Summer on the Cape by J.M. Bronston Page B

have been a fly on that wall when he collared you. Allie the cat burglar. Or Peeping Tom. Or whatever it was you were up to when he caught you red-handed. That must have been a funny scene.” Adam finished the last bit of soufflé. “You should have heard him raving at me over the telephone. He was sure I’d put you up to it.”
    “What did you tell him?” Allie was not yet ready to be amused by the whole thing. Maybe in about forty years.
    “I made up something simple. I told him you were probably looking for a good spot to set up your easel. Maybe you wanted to paint an authentic old Cape Cod house. I told him you were just an innocent young artist, taking advantage of the Cape’s beautiful light and historic ambiance.” Adam brushed an invisible crumb off the tablecloth. “He told me to go suck eggs.” Adam’s face registered his amusement.
    “I wish I’d thought of something simple, like saying I was looking for a subject to paint. It never occurred to me. Maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly enough.”
    She remembered the power of Zach’s grip, dragging her roughly away from that table of photographs, through the darkened room and into the kitchen, practically throwing her into a chair. She touched the place on her arm where his hand had gripped her.
    “It’s just that he surprised me, and I panicked. And he was so angry.”
    “I can well imagine how angry he was. As I said, there’s a lot of money involved. And what could he think, finding you there on his property? But that’s all put to rest now, and we can just forget about it.” With his napkin, Adam patted the last crumb of dinner from his lips and then sat back expansively.
    “By the way, as we’re speaking of Zach Eliot,” Adam added drily, “there’s an amusing follow-up to the whole thing. Just this morning, my secretary took a call from Zach. Of all things, seems he’s interested in buying a painting you did of his boat. She set up an appointment for next Wednesday morning.” Adam’s smile was disgracefully self-satisfied. “I imagine it must have been pretty hard for Zach to make that call, after all his wild accusations at me that morning.”
    Allie felt her heart thump. She could barely swallow.
    “Will you meet with him? Do you think you’ll sell it to him?”
    “Sure. You know, Allie,”—he was suddenly very serious—“I really don’t want to have Zach Eliot for an enemy. We’ll be happy to sell the picture to him. I’ll still be able to make a good presentation to the Matsuhara people without it.”
    Allie felt a rush of pride, knowing that Zach wanted to own her painting. She thought of Sea Smoke ’s “portrait” hanging in that lovely old house. It really did belong there. She even thought of suggesting to Adam that he go easy on the price, but then she remembered the Jag in Zach’s garage and she held her tongue. Maybe Zach Eliot really could afford to buy one of her paintings. But she also wondered if Zach could afford to get tangled up in opposition to one of Adam’s schemes. She was preoccupied with these thoughts; in the last hour, her life had taken a couple of curious turns, and now she was merely toying with her dessert, not really noticing it at all.
    But Adam, on the other hand, noticed everything. He noticed that Allie was not paying attention to what she was eating. Nothing very unusual about that. She rarely paid attention to what she was eating, although the food here at the Silver Dove could generally be counted on to attract attention.
    He had also noticed that there was something unfamiliar in Zach’s voice during that odd phone call the other day. What had Allie been doing, hanging around Zach’s house? And why had Zach been so anxious to buy that picture? Adam watched Allie absentmindedly poking at her dessert.
    Interesting, he thought.

Chapter Eight
    T here are days in New York that are as bright and as blue and as crystal clear as they are anywhere in the world, and on this Wednesday