“Yes, but so many people are asking questions,” Claire said, hugging the purring Bunbury. “And now these men—”
Emerson sighed, put the sunscreen aside, and took off her cap. She pulled the pins from her hair, shaking it loose. Unlike Claire, Emerson had dark hair, nearly black, and it was so long it tumbled halfway down her back.
She took off the sunglasses, revealing eyes as dark as her hair. She narrowed these striking eyes at her sister.
“Look, I promised Daddy on his death bed that I’d take care of this family and the business. And I’ve done it.”
“Done it,” echoed the parrot, “Family. Done it.” He shot Bunbury a suspicious glance and edged still higher.
Emerson leaned forward. “And I’ll keep doing it. I know what’s at stake here. These paintings aren’t just paintings. What we have are works of genius. We have a legacy to protect. And I will protect it. So, relax.”
Claire bit her lip, her expression almost rebellious. “But why’d you have to say they could come to Mandevilla? It’s the first time anybody’s been allowed here in years.”
Emerson stood and made a sweeping gesture. She was tall and dramatic-looking, as their grandfather had been, and she could get away with such gestures, just as he had.
Her motion was meant to take in all of Mandevilla, the private beach, the pool and garden, the house itself, and the seven acres of tropical wilderness behind it.
“Mandevilla’s part of the legend,” Emerson said. “The greatest paintings were done here. Famous people came here to visit. Good Lord, Princess Diana came here.”
“That was then, this is now,” Claire said. “Nobody’s come for years.”
Emerson put her hands on her hips. “That’s why it’s important we let somebody see it. To see the place and the new paintings. To stop the damn rumors.”
Bunbury spied a lizard and slipped from Claire’s lap to stalk it in his ponderous way. Claire didn’t try to stop him. Bunbury was too fat and slow to catch anything.
She sighed and picked one of the golden blossoms from the buttercup tree. She twirled its stem between her fingers and stared at it moodily.
“I don’t know. An ordinary magazine would be bad enough. But Mondragon? Mondragon’s very, very classy—”
“That’s why I’m letting them come.” Emerson strolled to the diving board, her hands still poised on her hips. Mondragon, A Magazine of the Arts was sleek, costly and sophisticated. It didn’t shy from controversy or the dark side of the business.
Its managing editor hadn’t made a polite request of Emerson. He’d practically demanded that she allow a writer and photographer to visit Mandevilla.
Agreeing was a gamble, a great one, but Emerson took it because she intended to win. The people from Mondragon would not use her. She would use them.
“They’re classy,” Claire admitted. “But they can be ruthless. And this writer, Eli Garner. They couldn’t send anybody worse. You know what his specialty is.”
Emerson walked to the end of the diving board. She knew, all right. His specialty was investigation—and exposé. He had ruined reputations, lives and fortunes. And a few, a very few times, he had saved them.
“I’m not afraid of him,” she said.
The parrot worked his way down the tree and climbed onto Claire’s shoulder. He rubbed his forehead against her ear. He wanted a kiss.
But for once, Claire ignored him. She stared at Emerson with doubt in her golden-brown eyes. “Maybe you should be afraid, Em. I mean, we do have secrets.”
“I’m not afraid,” Emerson repeated.
“Awrk!” said the parrot. “Secrets!”
But Emerson paid no attention. She made a perfect jackknife dive that plunged her deep into the blue, blue water.
KEY WEST WAS NOT a quiet town. It was charming, it was artsy and hustling at the same time it was eccentric. But it was not quiet. The least quiet part was Duval Street, which was both famous and infamous.
Shops, restaurants, galleries, ice cream stands and antique stores squeezed together on both sides of the street, punctuated occasionally by a porn emporium or a church. Tourists swarmed, mingling with the tanned and laid-back natives.
Street performers performed, beggars begged and occasionally a chicken with gorgeous plumage strolled regally down the sidewalk. Wild chickens were protected in Key West. After dark, the rock and roll blasting out of nightclubs kept them awake, and the roosters crowed all night long.
So Eli Garner considered himself lucky. He’d found that rarest of things on Duval Street, a quiet bar. It was a big, dim, cavernous place, strangely uncrowded, and the only music came from a bearded man on a tiny stage in the corner. He sang mournful folk songs in a mournful voice, and he sang quietly, which was good, because Eli and Merriman could talk.
Eli and Merriman had never before worked together, but Eli had seen the photographer’s work and respected it. The two men had met for the first time a week ago in New York at the offices of Mondragon.
Today they’d joined up at the Miami airport and taken the bumpy and jammed commuter flight into Key West. Eli had come from New York, Merriman from Toronto. As soon as they landed, they’d checked into their hotel on the Atlantic end of Duval and dropped off their luggage. Now, sitting in this dimly lit bar, they had their first chance for a real conversation.
Merriman was a muscular, genial man with deep-set blue eyes and straight blond hair that looked perpetually rumpled. He went only by his last name because, he said, his first and middle names were too horrible to mention. He had the odd habit of wrinkling his forehead when he smiled, which was often.
Eli thought he would like Merriman. His only worry was that maybe the guy was too genial. This gig would be damn tricky. Was Merriman too easygoing to make the best of it?
Eli took a sip of beer and made his voice casual. “So what do you know about Nathan Roth?”
Merriman gave a good-natured shrug. “Just the basics. Giant of the art world. A golden boy in his heyday. Moved here twenty years ago. Lately, he’s gotten reclusive. Hasn’t granted an interview in six years. Or been photographed.”
Eli nodded. A lean, dark man, his face could seem handsome or dangerous, or both at the same time. He could have credibly passed himself off as an aristocrat or as a high-priced hit man.
He tried to pinpoint how much Merriman knew. “For a painter, Roth’s a rich man.”
Merriman licked the foam from his upper lip. “So much for starving artists.”
“Right.” Eli knew Roth’s canvases weren’t selling at the prices they’d once commanded, but they still sold. But for the past six years, speculation and gossip had circulated about both the work and the man.
Eli raised a dark eyebrow. “You know his son was his manager.”
“Till he died. Uh—five years ago.” Then Merriman flashed him an abashed grin. “But look. All I know is what I read last week. Modern art isn’t my thing. I’m an old-fashioned guy. I like pictures of naked ladies.”
Eli’s mouth crooked at one corner. Merriman had photographed a series of paintings celebrating women’s bodies. He’d done a hell of a job, and he obviously loved the subject. The book was called, simply, The Female Nude, and it was equally admired by esteemed scholars and horny teenage boys.
“Roth was an outgoing guy once,” Eli said. “But something happened. We don’t know what.”
“I knew a guy like that once.” Merriman lifted his beer mug, signaling for a refill. “News photographer. Real hell-raiser. One day he ups and