Dawn in Eclipse Bay (4 page)

“And power,” she added a little too helpfully. “But, then, the two usually go together, don't they?”

“Power?” he repeated neutrally.

“Sure. You have a lot of clout here in Portland. You mingle with the movers and shakers. You're on the boards of some of the major charitable organizations. You know the players in business and politics. People listen to you. That's called power.”

He thought about it and then shrugged. “I do get stuck with a lot of board meetings.”

“Don't try to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. I can't believe you would have worked so hard to make Madison Commercial such an important and influential company if you weren't getting something very personal out of it. Something besides money.”

“You know,” he said, “this kind of conversation isn't my forte.”

“Really? I would never have guessed.”

“My turn,” he said. “Just what were you doing in all those different places you were living in for the past few years?”

“You want my whole résumé?”

“Just hit the high spots.”

She put the tips of her thumbs and forefingers together, forming a triangle around the base of her glass, and looked down into her wine.

“Well, let's see,” she said. “After I graduated from college, I worked in a museum for a few years.”

“Why did you quit?”

“The public never seemed to be compelled by the same art that fascinates me and the whole point of a successful museum is to attract the attention of the public. I wasn't very creative with the exhibitions and displays.”

“Because you were not real interested in the subjects you were supposed to make attractive to the public.”

“Probably. After that I worked in various art galleries. I had no problem figuring out what would sell, but I wasn't personally attracted to the art that most of the clients wanted to buy.”

“Hard to stay in business when you don't want to give your customers what they want to buy.”

Her mouth curved ruefully. “Oddly enough, that's what the gallery owners said.”

“What came next?”

She turned the base of the wineglass slowly between her fingers. “I switched to a career in interior design. It was okay for a while but then I started getting into arguments with my clients. They didn't always like what I thought they ought to have in their homes and offices.”

“Nothing worse than a client with his own personal opinion, I always say.”

“Very true. I decided to get out of that field, too, but before I did, I introduced one of my clients, a software designer, to a friend of mine. I thought they made a good match and I was right. After the wedding, my software client got enthusiastic about the whole idea of designing a matchmaking program. It sounded interesting, so I agreed to work with her on it. We consulted with some experts. I designed the questionnaire. She did the technical part. When it was finished, I bought her out.”

“That's how you got into the matchmaking business? You just sort of fell into it?”

“Chilling, isn't it?”

He exhaled slowly. “Well, yeah, as a matter of fact, it is.”

“You're not the only one who has pointed that out recently. I never set out to get into the business, you understand. After my ex-client finished the program, I tested it. More or less as a lark, I tried it on some acquaintances and got lucky a couple of times. People went out on dates, had a good time. An engagement or two was announced. All of a sudden, I was in the matchmaking business.”

“Damn.” He rubbed his jaw. “Are you sure that's legal?”

“Got news for you, Madison, anyone can set up in business as a matchmaker.”

“Sort of like the sex therapy business, huh?”

“Don't.” She leveled a warning finger at him. “Mention that subject again.”

“Hard to resist.”

“Try.” She gave him an evil smile. “Now that you know the gruesome truth, that you placed your entire future in the hands of an amateur, maybe you'd like to rethink your insistence on that sixth date you say I owe you.”

“No way.” He picked up his beer, tilted it to his mouth, and took a long swallow. Then he put the bottle down again. “I paid for it. I want it.”

She made a face. “Anyone ever told you that you've got a real stubborn streak?”

“It's a Madison thing.” He studied her across the table. “What are you going to do next? After I get my sixth date and you shut down Private Arrangements, that is?”

“Gee, I don't know. Maybe I'll apply for an executive position at Madison Commercial.”

“Don't bother. Something tells me you wouldn't last long there, either.”

“You're probably right,” she said. “I'm what you'd call a self-motivated type. I don't like working for other people. I prefer to make the decisions and set the agenda. It would be inevitable that sooner or later I would start telling you how to run your company.”

“At which point I would have to can you.”

“Of course.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Another career path down the tubes.”

“How important is Flint to you?”

“I told you not to mention his name to me again.” But there was no heat in her words this time.

He decided to take a chance and push a little harder.

“If the two of you had something serious going on, I can see where the sight of all the leather might have been a little traumatic.”

“Anderson and I don't have anything serious going on,” she said very steadily. “Not in the way you mean. I won't say I didn't enjoy his company on a few occasions but I knew from the start that he wasn't interested in me personally.”

“Just your program.”

“Yes.

“Are you going to help him out with his book?”

“No,” she said.

“Was it the scene in his office that made you change your mind?”

“No.” She went to work on the little paper napkin that had accompanied the glass of wine, folding and creasing it in an abstract pattern. “I changed my mind several days ago. That's what I was going to tell Anderson this afternoon when I went downstairs to see him.”

“Why back out of the project?”

“I've got my mind on other things right now.”

He had been through too many negotiations, played too many games of strategy and brinksmanship not to know when an opponent was being evasive. But he had also had enough experience to know when to push and when to let things ride.

“As long as we're here,” he said. “We might as well have dinner.”

She looked up from her origami project. “Dinner?”

“We both have to eat. Unless you've got other plans?”

“No,” she said slowly. “I don't have any other plans.”

He walked her back to a handsome brick building and saw her to her front door on the top floor. When she turned in the doorway to say good-night, he looked past her through a small foyer into the living room of her apartment. He could see warm yellow walls, white moldings near the ceiling and a lot of vividly patterned velvet pillows heaped on a brilliant purple sofa. The curved arm of a scarlet wingback chair was visible near the window. The edge of a green, yellow, and purple patterned rug peeked out from beneath an abstract glass coffee table.

The strange combination of colors and designs should have looked garish but for some reason it all went together perfectly. That was a disturbing sign but it was not what really worried him.

What bothered him the most were the glimpses he caught of the paintings hanging on the yellow walls. There were a number of them. Not framed reproductions or posters. Lillian bought originals, apparently. A real bad sign. She obviously cared enough about art to have formed her own opinions.

From where he stood in the doorway, he could not get a good look at any of the pictures but he got an impression of strong light and dark, edgy shadows. He thought back to the conversation in the café, the part where she had detailed her job history working mostly in museums and art galleries.

A sense of deep gloom settled on him. He could no longer deny the evidence of his own eyes. Lillian was into art big-time.

“Thank you for the drink and for dinner,” she said politely.

He pulled his attention back from the ominous scene inside her apartment. Realized that she was watching him closely, maybe reading his mind.

“Sure,” he said. “My pleasure.”

She gripped the door with one hand, preparing to close it. A speculative expression crossed her face. “You know, when you think about it—”

“Forget it,” he said.

“Forget what?”

“You aren't going to get away with calling that dinner we just had my sixth date. I'm not letting Private Arrangements off the hook that easily.”

Her mouth tightened. “You have been a difficult client from day one, Madison.”

“People say stuff like that to me all the time. I try not to take it personally.”

Lillian watched Octavia Brightwell's expressive face while she examined the painting. Rapt attention radiated from the gallery owner.

Octavia stood in the center of the studio, her red hair aglow in the strong light cast by the ceiling fixtures. Her slender frame was taut with concentration; she seemed lost somewhere inside the picture propped in front of her.

Or maybe she hated the painting and didn't know how to deliver the bad news, Lillian thought.

She berated herself for the negative thinking. She considered herself to be a positive, glass-half-full kind of person under most circumstances, but when it came to her art she knew she was vulnerable.

Octavia was the first and, thus far, the only person from the art world who had seen her work. Until recently, she had allowed only the members of her family and a very few close friends to view the paintings.

She had always drawn and painted. She could not remember a time when she had not kept a sketchbook close at hand. She had been fascinated with watercolors and acrylics and pastels since childhood. She picked up her brushes as easily as other people picked up a knife and fork. Her family considered her painting as nothing more than a hobby but she knew the truth. It was as necessary to her as food and water and fresh air.

She had been born into a family of financial wizards and entrepreneurs. It was not that art was not respected in the Harte clan. Some of the members of her family actively collected it. But they treated it as they would any other investment. Hartes did not establish careers as artists. She'd dreamed her dreams of becoming an artist but she'd kept them to herself.

Until now.

The time had come to turn her dreams into reality. She could feel it. She was ready. Something inside her had changed. She sensed new dimensions in her work, new layers that had not been there in the past.

She was sure of her decision to try her hand at painting full time, but she did not know if her work had a market. She had enough Harte business instincts to understand that in the real world, art was a commodity like any other. If there was no consumer demand for her work, there was no possibility of making her living as an artist.

The route to financial success as an artist required the support and savvy marketing of a respected dealer. The decision to show her paintings to Octavia Brightwell first had been based entirely on intuition.

Octavia owned and operated an influential gallery, Bright Visions, here in Portland. She had also opened a branch in Eclipse Bay.

“Well?” Lillian prompted when she could no longer stand the suspense. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Octavia appeared to have trouble dragging her gaze away from the painting. “I think it's absolutely extraordinary, just like the others in your
Between Midnight and Dawn
series.”

Something inside Lillian relaxed a little. “Good. Great. Thanks.”

Octavia turned back to the painting. “I'm pulling out all the stops for your upcoming show. I want maximum impact.”

“I don't know how to thank you, Octavia.”

“Don't bother. We're both in this thing together. I have a feeling that it isn't just your career that will take off when I hang your work in my gallery. Mine is going to get a real shot in the arm as well.”

Lillian laughed. “Sounds good to me. I'll leave you to do your job. I'm off to Eclipse Bay on Wednesday.”

“You're really going to do it? You're going to close down Private Arrangements?”

“Yes, but keep it to yourself for a while.” Lillian folded her arms and studied the paintings that lined the studio wall. “I'm still working on figuring out how to break it to the family gently.”

“I suppose it will come as a shock.”

“Well, it won't be quite as much of a blow as it was when Nick announced that he was leaving Harte Investments to write mysteries full time. After all, my grandfather had counted on him taking over the company when my father retires. But no one is going to be real thrilled when I announce that I intend to paint full time. Hartes don't become artists. They're businesspeople.”

Half an hour later, the laptop under her arm, the hood of her rain cloak pulled low over her face, Lillian walked quickly through the misty rain toward the building that housed the offices of Private Arrangements. Her thoughts were on the conversation with Octavia. She did not see the big man until he stepped right into her path.

“You're Lillian Harte, aren't you?” he said fiercely.

The anger in his voice made her mouth go dry. She came to a halt in the middle of the busy sidewalk, fervently grateful for the fact that she was surrounded by a large number of people.

The man looming in front of her appeared to be in his mid-forties, big, heavily built with blunt features and thinning, short-cropped hair. She could not see his eyes. They were concealed behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Not real useful on a cloudy, rainy day, she reflected, but they certainly added a note of menacing drama.

“Do I know you?” she asked cautiously.

“No.” His heavy jaw jerked. “But I know you, lady. You're the matchmaker, aren't you?”

She clutched the laptop very tightly. “How do you know that?”

His mouth twisted. “I've been watching you for the past couple of days.”

A blast of stark fear left her palms damp. “You
followed
me? You had no right to do that. I'll report you to the police.”

“I didn't do anything illegal.” He looked disgusted. “I just wanted to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“Sure you were the woman who runs that matchmaking outfit, Private Arrangements.”

“Why do you care who I am?”

He moved in closer. “You're the one who took Heather away from me. You hooked her up with someone else, didn't you? I called her a couple of days ago. Thought I'd give her another chance, y'know? That's when she told me that she planned to marry this guy you set her up with. She thinks she's in love. I think you messed with her mind.”

Ice touched Lillian's spine. “Are you talking about Heather Summers?”

“Heather was with me before you tricked her into thinking I was no good for her. She left me because of you.”

It took everything Lillian had to stand her ground. “Who are you?”

“My name's Witley.” He took another step toward her, his face clenching with anger. “Campbell Witley. Heather and I were together before you came along. You ruined everything.”

She glanced quickly around again, reassuring herself that she was not alone here on the sidewalk. Then she looked very steadily at Campbell Witley.

“Please, calm down, Mr. Witley. I did match a woman named Heather but when she filled out the forms I gave her she stated that she was not currently seeing anyone. I always insist that my clients be single and unattached when they sign up with my firm.”

“I don't care what Heather said on your damned forms.” He tapped his wide chest with a stubby thumb. “She was with
me
.”

Lillian remembered Heather very well. She was a shy, nonconfrontational type who would have found it extremely difficult to deal with an aggressive man like Witley.

She also recalled that Heather had been a different woman after her first date with Ted Baker. Baker was the quiet, studious sort, very much a gentleman. He and Heather had attended the opera together. It had been love at first sight.

“Out of curiosity,” Lillian said, “do you enjoy the opera, Mr. Witley?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Heather loves the opera. I just wondered if you shared her interests.”

Witley's mouth creased into a thin line. “Are you saying I didn't have anything in common with her just because I wouldn't go to the damned opera? That's bullshit. Heather and I had a lot in common. We went to ball games. I took her camping. We went white-water rafting. We did lots of stuff together.”

“Those were all things that you enjoyed. But it doesn't sound as if you did many things that she liked to do.”

“How do you know what she liked?”

“She was very specific on the questionnaire I had her fill out. She is really quite passionate about the opera, you know. And she likes to attend film festivals.”

“I took Heather to the movies. We saw
Battle Zone
twice.”

This was hopeless, Lillian thought. Campbell Witley would probably never understand, much less care, that he and Heather had had no common interests.

“I'm sorry about your personal problems, Mr. Witley, but I assure you, I had nothing to do with the breakup of your relationship,” she said.

“The hell you didn't. If it hadn't been for you, Heather would be with me now.”

“When did she end your relationship?”

Witley scowled furiously. “The night we went to see
Battle Zone
the second time. When I took her home that evening, she said she didn't want to date me again. Why?”

“You say that she broke up with you after you took her to back-to-back screenings of
Battle Zone
. As I recall, that film came out early last fall. I remember the ads were everywhere.”

“So what?”

“Heather didn't register with Private Arrangements until December. I matched her in January.”

“Who cares when she registered with your damned agency?”

“I'm trying to explain that my firm had nothing to do with the end of your relationship with Heather,” Lillian said patiently. “She didn't come to me until after the two of you had stopped seeing each other.”

“Don't try to weasel out of this. She'd have come back to me by now if you hadn't fixed her up with someone else.”

“I don't think so,” Lillian said as gently as possible.

“It doesn't sound like the two of you were a good match. You need an outdoorsy type. Someone who likes to camp and hike. Someone who isn't afraid to argue with you.”

“That just shows how much you know. One of the things I really liked about Heather was that she never argued with me.”

“Guess there wouldn't have been much point.”

His face worked. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I get the feeling you didn't listen to her very well, Mr. Witley.”

“That's a damned lie. I listened to her.”

“Can you honestly say that Heather never once indicated that she preferred attending the opera to camping?”

Witley grimaced. “She may have mentioned the opera crap a couple of times but I told her to forget it. That highbrow stuff is boring. No beat to it, y'know?”

“In other words Heather did everything you wanted to do but you didn't do any of the things she liked. You don't see that as a problem in a relationship?”

“I told you, Heather and I had a great relationship.” Witley's voice got louder. “And you wrecked it. What gives you the right to play games with other people's lives, Lillian Harte? You can't get away with treating folks like lab rats.”

She held the laptop in front of her as if it were a shield. “I don't treat them that way.”

“Using a damned computer to figure out who people should date and marry? You don't think that isn't treating them like rats in a maze? Hell, you're like some mad scientist in a movie or something. Like you know what's best for everyone else.”

“Mr. Witley, I can't discuss this with you. Not while you're in this mood.”

She made to step around him but he blocked her path.

“You can't mess up my life like this and then just blow me off,” he said. “You took Heather away from me. You had no right to do that. You got that? No right, damn it.”

“Excuse me, I've got to go now,” Lillian said.

She whirled abruptly to the left and plunged through the glass doors of the large department store that occupied most of the block. There would be security staff inside if she needed help, she thought.

But Campbell Witley did not follow her into the store. She paused in front of a cosmetics counter and glanced over her shoulder to see if he was still on the sidewalk outside.

There was no sign of him.

She stared down through the polished glass at a display of elegantly packaged face creams. Her pulse was beating too rapidly. Her stomach was doing weird things.

What gives you the right to play games with other people's lives, Lillian Harte? You can't get away with treating folks like lab rats
.

She could not blame this queasy, slightly panicky feeling entirely on the scene with Campbell Witley, as unpleasant as it had been. She had been getting little foretastes of this nasty sensation for several weeks. It was one of the reasons why she knew she had to shut down Private Arrangements.

“Can I help you?” a solicitous voice asked from the other side of the counter.