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my last name. That’s the beauty of this. I did it on my own. Jean-Pierre thought enough of my talent to take on my pieces, and someone else thought enough of it to buy it. I can have a career at this, I know I can.”
    â€œYou already have a career, Cassidy. You don’t have time for both.”
    She bit back her retort that wearing designer gowns and schmoozing his business associates only constituted a career if she worked for a call girl service. Because honestly, that’s pretty much what she’d felt like ever since she’d met Franklin. Her life had been so shallow compared to what she’d learned in the short time she’d known him. It was the connections, the honesty, the relationships between people, that gave life meaning. Mitchell Davenport used people for his own gain. And that was fine for him; his dream had been to make it big in his industry and he’d accomplished that. But it wasn’t her dream and now that she finally had one, he
couldn’t
pooh-pooh her for it.
    â€œBut I do have time for both, Dad. I managed to finish the piece and more,
and
find a gallery all while working for your company.”
    â€œThen why are we having this discussion? Why bother telling me at all?”
    â€œBecause . . .” She took a deep breath, going for broke—and she hoped she didn’t mean that literally.
    Nah, that wouldn’t happen. Dad wouldn’t cut her off simply because she wanted this. At the very least, she was his daughter and he’d never do anything scandalous to sully his reputation.
    She tapped her fork on the linen tablecloth. “Because I
do
want to focus on my art full-time. I can train someone to take over for me in the office for the daily stuff—” not that she had much to do since she’d been “promoted”
off
the design team; her new job and new title were shams and everyone knew it—“and I can still be there for the evening functions.”
    She had it all planned out. Once her father accepted her chosen path and she’d trained her replacement—probably one of those Harvards or Yales—then she could wean herself from the events. Dad wouldn’t even notice as long as the woman who replaced her looked just as good in the gowns and smiled at all the right places, which was pretty much the job description anyway.
    He speared another snail and contemplated it again. “That’s a nice plan, but you forgot the most important part, Cassidy.”
    â€œWhat?” She’d wracked her brain to cover all her bases because she’d known he would fight her; she hadn’t missed anything.
    â€œI don’t agree to this plan of yours.” He pulled the snail from the shell and popped it into his mouth. “Now, about this evening. Did I mention that I have Corcoran by the balls and when he shows up tonight he’s going to see . . .”
    Cassidy nodded at all the right places, making the appropriate “mmhmmm” when required, but her mind was far away. He’d dismissed her dream. She hadn’t
really
thought he would. Sure, he wasn’t going to be happy with it; she’d expected that. But she was his daughter for Pete’s sake. His child. Surely he wanted her to have the same chance to make her dreams come true as he’d had? It wasn’t as if she was irreplaceable at the firm.
    This was supposed to have been her
out
. Her declaration of independence. Granted, the commission on the bombe chest wasn’t enough to live on, but it was a start. And once C. Marie’s name started getting around, she wouldn’t have to rely on the Davenport Properties paycheck and dress up like a toy poodle to prance about on gala nights.
    God, she was sick of this life.
    And now, once the gallery owner had been tracked down and convinced to buy back the bombe chest—a feat Cassidy had no doubt her father’s secretary would be able to accomplish