7
The Blue Dot
7:12 p.m.
“Good night, Eamon.” Tavish nodded to his secretary.
Eamon’s bright-red head came up. “Mr. MacCraig, I didn’t receive…” he said, consulting his notes, “Ms. Galen’s address and the list of her paintings we are to transport.”
He stood there for a split moment divided between his business consciousness and personal hankerings. It irked him that he let his urges win.
“Nae, Eamon, I didn’t forget.” I did it unconsciously. “I’m going to accompany the collectors. Please tell them I’ll be waiting for them at my friend Richard Smith’s house, Lakeside Manor, Monday, at eight thirty sharp. I’ll be using the chopper, so please ask Munro to plan the flight.”
He exited the gallery, absently nodding to the assistants, not caring about their sighs or looks, which followed h
