Cheyney Fox by Roberta Latow Read Free Book Online Page B

it Mary McCarthy’s? No, it was at Caresse’s. I don’t think you know Caresse, do you?”
    Cheyney turned around to face Sebastian, speechless. There was just nothing more to say to the man. She had to face the fact that Sebastian was the gallery’s first deficit. And they hadn’t even opened the doors yet.
    “He’s very well placed you know, invited everywhere, very talented, and could be very helpful. I would ask you along, but it will be an old school, all boys together supper. When he hears I am working with you in our gallery, he will be very surprised. I’m certain I can get him to come to the opening.” Cheyney sensed a note of bravado in his voice, a kind of one-upmanship because he had rankled her and remained calm cool, the perfect gentleman, steadfast in his opinion. He had said
our
gallery, something he had never before dared to say to her face. It was the bitchy look in the eyes behind the round, slim-edged, tortoiseshell eyeglasses, worn affectedly low on the nose, that said “Cheyney Fox, you are stuck with me. And, for better or worse, you
will
accept me as I am, and take my contributions more seriously.”
    She was shocked, she had never seen that side of Sebastian before. She decided not to pick him up on the
our
gallery. Though it simply was not true. There were enough escape clauses in their business agreement, inserted solely to protect Sebastian in the event the gallery failed, to prove it. She wanted only to be rid of him so she could get on with her day.
    “As it happens I am not free. Christopher Corbyn is arriving from Paris tonight. I’m having dinner with him.”
    “You didn’t say!”
    “I have not had the chance.”
    “How long will he be in the States?”
    “I’m not sure. A few months, anyway.”
    “He never stays that long.”
    “He will this time.”
    Something was very wrong, and Cheyney didn’t understand what it was. Sebastian had gone pale at the news of Christopher’s arrival. His speech was a wreck, all stutters and hesitation.
    “Where is he staying and why has he come?”
    “With me, Sebastian. And he’s here in New York for an exhibition of his work.”
    “He and Kostas can’t possibly stay with you. I won’t have those scroungers taking advantage of your hospitality. And I certainly will never allow him to have an exhibition in this gallery, you can be certain of that.”
    “Sebastian, you’re out of line. Kostas is not coming with Christopher, and taking advantage does not come into it. And,
never, ever
tell me whom I can or cannot exhibit in my gallery. You don’t have that right. Read your contract.”
    That did not stem the tide of venom rising in this usually harmless, quiet man. His face changed. Twisted with anxiety, contorted more by a sick destructive will than anything evil, he gave off the scent of danger. Cheyney thought of Oscar Wilde’s
Picture of Dorian Gray
. She tried, “Sebastian, please, this is getting out of hand.”
    “Out of hand! I hope so. It should be. You deceived me, you never let me know he would be involved here. He has charmed his way into every chic salon on both sides of the Atlantic. Well, he will be banned from this one, I can promise you that. And if he thinks he can flirt his way around me, he is sadly mistaken. You have yet to see him in action. Man or woman, he doesn’t care which. He’s a whore, my dear, a gigolo. He danced attendance on me when I first met him at Harvard, and then again years later in Paris. But I never fell for his charm. They say he made love to his mother-in-law, one of the most powerful aristocrats in Spain, and only married the daughter to get a castle. The palazzo in Florence Kostas and he say they own — well, not quite. Stealing it away room by room from the old woman is more the real story. Give me your word he will never enter this gallery, or I will walk out now and demand my money back.”
    Cheyney felt her body turn cold. She was trembling. Shelooked past Sebastian through the