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up at him and petulantly asked, “What was so funny?”
Apparently she wasn’t accustomed to johns laughing out loud when they came. “Nothing.” He zipped up, then took her by the arm and hauled her up off her knees. “Time to go.”
“What’s your rush?” She trailed her hand up the front of his shirt, cooing, “I could stay awhile.”
He pushed her away. “Out.”
Sensing he meant it, she grabbed her handbag and sauntered from the room. He followed her through the apartment to make certain she didn’t help herself to anything on her way out. She pulled the front door open and shot him a venomous look over her shoulder. “The other girls were right. You’re rude.”
“You’re breaking my heart.”
“Ask me, I also think you’re weird as shit.”
He could think of a dozen comebacks with zing, but good dialogue would be wasted on her. Without a word, he pushed her through the door and soundly closed it.
Retracing his steps to the theater, he paused to enjoy a view of Atlanta’s glittering skyline from the living room windows of his penthouse. He trailed his hand along the back of the buttery soft leather sofa as he walked past and admired the pair of art deco doors that he’d salvaged from a razed theater to serve as portals into his own cinematic domain.
Once back in the cushy, custom-made theater seat that he had designed himself, he replayed Julie’s appearance on the news. However, this second viewing left him not so amused as vexed. Just when the detectives were growing discouraged and probably on the brink of relegating his uncle’s murder to the back burner, Julie had advanced a fresh perspective. Now Sanford and Kimball would be duty bound to explore the angle that the incident had been more than a mere robbery.
Since his uncle’s slaying, Creighton had remained in the tall shadow of his father, letting him speak for the family while he himself avoided the media spotlight. He adored spectacle, but only on film. In reality, the limelight called attention to one’s beauty and strength, perhaps, and he certainly wasn’t modest about his. But while basking in the limelight, one sacrificed privacy. Anonymity had distinct advantages. Keeping to the background afforded one much more maneuverability and, thereby, power.
But now that Julie had shot off her mouth, the detectives’ interest in him might be renewed and he would need that fancy lawyer, Derek Mitchell, after all.
It was all such a bother.
    CHAPTER 7

    J ULIE LOVED THE LOOK OF HER GALLERY. IT HAD A DISCREET AND classy curb appeal that fit this stretch of Peachtree Street, where all the boutiques, antiques shops, clothiers, and eateries were as upmarket as their Buckhead clientele.
The potted orange trees on either side of the glossy black door and the fringed canopy extending across the sidewalk were touches that made the gallery inviting to novice art aficionados, who might be intimidated by austerity, while maintaining the high-toned ambience that serious buyers expected.
She turned in to the alley and followed it around to the rear of the building, where she parked and entered through the back door. She dumped her handbag and an armload of catalogs she’d brought from France on her desk. It remained cluttered no matter how hard she tried to keep up with paperwork. After her having been gone for several days, bills and other mail had piled up. Kate had placed a few telephone messages where she would be certain to see them. She sorted through them, but none was urgent.
Separating the office and storeroom in back from the main room of the gallery in front was a wide hallway thirty feet in length. It was here that she exhibited paintings of lesser quality and smaller price tags. As she walked along the hall now, she made a mental note to move some of them. She was a believer in frequently rotating the stock. A painting or objet d’art that had gone unnoticed could, in a new location, suddenly become a piece of interest to a browser.
The thick carpet and the Beethoven being