Free Heiress by Janet Dailey

of her fingers and the firmness of her grip. He also noticed that his name didn't mean a thing to her. More than that, she didn't seem all that impressed by him. It pricked his ego just a little bit. Between his looks and his name, Dean had never had any problems attracting women, but Caroline Farr was obviously different. "I'd like to see some of your paintings sometime."
    "I should warn you they're not surrealistic."
    "My wife will be glad to hear that. She doesn't care for it at all.”
    At that point their conversation returned to a discussion of art, and the inability of many to appreciate its different forms and styles. More precisely, Caroline talked and Dean agreed.
    "Your accent. . ." Dean tried to place it and failed. "You're from somewhere in the East, aren't you?"
    "Connecticut."
    "Are you just visiting here in Houston?"
    "Not really. Right now I'm staying at a friend's summer house in Galveston." When she said that, Dean automatically began to scan the milling guests, trying to remember which one had a beach house on Galveston Island. "It doesn't belong to anyone here."
    "Was I that transparent?" Dean smiled.
    "Yes."
    "Sorry. But, since you're not from here, you're obviously someone's guest."
    "Why?"
    "Because this affair tonight is by invitation. The collection doesn't go on public display until tomorrow."
    "Tomorrow I'll be in Galveston. I wanted to see it tonight."
    "My God." Unconsciously Dean lowered his voice. "You mean you crashed this? You just walked in?" He hovered between incredulity and stunned admiration of her audacity.
    "Of course." She was very matter of fact about it and indifferent almost to the point of arrogance. "This isn't someone's home. It's a public museum. Why should it be open to one—privileged—class of people and not to all?"
    "That's a good point." He tried not to smile. "However, most if not all of these guests are patrons of the museum."
    "Because they have donated works of art or money, does that entitle them to special treatment?" she countered in a challenging tone.
    "They think so."
    "I don't."
    "Obviously." Dean had never met anyone like her before.
    He'd heard that artists were a proud, temperamental breed. Wealth and status supposedly meant nothing to them. Dean found that hard to believe, even though this Caroline Farr seemed to feel that way. "You know, I really would like to see some of your paintings."
    She gave him a long, thoughtful look. "Most afternoons you can find me on the west end of the beach."
    Someone came up to speak to him. When Dean turned back, she was gone. He was surprised to find that he wanted her still to be there—that he wanted to talk to her and learn more about her. He was intrigued by her seriousness and her passion, the intensity that emanated from inside her and charged the air around her. He caught sight of her across the room, tall, statuesque, dramatic in black. He wanted to go over there to her, but he didn't. He'd already been seen talking at length with her. It wouldn't look right if he sought her out again. Dean smiled faintly as the thought occurred to him that Caroline Farr would probably mock such a conventional attitude. She wasn't bound by the rules that restrained him. He wondered what it would be like to feel free to say and do what he wanted, without worrying about whether he was living up to someone else's expectations: his father's, his wife's, or his friends'.
    A seagull swooped low in front of his car as Dean drove along the deserted beach, the window rolled down to admit the stiff breeze blowing in from the Gulf. His jacket and tie lay over the back of the passenger seat. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and the collar unbuttoned. He felt like a kid playing hooky for the first time—a little guilty because he hadn't returned to the office or gone home after the meeting, and a little excited because he was doing something he shouldn't.
    But the farther he drove on the sideline's hard-packed sand, the