia put the receiver down. If she didn’t know better, she’d say her mother was in love. Her cool, unemotional mother in love?

It didn’t look as though her dinner party would be dull.

At five to six on Sunday Marcia was putting the finishing touches to her make-up. The same perverse instinct that had caused her to claim the painting of the three little girls had induced her to ignore the elegant but rather dull outfits that made up the bulk of her wardrobe, as well as her horn-rimmed glasses. She was wearing black stirrup pants with a long black sweater emblazoned with the golden face of a lion; her pumps were black with gold buckles. Despite the addition of the mysterious Mr. Woods, this was only a family dinner, she thought defiantly, adding scarlet lipstick and big gold earrings that dangled against her neck. Besides, it had rained all weekend.

The security buzzer sounded and Lucy’s voice came over the intercom. A few moments later there was a tap on the door. Before Marcia could say anything, Lucy handed her sister the baby so she could take off her coat and said ingenuously, “We brought Quentin along. I hope you don’t mind? The cocktail party he was supposed to go to was canceled because the hostess had the flu.”

Christopher Stephen Donovan grabbed at Marcia’s earrings and drooled down the shoulder of her sweater. Quentin’s eyes were even bluer than she remembered them. Marcia backed up so that they could come in and mumbled untruthfully, “No, that’s fine. No problem at all.”

Lucy handed Troy her coat and swiped at Lucy’s shoulder with a tissue. “He’s teething again—I keep telling Troy someone should invent a better method for the acquiring of teeth. Here, I’ll take him now.”

But Christopher had locked his arms around Marcia’s neck and burrowed his face into her shoulder. He smelled sweetly of baby powder and warm skin, his weight solid against her body. Her arms tightened around him as she rested her cheek on his wispy hair. Oh God, she thought helplessly, here I go again. I want to weep my eyes out. I’m cracking up. I’ve never wanted children. Not once in my thirty-three years.

Quentin, meanwhile, had been hanging up his coat and combing the raindrops from his hair—more to give himself time to collect his wits than from any urge for neatness. His first glimpse of Marcia in all that black and gold had sent a jolt through his system as though he’d grabbed a live wire; he’d simultaneously wanted to look his fill and throw her down on the carpet and kiss her senseless. Then Lucy had given her the baby, and, as though the carpet had moved beneath his feet, he’d seen her holding his child, their child, the fruit of their love.

You’re nuts, he told himself astringently. She hasn’t even agreed to have lunch with you and you’re already into fatherhood? He said, “Marcia, I brought you these. They were selling them at the market.”

Marcia looked up. He was clutching a large, inartistic bouquet of mixed flowers—oranges clashing with pinks, purple next to magenta. His gaze locked with hers and she found herself quite unable to look away. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Lucy can show you where to find a vase.”

“Left my suit back at the hotel,” he added.

He looked extremely handsome in soft-fitting gray cords and a dark blue sweater. “I see,” Marcia said inanely.

Quentin handed the bouquet to Lucy and stepped closer to Marcia. “He’s going to pull your hair out by the roots... Let go, Chris.” Then she felt the warmth of a man’s fingers against her nape and felt his breath stir her hair. Every nerve in her body sprang to jangling life. Her shoulders rigid, her breathing caught in her throat, she heard Chris mumble a protest; his little fist tightened on her hair and she winced.

“Easy, Chris...there we go.”

With infinite gentleness Quentin had loosened the baby’s hold. As he eased the child out of her arms his forearm brushed her breast. The shock ran through her body; he must have felt it. She flashed a desperate glance around and saw that Troy and Lucy were watching her with considerable interest. I will not blush. I will not, she told herself. She said in a strangled voice, “I’ve got to keep an eye on the dinner. I’ll be right back.”

Troy started setting up their portable playpen, Quentin swung baby Chris high over his head so that he gurgled with laughter, and Lucy followed Marcia into the kitchen. “Is Mother coming? Yummy—something smells delicious.”

Glad to talk about anything other than Quentin, Marcia said, “She’s bringing a man,” and relayed the gist of the phone call. Before she’d finished Catherine arrived and sauntered into the kitchen, and she had to go through her story again.

Dr. Catherine Barnes was petite like Marcia, elegant like their mother, and did research in pancreatic cancer. “I’m on holiday for three whole weeks,” she crowed. “I’m looking after Lydia’s dogs next week, so I’ll get lots of exercise and fresh air. You look like you could do with some sun, Marcia, you’re much too pale.”

Cat was a fitness freak who could always be counted on to say it like it was. “Thanks,” Marcia said drily. “But it does happen to have been raining for the last four days—or hadn’t you noticed? Would you pass around the crab dip, Cat? And I’ll get Troy to pour drinks.”

Lucy had jammed the flowers in Marcia’s largest vase. “Where’ll I put them?”

Quentin was standing in the kitchen doorway, minus Chris. “I’ll put them in the middle of the table,” he said.

Marcia had placed an attractive arrangement of silk flowers that matched her china as a centerpiece. She watched Quentin plunk it on the sideboard and put the motley bouquet in its place. He was exactly the kind of man she disliked—making decisions without consulting her, taking over as though he owned the place. As he came back in the kitchen she said frostily, “The only thing missing from that bouquet is skunk cabbage.”

“Better luck next time.”

“Next time? You don’t look the type to enjoy city life. I can’t imagine you’re going to stay in Ottawa for long.”

“I wasn’t going to—but I’ve changed my plans,” he said. “A friend of mine who’s away owns a place in the Gatineau Hills, so I’m going to stay there for a while. You and I still have to have lunch—or had you forgotten?”

“You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Confidence gets results, Dr. Barnes.”

“Up until now confidence might have gotten you results,” she said sweetly.

“Are you suggesting I should change tactics?”

“I’m suggesting you abandon the project.”

“I don’t think so. You’re an interesting challenge.”

Her nostrils flared. “Now you’re being insulting.”

He stepped closer and said softly, “You liked it when I touched you.”

Gritting her teeth, Marcia thought about icebergs and glaciers and Scotch on the rocks, and her cheeks stayed only as pink as the heat of the stove warranted. “You took me by surprise, that’s all. A man of your experience should be more adept at distinguishing between a woman who’s startled and a woman who’s ready to fall at your feet.”

Quentin was by now thoroughly enjoying himself. “Dear me... a woman has never once thrown herself at my feet. Does that make me a failure as a man? Although it does sound rather a deranged thing to—Oh, thanks, Troy. I’ll have a beer.”

Had Troy been listening? Appalled, Marcia said stiffly, “You’ll have to excuse me... Oh, there’s the buzzer—that must be Mother.”

Evelyn Barnes looked very attractive in her rose-pink dress with her gray hair softly curling round her ears. Her usual escorts were tall, patrician-featured men, who considered themselves essential to the running of the country; Henry Woods was short, stout, bald and unassuming, with a pair of the kindest brown eyes Marcia had ever seen. She warmed to him immediately. She made introductions all around, Troy passed the drinks, and Marcia set a place for Quentin at the table, seating him where the flowers would screen him from her view.

Two and a half hours later Marcia was plugging in the coffee-machine in the kitchen. She was pleased with the success of her dinner party. Quentin and Henry bad proved to be witty and entertaining, Cat had thrown off her normal reserve and the baby had filled any gaps in the conversation. As for herself, she’d managed to avoid anything but minimal contact with Quentin. He couldn’t move out to the Gatineau Hills fast enough for her.

She reached in the refrigerator for the cream. But the container was almost empty and she’d forgotten to buy a new one. She went back in the living room. Troy and Quentin were getting out the chess pieces while Evelyn was giving Chris his bottle. “I’ll have to run to the corner store—I’m out of cream,” Marcia said. “Won’t be a minute.”

Quentin got to his feet. “I’ll come with you. I need to walk off some of that excellent dinner.”

She couldn’t very well tell him to get lost. Evelyn wouldn’t approve of that. So Marcia got her purse, pulled on shiny black boots and her raincoat and went out into the hall with him. His belted trenchcoat gave him the air of a particularly rakish spy.

“Let’s take the stairs,” Quentin said. “I shouldn’t have had a second helping of that chocolate dessert—deadly.”

“It was only Belgian chocolate, whipping cream and butter,” Marcia said, wide-eyed. “Oh, and six eggs too.”

“It should be against medical ethics to make caffeine and cholesterol taste so good.”

“It’s Cat’s favorite dessert. That article she told us about was interesting, wasn’t it?”

But Quentin hadn’t braved the rain to talk about Cat. As they went outside he opened Marcia’s umbrella, held it over their heads and pulled her close to his side, tucking her arm in his. “There,” he said. “Alone at last.”

His strong-boned face was only inches from hers; his gaze was intent: She said coolly, “This is a big city—we’re scarcely alone.”