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reflected it onto Andrew’s attentive face. “I would add Magritte and Klimt to your list, and just a bit of Dali for some fun, but I think we have very similar tastes.”
    “I think we do,” Andrew said. A hush descended as they stared at each other over the flickering glow.
    “Yes,” Claire whispered.
    “Maybe I could coax you into a professional tour of MoMA some day?”
    She cradled her wine with both hands, looking down into the heavy redness, her head suddenly swimming a bit.
    “See the future in there?” he asked after a moment.
    “I was just thinking about a movie. The Thomas Crown Affair . I know it sounds corny, but I was watching the remake on TV last night, and it always gets me.” A veil of wine slid down the inside of her glass as slow as honey.
    “I saw the Steve McQueen version.”
    Claire looked up at him, into his deep-set soulful eyes, and she felt herself veering far enough from her comfort zone that she was afraid she’d missed a detour sign and stumbled onto some dodgy alternate route. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, smoothed her napkin over her skirt. She thought of the highly charged cat and mouse game the actors had played in both versions of the movie. “You should catch the remake,” she said, tracing the rim of her glass. “The art and characters, the clothes. And the chase. It’s all very . . .”
    Andrew waited for her to find the right words. But she never did utter them. “Well, it sounds like a worthwhile evening,” he finally said. “I’ll be sure to take your advice.”
    Claire reached for her water glass.
    “So,” Andrew continued, his gaze still locked on her, “tell me about the little project Michael mentioned.”
    She worried a piece of ice with her tongue and waited for her pulse to slow its dervish spin through her chest. Easing back into less hazardous territory, Claire started with an overview of the museum benefit—thrilled, she realized, to actually have been asked. She described the décor, the commissioned bronze sculpture and the Villa in Cannes she’d wrangled for the auction, the new exhibits the museum would be able to mount with the gala revenue—her enthusiasm recovering, detail by detail, its luscious pre-headache ripeness. As Andrew listened, Claire saw in his face her father’s interest and esteem, the Spaniard’s smolder, and Michael’s first glimmerings of attraction. And something else.
    “Well, then”—Andrew raised his glass of Silver Oak to her— “to Denver’s own version of the Costume Institute Benefit. It’s going to be a huge smash.”
    “You go to the Met party?” She took another small piece of ice into her mouth, fixing on the strong, un-manicured hand caressing the glass just inches from her face. “Seriously?” she said, swallowing the ice. “We’re in New York for it every year. God, you probably recognized that I, uh, borrowed a few décor ideas—the apple tree hedges?” She watched him smiling wordlessly at her blabbering. “Anyway,” she said, pausing for breath, “maybe we were even seated at nearby tables last year?”
    “Intriguing thought, isn’t it? Parallel lives?” His right eyebrow lifted in the center and he tapped her glass with his own, intersecting their parallels. “But I was the guy in the cheap seats and you, I’d hazard, were the stunning brunette seated near the dance floor with her husband.”
    “A lovely compliment, but five points off for inaccuracy. Michael hates those functions and usually finds a last-minute business engagement.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I sat with one of the extra men.”
    “If I’d only known.”
    “Well, our son, Nicholas, is home for the summer now, so I’ll have at least one terrific date for the benefit here. He’s a very talented artist himself,” she said with pride. “And if Michael doesn’t show, he’s a dead man.”
    Andrew rested his elbow on the table. “I admire your enthusiasm. It’s great to have a passion that gives