'Ransome only does five paintings at a time. Every three years.'
'Slow, huh?'
'Painstaking.' Peter could hear her breathing, a sigh of rapture. 'The way he uses light.'
'You've been staring at that one for—'
'Go away.'
Pete shrugged and joined Stefan, who was less absorbed.
'Does Ransome get paid by the square yard?'
'The square inch, more likely. It takes seven figures just to buy into the play-off round. And I'm told there are already more than four hundred prospective buyers, the cachet-stricken.'
'For five paintings? Echo, just keep painting. Forget about your day job.' -
Echo gave him a dire look for breaking her concentration. Peter grimaced and said to Stefan, 'I think I've seen this model somewhere else.
'Doubtful,' Stefan said. 'No one knows who Ransome's models are. None of them have appeared at the shows, or been publicized. Nor has the genius himself. He might be in our midst tonight, but I wouldn't recognize him. I've never seen a photo.'
'You saying he's shy?'
'Or exceptionally shrewd.'
Peter had been focusing on a nude study of the unknown black girl. Nothing left to the imagination.
Raw sensual appeal. He looked around the small gallery, as if his [lowers of detection might reveal the artist to him. Instead who he saw was Taja, standing in a doorway, looking at him.
'Echo?'
She looked around at Peter with a frown, then saw Taja herself. When the Woman in Black had her attention she beckoned. Echo and Peter looked at each other.
'Maybe it's another special delivery,' Peter said.
'I guess we ought to find out.'
In the center of the gallery's atrium a small elevator in a glass shaft rose to Cy Mellichamp's penthouse suite. A good many people who considered themselves important watched Peter and Echo rise to the fourth floor with Taja. Stefan took in some bemused and outright envious speculation.
A super-socialite complained, 'I've spent seventeen million with Cy, and
'Does Ransome have children?'
'Who knows?'
A talk-show host with a sneaky leer and a hard-drive's capacity for gossip said, 'The dark one, my dear, is John Ransome's mistress. He abuses her terribly. So I've been told.'
'Or perhaps it's the other way around,' Stefan said, feeling a flutter of distress in his stomach that had nothing to do with the quantity of hors d'oeuvres he'd put away. Something was up, obviously it involved Echo, and even more obviously it was none of his business. Yet his impression, as he watched Echo step off the elevator and vanish into Cy's sanctum, was of a lovely doe being deftly separated from a herd of deer.
Taja ushered Echo and Peter into Cy Mellichamp's presence and closed the door to the lush sitting room, a gallery in itself that was devoted largely to French Impressionists. A very large room with a high tray ceiling. French doors opened onto a small terrace where there was a candlelit table set for three and two full- dress butlers in attendance.
'Miss Halloran, Mr. O'Neill! I'm Cyrus Mellichamp. Wonderful that you could be here tonight. I hope you're enjoying yourselves.'
He offered his hand to Echo, and a discreet kiss to one cheek, somewhere between businesslike and avuncular, Peter noted. He shook hands with the man and they were eye to eye, Cy with a pleasant smile but no curiosity.
'We're honored, Mr. Mellichamp,' Echo said.
'May I call you Echo?'
'Yes, of course.'
'What do you think of the new Ransomes, Echo?'
'Well, I think they're—magnificent. I've always loved his work.'
'He will be very pleased to hear that.'
'Why?' Peter said.
They both looked at him. Peter had, deliberately, his cop face on. Echo didn't appreciate that.
'This is a big night for Mr. Ransome. Isn't it? I'm surprised he's not here.'
Cy said smoothly, 'But he is here, Peter.'
Pete spread his hands and smiled inquiringly as Echo's expression soured.
'It's only that John has never cared to be the center of attention. He wants the focus to be solely on his work. But let John tell you himself. He's wanted very much to meet you both.'
