Craig grinned. “Actually, it looks just like you.”
Nick raised an eyebrow. “Is that right? The review of her show in the Times said that the portrait portrays me as hard and ruthless, a predator ready to pounce on some unsuspecting prey.”
Craig grinned. “As I said, it looks just like you. Maybe I should take some candid photos of you at one of the board meetings and prove my point.”
Nick stared balefully at his second-in-command and said, “Since you have little to add to this conversation, I’ve got work to do.”
“I would imagine that what’s really bothering you is the fact that Ms. MacLeod has accurately pegged you and you don’t like it. She appears to know you quite well.”
Nick shook his head. “That’s impossible.” He studied the photograph.
“I doubt that you could forget having met her.” Craig stood and gave Nick a mock salute before he strolled out of the office.
Nick watched him close the door. He didn’t like mysteries…and the reason behind the portrait of him was definitely a mystery. He’d received so many phone calls and comments about the damned thing that he’d gone to the gallery to see what the stir was about…and received the shock of his life.
There was no question that the painting was exceptionally well done, but he couldn’t fathom why he’d been chosen as its subject, or why the artist had portrayed him as she had.
There were no photographs of him that resembled the artist’s vision. But the painting unnerved him—made him feel as though she’d invaded his privacy.
He focused on the photograph once again. She had pale blond hair and wore it pulled back from her face. Very few women could wear that austere style. Kelly was an exception.
Her intensely blue eyes stared into the camera with humor lurking in their depths. She had the beginnings of a smile curving her lips.
Looking closer, he realized that he had, in fact, seen her before.
He sat back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and recalled the night he’d first noticed her.
He avoided large social occasions as much as possible but in this case he’d felt obligated to go. A business associate had rented one of the city’s largest ballrooms to honor his daughter for something. Maybe it was an engagement party.
Nick made it a point whenever he found it necessary to attend such a party to greet the people he knew and listen to any business gossip that reached his ear. Then, once he’d spoken to the host, he left, thankful another painful duty had been fulfilled.
On that night he had paused in the doorway to look over the crowd when he saw her. She was dancing and the light from the chandeliers made her hair look like liquid gold. She’d worn it pulled back to the crown of her head where the soft curls tumbled to her shoulders in studied disarray.
He looked to see if he knew her companion. He didn’t. Then he searched for someone that he knew to ask who she was.
By the time he’d struck up a conversation with an acquaintance the song had ended and she’d disappeared.
On his way out of the party a little later she had passed by him within a couple of feet, laughing at something said by one of the women she was with. He’d caught a hint of her light, floral perfume and saw that she was shorter than he’d first thought. Although she looked young, she exuded a self-confidence and grace that intrigued him.
Now he knew who she was. Her name was Kelly MacLeod.
He was intrigued to discover she was the artist who’d painted that damned portrait.
On impulse, Nick placed a call to the unlisted phone number his investigator had included. He waited through several rings before a sultry voice said, “Hi, this is Kelly. I can’t interrupt the temperamental muse to take your call at the moment. Please leave your name, number and any message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I escape her clutches.”
“This is Dominic Chakaris,” he said after the beep. “I believe it’s time that we met in person. Call me at 555-1966.”
He hung up and drummed his fingers restlessly on the arm of his executive chair.
Damn, he didn’t have time for this. He was already late for a meeting, the outcome of which would determine whether he was going to be spending more than three million dollars on a run-down factory that he wanted.
The intercom rang and he knew his assistant was reminding him of the time. He stood, slid on his suit coat, adjusted his tie and strode out of the room, dismissing Kelly MacLeod from his mind.
“I’m not joking, Hal,” Kelly said to her luncheon companion. “I’ve never met the man, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.” She took a bite of her salad and casually glanced around the crowded restaurant. Despite the prices, customers flocked to the place—drawn, no doubt, by the excellent chef working his magic in the kitchen.
When she looked back at her companion, she saw that Harold Covington wasn’t going to give up. “I’ve known you your entire life, Kelly,” he said as soon as he had her attention, “so don’t try to put me off. You could not have produced a portrait that captured the character of the man so brilliantly without knowing him extremely well.”
Kelly met his steady gaze. “I don’t have a rational explanation for you, Hal. I’ve never been introduced to him, but a person can’t pick up a paper without reading something about him in either the business section or the lifestyle section. Plus I’ve seen him at various social functions during the past few years and had idly thought about what a fascinating subject he would make. That’s all it was, an idle thought.
“Then when I discovered that he was behind the takeover of our family business, I couldn’t get the man out of my mind. To think that at one time I’d actually admired him! His ruthless disregard for anyone or anything that stands in the way of building his already gigantic empire was responsible for Dad’s losing the business and worrying himself into a heart attack. And then mother lost the will to live.
“I decided to work out my anger and grief by painting him. From the feedback I’ve received, I gather that I’ve done a good job of portraying the man who destroyed my family!”
Hal sighed and shook his head. “You were my best hope. All I know is that someone is checking into Covington & Son Industries behind the scenes,” Hal said. “It has all the signs of a hostile takeover.”
Kelly paused, her fork halfway to her mouth and said, “And you think I could walk up to him—even if I knew him—and ask if he’s making a run for your company?” When Hal didn’t answer she took a sip of iced tea. “From everything I’ve heard about Mr. Chakaris,” Kelly continued after a pause, “only his closest associates know of his plans until after he’s swooped down and captured another business.”
“I know. It was a long shot to think you knew him well enough to help me.”
They had finished their salad before Kelly asked, “Do you really think he’s behind whoever’s checking into Covington Industries?”
Before Hal could formulate a reply, the waiter arrived with their entrées. Once he left, Hal said, “All I know is that someone appears to be interested in us. You know that the economic downturn has affected many companies. We’ve all been hard hit. I’m doing what I can to keep my business afloat, but if someone is determined to pursue a takeover they must know how vulnerable the company is right now. I borrowed money to make capital improvements a couple of years ago. If I’d had a crystal ball and known what was coming, I would have postponed them. And now if I were sure Chakaris is planning a takeover, I’d borrow from my wife’s family to repay some of those loans—but I don’t want to do that unless I absolutely have to. Of course I know that your field of expertise is art, not business. All of this probably makes no sense to you.”
Kelly