“I’d thought you’d given up?” James threw a short nod at the slim cigarette between her lips, ignoring her usual greeting.
“I’m going through a bitter divorce.” Lindsey blew out a thin stream of blue smoke, looking at him with defiant challenge. “I’m allowed a vice.”
“I told you not to marry a surgeon.”
“Very funny.” Lindsey pulled more smoke into her lungs. “Who are you? My big brother?”
“How’s the divorce going? Are you going to drop the hyphenated name and just go back to Dyson?”
“Let’s just say I’m glad I’m rich. It makes paying for the lawyers less painful.” She stabbed out the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray he kept on his desk just for her, and then crossed her legs, leaning farther back into the chair. “And I like the sound of Dyson-Maher.”
“Also helps Dr. Maher is the most benevolent medical practitioner this country’s ever known.”
She shrugged. “The name does have a certain shine to it, I must admit. So, seriously, who are you screwing lately?”
He shook his head, fighting the urge to fidget. “No one.”
If there was one person in the world he couldn’t keep a secret from, it was Lindsey. She was a piece of work, but she’d looked out for him during the hell years of their parents’ divorce. In her conceited way, she loved him more than any other family member. If she kept pushing him now, if she asked the wrong questions, or the right ones…
A smug grin split Lindsey’s glossed red lips. She was only four years younger than him, but at times, she acted like a jaded harlot of forty rather than the private-school educated woman of twenty-eight she really was.
“I know that face.” Her voice turned to a low purr of delight. “There’s someone on the horizon. Who is she? Anyone I know?”
“No.”
It wasn’t a lie. Lindsey knew of Sienna, but she didn’t know her personally. Clinton had never invited his family to the apartment he’d shared with the artist. As far as James knew, he was the only living Dyson to have actually spoken to Sienna. But her name was well known in the family—Harvey and Lindsey knew her as the gold digger who convinced Clinton to stay at art school.
Just that. Not the whole sordid story.
“Oh, Mr. Mysterioso.” Lindsey smirked. “Exciting.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Very.”
“Oh!” Lindsey sat forward in the seat, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, oh, I’ve got to tell you this. I was at Thomas St. Clair’s home last week, and you will never guess what was hanging on the wall of his study?”
Hell. Could things get any more complicated?
“This huge painting of a threesome.” Her smile grew licentious. “Very horny. Turned me on big time. You’ll never guess who the artist was. That bitch, Sienna Roberts. The very whore that Clinty was so hung up on.”
A meat mallet began to pound on his gut, stealing any response he could make.
He never should have arranged for St. Clair to receive one of Sienna’s paintings from the Mason Xavier Organization.
Thomas St. Clair—one of the most successful authors in the world, and one of his friends—had gone crazy for the artwork. Why wouldn’t he? The massive oil painting positively thrummed with erotic energy.
Lindsey curled her lip. “I’d buy some of her work if she wasn’t who she was. If she’s as sexual as that painting, I understand why Clint wouldn’t come home when Dad told him to.”
“She is.”
“Excuse me?” A stunned look fell over her face. He bit back a curse. Damn it, had he actually muttered that aloud?
Throat suddenly tight, he gave Lindsey a level stare. “She is as sexual as that painting. More so, in fact.”
Lindsey’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve met her?”
“Three times.”
She studied him, silent. The inspection drilled into his nerves. “Is she the woman you’re…”
She didn’t finish the question. He didn’t move. Or blink.
Lindsey sat back in her chair, a frown creasing her flawless forehead, a flicker of worry in her gray eyes. “Do you know what you’re doing?” Her frown deepened. “What are you doing?”