The chill returned to his gut. "Seaton?"
"Why, yes, as a matter of fact. How did you know?"
"Lucky guess," he said grimly.
"He wants me to look at some of his paintings." She turned away to start back toward the gallery. "He has never exhibited his work and he wants me to give him a professional opinion on whether it might have commercial possibilities."
"Bullshit. He wants to talk you into bed."
She stopped and looked back over her shoulder. "Would you like to tell me what it is between you two?"
"What the hell. I never told anyone else." He wrenched open the driver's side door of the BMW and got behind the wheel. "Might be therapeutic for me."
"Nick, wait—"
He slammed the door and looked at her through the lowered window while he started the engine. "Seaton hates my guts because he thinks that I had an affair with his ex-wife while they were still married."
Her mouth opened but no words emerged. Her speechless condition gave him some satisfaction, but not much.
"One more thing," he added, snapping the car into gear. "What happened last night between you and me wasn't therapy. It was great sex. There's a difference."
He drove out of the marina parking lot, leaving her standing there in her bright purple jumper and ridiculously sexy shoes.
Chapter 11
"What the hell do you expect me to do?" Sullivan snarled into the phone. "I'm trying to put together a merger here."
"Hate to break this to you," Mitchell growled on the other end, "but my grandson and your son don't need any help putting the finishing touches on the Madison-Harte merger. Both of 'em have been running their own companies for years. They know what they're doing. You're just gumming things up, hanging over their shoulders there in Portland. Leave 'em be and pay attention to the larger issues."
"Larger issues? Never heard you use a fancy phrase like that before, Mitch."
"Must have picked it up from one of you silver-tongued Hartes. Look, we've got a problem here in Eclipse Bay."
Sullivan cranked back in the chair and contemplated the view from the window of the temporary office his new son-in-law, Gabe Madison, had provided for him. The headquarters of Madison Commercial, soon to become
Madison-Harte, were located on the top floors of a Portland office tower. From his perch he could see the boat traffic on the Willamette River.
The summer afternoon was sunny and warm. The weather reporters claimed that it was hot down there on the city streets, but he spent most of his time in Phoenix these days. He knew hot, and this was not hot.
"Seems to me that you have a problem, Mitch," he said, stalling for time while he considered the larger issues. "Not me. You're the one who decided to take on the job of looking out for Claudia Banner's great-niece."
"This problem we're discussing involves your grandson," Mitch shot back. "I told you I wouldn't stand by and let him—"
"Shut up." Sullivan got up out of the chair very suddenly.
Phone in hand, he went to stand at the window. "Don't say it again."
"Don't say what?" Mitchell asked innocently. "That I won't let Nick sucker Octavia into an affair and then dump her when he decides he wants to replace her with some other lady?"
"This is my grandson you're talking about." Sullivan's hand clamped fiercely around the phone, but he managed to keep his voice level. "He is not a philanderer, damn it."
"That so? Then why hasn't he found himself a good woman sometime during the past four years and settled down again? That's what you Hartes do, isn't it? Get married and stay married?"
"Yes, Mitch. Unlike the sterling example of family values you set for your grandsons with your three or four wives and God only knows how many affairs, we Hartes are real big on family values."
"You leave my grandsons out of this."
"Hard to do that, given that they're married to my granddaughters."
"There's not a damn thing wrong with Gabe's or Rafe's family values and you know it. Lillian is Gabe's passion and Hannah is Rafe's. Nothing comes between a Madison and his passion. Those two boys are married for life."
"So was Nick," Sullivan said quietly.
Silence hummed on the line.
"That's the real problem, you see," Sullivan continued. "Nick figured he had married for life. He hasn't adjusted to the loss of Amelia. He's not heartless, he's just trying to protect himself."
"Look, I know folks here in Eclipse Bay like to say that losing her broke Nick's heart." There was a note of gruff sympathy in Mitchell's voice. "Expect it's true, what with him being a Harte and all. But that ain't no excuse for him playin' fast and loose with a nice girl like Octavia. She's had a rough time of it, too, damn it. But unlike your grandson, I don't think she's tough enough to protect herself."
"So you've decided to do it for her?"
"Someone's gotta do it. Not like she's got any family around to take on the job."
Sullivan hesitated. "All right, you've made your point."
"Got another one to make while I'm at it," Mitchell said grimly. "Your grandson spent last night at her place."
That gave Sullivan pause. "The whole night?"
"Well, maybe not the entire night—"
Sullivan relaxed slightly. "Didn't think so."
"But it's pretty damn obvious those two are foolin' around."
"Obvious to you, maybe."
"Yeah, obvious to me. You should have seen the way
Octavia jumped to Nick's defense this afternoon when I cornered him down at the marina."
"What the hell do you think you're doing, cornering my grandson?"
"I was just makin' sure he understands he can't have his way with Octavia."
"Damn it, Mitch—" Sullivan broke off abruptly and backtracked to the other part of Mitchell's comment. "What did you mean when you said Octavia jumped to his defense?"
"She claimed he's sort of working for her."
"Nick? Working for Octavia Brightwell? Doing what, for crying out loud?"
"Playing private detective, I hear. Like that fellow in his novels."
Sullivan struggled valiantly to hang onto the few remaining wisps of logic that still dangled from the conversation. "Why does Octavia need an investigator?"
"Long story. That painting Thurgarton left to A.Z. and Virgil and the Heralds got stolen from her shop last night."
