The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [52]
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.”
Good manners won out, and she gave him her hand. A soft hand, smooth and white, but there were calluses on her fingertips. He frowned as he felt them. “I remember now, you’re an artist, like Savich here.”
“Yes, I told you about her, Simon. She draws No Wrinkles Remus, a political cartoon strip that—”
“Yes, of course I remember. I’ve read the strip, but it’s been a while now. It was in the Chicago Tribune, if I remember correctly.”
“That’s right. It ran there for about a year. Then I left town. I’m surprised you remember it.”
He said, “It’s very biting and cynical, but hilarious. I don’t think it matters if the reader is a Democrat or a Republican, all the political shenanigans ring so true it just doesn’t matter. Will the world see more of Remus?”
“Yes,” Lily said. “Just as soon as I’m settled in my own place, I’m going to begin again. Now, why are you so anxious to see my paintings?”
Sean dropped the graham cracker, looked directly at his