Now You See Her Linda Howard(24)

Candra stiffened. Her gallery was her pride, and she resented the implication that her clientele was anything but the crème de la crème.

"I can do what you do," Sweeney said, lifting her eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. "But I outgrew it somewhere around the age of three. Would you like to make a small bet? I bet I can duplicate any of your works you choose, but you can't duplicate any of mine, and the loser has to kiss the winner's ass."

A low rumble sounded in Kai's throat. He turned his head, pretending to cough.

VanDern gave him a furious look, then turned his attention back to Sweeney. "How childish," he sneered.

"Afraid to take the bet, huh?" she said. "Of course not!"

"Then do it. I tell you what: I won't limit you to just my work. Pick a classic; duplicate a Whistler, a Monet, a van Gogh. I'm sure they would be worthy of your great talent."

His cheeks turned a dull red. He glared at her, unable to win the argument and equally unable to think of a graceful way of getting out of the bet. He glanced at Candra. "I'll come back later," he said stiffly,

"when you have more time."

"Do that," she said, her tone clipped. Her annoyance was obvious. When the doors closed behind him, she turned to Sweeney. "I'm sorry He can be an arrogant jerk sometimes."

"Without straining," Sweeney agreed.

Candra smiled. "You more than held your own. He'll think twice before he challenges you again. He's hot right now, but fads pass, and I'm sure he knows his day in the sun won't last very long."

In Sweeney's opinion, VanDern thought he was the center of the universe, but she shrugged and let the subject drop. Candra returned her attention to the paintings, tapping one elegant nail on her bottom lip as she considered them. Sweeney's stomach knotted again.

"They're almost surreal," Candra murmured, talking to herself. "Your use of color is striking. Several shades seem to glow, like light coming through stained glass. A river, a mountain, flowers, but not like any you've done before."



Sweeney was silent. She had spent hours, days, staring worriedly at those canvases; she knew every brushstroke on them. But she looked at them again, wondering what she had missed, and saw that nothing had changed. The colors still looked strangely intense, the composition was a little off in some way she couldn't explain, the brushstrokes were a touch blurred. She couldn't tell if it was surreal, as Candra said, or exuberant. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

"I want more," Candra said. "If this is an example of what you've been doing, I want every canvas you've completed. I'm doubling your prices. I may have to come down in price, but I think I'm judging it right."

Kai nodded in agreement. "There's energy here, a lot more than I've ever seen in your work. People will go nuts over these."

Sweeney dismissed the bit about energy; that was just a buzzword. His last statement was more honest, an assessment of their marketability. Relief swamped her. Maybe she hadn't lost her talent, just her ability to judge it.

"What's that?" Candra said, indicating the folder holding the sketch of the hot dog vendor.

"A sketch I made of a street vendor," Sweeney said. "I want to give it to him." She shivered suddenly, a chill roughening her skin. Damn it, she had been enjoying feeling warm, but the warmth hadn't lasted long.

"I'll have these framed immediately," Candra said, turning back to the paintings. "And bring the others.

I'd like to make a full display of them, place them close to the front so the light is better and they're the first thing clients see when they come in. I promise, these are going to fly out the door."

Walking back home, Sweeney hugged herself against the cold. She was relieved at Candra's reaction to the paintings, but for some reason she couldn't enjoy her relief. The uneasy feeling was growing stronger.

She reached the corner where the old vendor had always been, but it was still empty. She stopped, a great sadness welling in her as she wondered if she would ever see him again. She wanted to give him the sketch, wanted to know if she had accurately deduced his childhood features from the facial structure of an old man. She wanted to see that sweet smile.

"Hi, Sweeney," said a soft voice at her elbow.

She looked around, and delight speared through her. "There you are," she said joyfully. "I thought you must be sick—" She halted, shock replacing delight. He was faintly translucent, oddly two-dimensional.

He shook his head. "I'm all right. Don't be worryin' about me." The sweet smile bloomed in his dark face. "You got it right, Sweeney. That's just how I used to look."

She didn't say anything else. She couldn't. She wanted to weep, she wanted to say she was sorry she hadn't gotten it right sooner, so she could have given him the sketch.



"Do me a favor," he said. "Send it to my boys. Daniel and Jacob Stokes. They're lawyers, my boys, both of them. Fine men. Send it to them."

"I will," she whispered, and he nodded.

"Go on now," he said. "I'll be fine. I just had some loose ends needed takin' care of."

"I'll miss you," she managed to say. She was aware of people giving her a wide berth, but they were New Yorkers; no one stopped, or even slowed.