Shadow Prince

CHAPTER ONE

Angelique Blanchard threaded her way between the crowded tables in Dino's cafe, and slipped into the waiting chair at the balcony table. The unsmiling man already seated at the table tapped his gold-plated watch for emphasis.

"It's 12:10, Angie."

"Your watch is fast. Besides, I don't have time to eat. Say whatever you have to say, and then I'm back to the studio."

"I'm deducting this meal as a business expense, so you'd better order something."

"Fine." She looked up and caught the attention of one of the harried waiters. "Coffee, please."

Across the table from her, Donald Thorogoode sighed, and drummed his perfectly manicured nails on the tabletop. "You're impossible, you know that? What are you so busy with?"

"I entered two of my paintings in this year's competition. The Dancing Girl, and The Evil Slave Owner." Angelique grinned. They were two of her best pieces. She'd captured the dancing girl in the middle of a turn, surrounded by billowing scarves and swirling smoke, her audience a dark shadow in front of her, a bright smile on her crimson lips, and exhilaration vibrating in every line of her body. The second painting was at the other extreme, showing a fat man in a toga, fear oozing from his pores as he cowered over the still body of his whipped and beaten slave boy, looking up at a shadowy form concealed within a black cloak.

Her coffee arrived, and she lifted the mug gratefully. She didn't want to think about the dark recesses of her mind that produced the inspiration for her paintings.

Donald sipped his half-empty scotch and soda, and fixed her with his penetrating blue gaze. "What are you wasting your time on a local competition for? You know you'll never win. The judges here want pictures of cactus and coyotes and big-eyed Native American children, the things tourists coming to see the Grand Canyon or Painted Desert buy."

"I know there isn't a lot of call for my paintings here in Sedona, but that's why you're my agent. You can sell them in Phoenix, or Tucson, or L.A."

"Or Seattle."

"Seattle?" She set down her mug, carefully squaring the handle with the corner of the table. Seattle was known for its rain. Donald couldn't be asking her to go there.

"I got an offer for a gallery showing. You'd be one of the featured exhibitors at an international fantasy and science fiction convention. It's the sort of exposure you can only dream about down here." He knocked back the last of his drink, and signaled the waiter for another one. "If they wanted any of my other clients, I'd have accepted in an instant. But after New York--"

"I tried to get there, Donald. But there was a storm warning--"

"And New Orleans--"

"I told you not to--"

"And Boston--"

"I never agreed to the show in Boston."

Donald locked gazes with her. "And you're not going to agree to the Seattle show, are you? The best deal of your life, and you're going to toss it away, because you're afraid of rain."

"They don't need me, just my paintings. You can do the showing."