Moira clicked on The Everywoman Basic Collection. Every woman sounded like Moira with her generous bust and hips. Cynthia was rocking a simple, bright-blue tunic worn over black jeggings. A black belt was draped at an angle from waist to hip. She looked casually tasteful, and sexy. Moira, however, wasn’t sure that every woman could carry that look off.
Like all fairies, Moira made her own clothes. She had altered her style when she returned to Mystic Bay. Sleek black shifts and tailored jackets were too formal for a resort in the San Juans. But she had not adopted caftans or any other concealing garment. She still preferred clothes that showed she was a woman.
She stood before her mirror and replaced today’s skirt and blouse, which nipped in at the waist and made her look like Marilyn Monroe, with a tunic identical to the one in the website photo. Paired it with black leggings. The top hung past her knees, shapeless and frumpy.
She played fair and waved a hand, giving herself a less droopy neckline. She added darts at bust and waist, and shortened the garment to mid-thigh. Better, but nothing special. She added the belt, transforming ho-hum into a bright blue flour sack. Like many fashion designers, Cynthia did not create garments for short women with curves. Yet another reason for Moira to keep making her own clothes.
Another wave of her hand and the tunic and leggings vanished and so did her bra and panties. She looked better naked than clothed. But naked would not do for everyday. Another wave and she was wearing one of her favorite nightgowns. Even her sleepwear looked better than that tunic.
Sleeveless silk might be a bit skimpy for May on West Haven, but Rosewood Cottage had triple glazing to keep out the wind, as well as central heating. Her rose pink creation cradled her breasts in diaphanous fabric that held them separate yet softly rounded. The gown flowed from beneath her breasts all the way to the ground, hinting at her waist, hips and thighs.
But it was too long. She shortened the hem to tea length, conjured some slippers and returned to her computer to look at Cynthia. Seething. Because Quinn hadn’t kissed her like a man with a fiancée. He had kissed her like a man who wanted everything. She kept cruising. There was Cynthia with a rock like a pigeon’s egg adorning her left hand and her right hooked possessively around Quinn’s arm.
The pit of her stomach clenched. So did her teeth. So this was what jealousy felt like. A burning acid dripping on your heart, coupled with spiteful rage. She read on.
Last year, there had been an engagement party at the home of Anthony and Lorraine Drake. The Fitzhughs had responded with a masked ball to introduce their daughter’s fiancé to their friends and family. Quinn and Cynthia went sailing, took a trip to Montreal, attended a dinner honoring his grandfather. And so on.
Until April. Of course there was no way they could be photographed together if Quinn was on West Haven, and Cynthia was in Seattle. Cynthia was still on the social circuit. She stood with her parents while they opened a children’s hospice. She spoke at a women’s luncheon. She danced at the yacht club with a variety of partners. Including Adrian Whitlock.
Moira stared at that image until it swam before her eyes. Pair of users. They deserved each other. Now where had that judgment come from? Her intuition was powerful. But it was useless over the internet. Or the phone. Or on a photograph. A letter could trigger a genuine perception, but that was because the intention of the writer would permeate the paper. Emails and texts were neutral.
But there was Cynthia smiling for the camera for all she was worth, while Adrian clasped her left hand – her naked left hand – in his right. Moira knew that expression. It told her that Adrian thought he had found a new mark. So was Cynthia stepping out on Quinn, or was their engagement over? And should she tell Quinn that his ex or his fiancée or whatever Fitzhugh was, was the target of a con artist?
Or should she mind her own damned fairy business. Fairies didn’t cry, but her pillowcase was damp in the morning.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Quinn~
He had kissed the fairy princess and she had kissed him back. Quinn practically levitated back to his truck. He felt a bone-deep satisfaction with the progress he had made this evening. The three hours they had spent having dinner had only confirmed his sense that she was what his dragon needed.
For once he was going to stop thinking about the future. Just go with the flow. He had no long-term future with Moira or any other fairy. Not on hidebound West Haven. But she had taken the news that he was a hunter well. And her response to his kiss, while tentative, had been welcoming. He was going to enjoy this summer’s affair and if come winter he had a broken heart, he would just deal with it.
He parked under the oak that served as Willow Cottage’s carport. Usually he spent a couple of hours in the air at night, but tonight he just wanted to collapse into bed and dream about his lovely Moira. However, as he left the truck, a hoarse whisper called his name. He knew better than to ignore a summons from The Sequoia. He was sure the Old One had a proper name, but whatever it was, it had not seen fit to share it with Quinn.
It only took a moment to grab his paintbox and easel. And then he was striding into the Old Forest and placing his equipment where he was told. Here where the tree branches blocked the sky, the moon barely penetrated. But some months before a winter storm had uprooted an aspen and created an opening in the thickly massed branches.
Tonight the moonlight was a shaft through that break in the forest canopy. It fell like a silvery spotlight on the mosses growing on the dead aspen and on the tree roots of a sequoia much less ancient than the one giving Quinn instructions. What was he to paint?
The smallest, frailest, most delicate shoot of green was pushing through the leaves and moss, heading skyward. Two skinny leaves spread as far apart as they could on the thin stem, until they seemed destined to overbalance the seedling. They trembled with eagerness and youth, while the surrounding trees watched their growth with loving interest.
He prepared his palette and began his oil sketch while the Old Ones hummed a tune. It seemed to his nature-drugged senses that a crowd of wispy beings frolicked and danced to celebrate the birth of that tiny seedling. He painted them into his canvas with swift sure strokes of his finest brushes. It was always like this when he painted at the behest of the Old Ones.
At these times he felt as if he was merely a conduit between the shadowy world of the Old Ones and the world he inhabited. And yet he also felt privileged to be allowed to record such celebrations. To paint their deepest emotions. For he was sure that not many people, sensitive or not, had ever witnessed the activities of the wood sprites, much less captured them.
The sun was coming up when the Old Sequoia sent him away. His preliminary sketch was almost complete. Tomorrow – today – he would work on the full-sized canvas in his studio. If the Old Ones approved. He carried his wet canvas carefully back to Willow Cottage.
It was too late to fly. But not too late to sleep. His arboreal mentor crooned him a lullaby that sent him plunging into deep dreamless oblivion.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Moira~
“I hear that you shared a meal at the Crab Hut and followed up that indecent display by necking on the pier in full view of Mystic Bay.” Even over the phone, Robin’s rippling laugh was lightly ironic.
Moira winced and sipped her morning coffee. “The rumormongers have been busy. It’s barely six thirty. Quinn and I did eat at the Hut. I assume that the fact that we shared a second order of crab cakes set tongues wagging. We took a walk on the pier afterward. But we saved our kiss for my front porch.”
“I know you did. Half the inn witnessed it.”
“There are trees in the way,” Moira said dryly. “I think it was your employees–who mysteriously had midnight groundskeeping to do–who did the viewing.”
“You know what a despot I am, Moira. Heads roll if I see a leaf on a path,” Robin returned regally.
Which was utter nonsense. Robin was a model employer. “Did you set them to watch me?” Moira was genuin
ely shocked.
“I have perfectly good sight-lines from my bedroom window,” Robin returned demurely. “You and Quinn seemed well-suited.”
“Can a dragon and a fairy ever be well-suited?” Moira inquired.
“Of course. Why not? West Haven tradition may discourage such a pairing, but there is no actual barrier,” Robin paused. “So Quinn told you he is a dragon?”
“He did. I had guessed that he is a hunter. But not that he’s a dragon. And I would never have guessed that he is a Drake.”
“I’m pleased he told you.”
“You already knew?” Moira asked.
“Of course,” Robin said serenely. “You know I don’t invite artists to West Haven unless I have done a thorough background investigation. Besides, Quinn applied to the colony using his full name. He just requested some privacy for reasons that seem well-founded to me. He is concerned that his family reputation, rather than his talent, will be used to judge his paintings. He is correct.”
“Did you know he is engaged?” All the anger and angst of last night came flooding back.
Robin gave a tiny gasp. “I was aware of a terminated engagement. If that’s what you mean? My understanding is that Quinn and his fiancée have parted company. Are they still together?”
“I couldn’t find any evidence that the engagement is over,” Moira said. “Believe me, I looked. As of yesterday, online and in the press, Cynthia Fitzhugh was still being referred to as Quinn Drake’s fiancée. And referring to herself as such.”
“Ah.” Robin was silent while she thought. “Well, don’t believe everything you read on the internet. The Drakes announced that betrothal. But they could hardly announce the termination of the engagement. That would have been tacky.”
“I guess,” Moira said dubiously. “But in that case, surely his fiancée or her family should have told the media? And stopped calling herself his fiancée?”
“Two further points, Moira, dear. First, Quinn told you his full name last night. He had to be aware that you would probably do an internet search, as in fact you did. And that you would find out about Cynthia Fitzhugh. Second, Anthony Drake phoned me in April to inform me that the construction on the site of the old boathouse would not go forward this summer.”
“Which means what?”
“Anthony Drake had intended to build what he describes as a lodge for his only son as a wedding present. Last fall, he applied for and received permits to replace the existing boathouse at their Shoreside property with this building. Furthermore, he had blueprints drawn by an architect and had lined up contractors. When he called me, he explained that Quinn’s marriage was off, and that he would not be building the lodge this summer.”
“Oh.”
“Reneging on that deal cost him a bundle,” Robin continued. “His contractors all had nonrefundable deposits. Drake voluntarily doubled that payout for those builders who did not take him up on his offer to spend the summer doing repairs and renovations to the existing structures instead of building the lodge.”
Moira sighed. “The Drakes are so rich that barely means anything.”
“Dragons don’t pay hard cash out if they don’t have to,” Robin corrected gently. “And they don’t forfeit deposits. Or pay for what they have not received. Anthony is making sure that if he wants to build something in the future that the Council will approve it and the local builders will contract to erect it. If Quinn’s engagement were still on, that lodge would be going up this summer.”
“What does it say about Quinn that he ends an engagement and then immediately starts pursuing me?” Moira wondered aloud.
“Sometimes love works like that,” Robin assured her. “Maybe he and his former fiancée were having troubles before he quit his job and decided to starve for his art?”
“You think Quinn is in love with me?”
“Surely that is a question you can answer best, my dear?”
“I’m not sure of anything. But when Quinn kissed me it was like touching the light switch after walking across a carpet – enough static shock to stop my heart.”
“Hmm.” Robin was noncommittal.
“Is it supposed to be like that?” Moira asked curiously. “Do you get an electric shock when you kiss Sully?”
“More like electrocuted,” Robin admitted.
“Really. He affects you like that? Yet your relationship remains–” Moira shrugged.
“Sully may think of himself as a widower. But my sister didn’t die. She sailed west. There’s a world of difference.”
“No one ever comes back from the west,” Moira argued. “If they are not dead, they are doing a very good imitation. I think of Mom and Dad as dead.”
“Nightingale’s spirit is still around. So are Guinevere and Rowan’s.”
“Wouldn’t Aunt Gale want Sully to be happy?”
“Nightingale?” Robin’s soft voice was rueful. “Did you never meet your aunt? My sister was as dear to me as any sister ever was, but she was not one to share her belongings. She would not think twenty years of mourning anywhere near long enough for Sully’s eye to wander and his heart to heal.”
“Then she should have waited until Uncle Sully died before she went west,” Moira said. As her parents should have waited until she was ready to sail west with them. She sighed.
“Nightingale was tired of life. Of this mortal world.” Robin’s voice was gently sad.
“I don’t care how tired she was, leaving Sully was selfish,” Moira commented. “You do realize that Sully doesn’t have many years left. He’s in love with you. Why not be happy?”
“Sully is a sorcerer. A powerful weather worker. He can’t be more than sixty-five – barely middle-aged.” Robin dismissed her observation.
“And yet he is subject to all the ills that befall mortals. He may not live to see a sorcerer’s century and a half. You should make him happy while you can, Aunt. And yourself, of course.”
“I could say the same thing about you and Quinn. If you are concerned about Cynthia Fitzhugh, ask Quinn about her. Your talent should tell you if he speaks the truth.”
How could she admit that infatuation and fury had short-circuited her intuition? Fairies weren’t supposed to lose their tempers or feel strong emotions of any kind. Yet around Quinn she felt unfamiliar sensations that destroyed her peace of mind and made it hard to be dispassionate and logical.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Quinn~
The oil sketch was turning into a brilliant painting. He would have to go into Mystic Bay for more canvases. The thought was a happy one. Good canvases were expensive, even though he prepared his own with a coating of gesso. But seeing Moira was always worthwhile. And he couldn’t paint without canvases. And this summer every painting had been a keeper.
He added a smear of Suffolk Green to the shadows of the older trees encircling his bright sapling and stepped back. Time to let things dry and take a break. He remembered making and drinking coffee when he had gotten up, but the shadows were long now, and he didn’t think he had eaten today.
At this rate, he was going to become the flaky artist his father had predicted. Was still predicting. Anthony had Mom call him twice a week to see if he was ready to give up art for finance. She had promised to bring Dad to West Haven for the Fourth.
He cleaned up his work station and put his brushes to soak in turpentine before dealing with his hands. One of the worst parts of his disguise was making his fingers grubby. Like all dragons he was used to being well-groomed and well-dressed. At least here at the cottage he did not have to make a pretense of being filthy. Being off-islanders, his neighbors knew nothing about the Drakes.
He was making another pot of coffee when he heard the sound of a car. Like him, most of the cottagers had vehicles, but no one except him drove over to Willow Cottage. Not when it was faster to walk through the grounds. The vehicle pulled up outside his place and the engine stopped. Not a mistake then. He pressed the start button on the coffee maker and went to the window.
His own personal fairy was dismounting from a big fire-engine-red SUV. It looked big enough to haul a lot of goods from Seattle. Far too large and high for this delicate woman. He opened his back door and greeted her with a big smile.
“Well, hello,” he called happily.
Moira was wearing black jeans and some sort of flowy top that matched her eyes and accented her breasts. She glared at him and marched around to the back of her SUV where the hatch was opening itself. He hustled to help her.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be selling art supplies right now?”
“It’s Wednesday,” she snapped. “I close early on Wednesdays, to make my out-of-town deliveries.”
What had her panties in a twist? He recalled that for a small fee Moira would deliver canvases. He never took that option because he liked going into Mystic Bay and seeing her. “I didn’t order anything,” he said mildly as she struggled to remove two large canvases from the back of her sporty red vehicle.
She turned her head and shot him an even dirtier look. “Shut up,” she hissed. “You asked for two four-by-six unprepared canvases,” she said in a slightly louder voice. Loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
He hadn’t ordered them, although he could certainly use two more. “I’ll take those,” he offered.
The large canvases came free of the restraints. Moira wobbled. He reached to support her and she vanished. She reappeared almost at once on his path holding the wood and canvas rectangles like a shield. She marched towards his kitchen door in her little green sneakers. Quinn sprinted to open it for her.
His pint-sized shield-maiden swept into the cottage without a backward glance.
“I’ll shut the hatch,” he said.
Moira leaned the canvases against the kitchen table. “Don’t bother.” She hit a button on her remote and the SUV’s back door lowered and all the doors locked. The horn beeped once.
“Where do you want these?” she asked.
“In my studio. I can carry them.” He reached around her and grabbed them before she could. He led the way to his studio, relieved that she was following him. “We both know I didn’t order anything. Although, I was planning on coming into town to pick up a couple more of these large canvases. So I’m grateful that you’re here.”
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