Savich said, crossing his arms over his chest, “You kiss her hair again and I’ll have to see about those teeth.”
Simon said, “Okay, I’ll stay focused on the paintings, but, Sherlock, I want you to know that I wanted you first.” He started to kiss her again, then sighed deeply. “Oh, what the hell.”
Then he turned those dark blue eyes on Lily, and he smiled at her, far too nice a smile, and she wished she could just stand up and walk out of the room. He was dangerous.
“Why,” she said, not moving out of her chair, actually pressing her back against the cushions, “are you so hot to see my paintings?”
Savich frowned at her, his head cocked to one side. She sounded mad, like she wanted to kick Simon through a window. He said easily, “Lily, sweetheart, this is Simon Russo. You’ve heard me talk about him over the years. Remember, we roomed together our senior year at MIT?”
“Maybe,” Lily said. “But what does he want with my paintings?”
“I don’t know yet. He’s a big-time dealer in the art world. He’s the one I called to ask how much Grandmother’s paintings are worth in today’s market.”
“I remember you,” she said to Simon. “I was sixteen when you came home with Dillon on Christmas your senior year. Why do you want to see my paintings so badly?”
Simon remembered her, only she was all grown up now, not the wily, fast-talking teenager who’d tried to con him out of a hundred bucks. He didn’t remember the scheme—some bet, maybe, but he did remember that she would have gotten it out of him, too, if her father hadn’t warned him away and told him to keep his money in his wallet.
Simon wasn’t deaf. He heard wariness, maybe even distrust in her voice. Why would she dislike him? She didn’t even know him, hadn’t seen him in years. She didn’t look much like that teenager, either. She still looked like a fairy princess, but this grown-up fairy princess looked ground under—alarmingly pale, shadows beneath her eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a ratty ponytail and badly needed to be washed. She also needed to gain some weight to fill out her clothes. Antipathy was pouring off her in waves, a tsunami of dislike to drown him. Why?
“Are you in pain?” he asked, taking a step toward her.
Lily blinked at him, drawing herself in even more. “What?”
“Are you in pain? I know you had surgery last week. That’s got to be tough.”
“No,” she said, still looking as though she was ready to gut him. Then Lily realized that she had no reason at all to dislike this man. He was her brother’s friend, nothing more, no reason to be wary of him. The only problem was that he was good-looking, and surely she could overlook that flaw. He was here to see her paintings.
The good Lord save her from good-looking men who wanted her paintings. Two had been more than enough.
She tried to smile at him to get that puzzled look off his face.
Now what was this? Simon wondered, but he didn’t get an answer, of course. He didn’t say anything more. He turned on his heel and walked to where Sean had come to a halt in his walker and was staring up at him, a sodden graham cracker clutched in his left hand. Crumbs covered his mouth and chin and shirt.
“Hi, champ,” Simon said and came down on his haunches in front of Sean’s walker.
Sean waved the remains of the graham cracker at him.
“Let me pass on that.” He looked over his shoulder. “He’s still teething?”
Sherlock said, “Yep, for a while yet. Don’t let Sean touch you, Simon, or you’ll regret it. That jacket you’re wearing is much too nice to have wet graham cracker crumbs and spit all over it.”
Simon merely smiled and stuck out two fingers. Sean looked at those two fingers, gummed his graham cracker faster, then shoved off with his feet. The walker flew into Simon. He was so startled, he fell back on his butt.
He laughed, got back onto his knees, and lightly ran his fingers over Sean’s black hair. “You’re going to be a real bruiser, aren’t you, champ? You’re already a tough guy, mowed me right down. Thank God you’ve got your mama’s gorgeous blue eyes or you’d scare the bejesus out of everybody, just like your daddy does.” He turned on his heel to say to Lily, “Are you the changeling or is Savich?”
Savich laughed and gave Simon a hand up. “She’s the changeling in our immediate family. However, she looks just like Aunt Peggy, who married a wealthy businessman and lives like a princess in Brazil.”
“Okay, then,” Simon said, “let’s see if she tries to bite my hand off.” He stuck out his hand toward Lily Frasier. “A pleasure to meet another Savich.”