Page 61 of Close Up

“What about the reputation of the artist?”

Vivian waved that off. “His reputation didn’t suffer a bit. He’s an artist, after all. And male.”

“Right. Double standard and all that.”

Vivian studied him for a long moment. “Your romance disaster was a lot rougher than mine. You nearly got killed. Think you’ll ever take another chance on love and marriage?”

The question stopped him cold. A couple of days ago he wouldn’t have hesitated. His answer would have been a flat no. He was not so sure now. The kiss in the garden last night had changed some crucial element in the equation. He needed to recalculate.

When in doubt, dodge the question.

“I don’t know about love and marriage,” he said, going for a lighter note, “but I’ve got nothing against passion.”

She nodded, deeply serious. “People say that passion is a reckless, potentially destructive force, and I’m sure that is frequently the case. But I think love is infinitely more dangerous. Passion blazes hot and fierce and then it burns out. You’ll get scorched but you’ll probably survive. Love is more complicated. More mysterious.”

They were like a couple of gamblers playing high-stakes poker, he thought.

“In other words, you don’t have anything against passion, either?” he asked.

“Not as long as the only people who are put in harm’s way are the two who decide to light the fire. It’s not right to burn innocent third parties, though.”

“Agreed,” he said.

Okay, that sounded like progress, he decided. He tried to think positive. There were no innocent third parties involved here, just a hired killer and the client who had paid him to murder Vivian. No relationship was perfect.

Vivian went back to examining the photograph in the window. The small sign in front of the picture read,FEATURING NEW IMAGES BY WINSTON BANCROFT.The scene was an artfully posed close-up of a female nude framed by a window and set against a backdrop of a vast, abstract desert. Considering the subject matter, it struck Nick as oddly lacking in genuine sensuality.

“What was the name of the artist?” he asked. “The one with whom you had the scandalous affair?”

Vivian flashed him a sly, amused smile. “Winston Bancroft.”

“I was afraid that would be your answer. If you ask me, Bancroft doesn’t just disapprove of female photographers. He doesn’t like women.”

Vivian turned quickly, eyes tightening a little at the corners. “What makes you say that?”

Nick shrugged. “Something about that picture. It’s cold. Lifeless. He might as well have been photographing a robot.”

Vivian gave him a brilliant smile. “It strikes me the same way. It’s as if Bancroft deliberately composed the pictures to make the viewer regard the subject as an object, not a human being.”

“Your pictures are a lot more interesting because you make your subjects appear mysterious, as if they’re hiding secrets.”

“Thanks,” Vivian said. “I appreciate the kind words, believe me. But I have to face facts. Bancroft is the one who has his photograph in the gallery window.”

“Your photographs will be in the window one of these days. Go on in and say hello to the gallery owner. Show her your portfolio.”

Vivian tightened her grip on the portfolio case and gave him another determined smile. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck. You’ve got talent.”

She looked surprised by the comment.

“Thank you,” she said.

She opened the door. A bell chimed somewhere inside. Nick watched through the window as Vivian walked briskly toward the desk at the far end of the room. A middle-aged woman in a severe black business suit got to her feet to greet her.

After a moment he returned to the reflections in the window, watching for anyone who did not fit into the patterns. Rex got bored with a nearby palm tree and settled down on the sidewalk below the window.

Nick leaned down to give him an affectionate pat. When he straightened he saw what he had been looking for all along, the one person who did not fit into the rhythms of the street.

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