Chapter 8

The closing reception of the Mercer Gallery's summer exhibition was smaller than the opening, more intimate. The champagne still flowed, the guests still murmured in their clusters, but there was a different energy in the air—a sense of finality, of endings, of last chances to see the art before it was packed away and shipped to its new owners. The track lighting had been adjusted to a warmer setting, casting a golden glow over the final evening. I arrived late, deliberately so. I wanted to make an entrance, to give him a moment to see me before I was swallowed by the crowd. I had chosen a dress of deep burgundy, velvet, with a neckline that plunged to my navel and a slit that ran to my hip. It was a dress for a woman who knew what she wanted. And I knew exactly what I wanted. I spotted him immediately. He stood near the reception desk, speaking with a client, his charcoal suit immaculate, his silver hair catching the track lighting. He saw me the moment I walked through the doors, and for a fraction of a second, his composure slipped. I saw the hunger flash in his eyes,