Madly (New York 2)

The cynical, Winston among them, pointed out how well this mystery had worked to Justice’s advantage, inflating his art-world reputation and the prices collectors were willing to pay for the bits and pieces of his work that survived after his installations were dismantled.

That was, in fact, where Winston’s firm came in. Whatever else he was, Justice was a very wealthy man, and however unconventionally he had acquired his money, he’d selected one of the oldest, most stolid and conservative firms in Manhattan to manage it.

Winston had spent his adulthood refining the role of stolid and conservative financial manager to perfection.

The question wasn’t what Justice was doing here—it was, rather, what Allie wanted from him.

The woman at the bar wrapped her hand around Justice’s wrist. The sculptor leaned down to whisper in her ear.

Winston turned away.

Was Allie a reporter? Journalists had been trying for years to dig up details about Justice—his real name, his residence, the mundane details of his life. When Winston took him on as a client, he’d been briefed to be extraordinarily careful about protecting the artist’s privacy.

Had Allie somehow learned of his connection to Justice? She’d sought his attention the moment he walked in, and he’d been seen here with Justice in the past. Maybe she’d been here on one of those occasions, watching. Perhaps she’d targeted him when he walked into the bar.

She’s using you.

But his arrival at Pulvermacher’s had been unplanned, the result of Beatrice canceling their meeting at the last minute and the storm diverting him indoors to have a cocktail and call for his car. What kind of mad girl would hatch a scheme that involved fake-snogging Justice’s portfolio manager to worm her way closer to him?

A spy in a James Bond film would. A woman in costume.

Winston swirled whiskey in his glass and mulled it over.

Perhaps she was bad news after all. Her sort of woman usually was, in one way or another.

But there could well be another explanation for her bizarre behavior, and he could think of only one way to find out.

He would simply have to ask her.

He lifted his hand to signal the bartender. He had a hunch this mess would require something stronger than a single round of drinks.

—

Allie widened her eyes at the bottle of Jameson’s Green Label he sat on the pinball table. “Whoa, big spender.”

“I like whiskey,” he said, unable to generate a more convincing explanation.

“I can see that.” She received her drink with a smile. “Anything happening out there?”

“Not really. The bar is filling up a bit.”

“But you saw them. They’re still here.”

“Yes. They’ve ordered another round, so I think you’re safe for a while.”

“That’s good to know. Thanks.”

She lifted her glass to drink. “We should have a toast,” he said. “To mark the occasion.”

“What are we marking?”

“Adventure.” He raised his own glass. “You never know what it will bring you.”

“To adventure. And to happy endings.”

He felt like rubbish as he touched his glass to hers. Him, toasting adventure. Absurd.

But it seemed just as absurd to imagine this deflated, worried woman as a predator—a story-hungry journalist, a crazed art fan, someone in possession of a passionate and harmful agenda.