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it’d been sold.
    â€œThat’s not helpful. Nor professional.” He shook his head. “No, Deborah, not you. I want you to track down the owner of the Marseault’s Gallery and buy back a piece sold by C. Marie. Yes, that’s right, you heard me. C. Marie,
not
Cassidy Davenport. And I don’t care what the price is; you buy it back.” He turned off the phone, picked up his napkin and placed it back in his lap, picking up his fork and spearing one of his snails as if he hadn’t just completely dismissed Cassidy’s life dream.
    â€œNow that that unpleasantness is out of the way, what did you want to talk to me about?”
    She ought to throw her fork across the table and storm out, but Cassidy was so sick at heart at her father’s callous disregard for her feelings and dreams she couldn’t summon the energy. Plus, he and the headmistress of her boarding school had ingrained proper behavior into her so much that she wouldn’t dare create a scene—
    â€œIs it about this evening? I know Burton had to attend the ground-breaking ceremony in Charleston, but he has the helicopter. He’ll make it in time to escort you. I guarantee it.”
    The gala. Another one. Number forty-two for the year. She knew because she’d just donated forty-one dresses to a local auction to raise funds for underprivileged children. It’s what she did with all her dresses. Dad had pitched a fit over her giving away designer clothing until the publicity had started rolling in, extolling her generosity and giving the Davenport name kudos left and right. Now it was a matter of pride for him that her wardrobe constituted the majority of the donations.
    â€œI’m not worried about Burton not making it.” Because, God knew—and so did Mitchell—that
nothing
would keep Burton Carstairs from making it to one of her father’s command performances with the boss’s daughter on his arm. “But, Dad, about my art. You can’t just buy it back. What’ll that say about me? Jean-Pierre will never sell any of my pieces again if he thinks you’re going to hunt down the buyer. It won’t look good for his gallery—”
    â€œYou’re assuming I care about this man’s gallery. I don’t, Cassidy.” He examined the snail he’d pulled from the shell as if it were more important than a conversation about her life. “He’s a businessman and he should have thought things through. At the very least, a phone call to me as a professional courtesy would have been in order. But he didn’t make that call, so this is the price of doing business his way. I protect my name at all costs.”
    â€œBut it’s not your name; it’s mine.”
    â€œLast I looked, my name is on your birth certificate. Therefore, it
is
my concern.” He popped the snail into his mouth as if that was the end of the conversation.
    Cassidy almost gave in. She’d had too many dealings with him in the past to think he’d ever go along with it now.
    But if she didn’t fight now, for herself and what she wanted out of life, when would she? She had proof that this wasn’t some fly-by-night career choice. She had talent and there was a market for it. If she dropped the ball now, she’d have an even harder time getting the chance to pick it up again because her name would be sullied by Dad’s little clean-up act.
    She leaned forward, gripping her fork as if it were a lifeline. “Dad, look. I didn’t use Davenport on purpose. I didn’t want it to affect you if things didn’t go well.” She crossed the fingers on her other hand resting in her lap. That
wasn’t
why she hadn’t used her last name, but she’d let him think so to show him she was still on his “team.” Dad had a thing about loyalty and her going out on her own would challenge it. “But things have gone well. And I don’t
have
to use