Page 104 of Close Up

“Good, because I haven’t decided yet,” Vivian said.

“As it happens, I’ve got a little good news myself,” Nick said. “Raina called to let me know she checked with the front desk staff of the Burning Cove Hotel. Ripley Fleming’s secretary booked his room there a full month before the events here in Adelina Beach. He stays there frequently and prefers one particular villa.”

“Hah.” Vivian smiled. “So there is such a thing as coincidence, after all. If you want more proof, just look at how the two of us met.”

Nick smiled. His eyes heated. “That wasn’t coincidence. That was fate.”

Lyra jumped to her feet and stole a cup and saucer from a nearby table. Seating herself again, she poured tea for Nick. Then she raised her cup in a toast.

“Here’s to wild women everywhere,” she said.

Nick smiled at Vivian once more. “I’ll drink to that.”

Chapter 49

I look forward to hanging the rest of the pictures in your Men series,” Joan Ashwood said. She surveyed the glamorous crowd that filled her gallery. “I’ve already sold the three images on display here tonight and I’ve got orders for most of the limited-edition prints. I will definitely be raising the price on your next series.”

“I can hardly believe it,” Vivian said. “I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity.”

As the night of the Ashwood Gallery show approached she had grown increasingly anxious. Nothing Nick or Lyra said could reassure her. On the day of the event she had been convinced she was doomed to a humiliating public failure. The knowledge that said failure would likely take place in front of Winston Bancroft did not help her nerves.

But when the doors opened, Luther Pell and Raina Kirk had been among the first to arrive. Oliver Ward and his wife, Irene, had soon joined them. A short time later, Ripley Fleming, Lyra on his arm, strolled into the room, making the kind of entrance that only a truestar could manage. They had been accompanied by a couple of studio publicists.

Ripley paused to congratulate her. He winked before moving on with Lyra to examine a large abstract sculpture made of gleaming chrome.

Vivian smiled at Joan. “I think I know the identity of the anonymous collector who bought the first two pictures in my Men series.”

Joan chuckled. “I believe there was some mention of a debt that needed to be repaid. But the circumstances aren’t important. What matters is that a collector snatched up those first pictures. That automatically tripled the price on the next ones.”

Several press photographers were gathered on the sidewalk outside the entrance, lighting up the night with their camera flashbulbs as they took pictures of the fashionable celebrities and socialites who were arriving.

The only person who had not yet appeared was Winston Bancroft.

Joan had instructed Vivian to stay close, at least for the first hour, so that Joan could introduce her to everyone. Every time the door opened on a new arrival, Vivian took a deep breath and waited to see if Winston would appear. After an hour she began to hope that he might not show up. Maybe he had a bad cold. Or a flat tire.

When there was a slight lull in the wave of introductions, Vivian could not stand the suspense any longer. She looked at Joan.

“Evidently Mr. Bancroft has been delayed,” she said, trying not to sound too relieved.

“Winston?” Joan chuckled. “Don’t worry, he’ll show up. He’s definitely not the reclusive, socially awkward, painfully shy artistic type. And when he does finally walk into the room, you’ll know it. He’ll make an entrance that will rival Ripley Fleming’s.”

“Right,” Vivian said.

Joan’s brows rose. “Have you met him?”

“Took a course in photography from him in San Francisco.”

“I see. Interesting. You obviously went on to develop your ownstyle. Most of the photographers I know who took a course from him try to imitate his approach and techniques. Imitation is usually a mistake when it comes to art.”

“Mr. Bancroft is... very confident. In a classroom setting he can be somewhat intimidating.”

Joan smiled. “Obviously you weren’t intimidated by him. Your work is very, very different.”

“Yes, but my last news photo was a picture of a dead woman,” Vivian said.

“No, it wasn’t,” Joan said. “Your last photograph was a picture of a deadmurderess, a staggeringly evil woman who just happened to be the Dagger Killer’s partner in crime. Your photo told a story of insanity hidden behind the mask of respectability and the gloss of artistic pretension.”

“Wow.” Vivian was lost in admiration. “No wonder you’re good at selling art.”

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