the crack. “This collector requested I give him the tour.”
“He requested a specific museum docent?” Jackie raised an eyebrow. “How often does that happen?”
“It never has. Maybe he wants to meet the future senator from Connecticut and figures he can gain entrance through his daughter.” Celeste slid out of the booth. “Since my father’s campaign began, everyone seems to have an agenda. Everyone’s lobbying for something from him.”
She picked up her Louis Vuitton bag then held it against the coffee stain on her cream pants. “At least it matches,” she said with a wry smile.
“You’re crazy to wear white in the city.” Jackie shook her head.
“I’m an optimist.”
Jackie reached over and tapped the diamond on Celeste’s hand. “Yeah? Is that why you took a ring you had no intention of keeping?”
Celeste sighed. “I’m working on that.”
Celeste welcomed the air-conditioned chill of the Guggenheim. The walk had warmed her, causing a thin sheen of perspiration on her neck and allowing some unruly strands to escape their barrette. Reaching back to unsnap the clip, she finger-combed the waves over her shoulders.
What a disaster of a morning.
She didn’t even bother to stop and soak up the peace of the white exhibit halls spiraling up to the top floor of the museum. There could be no peace until she knew what Beau Lansing was doing in New York.
Of course, it was a big city with millions of visitors, and he could be there for any number of reasons. A TV interview, a meeting with a sponsor. It was ridiculous to think he was there because of…the connection they shared.
She approached the main desk and smiled at the man behind it, leaning her elbows on the counter with mock annoyance. “How did we manage to land Saturday duty, Sam?”
The old man’s eyes crinkled with his grin. “You’ll be glad you did, little lady. You’ve got yourself a celebrity to take on a tour.” He pointed to the right and she froze, not daring to follow it. “None other than Beau ‘Lightning Bolt’ Lansing.”
Her elbows almost slipped off the marble counter.
“He’s faster than lightning, that’s what they say. Least they used to.”
So much for coincidence.
Slowly, she turned her head. He sat on a bench under a window, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his unwavering gaze locked on her. Celeste felt the foundation of her world crumble and realized it was her legs, threatening to give way.
He stood and ambled toward her. He wore jeans, tight and worn nearly threadbare over his narrow hips, and menacing black boots. As he got closer, she read the tiny insignia stitched into his blue oxford shirt. Chastaine Motorsports.
Don’t say it. Don’t make me say that name.
She could feel his scrutiny, studying every angle of her face. He knows. He knows.
“Are you Celeste Bennett?”
She nodded as she met his semisweet chocolate eyes. She would simply deny it. Deny, deny, deny.
“I’m Beau. I appreciate your coming here on a Saturday and all, ma’am.”
Aw, shucks, you just go ahead and ruin my life any ol’ time, honey.
She tucked her handbag under her elbow, crossing her arms and tamping down the distress inside her. “I understand you are a collector.”
“He’s also one of the best race car drivers that ever lived,” Sam offered.
She managed a surprised look. “Is that so?”
The corner of Beau’s mouth lifted in a cynical smile. “Well, not that ever lived.”
Her gaze dropped back to the tiny checkered flags with a lightning bolt between them over his imposing, masculine chest. Chastaine.
“What kind of art do you collect, Mr. Lansing?”
He shrugged. “All different kinds.”
Black velvet Elvises and rebel flags, no doubt.
“The exhibit is on the fourth floor,” she said, turning toward the curved hall. “We don’t have any elevators in this part of the museum, so you’ll have a chance to peruse some of our magnificent works on the way.”
He stayed in step with her. “Interesting setup, this winding hallway.”
“It was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright to offer visitors an unbroken viewing area for all the art, and a dramatic vista of the entire museum from any point.” Celeste paused and looked up to the top of the atrium. “Did you come to discuss architecture, Mr. Lansing?” As if.
His gaze stayed on her. “How long have you worked here?” he asked.
“I don’t work here. I’m on the board of directors. And I’m a docent.”
“A whatcent?”
“A volunteer who can provide tours. Are you a fan of Sugimoto?”
“Yep.” He turned toward an abstract oil as they rounded the second floor. “Mostly his