Her smile was in preparation for his reaction to the final sketch. He was about to close the portfolio when he saw it, a bold rendering of HARLEM ANGEL in forty-eight-point Goudy caps letterspaced in two lines spanning the width of the type page.
He snapped the portfolio shut. “Your final sample is premature, Miss Kydd. It’s also, under the circumstances, in deplorable taste.”
Good. She needed to provoke him beyond his cool, arrogant aplomb. She met his reprimand with confusion, then apologies. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Mr. Goldsmith. I sketched that before the troubles and must have forgotten to remove it. I’ve been so distracted, worrying about poor Eva Pruitt. Please forgive me.”
This wheedled a tense conciliatory nod out of him. She leaned forward. “You must be upset too, at all the things they’re saying. Is Eva’s manuscript really missing?”
“I don’t know what gossip you listen to, Miss Kydd, but yes, the manuscript is gone.”
“How awful. You paid for it, and then to get—nothing.”
He stood and moved to his desk, where he picked up a pocket appointment calendar.
Julia rose as well. “You must feel cheated.”
At last he seemed discomfited. His eyes dropped to the floor, or perhaps to Julia’s ankle.
She shifted her weight to suggest the hip beneath the drape of her dress. “Leonard Timson was a ruthless, dishonest man. He stole from you. You had every right to be furious.” Julia did her best to rekindle that angry spark. Anger might rock him further off balance, spur him into an indiscreet account of that night.
“Indeed,” Goldsmith said. “But the man is dead now. His crimes are no longer relevant.”
His words had the tone of a dismissal, but beneath it Julia heard a chilling, almost boastful ring. Was this some kind of Machiavellian assertion that Timson had paid for those crimes, that the two men were now square? Was Goldsmith implying he’d returned early that morning for the manuscript—and revenge? This was the possibility Julia had come to explore, but now that Goldsmith was suggesting it himself, she was too startled to pounce.
The moment passed. When he lifted his gaze, she saw nothing but cool control. His brazen composure made it clear there would be no further discussion, much less any reckless blurting. He wished to be done with the subject.
But not necessarily with her. A new glint of humor shone in his eyes. He was enjoying this. Their conversation had become a sport to him, a tussle with a playful puppy or willful child. A game—with shapely ankles in the bargain.
Julia, however, could not be turned aside so easily, not on the brink of a breakthrough. She tried again. Her shoulder brushed his sleeve, in case that still carried a trace of charm. “I can’t stop thinking of poor Eva. I understand she’s missing again.”
He nodded. Wisely he forbore mentioning the breach of contract suit Coral had initiated.
Julia winced. “Aren’t you worried for her? One of your most promising authors?”
“A tender heart will get you nowhere, Miss Kydd,” he counseled, “should you seriously pursue thoughts of becoming a publisher.”
His words as good as patted her on the head. He was now simply milking the company of a softheaded woman. Yet Julia plunged ahead. Her pride was already damaged; she had little more to lose.
“I was thinking of those awful policemen who questioned me after Mr. Timson was shot. Thank goodness I could tell them I was at home in my bed. Did they hound you as well?” Her sentence trailed off.
Goldsmith gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Are you interrogating me?”
Julia faltered. “I only wondered—”
“You can’t seriously think I murdered the fellow.”
At his bark of astonishment, she realized how ludicrous she was. Hopes of his guilt had blinded her to the obvious. Goldsmith was a fastidious man, vain and precise. Such a man would never abide the messy drama of a point-blank gunshot. He channeled his aggression into clean, bloodless assaults—legal, moral, and economic. Wherever he had gone that night, Goldsmith had not returned to gun down Timson.
He strode to the door. “Audacity does not become you, Miss Kydd.”
Cheeks burning, Julia gathered up her portfolio.
“I will tell you this,” he said. “Miss Pruitt is in a volatile relationship with a difficult man. If you’re searching for villains, I suggest you begin there.”
He grasped the doorknob. “And I assume you have no interest whatsoever in designing for us, so we’ll say no more of that either. Don’t ever waste my time again, Miss Kydd. Good day.”
The puppy had been scolded, the child sent to bed.
He held open the door with perfect manners, and Julia passed through the reception lobby clutching her last tatter of dignity. She’d sacrificed a great deal of pride and gained precisely nothing. Only after she reached the hall and called for the elevator did she realize that her fists were clenched, more from his echoing amusement than his anger.
CHAPTER 20
“Do you remember Arthur Goldsmith, Eva’s publisher?” Julia asked Wallace the following evening. She spoke lightly. It must be a delicate, careless overture. The time had finally come for such talk, and she couldn’t risk crushing it with urgency. After an evening of all things Schubert in Blossom Time at the Majestic, they were settled on the banquette cushions in a private dining alcove at Chez Mareille.
Lifting a finger for patience, he squeezed a lemon wedge over the last two oysters. He carried the smaller one, plump and mottled in its shell, to her mouth. Julia accepted the morsel and dispatched it quickly. As usual the experience was tolerable but hardly transcendent. Nevertheless she smiled and prepared for the kiss that followed. A kiss always followed.
“Julia. How lovely to see you.” Julia looked up to see Mrs. Macready. “Welcome, Mr. Wallace,” she added coolly.
“Leah.” He doused the final oyster with an extra squirt of lemon.
“Enjoy your meal,” Mrs. Macready said, already moving away to greet another party.
How very odd. Her tone was unmistakably chilly. Julia turned to her companion
