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Mick halted at her obvious reluctance.
“Trust me,” he said, which really made it all quite simple.
She followed him into a ritzy glass elevator with only minor trepidation. They stopped at the eighteenth floor and exited into yet another waiting area. This one was designed to exude plush wealth rather than intimidating bureaucracy, however, and the receptionist’s smiling face was a nice change after her predecessor’s evil eye. Mick went up and spoke to her in low tones and she nodded, putting a phone receiver to her ear.
Sophy watched him walk back to her through narrowed eyes.
“Do I need to start guessing?” she asked dryly, and he shook his head with a small smile and gestured behind her.
“No need.” He reached out and shook hands with a newcomer, a tall man of about sixty with patrician features and a slight paunch. He looked a little like the marble bust of Cicero that she’d seen in the Capitoline Museums on an excursion to Italy.
And she’d just realised her habit of finding artistic doppelgangers for strangers.
“Mick Hollister?” The man clasped Mick’s hand and subjected him to a sharp, twinkle-eyed scrutiny. “Good to meet you. William Ryland called and said you would be coming in today.” He turned his attention to Sophy with easy charm. “And this must be Sophy James.”
She shook his hand, feeling totally at a loss.
“Sophy, this is Patrick Kirkland,” Mick murmured, and she froze.
Kirkland smiled at her.
“I understand that you’d like to see my Alicia Kemp collection,” he said.
She blinked, tried to sound out words, failed. In the middle of her best impression of a hooked trout, she turned and stared full at Mick. He was waiting patiently, his return look affectionate.
Oh my God.
Oh Jesus.
She was completely in love with him.
And she didn’t know what to do with that.
Kirkland had fortunately chosen to be flattered rather than put off by her stunned silence. He kept up a running commentary of mostly interesting and occasionally inaccurate modernist anecdotes as he ushered them into a personal office suite that boasted, among several hundred thousand dollars worth of art, the largest single collection of Kemp paintings in the country. She kept a tight hold of Mick’s hand as they strolled, stopped, peered and listened. The banker probably thought the visit was a nice treat for Mick’s poor mute girlfriend, but she was so overwhelmed that she couldn’t even force herself to make the usual stilted efforts at conversation.
The artworks were wonderful.
The sweetness of the gesture seemed beyond comprehension.
Kirkland let her take some digital photos and make some notes for her essay, and she managed to thank him warmly as they made to depart. When they descended the elevator into the dark garage, she came to a stop, tugging on Mick’s fingers. He turned and looked at her questioningly.
“How…” Her voice trailed off. “How did you…?”
“I just asked Ryland if he happened to know the name of the banker who owned substantial holdings of Alicia Kemp’s work. It turned out they were at Cambridge together,” he said wryly. “He said that he would give Kirkland a call and set things up since we were going to be in the city anyway. Apparently he’s not usually that forthcoming with his collections, but it seems that Ryland once supplied him with a highly suspect alibi during his first divorce proceedings, so he was owed a favour. It was really all the boss,” he added firmly, as if anticipating a disconcerting rush of gratitude.
She didn’t think so.
Sophy wasn’t good with effusive sentiments and she knew that Mick found them downright uncomfortable, so she settled for wrapping an arm around the side of his waist and squeezing him in a brief, fervent hug. His hand clasped her shoulder.
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t –”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said softly. He held her a minute longer in the enveloping dimness, then he straightened away from her and released a long breath. “I suppose I’d better get going.” Not a hint of agitation touched the words, but his big body was suddenly tense. “I have a few things to do back at the hotel before I head to dinner. What about you? Do you want to go back to your hotel or is there somewhere else I can drop you?”
It would be so easy to take the cowardly route. Mick wouldn’t expect anything of her. He might even superficially prefer that she just asked to be dropped off at the nearest mall. Sophy looked at him, looked at the car, looked back at where they’d just come from. The request to go shopping hovered on her tongue. She swallowed it with a sigh and threw all her cards down on the table.
