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.”

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 mother, and yelled.

Sherlock laughed as she lifted him out of the walker. “You ready for a bath, sweetie? Goodness, and a change, too. It’s late, so let’s go do it. Dillon, why don’t you make Lily and Simon some coffee. I’ll be back with the little prince in a while.”

“Some apple pie would be nice,” Simon said. “I haven’t had dinner yet; it would fill in the cracks.”

“You got it,” Savich said, gave Lily the once-over to make sure she was okay, and went to the kitchen.

“Why do you want to see my paintings so badly?” Lily asked again.

“I’d just as soon not say until I actually see them, Mrs. Frasier.”

“Very well. What do you do in the art world, Mr. Russo?”

“I’m an art broker.”

“And how do you do that, exactly?”

“A client wants to buy, say, a particular painting. A Picasso. I locate it, if I don’t know where it is already-which I do know most of the time-see if it’s for sale. If it is, I procure it for the client.”

“What if it’s in a museum?”

“I speak to the folk at the museum, see if there’s another painting, of similar value, that they’d barter for the one my client wants. It happens that way, successfully sometimes, if the museum wants what I have to barter more than the painting they have. Naturally, I try to keep up with the wants and needs of all the major museums, the major collectors as well.” He smiled. “Usually, though, a museum isn’t all that eager to part with a Picasso.”

“You know all about the illegal market, then.”

Her voice was flat, no real accusation in it, but he knew to his toes that she was very wary of him. Why? Ah, yes, her paintings, that was it. She didn’t trust him because she was afraid for her paintings. Okay, he could deal with that.

He sat down on the sofa across from her, picked up the afghan, and held it out to her.

Lily said, “Thanks, I am a bit cold. No, no, just toss it to me.”

But he didn’t. He spread it over her, aware that she didn’t want him near her, frowned, then sat down again and said, “Of course I know about the illegal market. I know all of the main players involved, from the thieves to the most immoral dealers, to the best forgers and the collectors who, many of them, are totally obsessed if there is a piece of art they badly want. ‘Obsession’ is many times the operative word in the business. Is there anything you want to know about it, Mrs. Frasier?”

“You know the crooks who acquire the paintings for the collectors.”

“Yes, some of them, but I’m not one of them. I’m strictly on the up-and-up. You can believe that because your brother trusts me. No one’s tougher than Savich when it comes to trust.”

“You’ve known each other for a very long time. Maybe trust just starts between kids and doesn’t end, particularly if you rarely see each other.”

“Whatever that means,” Simon said. “Look, Mrs. Frasier, I’ve been in the business for nearly fifteen years. I’m sorry if you’ve had some bad experiences with people in the art world, but I’m honest, and I don’t dance over the line. You can take that to the bank. Of course I know about the underside of the business or I wouldn’t be very successful, now would I?”

“How many of my grandmother’s paintings have you dealt with?”

“Over the years, probably a good dozen, maybe more. Some of my clients are museums themselves. If the painting is owned by a collector-legally, of course-and a museum wants to acquire it, then I try to buy it from the collector. Since I know what all the main collectors own and accumulate, I will try to barter with them. It cuts both ways, Mrs. Frasier.”