Saving Grace (Madison Falls) by Lesley Ann McDaniel Page A

way!
    Shipping it to the auction house would be easy enough. All she needed were the right wrapping materials and a wooden crate. Surely someone in town would be qualified to build one for her.
    As for getting to Missoula…should she ask Lucy for a ride? No, too complicated. It would be tricky to explain her need for an appraiser without revealing the painting’s value. Her niggling guilt about letting Sam sell it to her for the price of a latte was bad enough. She didn’t need anybody’s judgment.
    How could anyone else understand? For two years, her battle against Kirk had been like jousting using a toothpick. Now, at last, she could face her opponent properly armed. The money would allow her to build a fortress around her life in New York, surrounding herself with guard dogs and bodyguards. So what if she had to live like a reclusive rock star? At least she’d have her life back.
    A quiver of fear shot through her. Was this really going to work? It was all she could do. Her only other choice was to stay hidden, and that was out of the question.
    “Are you waiting for someone?”
    Her heart skipped. Slowly, she lowered the menu and lifted her gaze. Devon stood next to her table in a tasteful cerulean blue suit that set off the hue of his eyes. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a French film. Museums had been built to commemorate lesser works of art than his striking form.
    “Oh, hello, Devon.” She flashed a coy smile.
    He cocked his head with a teasing gleam. “I have to admit I’m confused.”
    Her stomach bobbed slightly as she set down her menu. “And now that makes two of us.”
    “I know I stopped by on a whim.” He gestured toward the empty chair opposite her. “I can’t think why a beautiful woman like you would be dining alone.”
    She drew her mouth to one side. “And how do you know I’m not waiting for someone?”
    Raising an eyebrow, he looked at her sideways. “Optimism.”
    A demure smile escaped her lips as she nodded toward the chair. “No sense in both of us dining alone.” She was grateful for the dim lighting. At least he wouldn’t see the color rush to her cheeks.
    She admired the way he guided the chair back and sat, as if every fluid movement was designed to reveal a deeper subtext.
    “Your first time here?” His gaze pricked her nerve endings.
    She nodded, not wanting to explain her lack of a dining companion.
    “In that case, may I recommend the Tartiflette?” His finger expertly found the item on her menu.
    Her mouth tingled in anticipation. “Sounds delicious.”
    “Or the Pieds Paquets.”
    “Ooo, no thanks. I try to stay away from lamb’s feet.”
    His smile illuminated the scene like a well-focused Fresnel. He raised a hand. “May I?”
    She nodded as the waiter appeared like a genie out of a bottle.
    Devon cleared his throat with an ease that made even that act seem appealing. “We’ll start with the Coquilles Saint-Jacques. The lady will have the Tartiflette, and I’ll enjoy the Pansette de Gerzat. Then two Salades Nicoise. Also, a bottle of Shiraz and for dessert,” his vibrant eyes met hers. “Mousse au Chocolat?”
    She smiled assent. Was she really still in Montana?
    The waiter took her menu and made his exit.
    Devon settled back in his seat, his eyes resting easily on her. “It’s been a red letter day for you. Congratulations on winning the war of the watercolor.”
    “Thank you.” She beamed. “But it’s not a watercolor, it’s an oil.”
    “I know.” He smiled. “I just couldn’t resist the alliteration.”
    She twisted her hands in her lap. “Is Sophia very upset?
    He tipped back his head with a faint smirk. “Who knows with Sophia? She’s always got a burr under her saddle over something. She’ll get over it.”
    Resting her elbow on the arm of her chair, Grace casually touched her fingers to her chin. “Are we still talking about the painting?” Her hoped-for patina of flirtation was just glossy enough for him to take a