composed smile on his face, if she had Jagger with her.
She had to wet her lips to ask, "Are you back now?"
"Perhaps." His flint-colored eyes watched her keenly. "I am still your agent, Charlie."
"The contract expires in a year."
"It does not matter. I have your best interests at heart. I always have had. There is no one else who could represent you in the fashion that I can."
She had to concede him that. Valdor was a flawless businessman. But it was his relentless pursuit of her to begin painting once again, his somewhat questionable advances from some of her investments, that had made Quentin urge her to cut him off, and they had done what they could, changing accounts and locking him out. Then Valdor had gone into a rage, and things had escalated from there, fired she knew by his need to pay his gambling debts and her father's determination that she would not be scorched as well. After that initial blowup, things had subsided somewhat.
He adjusted the French cuffs on his shirt. "Are you ill again?"
"It was nothing," she said defensively. "A busy day, I fainted."
"You do not faint, my dear."
"I did tonight!"
He appraised her for a few seconds. "And you do not get frightened easily." He raised an eyebrow.
Where in God's name were her mother and Quentin? Had the hospital swallowed them whole? Charlie added firmly, "And I am fine now."
Valdor stood smoothly, as though aware time was no longer on his side. His expensive suit fell into unwrinkled lines on his compact body. The fourteen years' difference in their ages did not show on his face. "I wish you well, Charlie. I have always… wished you well."
Faintly, she said, "If you stay in the area, my father will get another restraining order."
He tilted his head. "Of course. And you still have your ferocious dog… somewhere… I assume."
"I do."
"It is not necessary, my dear. I have only your best interests at heart. You must paint again, Charlie, because that is your soul, and you cannot continue to deny it. Nor can you let the critics say that you were not genuine, not a talent. You need to return to canvas."
She closed her eyes against the pain briefly, then looked outward again. "Valdor—"
But he was gone, as silently as he had appeared.
Charlie began to shake.
She was still shaking when her mother finally came out of a corridor, leaning on Quentin, her hand full of papers, her face furrowed.
Charlie found the strength to stand quickly. "Let's get out of here."
"I should work for the United Nations. We've been trying to coordinate the hospital with your clinic. Phone numbers, faxes, doctors… no one is happy about this."
"But your mother settled things." Quentin patted her arm. Mary looked up at Quentin, and her face immediately smoothed, as it always did, the love lines in her expression beginning to glow.
It was enough for them to be worried over the one thing. She shoved aside every intention she had of telling them about Valdor, despite her misgivings.
He pressed gently on Charlie's shoulder. "Sit down, young lady, and let me wheel you to the curb."
His presence behind the wheelchair settled her a little, solid, formidable, his low voice rumbling something to her mother who walked, birdlike, quickly, fluttering, to keep up with them. "Let's go home, get some sleep… I'll cancel my golf game tomorrow… and then we have to make those doctors happy, so we'll make some arrangements."
Charlie sighed. Her mother slipped her arm around her waist. "You're coming home, of course."
"No. I want to sleep in my own bed. Besides, I don't know when he's going to bring Jagger back."
"Where is Jagger, anyway? Someone has him?" her father asked sharply.
"John Rubidoux. He came to the benefit, too. Jagger knew him immediately."
"He made such a fuss over Charlie, Quentin, I don't know what I'd have done. No one could get to her!"
"Good dog, that. So Ruby took him?" Quentin made a grumbling sound. It cheered her to hear it.
She had to wet her lips to ask, "Are you back now?"
"Perhaps." His flint-colored eyes watched her keenly. "I am still your agent, Charlie."
"The contract expires in a year."
"It does not matter. I have your best interests at heart. I always have had. There is no one else who could represent you in the fashion that I can."
She had to concede him that. Valdor was a flawless businessman. But it was his relentless pursuit of her to begin painting once again, his somewhat questionable advances from some of her investments, that had made Quentin urge her to cut him off, and they had done what they could, changing accounts and locking him out. Then Valdor had gone into a rage, and things had escalated from there, fired she knew by his need to pay his gambling debts and her father's determination that she would not be scorched as well. After that initial blowup, things had subsided somewhat.
He adjusted the French cuffs on his shirt. "Are you ill again?"
"It was nothing," she said defensively. "A busy day, I fainted."
"You do not faint, my dear."
"I did tonight!"
He appraised her for a few seconds. "And you do not get frightened easily." He raised an eyebrow.
Where in God's name were her mother and Quentin? Had the hospital swallowed them whole? Charlie added firmly, "And I am fine now."
Valdor stood smoothly, as though aware time was no longer on his side. His expensive suit fell into unwrinkled lines on his compact body. The fourteen years' difference in their ages did not show on his face. "I wish you well, Charlie. I have always… wished you well."
Faintly, she said, "If you stay in the area, my father will get another restraining order."
He tilted his head. "Of course. And you still have your ferocious dog… somewhere… I assume."
"I do."
"It is not necessary, my dear. I have only your best interests at heart. You must paint again, Charlie, because that is your soul, and you cannot continue to deny it. Nor can you let the critics say that you were not genuine, not a talent. You need to return to canvas."
She closed her eyes against the pain briefly, then looked outward again. "Valdor—"
But he was gone, as silently as he had appeared.
Charlie began to shake.
She was still shaking when her mother finally came out of a corridor, leaning on Quentin, her hand full of papers, her face furrowed.
Charlie found the strength to stand quickly. "Let's get out of here."
"I should work for the United Nations. We've been trying to coordinate the hospital with your clinic. Phone numbers, faxes, doctors… no one is happy about this."
"But your mother settled things." Quentin patted her arm. Mary looked up at Quentin, and her face immediately smoothed, as it always did, the love lines in her expression beginning to glow.
It was enough for them to be worried over the one thing. She shoved aside every intention she had of telling them about Valdor, despite her misgivings.
He pressed gently on Charlie's shoulder. "Sit down, young lady, and let me wheel you to the curb."
His presence behind the wheelchair settled her a little, solid, formidable, his low voice rumbling something to her mother who walked, birdlike, quickly, fluttering, to keep up with them. "Let's go home, get some sleep… I'll cancel my golf game tomorrow… and then we have to make those doctors happy, so we'll make some arrangements."
Charlie sighed. Her mother slipped her arm around her waist. "You're coming home, of course."
"No. I want to sleep in my own bed. Besides, I don't know when he's going to bring Jagger back."
"Where is Jagger, anyway? Someone has him?" her father asked sharply.
"John Rubidoux. He came to the benefit, too. Jagger knew him immediately."
"He made such a fuss over Charlie, Quentin, I don't know what I'd have done. No one could get to her!"
"Good dog, that. So Ruby took him?" Quentin made a grumbling sound. It cheered her to hear it.
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