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Again he showed his teeth—and again Katrina felt a small thump of excitement in her chest. “I don’t mind it at all. Neither did Hofmann. But this pink—”
“It’s too pink?” she asked, favoring him with a small smile.
He returned it. “The pink itself is wrong,” he said. “It’s called Passion Pink, it’s made by DelMar, and it was first put on the market in 1984.”
“Shit,” Katrina said. “Hofmann died in ’sixty-something. ’Sixty-eight?”
“’Sixty-six, very good,” he said, and Katrina found herself liking his approval, too. But very much not liking the idea that she would not go home with a Hans Hofmann.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she said. She looked longingly at the painting. “You’re really sure?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “It costs me money to be wrong, and I’m not rich.”
She glanced at him; the Savile Row suit, the fact that he was here tonight, had made her assume he belonged. If he was some kind of climber or gold digger, she would shake him off quickly and go back to being bored. She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Then what are you doing here?”
His smile was different this time, softer. “I can easily afford a ticket and a small donation. I’m not that poor. And for me, orphans are . . .” He shrugged, looking rather vulnerable. Then he abruptly straightened up and spoke briskly. “And anyway, if I can save a lady from getting ripped off by a fraud, it’s worth it. And that painting is a fraud.”
“Shit, shit, shit, SHIT,” Katrina said, staring at the treacherous canvas. “I really want that painting.”
“Even though it isn’t a real Hofmann?” he said mockingly.
“Almost, yeah,” she admitted, and he laughed. After a moment, she did, too. She straightened up and threw down the pencil. “Well, now what?”
“I could buy you a drink,” he said. “To make up for spoiling your evening.”
Katrina bit her lip and hesitated. Like all who live in enormous wealth, she was eternally on her guard. People were almost always friendly because they wanted something—money for a cause, or a personal project, or a foolproof investment. This man didn’t really seem like he was after anything—or at least, she corrected herself wryly, not after money. But he had already admitted that he didn’t have real money, which meant she was right to be wary. And another glass of wine, on top of the four she’d had, was not a good idea, either. On the other hand, he’d shown no sign that he knew who she was—and she really had a good feeling about this man and didn’t want to let go of him, not just yet. “Well . . . ,” she said. “Oh! I’m sorry, I’m Katrina Hobson.” She held out her hand and he took it. She watched him carefully for any sign that her name meant anything to him but saw nothing.
“Randall Miller,” he said. He reached into his pocket and came out with a business card. He handed it to Katrina, and she looked at it with real curiosity. It read:
RANDALL MILLER
Dealer in Contemporary Art
Interior Design Consultant
“Design consultant! Well, that’s funny,” she said. “I’m doing a massive redecoration on my house—that’s what I wanted the Hofmann for.”
“Oh, I didn’t— Aw, crap,” he said. “I really didn’t know—I mean, now it looks like—I wasn’t dunning you for business, honest,” he said, and he looked flustered, which Katrina thought was cute and kind of endearing.
“I know,” she said, patting his arm and wondering if it was true. “But it’s a funny coincidence. Anyway, I have someone under contract for the work.”
“Oh, good,” he said, looking a little relieved. “Who are you using?”
“Irene Caldwell?” Katrina said. “She came highly recommended.”
“Yes, she’s very good,” Randall said. “And anyway, as much as I’d be happy to help you, I am completely booked right now. I have this massive project that really—” He shook his head. “Ah, listen to me. Talking shop when there’s a thirsty lady right in front of me.” He offered her his arm in a way that was gallant and still mocked the very idea of gallantry. “Your Grace—how about that drink?”
“I’d like that,” she said. “But I’ve had a couple already, so please, stop me if I start a strip tease or something?”
He laughed. “I’m not sure I can promise that,” he said. “But I’ll try.”
She took his arm, and he led her over to one of the three bars in the ballroom. He sat her at the closest table while he went to get the drinks. In just a minute, he returned with her pinot grigio and what looked like a martini for himself. “Well,” he said, sitting next to her and raising his glass. “Cheers. Chin-chin. Sláinte. Salud.”
She raised her glass in return. “Prosit!” she said with a smile.
“That’s right, I left that one out,” Randall said. “So, uh, to get the awkward questions out of the way right away”—he nodded at her wedding ring—“you’re married, right? Or is it—forgive me, but are you, um, a widow?”
Katrina took another sip of wine to cover her thoughts while she tried to think of how to answer. She felt very relieved that the man obviously didn’t know who she was. But she had no idea how to answer the question without seeming . . . what? Wanton? Open to something beyond flirtation? It would have been lovely simply to tell the truth, that Michael was away on business—but did that sound like an invitation? He was clearly attracted to her, and she didn’t want him to get the impression that it was mutual— But it is, she thought, and fought to push the thought away. Screw it, the truth, she thought.
