Contents
1 The last thing Shelley Wilde expected to find tucked away in the self-conscious gilt and velvet. . .
2 JoLynn was at the far end of the living room. When Cain and Shelley ran to her. . .
3 I need my head examined, Shelley told herself. A nice tame boa in the house is one thing. . .
4 Quietly Cain followed Shelley to the bottom of the first stairway.
5 “Let me,” Cain said. Automatically Shelley started. . .
6 Even hours later, as she dressed for dinner with Cain, the memory. . .
7 Cain stared across the restaurant table at Shelley.
8 The following day Shelley looked over the battleground.
9 The sea rolled toward sand that had been turned a deep gold. . .
10 Normally Shelley spent Saturdays attending auctions or rummaging. . .
11 By the time Cain came back into the kitchen, the table was set. . .
12 The math workbook looked as frayed as Billy had before Shelley began helping him.
13 The look Shelley gave Cain was half wary and entirely unsettled.
14 Slowly, slowly, Shelley came back to awareness of the late-afternoon sun slanting. . .
15 The silence stretched for so long that Shelley decided Cain simply was. . .
16 A full moon was just rising above the hills, softening their stark outlines. . .
17 Shelley hardly needed the flashlight to find her way back home.
18 “Did you say that there aren’t enough minerals for. . .”
19 It was midnight before Shelley finished gilding the penthouse.
20 As Shelley stood in The Gilded Lily and looked at Billy’s father. . .
21 Shelley stood rigid, as frozen as time itself, her scream lost. . .
About the Author
Credits
Books by Elizabeth Lowell
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
The last thing Shelley Wilde expected to find tucked away in the self-conscious gilt and velvet of her client’s house was a man like Cain Remington.
Not that the French antique reproductions were Shelley’s fault. She had done everything except hold a gun to JoLynn’s stylish head and demand that she have a home that lived up to the spare elegance of its Pacific Palisades setting.
The land was magnificent.
The sky was a cloudless, burning blue. To the west, dry hills marched steeply down to the Pacific Ocean. Bleached by southern California’s sun, grass on the hillsides rippled in a tawny echo of the sea’s restless waves.
The view of water, wind, and land was untamed even by the expensive homes that stood astride the very crests of the hills.
At least the architect understood the view, Shelley thought. The house itself has clean lines and a wonderful sense of place.
What a pity that my client has neither.
The air inside the house was filtered, refrigerated, and carefully odorless. It could have belonged to a hotel anywhere in the world.
Outside the house, the wind was hot and alive, vivid with the scents of chaparral and the secrets of a dry, wild land. She could barely restrain herself from yanking aside the heavy drapes and throwing open the sliding glass doors that led to a redwood deck overlooking the sea.
If she had been given a free hand to decorate the house, the view would have become a living piece of art, a compelling sweep of primary color and primal force.
But Shelley’s hands were well and truly tied. The client had insisted on a certain type of decor for her rented house. There must be nothing unusual or unexpected, and absolutely not one thing that wasn’t universally applauded and labeled as tasteful.
If an object wasn’t labeled, JoLynn didn’t know what to think of it.
And despite man’s best efforts, Shelley thought humorously, the Pacific doesn’t yet wear a designer label sewn neatly along the seam where land meets sea.
So instead of the Ellsworth Kelley oils and the Saarinen furniture Shelley would have chosen, her client had required that the formal curves and stilted curlicues of Louis XIV fill the multilevel, ultramodern glass house.
From that choice had followed all the rest. One result was heavy blue velvet draperies shutting out the glorious view. Another was the rented crystal chandelier that looked rather startling against the open-beamed ceiling of the dining room.
Talk about not getting it. I’m surprised JoLynn didn’t pout until the landlord let her paint the beams white.
Or gilt.
With a sigh that was also a mild curse, Shelley set aside her notebook. She didn’t need to write down obvious or subtle signs of personality and use them to puzzle out the best choice in finishing touches for this house. Whatever individuality JoLynn might have was carefully hidden.
There was excellent taste in the house’s interior decor, but no originality. There was great beauty but nothing unusual, nothing to give a clue to the unique combination of education and experience, hopes and fears, dreams and disappointments that made up JoLynn Cummings.
Unhappily, Shelley looked around again, hoping she had missed something.
She hadn’t.
If there’s anything more compelling than insecurity beneath my client’s stunningly well-kept surface, she’s not letting on. Everything she rented from my partner could have been taken right out of a catalog of museum knockoffs.
Maybe in the next room, she told herself. Maybe the Louis Quatorze Fashion Police haven’t been there yet.
And then again, maybe they had.
In room after room, hallway after hallway, nothing was out of place. Even the maid’s quarters were all gilt and grace, elegance and gilt. The blue and white and gold fragility was suffocating.
Not that the decor or furniture itself is at fault, Shelley admitted. The furnishings are exquisite, like everything Brian rents to our wealthy clientele.
Yet the unrelieved perfection made her itch to put in accents that would subtly remind people that this was a home, not a museum reproduction.
Yawning, she abandoned the fantasy of subtlety and JoLynn. It was obvious that the client didn’t have enough confidence in her own taste to survive any ripples in the perfect surface Brian had created for her.
People like that are the easiest and least satisfying kind of client, Shelley thought idly. Give her a room straight out of the last museum she saw, and she thinks you’re brilliant.
Less individuality and sense of adventure than a clam.
Hope I can stay awake long enough to do my duty. Or at least look like I’m doing it.
She glanced over her shoulder, but saw no one to relieve the boring perfection of the decor.
Brian and JoLynn must still be out in the garden discussing lawn furniture and outdoor marble statuary.
White, of course.
Or do they still sell gilded cherubs? Shelley wondered with a shudder.
Part of her was afraid they did.
She skirted the large, flawlessly furnished living room with its velvet-and-chiffon draperies distorting the view of the wild sea. Without much hope, she approached the final wing of the house.
The first door at the end of the hall recently had been repainted white with gilt trim. With a shrug, she opened the door.
The room beyond made her take a quick, surprised breath. Someone in the house was fighting a battle for breathing space amid all the French perfection.
She smiled, then began laughing softly. Intelligent life, she thought eagerly. Finally!
Louis XIV replicas were almost buried beneath a random assortment of clothes, games, and unidentifiable objects. Posters of barbarians in full sword-and-sorcery costume were tacked to the eggshell walls.
Crookedly.
Two inlaid dresser drawers were partially open, allowing folds of socks and T-shirts to creep out into the light. The canopied bed was gloriously unmade. Its powder-blue velvet bedspread had been kicked onto the thick white carpet in a huge pile that was crowned by a pair of battered, grass-stained running shoes.
A turtle as big as a dinner plate was sunning itself in a muddy terrarium perched atop a gilt table. On the floor in a dark corner there was another terrarium with its lid askew.
Excitement quivering in her blood, Shelley looked around the room. She loved finding someone who met life head-on, nothing held back, no need for uniforms or labels or evasions.
This was one room and one personality it would be pure pleasure to work with.
There are so few people like that, she thought almost wistfully, no matter what their age.
And I’d guess that the person who “decorated” this room is somewhere between twelve and eighteen.
She approved of the spare yet functionally graceful lines of the computer that overran the dainty desk. Boxes of software were stacked on top of piles of comics and science fiction books. The closet door was jammed open with an ancient Star Wars light-sword that had been scratched and bent in cosmic battles. The television sprouted video games in a tangle of wires, cassettes, and joysticks.
But the crowning defiance was a stereo with black speakers powerful enough to speak to God.
Mentally she began a list of the accents she would love to add to the room. Right at the top of the list was a painting now hanging in her own home, a modern painting of St. George and the dragon. It would fit beautifully amid the barbarian posters and science fiction books. The painting radiated power and mystery, good and evil, life and death—all the bloody absolutes that fascinated teenagers.
And the dragon itself was enough to raise the hairs on anyone’s neck no matter what the person’s age. The beast’s powerful muscles rippled and gleamed in a hammered metallic gold, its eyes were as brilliant as diamonds, and its teeth and claws glittered with lethal edges. Clearly, St. George was in for the battle of his life.
It would be a perfect painting for this room, she decided. But the Louis Quatorze furniture would have to go.
Period.
The color scheme, though . . . I could accommodate JoLynn there.
Mentally Shelley began working within the restrictions of her client’s taste. The blue, white, and gold color scheme could be shifted from French elegance to barbarian splendor by intensifying the colors and giving the gilt a metallic, high-tech finish.
The idea gave her new energy. Hands on hips, she looked around the room again, smiling. Feeling refreshed by the bedroom’s vitality, she went back down the short hallway to the living room, ready to face her client’s uninteresting needs.
Voices filtered through the silence, telling her that she was no longer alone in the house. She recognized the cultured, drama-school tones of her partner, Brian Harris. The other voice belonged to JoLynn Cummings, recently divorced from more money than Midas ever dreamed of having. Breathy, light, somewhere between a whisper and a sigh, the voice was a perfect match for the Louis Quatorze furnishings.
Without pausing for so much as a glance, Shelley passed by the huge gilt-framed mirror at the end of the hail. At twenty-seven, she had no illusions about her appearance, herself, or other members of the human race, including men.
Especially men.
After her divorce five years ago, she had taken stock of herself and life. She decided what she wanted from both and got down to work. Now she had a business she had built through her own skill and discipline, owing her success to no one.
Most particularly, to no man.
“There you are,” Brian said to her. “JoLynn was just telling me about some Grecian statues she saw at the Louvre.”
Shelley’s junior business partner was taller than she was, almost as slender, and had the natural ash-blond hair that some women spent their lives trying to find at the bottom of various bleach bottles.
Brian also had the classic beauty of a recently fallen angel and business instincts that could easily rule over hell.
She had a good, professional relationship with him, now that he finally had accepted that she was more of an asset as a business partner than a bed partner.
“Sarah Marshall,” he said, “convinced JoLynn that you have an absolute genius for matching people with just the right objets d’art for their homes.”
“Sorry if I kept you waiting, Mrs. Cummings,” Shelley said. “I was taking a brief tour of the house. As usual, Brian has done an excellent job of carrying out his client’s wishes.”
“Oh, call me JoLynn, please. When I hear ‘Mrs. Cummings,’ I think of my ex-husband’s mother. Awful woman.”
“JoLynn,” Shelley said.
She held out her hand and shook JoLynn’s small, surprisingly strong hand.
But that was the only surprise about the woman.
She was exactly what anyone would expect after seeing the decor she had chosen for her rented house.
JoLynn’s physical appearance had little relationship to anything except her former husband’s bank balance. Her trendy hair, trendy clothes, trendy makeup, trendy nails, hose, and shoes were all of a piece. Unfortunately, they would be out of style as soon as the next fashion newspaper from either coast landed on the front doorstep.
Yet for all that, she was stunningly beautiful. She had red-blond hair, creamy skin, jade-green eyes, and a body that would make a showgirl weep with envy.
“Cain,” JoLynn said, turning away, “this is—”
With an exasperated sound, she looked around. Belatedly she realized that there was no one in the room with her but Brian and Shelley.
“Where has that man got to now?” she muttered. Then, loudly, “Cain!”
Shelley stood patiently, waiting to hear an answer from another part of the house.
None came.
Suddenly JoLynn’s eyes widened. She looked over Shelley’s shoulder.
“There you are,” she breathed. “Really, darling. You are the most impossible man to keep track of.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The deep voice came from behind Shelley. Startled, she spun around.
Despite the fact that the floor behind her was polished hardwood rather than plush carpet, she had heard no one approach. Even more surprising, the man wasn’t wearing soft tennis or running shoes. His big feet were shod in knee-high, lace-up boots of the type used by people who hiked in rough country.
“Cain,” JoLynn said, “this is Brian’s partner, Shelley Wilde. Shelley, Cain Remington.”
Politely Shelley held out her hand to the stranger.
The hand that enveloped hers was as surprising as the man’s soundless approach had been. Strong, scarred, callused, the hand belonged to a man who was the opposite of what she had expected to find with the recently divorced JoLynn.
Cain Remington wasn’t a too-young Adonis supported by a wealthy older divorcée. Nor was he an overweight, overage businessman supporting a much younger woman. In truth, he didn’t fit into any category Shelley could think of.
Though casual, his clothes were excellent. His voice was so deep it was almost rough, yet his accent was neither rural nor overly cultured. Though obviously fit, his body didn’t appear to be a product of a Century City personal trainer. He was attractive to her, but except for his mouth, his features were too strong and bluntly cut to be labeled good-looking.
And he was considerably taller than her own five feet seven inches.
Chestnut hair and aloof gray eyes, cleanly sculpted lips, a mustache that gleams with bronze highlights, and a smile that goes no further than the sharp edges of his teeth, she summed up in the silence of her mind.
He looks on the world with the imp
ersonal interest of a well-fed predator.
With that thought came another that both intrigued and warned her.
If he had been the dragon, St. George would have been lunch.
In all, Cain didn’t look shallow enough to be satisfied with JoLynn’s obvious but limited assets. On the other hand, Shelley’s ex-husband had taught her all about the average male IQ when confronted with a D-cup bra and a breathy, little-girl voice.
“Mrs. Wilde,” Cain said. “A pleasure.”
He held her hand for an instant longer than necessary, as though he sensed the rather cynical appraisal behind her polite smile.
“Miss,” she corrected automatically.
“Not Ms.?”
“If a man cares enough to ask, I make sure to tell him I’m a member of a dying breed.”
His glance traveled openly over the gentle curves of her body beneath the finely woven, jewel-toned pantsuit she wore. The anger that flared in her hazel eyes at his unsubtle appraisal passed almost the instant it appeared.
But Cain noticed. He had been looking for it. His mouth shifted into a small, private smile.
“A dying breed?” he said. “Is that another way to say spinster?”
“Define spinster and I’ll tell you whether I fit your label.”
“A woman who can’t hold a man.”
“Bingo,” she said coolly, but her eyes narrowed against painful memories. “In my case, the spinster is a divorcée who reclaimed her maiden name.”
He nodded indifferently.
“I’ll bet you’re a bachelor,” she added.
“A bachelor?”
“A man who can’t hold a woman,” she explained with a polite smile.
Brian stirred uneasily. “Uh, Shelley, why don’t we—”
“Ooooo, Brian,” JoLynn interrupted, “you simply must tell me more about that naughty satyr statue you mentioned earlier. I have just the right place for it.”
Where the Heart Is Page 1