Tell Me No Lies (25 page)

The first purchase Lindsay made was quite simple. The assistant's elegantly sculptured nails touched the spearheads; Lindsay listened to the bids for a moment or two, then quietly entered with a bid that was high enough to discourage any but truly avid collectors.

"Twelve thousand dollars."

"Thirteen thousand," said a man on the other side of the room.

"Eighteen." Lindsay said calmly.

There was no counteroffer.

"Sold," said the auctioneer.

"Well done," Catlin said, smiling at Lindsay as the assistant took down his name as the new owner of the spear points.

"Hardly a bargain," she muttered, "but I did what I could to keep the price reasonable."

"One good, sobering jump rather than a bunch of little bids that sneak up. Keeps auction fever to a minimum," summarized Catlin.

She threw him a speculative glance. "Sounds like you've done it before."

"Once or twice," he agreed dryly.

They listened while Hsiang Wu went head-to-head with a Korean collector over a gold-and-silver-inlaid bowl. Lindsay was happy that the Museum of the Asias didn't want that particular item, because both Wu and the Korean were intent on owning it. In the end Wu was forced to bow out at sixteen thousand dollars. He was a seller, not a collector. If he bid any higher there would be no profit for him in a resale.

Lindsay ignored the tension rising in her each time the auction moved to another bronze. None of the pieces had been numbered, so she had no indication when the food canister that Catlin wanted would come up for bid. It was probably just as well. She had no desire to know the exact moment she would open her mouth and ruin her own reputation.

The bowl disappeared from the auction table, only to be replaced by the rectangular wine vessel and lid that Lindsay wanted for the museum. The presence of a lid was very rare, making the vessel enormously attractive. She listened to the bidding for a moment and knew there would be no hope of preempting. The bids were rising in thousand-dollar increments. When two of the bidders dropped out, she entered her first bid.

"Twenty thousand," said Lindsay.

"Twenty-one," countered the Korean who had outbid Wu.

"Twenty-two," Lindsay said.

Another bidder entered. The bidding resumed. By the time the price reached thirty-one thousand, only the Korean and Lindsay remained.

The Korean hesitated, then shrugged, signaling his withdrawal. The Museum of the Asias was thirty-five thousand dollars poorer, but its bronze collection had been enriched by a much-needed example of Huai inlay artistry.

"Congratulations," Catlin said softly. "It's a bowl I wouldn't mind owning. Not a bad price, either. Especially for this crowd."

Lindsay's eyes widened. When she spoke, she kept her voice low in what was becoming an automatic reflex against being overheard. "I thought you said you already had a bowl like that one."

"Did I?" he murmured. "Wonder what I was thinking of."

Suddenly Lindsay realized that Catlin had let her buy the richly inlaid bowl for her museum while keeping the somewhat less spectacular food canister for himself. Buying either bronze for him would serve to ruin her reputation; yet this way she could at least have the private satisfaction of knowing that the museum had gained the more valuable of the two bronzes. It was small comfort, but then, hell wasn't known for its comforts.

And Catlin knew it.

"Thank you," Lindsay whispered, touching his hand.

His fingers closed around hers in a grip that was just short of pain. She didn't object. She, too, had seen the vessel Sam Wang was carrying up to the auction table. It was the food canister she must buy for Catlin – the downfall of her reputation cast in bronze, with fragments of inlay clinging to it like tattered, worn truths.

13

"Do I hear ten thousand?" asked the auctioneer, opening the bidding. "Ten. Do I hear ten?"

"Thirty thousand dollars," Lindsay said tightly.

The preemptive bid brought a few startled murmurs from the crowd. Lindsay ignored them. She wanted to get the whole sordid thing over with as quickly as possible.

"Thirty-one."

The bid came from a place just a few feet to Lindsay's right. When she recognized Wu's high, calm voice, she felt a sense of relief. He wouldn't bid for the canister as long or as fervently as a collector, because Wu had to have a margin for profit on resale.

"Thirty-three," said Lindsay.

Sideways glances registered surprise as the crowd heard the bid. With the same calm voice, Wu topped Lindsay's bid again and then again. She countered each time, sending the price higher and higher, knowing that Wu would have to stop soon. He should have stopped at thirty-three. He was a businessman, not a collector in the full flush of obsession. For him, the canister simply wasn't worth the money that was being bid on it now.

"Forty thousand dollars," Wu said.

Lindsay turned and stared at him, unable to believe her ears. What should have been a brief auction was turning into the kind of bidding match that would send waves of electric curiosity through the elite community of bronze fanciers.

Wu watched Lindsay in return, his face impassive, his eyes black and clear.

In that instant she knew what Wu was doing. He was going to drive the price of the canister up so high that Catlin would walk away from the bronze, and in doing so, save Lindsay's reputation as a woman of scrupulous honesty. Wu was trying to prevent her from reaping the bitter harvest of regret that would come if she betrayed her own principles.

Almost desperately Lindsay looked toward Catlin, not caring that she was the center of avid interest among the gathering.

"It isn't worth – " she began.

"Buy it."

The flat command went through Lindsay like a shock wave. People murmured and shifted, straining forward to better see the curator of bronzes who was taking orders from a lover rather than an employer. Lindsay barely noticed the increased interest on the part of the crowd. All she wanted to do was get the bidding over with, no longer to be the center of speculative glances and gossiping tongues, to have this first step in the destruction of her reputation concluded so that she could walk out into the night and be free of the act for just a few minutes.

"Forty-one thousand," Lindsay said in a stranger's voice.

"Forty-five," said Wu.

She didn't need to look to Catlin for advice. He couldn't have made himself more clear. Money wasn't the object, nor was the canister.

"Fifty thousand," she said.

"Fifty-fi-"

"Sixty," Lindsay interrupted flatly, not waiting for Wu to finish his bid.

It was much more than the canister was worth.

There was a long silence during which Lindsay looked at nothing but the canister.

"Sixty thousand dollars American," said the auctioneer. "Going once. Going twice. Sold to Miss Danner." He smiled at her, a gesture that failed to entirely conceal his curiosity. "May I be the first to congratulate the Museum of the Asias on an unusually fine acquisition?"

"It's mine," Catlin said clearly, "not the museum's."

There was a slight pause before the auctioneer recovered. "You have excellent taste, sir. I've heard of only two other inlaid canisters like this, and one of them is in the Beijing Museum. Have you been collecting long?"

"Thank you," said Catlin carelessly, ignoring the question with a bland, amber stare that made the auctioneer shift his attention quickly back to his work.

The remaining auction was a blur to Lindsay. She began to focus only when they were on the point of leaving. Catlin was saying all the polite, necessary, meaningless things to Sam Wang as they stood in front of the open door.

"I'll forward the papers to the museum," Wang concluded, smiling first at Catlin and then at Lindsay. Any anger Wang might have had over the bronze dragon had been offset by the outrageously high price the canister had brought.

"Don't bother," said Catlin. "Papers mean nothing to me. What I buy I keep, no matter who owned it before me. Besides, most of the papers you get in this business literally aren't worth the ink that went into them."

Wang's smile was a cynical curve that had little to do with humor. He turned to Lindsay. "How about you?"

"Send the papers on the wine vessel,'' she said tightly. "The museum can't afford to ignore the question of provenance."

"It can, however, afford to be charitable about interpreting that provenance," Wang said smoothly. "Can't it?"

Lindsay felt the silent demand radiating from Catlin. She knew what Wang was suggesting – for a very fine piece like the wine vessel she had purchased, the museum could afford to just take the papers at face value and not ask potentially embarrassing questions.

"My museum's policy toward gift horses is the same as any other legitimate museum's," Lindsay said tightly.

Wang laughed. "Hell, I know that, Lindsay. I just didn't think you did. Ciao, you two. I'll give you a call the next time I have something good."

His words echoed in Lindsay's brain, hinting at aspects of the Museum of the Asias that she really didn't want to know about. Reflexively she opened her mouth to object that the museum she worked for was honest. Catlin's arm closed across her shoulder, turning her around with a concealed strength that was as shocking in its way as the implications of Wang's words.

Before she could speak, she was being swept down the long, beautifully lit walkway that descended gracefully to street level where Catlin's car was parked. The hillside was flawlessly landscaped, a multilevel garden that was lighted as carefully as a museum exhibition. Dark, graceful pines burned like black, windblown flames against the lighter shade of ebony that was the night sky. A cool breeze flowed along the hill, playing hide-and-seek among the fragrant evergreen needles.

Relief swept through Lindsay, a feeling of wild freedom. There was no one to watch, to listen, to judge. The act was over for now.

But as the afterimage of the brilliant rectangle of light thrown by Wang's open door faded, Lindsay saw a slight figure standing fifteen feet down the walkway. Spotlights at ground level silhouetted the man without revealing his features. Lindsay didn't need to see the man's face to identify him. The silver-headed cane Wu used when outdoors gleamed like a fallen star.

Wang's casual insinuations about provenance and the Museum of the Asias echoed again in Lindsay's mind. Words carried very clearly in the crisp, damp air. Wu must have overheard. Now he would believe that Lindsay had put her lover's interests ahead of her employer's; and worse, that she had also tacitly agreed to accept bronzes of dubious provenance for her museum. The former act might be forgivable, a hormonal foolishness that a woman might succumb to once in her life. The latter was not. It was a compromising of principles that had no excuse.

"I'm glad we caught up with you, Mr. Hsiang," said Catlin, recognizing the silhouette as quickly as Lindsay had. "The night has barely begun. Lindsay and I were just going to celebrate the canister over some fine cognac. We'd be delighted if you joined us."

Illuminated from below, Wu's face looked like a stranger's, enigmatic, almost sinister. "It is most kind of you to include this humble person in your celebration," he said. His soft voice carried clearly in the damp air. "I am heavy with regrets that I am unable to accept your most generous invitation. The night is indeed only a child, but I am in the autumn of my years. Forgive an old man his much needed rest."

"Of course," Catlin said, tightening his fingers warningly on Lindsay's waist, silently telling her not to speak. "Lunch, then. Tomorrow? Lindsay tells me you have some wonderful things in your shop."

Wu bowed very slightly. "It is always an honor to serve a notable collector of bronzes such as yourself, Mr. Catlin. My small and humble shop is open six days a week. Whenever you find time to visit, you are sure to find something of interest to entertain your hours. Now, if you will please be so gracious as to excuse this unworthy old man, I find that the chill of evening makes my ancient bones complain and my mind dream softly of fragrant tea and the small comforts of my home."

"I hope we can see you soon," said Catlin, acting as though he were oblivious to the currents of evasion and withdrawal that swirled through Wu's very polite phrases. "Lindsay is always talking about you."

"Catlin, don't," Lindsay whispered, ignoring the painful] pressure of his fingers digging into her waist.

"She is most kind to remember a worthless old man," Wu said, speaking effortlessly over Lindsay's subdued protest. "I would not presume upon the friendships of the past by expecting her to resume them in full enthusiasm when her present overflows with new people and experiences. For her to display such kindness and generosity of spirit toward my worthless person would be unthinkable."

In aching silence Lindsay watched Wu retreat through the thick shadows and shafts of light that criss-crossed the walkway. She didn't trust herself to speak. The damp air would have amplified even the softest voice until it rang through the night like a cry for help.

Catlin gave her a hooded look, stretched his arms above his head and then draped them loosely over her shoulders. "Where do you want to celebrate?" he asked in a normal tone.

Lindsay turned and looked at him, saying nothing.

"Jet lag?" Catlin asked sympathetically. "C'mon," he said, tugging her down the path again. "I know just the thing."

"Good," she said flatly. "I need it, whatever it is."

He laughed and kissed her lips briefly. "Carte blanche is a dangerous thing to give me, honey cat."

"Don't I know it," she retorted, trying to conceal the bitterness in her voice.

Lindsay reminded herself that none of what had happened was Catlin's fault. He had warned her. She had believed him. But she hadn't believed that Wu would be the first to turn away from her, the first to lead the chorus of withdrawal and disdain. In her heart she hadn't believed that he would turn away from her at all. She had assumed that somehow he of all people would magically believe that she had good and worthy reasons for whatever she did, however unworthy those actions might appear on the surface.

"First we'll go to the hotel," Catlin said cheerfully, pulling Lindsay along in his wake with a strength that wasn't nearly as jovial as his voice. "A long, hot shower and two fingers of cognac for starters. Then I'll give you a rubdown that will unravel every nerve in that sexy body."

"Wonderful," said Lindsay, wincing at the rawness of her own voice.

She hoped that anyone overhearing the conversation would assume that it was passion rather than tears thickening her throat. Even as the thought came, rebellion flared suddenly, wildly, within her. She was so tired of monitoring each word, each intonation, of being on stage every minute of every day.

The strain of it was like acid eating into her will, dissolving it. Dissolving her.

And there would be no peace back at the hotel room. There a different round of lies would begin while she tried to conceal her attraction to Catlin and tried not to remember all the small touches and hot caresses they had shared during their time onstage. Concealing and forgetting her response had become more and more difficult with each night she had spent talking to him, laughing with him, learning from him, sharing her thoughts with him in the hours before he had curled up on her lumpy couch and slept until dawn.

She knew that he wanted her. She knew that he wouldn't take her, because she wasn't a casual kind of woman and he was a man who started nothing he couldn't finish. Even though he might call her a fool for putting herself at risk over something as ephemeral and intangible as the relationship between two nations, she knew that he liked her and respected her intelligence. Just as he must know that she respected and liked him, no matter what his past might have been. Those kinds of mutual discoveries were unavoidable between people who literally lived in each other's pockets.

It would have been easier if she had liked him less each day. As it was, the enforced mental intimacy of the offstage hours made Catlin's careful avoidance of any physical intimacy during those same offstage hours all the more obvious, all the more telling – and all the more difficult, almost to the point of impossibility.

Living with Catlin, living a lie when the truth of her feelings was screaming silently within her, made for the kind of loneliness that eroded Lindsay's soul. Now there would be no space remaining for anything but lies. She would have to share the same bed with Catlin, listen to him breathing, feel his warmth radiating out to her. So close, and never more far away than in the hours between darkness and dawn. A second act, harder than the first, more relentless.

Impossible. She couldn't do it. She simply couldn't. The realization made her draw a ragged breath. She fought to control her thoughts before they spiraled any further down into darkness and despair.

"Come here," Catlin said huskily.

He pulled Lindsay into the shadow that lay thickly behind the landscape lights. For an instant there was only the rigidity of her resisting body, then she made a small sound and leaned against him, shuddering silently. His hands hesitated before moving soothingly over her hair and back as he gathered her closer.

Goddamn you to hell, Chen Yi! And goddamn me for helping you!

Nothing of Catlin's savage thoughts showed on his face or in his touch or in the bleak eyes searching light and shadows for any sign of watchers. For the moment there was no one close enough to tell the difference between passion and compassion as he held her.

"Try not to cry," he breathed against Lindsay's ear. "And be damn sure not to cry once we're in the car. It's probably bugged by now," he added grimly.

Or, to be precise, he had to assume it was bugged, because it was too dangerous to assume anything else. The Asian man who had fled the auction after recognizing Catlin was fully capable of getting and using electronic surveillance equipment, as well as other more deadly devices.