by Jeanne Rose
Thinking illusion seemed more likely than reality, she pulled the car out and drove away. Something else clunked. More bumper? Not that she intended to stop and find out.
Fear was eclipsed by cool anger as she drove. Someone had tried to kill her. Someone was guilty . . . and had probably been standing around listening when she’d talked with Luke at Rebecca’s house.
Unless the culprit was Luke himself.
But she didn’t think so, didn’t feel so in her heart. No matter how much he’d tried to make her doubt.
A sign appeared, announcing she was thirty miles from Santa Fe. She couldn’t wait.
But . . . no rest for the weary. Rounding another curve, she saw the pronghorn appear up ahead again. Bounding straight toward her down the middle of the road, the animal was headed directly for her windshield.
Illusion.
She repeated the word and muttered others, braced herself, kept her foot steady on the accelerator. She tried not to flinch, even as the animal came closer, closer, even as she stared into its spooky eyes.
The creature launched itself, sailed through the air . . . but there was no impact.
No impact.
She’d been right about it being an illusion.
A smile trembling on her lips, Mara drove on, encountering no more incidents on the way back to Santa Fe.
But maybe the evil person, whoever he was, knew she was a force to reckon with.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“MARA FITZGERALD, there you are.”
Slightly disoriented by her mood added to loud voices and the sound of flute music coming from the center of the courtyard outside, Mara turned to face the woman who was shouldering her way through a sea of bodies. A large woman with a commanding presence, Betty Sue Whitman made no bones about her love affair with everything western. She was decked out in appropriate gear from her hand-tooled snakeskin boots to her white Stetson looped with silver conchos.
“Mrs. Whitman, how nice to see you.” Mara forced a smile to her lips, this regular customer’s enthusiasm making it a bit easier. “I’m so glad you could come.”
“Now, sugar, would I miss a Naha opening?” Mrs. Whitman waved a hand bedecked with several silver and turquoise bracelets and matching rings. “Not on your life.”
Her life. Distracted from the festivities once more, Mara thought about the several days that had gone by without Isabel’s training working for her. She’d made a prayer stick of wood and feathers, had painted it blue. She’d tried saying sacred words, concentrating on her breathing and on her surroundings, but she hadn’t been able to call up a vision if her life depended on it. Which it might. She hardly felt like a force to be reckoned with now. If she had any special powers, they were certainly well-hidden.
She and Luke hadn’t even shared another dream.
Nevertheless, Mara put on a good face for Mrs. Whitman’s sake. “Can I get you a glass of champagne?”
“That would be lovely, sugar. You’ll have one, too, I hope.”
“If I had a drink with each of my valued customers, I would be a bit too tipsy to attend to business.”
As they headed for a table where Felice was pouring the bubbly, Mrs. Whitman guffawed and whomped Mara on the shoulder. “You deserve to celebrate. I can’t remember when I’ve seen such a successful opening.”
Though Mara was certain the woman was kindly exaggerating, she smiled and handed her a glass. “There are a couple of waiters passing around hors d’oeuvres.”
“Heck, I don’t need food. Let me at what’s left of those new paintings so I can pick one out before some gaggle-eyed tenderfoot beats me to it.” Mrs. Whitman winked and charged into the crowd.
And before Mara’s mind could drift away again, Felice excitedly whispered, “I made another sale.”
“Great.”
The only thing that would be better would be if the artist himself were here to work the crowd. But she doubted that Luke could find it in himself to act civil to people in such a situation.
He couldn’t even be civil with her. He’d acted very aloof toward her since the day Rebecca had died.
“People are going crazy over those newest pieces Naha did in acrylics,” Felice was saying. “Only a couple are left.”
Pieces done since the turmoil began at the pueblo, Mara knew. Luke’s heightened emotions had affected his work, the results reflecting his darker moods. His work had moved to a new level, one that art lovers appreciated as proven by the many Sold signs affixed to a good number of the paintings.
Mara told Felice, “I think I’d better circulate,” then drifted off toward what was for her one of the most compelling pieces Luke had ever created.
Harbinger.
She gazed at what was another night view of the cliff and pueblo below. But it was the turbulent sky above that transfixed her. The very air was charged, alive as if with danger. Staring at the swirls and dips that formed movement across the canvas, movement from which a small figure was running, she could almost hear an ominous rumble that struck fear in her heart . . . almost as if she’d been there when something terrible had happened . . . a feeling far stronger than any of Luke’s previous works had evoked in her.
“Naha’s work is truly compelling, isn’t it?” the woman next to her was saying to a friend about the very same piece.
“It’s haunting,” returned the second, popping a canapé into her mouth and washing it down with a sip of champagne.
“Fierce,” the first murmured. “Unforgettable.”
Like the man himself, Mara thought, shaking off the feeling that part of her was in another world. She was about to step back into reality, hopefully to make another sale, when an excited murmur set through the throng behind her. Mara turned to see what the commotion was about.
The crowd parted, revealing the artist himself, who was carrying two more finished paintings. Gaze on the canvases, neither of which was framed, heart bumping against her ribs at the very sight of him, Mara moved toward Luke. But before she could get to him, he was mobbed.
And Betty Sue Whitman got her hands on both canvases. “Hot off the artists’ easel. I got dibs on both of these, sugar, and damn the cost. Old J.D. can afford it, anyhow,” she enthused, referring to her wealthy oilman husband.
Luke’s penetrating gaze found Mara for a moment before she was swept along with the tide of excitement. She firmed up the sale with Mrs. Whitman, who wanted the paintings as is, refusing to leave them even long enough to be framed. Mara gave the new works the quickest of look-overs as she priced them, noting they were different views of the same cliff-dwelling with night coming on. Though the red glow inside the structure seemed to be getting brighter, the sky above more restless. But the paintings disappeared before Mara could examine them more closely.
She was also frustrated in her attempts to stay close to Luke, who was dressed up in black slacks, a black-on-black embroidered western shirt and a silver and jet black pendent with a medicine-bear fetish. His long hair was free of the customary leather tie, hanging loose and sexy to frame his rugged features. Several women were giving him the eye and flirting with him. And Mara was amazed that Luke was actually acting polite if not overly enthusiastic toward all the opening’s attendees who wished to talk to him.
Just as he’d been polite toward her the past few days.
People stormed Luke for the next hour or so, while she and Felice were both kept busy writing up more sales. Mara tried to keep her mind on the opening’s success rather than on the artist himself.
Only after the crowd abated did Mara get anywhere near Luke.
“I didn’t think you were going to show,” she admitted, quickly adding, “But I’m really glad you did.”
“Because you made extra sales?”
His acerbic tone and typical cynicism made her stiffen. “If that’s what you want to think.”
Mara started to walk away from him, but was stopped cold by his stepping in front of her. His nearness made her catch her breath. She couldn
’t control her physical reaction to him no matter how hard she tried.
“Sorry.” Then he spoiled the simple apology she was willing to take by adding, “I promised Mother and Grandmother that I would behave.”
“And you wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”
He heaved a sigh. “I’m not good at nice words, okay?”
She bit back another sharp response. “Okay.”
“Good.”
His slow, steady smile got to her, as did the sudden feeling that he was on his best behavior for her alone.
Telling herself she must be crazy – Luke Naha had no feelings other than lust where she was concerned – Mara swallowed hard and forced out, “Champagne. It’s your reception and you haven’t even had a glass.”
“I’ll stick to soda, if you have it.”
Warmth crept up her neck as she remembered why Luke didn’t drink. “I’ll get you one. And some appetizers.”
To her surprise, their truce held for the rest of the evening, until every last prospective customer left. Because Felice had been putting in extra work for her while she’d been at the pueblo, Mara told the young woman to leave as well, that she would do the clean up.
“You don’t mind being alone locking up?” Felice gave Luke an intense look. “Uh, I guess you won’t be alone, huh?”
Luke assured the woman, “I’ll see that she’s safe.”
A promise Mara wasn’t certain Luke could keep in the bigger scheme of things, try as he might.
As he helped her trash plastic cups and paper plates and napkins, she asked, “How are things going at the pueblo? Made any breakthroughs?” She knew he’d been having as difficult a time as she summoning up a vision.
“Not yet. I’ve been thinking about building a sweat lodge. Maybe if I fast and meditate for as long as it takes . . . hell, I don’t know that it’ll do any good, either. I don’t understand how we could drift so easily into shared dreams, yet not come up with any visions of wisdom.”
“Maybe you need another approach.” Thinking of the power waiting to explode off his latest canvases, she suggested, “Maybe you should paint your nightmares.”
“I told you–”
”I know what you told me. But something about your new work is different. More powerful. I think the nightmares are trying to come through. Maybe you have to release them before you can find the positive energy necessary to do what your Grandmother asks of you.”
“And what about you? Are you going to paint your nightmares, too?”
She hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t even taken a brush to canvas in years.
“I don’t know . . . maybe I should.”
Though she had neither the talent nor the power to match whatever Luke could create. And, unlike Luke, her nightmares and guilt came from two different directions. As far as she could tell, her chase dreams had nothing to do with the suicidal patient who’d begged her to enter his dreams before she was aware that she actually might be able to do so.
After sweeping up in the gallery and wiping off all the horizontal surfaces, they gathered leftover champagne and cans of soda. Their hands collided as they reached for the same bottle of bubbly. The small contact was enough to make Mara yearn for more, tempted her into making it happen. But in the end, her sense of self-worth won out and she took an armful of bottles and cans into her office. Luke followed with more. They set the extras on a credenza.
Then, disappointed that they’d finished so quickly, that she would have to take her leave of Luke so soon, Mara lightly said, “That about does it.”
“For the opening.”
About to filch her shoulder bag from the drawer of her desk, Mara hesitated. Knuckling the grained wood nervously, she said, “Thanks for the help.”
“You, too.”
Staring into his serious gaze, which for once was neither hostile nor filled with hot desire for her, Mara knew Luke referred to her good intentions toward his people.
“I only hope I really can help, Luke.”
He moved closer, brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek, sending a tremor of longing through her.
“Whatever happens . . .” he murmured, “I just want you to know that I’ve never met anyone as selfless as you, Mara.”
She flushed and her pulse sped up. The longing intensified. She wanted to tell Luke not to stop, to keep touching her forever.
Instead, she whispered, “Of course you have. Your grandmother and mother are selfless. Rebecca was,” she said, still as saddened by the wise woman’s death as she had been at her funeral. “And I’m sure you could name dozens of others. Most people have good in them.”
“But most aren’t willing to put their own life in danger for others who mean nothing to them.”
The way Luke was staring at her so openly, so admiringly, gave Mara hope. If he could be this sincere with her now, even for a few precious moments, then perhaps he could someday leave all of his anger behind.
“But the Kisi do mean something to me,” she said, touching his cheek in turn. Something that went deeper than she could express. “As do you.”
“I care about you, too, Mara,” Luke said, surrounding her with his arms.
Making her wonder if she were dreaming. She’d been waiting for what seemed like forever for Luke to admit to something more than want where she was concerned. At the moment, care seemed the perfect step forward.
And so when Luke pulled her closer, she didn’t resist. She allowed herself to flow against him. Allowed her arms to snake around his neck. Their closeness seemed so right. Far more familiar than was possible in the heartbeat of time that they’d known one another.
Her breath came quick and shallow as she anticipated his kiss.
Luke didn’t disappoint. In a flash, he coveted her lips and plunged his tongue deep inside her mouth. Heat lightning seared her as Mara imagined the rhythm of their mouths being that of a more intimate love-making.
Her lower body responded, hips instinctively moving in that same hypnotic rhythm. Without breaking their connection, he slid a hand down her thigh, hooked her behind the knee and tugged until she slid her leg up and around his hip. Pressing her against the desk, he stroked her body with his through the gauze of her western-style dress, leaving her no doubts that even the obstructed contact affected him deeply.
It was as if, though fully clothed, they were already making love.
And, when he backed off for a moment, his chest shuddering as he sucked in some air, it was her turn to say, “I want you, Luke.”
His eyes locked with hers in silent question, as though he needed to be certain. Her answer was given in equal, heart-pounding silence.
With a groan, he buried his face in her neck, his lips and tongue teasing her sensitive skin. He freed a hand to slip under her skirts, to tear at the lace keeping her from him. She felt the delicate material give way . . . and his hand taking its place.
She was already hot and wet and throbbing for him. He slid two fingers along her most tender flesh, continuing until they were lost inside her. Unable to help herself, she picked up the rhythm once more, moving against his fingers even while wanting more of him.
Wanting a part of him that was somehow familiar . . . and yet not.
Feverishly, she tore at his belt and trousers.
Desperately, she released him.
Greedily, she pulled him toward her, until Luke was able to substitute one source of pleasure for another without missing a beat.
A beat that echoed through her conscious and drove deeper, calling to a part of her that she could not name. She’d done this before. Made love with him. She was certain.
But when?
“Mara.”
Her name muffled against her throat sounded incredibly sensual, a promise met by Luke’s lips as they traveled upward, once more finding her mouth. He pressed her harder against the desk long enough to capture her free leg and seduce it upward as he had the first.
She surrounded him.
He invaded her.
Invasion.
War.
But surely not, for they were making love. They did love each other. She remembered . . .
Then, tightening his grasp on her and stepping back, Luke took all of her weight, his hands, his wonderful hands cradling her buttocks.
Moving her.
Driving her.
Guiding her to ecstasy.
Only when Mara shuddered her release did he pause for a moment, whirling with her, heading her in a new direction. He found the couch and laid her back without losing her. Her breath came in gasps and her hands shook as she stroked his hair, his face, his shoulders.
“Hang on,” Luke growled, driving deeper into her.
Thud, thud, thud. Thud, thud, thud.
The transition from thought to memory was a subtle shift.
Panicked, heart beating hard in her breast, she chanced a glance behind her . . . and saw someone, something horrible
approaching . . .
He thrust again and again, each movement coming faster than the last. Mara felt the familiar pressure building. Panting, needing, she lifted her hips higher, grabbed his hair and brought his head down to her breasts. He sucked at her through the layers of material, used his teeth to tighten her nipples almost painfully.
As tension escalated to the unbearable, a cry started at the back of her throat.
She cried out and raised an arm to protect herself, but her killer did not stop. He wanted her dead . . .
Her death.
She cried out again . . .
Luke captured the sound with another deep hungry kiss, seconds later stiffening and echoing her feral sound.
They shuddered together, quakes becoming aftershocks.
And Mara lay under Luke . . . satiated . . . and stunned beyond words.
ISABEL FIRST PRAYED for Rebecca. Then she prayed for herself and for the Kisi people. She asked for guidance. For the protection of her ancestors.