Clint went to the window and watched, making sure the two men walked off down the street, before returning the New Line to the small of his back. Then he returned to the office, where the woman was waiting, with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders to cover her nakedness.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.
“Well, you can let me straighten your desk and right your chair so you can sit.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said, “I’m fine. They didn’t have time to . . . I’m fine.”
Clint got the desk back to where he thought it might have been, trying not to scrape the floor too badly, then set the chair up behind it so she could sit.
“You look like you need a drink. Do you have anything?” he asked.
“There, on the sideboard,” she said. “I could use a brandy.”
“Coming up.”
“Will you have one with me?” she asked.
“Sure.”
He poured two glasses from a crystal decanter, carried them to the desk, and handed her one.
“Please,” she said, “sit.”
There was another, smaller chair in the room. He pulled it over and sat across the desk from her. She was a pale-skinned redhead with green eyes, a wide mouth, and a rather long nose that somehow complimented her other features. Anything smaller wouldn’t have worked. She was striking.
“Can I ask what that was about?”
“First,” she said, “what’s your name?”
“Clint Adams.”
“My name is Nadine Jensen,” she said. “This is my gallery.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said. “I’m staying at the Bastion Hotel, a few blocks up. They told me that the artwork in their lobby came from here.”
“That’s right. They bought quite a few pieces from me.”
“And those two?” he asked. “Were they just interested in you because . . . well . . .”
“Oh, no,” she said. “They work for a man named Emory Bates. He’s a very rich man who is always looking to get richer. He wants to buy my gallery.”
“And you don’t want to sell it.”
“No,” she said. “He’s made two offers. Today was the second. When I turned him down he left those two behind to convince me.”
“Behind?” Clint said. “Was he a well-dressed man, lots of jewelry and a walking stick?”
“That’s him!” she said. “You know him?”
“I passed him on the way in,” he said. “He was telling me I should try a downtown gallery, where the prices were cheaper. I thought it was because of my clothes, but obviously he was trying to keep me out so I wouldn’t interrupt his men.”
“I’m sure it was both,” she said. “He’s a terrible snob, among other things.”
“I’ve run into men like him before.”
“In the West?”
“They’re everywhere,” Clint said. “Dodge City, Tombstone Denver, San Francisco, not just here.”
“Well,” she said, “you certainly knew how to handle those two.”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I’ve been handling that kind for a lot of years.”
“Maybe,” she said, “but Emory’s very different from most men.”
Clint said, “I don’t think he’s so different, after all. Tell me, why do you call him by his first name?”
“When Emory came to New York he appeared to be a man of taste, an honest businessman,” she said. “He had a lot of us fooled. We became friends, and then I realized his true nature. Calling him Emory . . .” She shook her head. “. . . it just never seemed to go away.”
She pulled the shawl closer to her. It was crocheted, and he could see her skin beneath it.
“Do you have anything else to put on?” he asked.
“No” she said, “I’ll have to close the gallery and go home and change.”
“If you do that is it worth it for you to even come back?” he asked.
“I have work to do,” she said, “some paintings to uncrate—”
“I tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t I escort you home, wait for you to change, and then come back with you. Just in case those two return?”
“Oh, I couldn’t ask you—”
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Actually, no, and I’m starved.”
Rather than tell her he’d already had a steak he said, “Well, then, we can do that, too. What do you say?”
“Well . . . all right,” she said. “I would feel safer.”
“Good,” he said. “Let’s close up and get going.”