A Lasting Impression

And she wasn’t about to give him the name of the street where they had lived. Not when that could lead him straight to the gallery. “We lived not far from the Old Square, in the French Quarter.”
    His eyes widened. “So I’m sure you know Café du Monde.”
    She smiled, but only to cover her unease. Her two worlds were becoming far too close, far too fast. “Yes. I’ve been there before, but”—she waved a hand, eager to turn the subject away from her—“you asked me about my day. . . . Now what about yours? I’m guessing it’s busy, and that you have lawsuits to be fought and won, closing arguments to be delivered . . .”
    He stared at her, and for a second, she got the feeling he knew she was intentionally changing the subject. Then he smiled that easy smile.
    “No lawsuits, and no closing arguments either. But yes, it’s on the busy side. But first, another question.”
    He leaned forward, forearms on the table, and Claire tensed. I will not lie. I will not lie.
    “Would you allow me to give you a tour of the estate this evening? I’d enjoy showing it to you.”
    A weight lifted from her shoulders. “I’d love that, Sutton. . . . But didn’t Mrs. Acklen say something about having dinner guests tonight?”
    He winced, nodding. “The Worthingtons. I’d almost forgotten.”
    Claire reached for another biscuit. “Judging from your reaction, I’m guessing that whoever the Worthingtons are . . . they’re not listed among your favorite dinner guests.”
    “No, no. The Worthingtons are a very nice couple. And I’m certain dinner conversation will be quite lively.”
    Claire took a bite of biscuit and waited, eyebrows raised.
    “The Worthingtons appreciate fine art. Mrs. Worthington, especially. She and Adelicia—Mrs. Acklen—attended an art auction in town last year, one to benefit an orphanage, and they ended up bidding against each other for a painting. It was all quite civil, but Mrs. Worthington’s interest in the painting greatly increased once she realized Mrs. Acklen was also interested. There was a small scene. It made the papers the next day.”
    Claire took his words in, acting as though the mention of art auctions and paintings and biddings gone wild were of only passing interest to her. “I would imagine that type of situation happens frequently with Mrs. Acklen. And that her opinion of art, and everything else, is highly esteemed by the rest of the community.”
    Sutton took his time in answering. “Mrs. Acklen’s opinions and actions never go unnoticed. You can say that with full certainty.”
    Claire sipped her coffee as the reality of her situation once again stared her boldly in the face. Belmont was both the best—and absolute worst—place she could be. Mrs. Acklen’s sphere of influence with art in Nashville was far-reaching and highly esteemed. If Adelicia Acklen were to bestow her approval on a painting, or—Claire could hardly imagine such a thing happening—if by chance, she could paint something worthy of Mrs. Acklen’s bidding on that painting, others would certainly take notice. Mrs. Worthington along with everyone else.
    As sweet as that imagining was, an equally bitter thought overlaid it. If Mrs. Acklen were to uncover the truth about her family’s business and what she had done, Mrs. Acklen would see to it that she never worked in the state of Tennessee again. Much less, painted.
    And that was one promise Claire had no difficulty believing.
    Sutton stood and stacked their plates. “I have meetings in town this morning and afternoon, but I should be back in time for dinner. Which leads me back to my original question. If we have time after the meal, I’d be honored to show you the estate. Otherwise, sometime this weekend. Mrs. Acklen wants you to know what and where everything is for the day of the party.”
    Claire’s heart sank a little. So Mrs. Acklen had asked him to show her around. Not that that made any difference. She and Sutton were colleagues, after all. And, not to forget, he’d told her point-blank that he didn’t consider her qualified for the job. Sobered by the collection of thoughts, she reached for a smile. “I would appreciate your showing me the estate, Sutton. Thank you.”
    She gathered their cups, still grateful she’d ventured down to the kitchen, and remembering the look on his face when she’d opened the door. Which reminded her . . . “You said you’d be a goner if Cordina found you down here again. Why is