After Hours. Sandra Field

to his own opening.

      The owner of the gallery was a woman in her fifties, wife of a senior government official and dauntingly efficient; Quentin always wanted to call her Mrs. Harrington-Smythe rather than Emily—a name that did not suit her in the slightest. As he hung up his raincoat she gave his suit a quick appraisal and nodded her approval.

      Wishing he’d left the price tag pinned to the cuff, Quentin allowed himself to be whisked on a tour of the gallery. Her placement of the paintings was all he could have asked; he only wished that they didn’t make him feel as though he was about to undress in public. Emily gave him a copy of the catalog and ran through a list of the most prominent ministers, several deputy ministers and a sprinkling of diplomats.

      Not bad for a kid from a little village in New Brunswick, thought Quentin, and did his best to memorize the names. Then the doorbell rang and he steeled himself to get through the next hours without abandoning the good manners his mother had worked very hard to instill in him.

      Three-quarters of an hour later the place was humming. Eleven paintings had sold, the bartenders had been run off their feet and Quentin had been extremely civil to the first of the cabinet ministers—who didn’t approve of anything painted after 1900 and wasn’t backward in expressing his views. Then, from behind him, Quentin heard a woman call his name. He turned, gathered Lucy into his arms and hugged her hard. “Wonderful to see you!”

      She said softly, “I can’t believe you were being so polite—is this the Quentin I know?”

      “I’m on my best behavior. You look gorgeous, Lucy—that’s quite a dress.”

      Its purple folds made her mahogany curls glisten, and its décolletage verged on the indiscreet. “I thought you’d like it,” she said complacently. “Troy picked it out for me.”

      Troy clapped Quentin on the shoulder. “Good to see you. When this affair is over, we want you to come back to the apartment so we can catch up on all the news.”

      “Done,” said Quentin. “As long as you’ve got some beer.”

      “Bought a twelve-pack this afternoon.”

      Troy was two or three inches taller than Quentin’s five-feet eleven, blond where Quentin was dark, and a medical doctor rather than an artist; but from the time they had met on Shag Island off the coast of Nova Scotia the two men had liked one another. And when Quentin pictured the home he was going to build for himself it was always situated somewhere on the west coast within reach of Vancouver.

      Emily was fast approaching, with a man in tow who looked like cabinet minister number two. Quentin raised his brow at Lucy. “Duty calls. Talk to you later.”

      “We’ll give you our address before we leave.’ Tucking her arm into Troy’s, she headed for the works in acrylic that were such a break from the abstracts he had been doing on the island.

      The second cabinet minister asked several penetrating questions and listened with genuine interest to Quentin’s replies. Then Quentin suffered through a very rich widow with fake eyelashes who simply didn’t understand the first thing about art, and an importer of foreign cars who understood only too well and insisted on inflicting his theories on the artist. Quentin finally got rid of him and headed for the bar. The pretzels had made him thirsty.

      He had just taken a gulp of what was a quite decent Cabernet, hoping it would inspire him to plunge back into the mêlée, when the door was pushed open once again. Idly he watched as a woman walked into the foyer.

      She closed her umbrella, shook water from it and straightened, the light falling on her face and the smooth swing of her hair. Dark hair that shone like polished wood.

      Oh, Lord, thought Quentin. It’s happened. At a gallery opening, of all places. That’s her. The woman I’ve been waiting for.

      He plunked his glass on the counter and pushed past several people who all wanted to speak to him, deaf to their remarks. The woman was hanging her dark green raincoat on the rack by the door, all her movements economical and precise. She’s not my type, he thought blankly. Look at that suit. And those godawful glasses. What in heaven’s name’s going on here?

      He was still ten feet away from her. She turned, taking the glasses from her nose and rubbing the rain from them with a tissue from her pocket, her face composed as she surveyed the crowded room. She might not be his type, but she was utterly, beguilingly beautiful.

      His heart was banging in his chest like the ring of a hammer on boards. Feeling as clumsy as an adolescent, Quentin closed the distance between them and croaked, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

      She was no more than five feet five and delicately made, so that he felt large and clumsy. Her irises were the deep velvety purple of pansies and her lashes dark and thick; her bone structure was exquisite and her male-up flawless. Last of all, he saw how very soft and kissable was her mouth, and he felt his heart give another uncomfortable thud in his chest. She said in faint puzzlement, “Are you the gallery owner? I thought—”

      “I’m the artist.”

      Her lashes flickered over unmistakable hostility. “Quentin Ramsey?”

      He nodded. “And you?”

      “Surely you don’t meet everyone at the door?”

      “You’re the first.”

      “And to what,” Marcia said silkily, “do I owe that honor?”

      “Stop talking like a nineteenth-century novel. It doesn’t suit you.”

      So much for the aristocratic British accent, thought Marcia. Not to mention the British good manners. “How can you possibly have any idea what suits me—I could be a professor of Victorian literature for all you know. Are you always so rude to potential customers?”

      But Quentin was frowning, struggling to anchor a memory. “I’ve seen you somewhere. I’m sure I have.”

      “That’s one of the oldest lines in the book.”

      “You cheapen both of us by that kind of remark.”

      “Oh, pardon me,” she said. “In my experience, men—”

      “I have seen you before.”

      “You’re quite wrong—I’ve never met you.” Because I would have remembered you, thought Marcia, trying to calm down. For the blue of your eyes, if nothing else. The deepest blue I’ve ever seen. Deep enough to lose myself.

      “What’s your name?”

      She took a deep breath. Her imaginary portrait of Quentin Ramsey couldn’t have been more inaccurate. This was definitely no tweed-jacketed Englishman who painted pretty landscapes under the influence of a great master. This man was a rugged individualist if ever she’d met one. Rugged, indeed; he looked as though he’d be more at home with a chainsaw than a paintbrush. She said coolly, “Dr. Marcia Barnes.”

      “What? You’re Lucy’s sister?”

      He looked as shocked as though she’d just thrown a glass of wine in his face. She said, wondering why she should feel so angry, “We’re very different, Lucy and I.”

      “No kidding. But that’s why I thought I’d met you—Lucy has a photo of you in her living room.” Fighting down a tumble of emotions that had an acute disappointment chief among them, Quentin said, ‘You’re the immunologist.’

      “Yes.”

      Glaring at her, he demanded, “Why haven’t you bothered visiting them since the baby was born?”

      “I did! Last November.”

      “Sure—you managed to stay for two whole hours on your way to a medical conference. I said visit.”

      “It’s really none of your—”

      “When a conference is more important to you than your own family, you’re in a bad way. Lucy’s