City of Masks

Начало книги

Cree – an unusual name. An Indian tribe, isn't it – up in Manitoba or someplace? Your parents named you after them?"

"No. A nickname. Short for Lucretia, which by the time I was five years old struck me as too old-fashioned to live with. You're welcome to call me Ms. Black, Mr. Beauforte." Cree smiled but put enough of a point on the comment to suggest that more personal inquiries were unwelcome. So far, Mr. Beauforte's smug and insinuating manner had not exactly endeared him, or commended the Beaufortes as prospective clients, whatever Edgar said about cash flow.

"No, 'Cree' – I like it. Very charming. Unusual." Ronald Beauforte nodded with satisfaction, as if pleased to find something to irritate her with. He was a handsome man with a brush of gray at his temples, dressed in a well-tailored charcoal business suit, top two shirt buttons undone, no tie. Now he sat back in his chair, legs crossed, pants cuffs tugged to reveal just so much of his argyles and no more, the steeple of his tanned fingers making a fine display of several fat gold rings. The Louisiana accent was not so deep: Clearly, he'd spent a good amount of time outside his home state, Cree decided, maybe an Ivy League education. When he'd first come in, Cree had noticed the appraising flick of his eyes over her body, the glimmer of appreciation. She was willing to give that the benefit of the doubt, but already the excess of relaxed confidence had begun to bother her.

Читать дальше →