by JoAnn Ross
“Your uncle did have a serious case of treasure fever,” Dash agreed. He remembered Darcy saying that the sight of the ocean floor carpeted with gold coins was something no man could ever forget.
“He dreamed of finding a galleon like the Santa Margarita,” she said, naming a Spanish treasure galleon that had gone down off the Florida Keys during a hurricane in 1622.
“I remember when the Santa Margarita was discovered by divers in early 1980, she yielded more than twenty million dollars worth of gold, silver and artifacts,” Dash said.
“But it was never just the gold my uncle was after,” Claren insisted. “Darcy believed that the real treasure was the knowledge that can be gained from shipwrecks. The logs tell more than merely what cargo was on board—they give insights into cultural aspects of the time. Why, Darcy said that the Pandora, the ship that was sent to bring back the Bounty mutineers, was the most important wreck in the Southern Hemisphere, because of its historical significance and the fact that it was—”
“A virtual storehouse of navy life in the eighteenth century,” Dash interjected dryly.
“You’ve heard the story.”
“Several times.”
“Then you’ll understand that my uncle’s interests were always far-reaching.”
That was precisely what St. John believed. Dash was concerned that although Claren certainly didn’t appear to be a thief or smuggler, experience had taught him that appearances could be deceiving.
“You were about to make me an offer,” Dash reminded her brusquely.
“Oh. That’s right.”
Claren dragged her mind back to her original train of thought. What was wrong with her today? She was normally a very decisive, organized person. She always planned every aspect of her life in detail, and her mind never went careening off in all different directions, as it seemed to do whenever she attempted to converse with Dash.
“Yes. Well, as I was saying, Darcy wasn’t very neat. And he wasn’t ever in the state long enough to oversee the normal type of everyday repairs a house involves. So I was thinking, since you seem to be out of work right now, and the house is in dire need of immediate help and you said that you were good with your hands—”
“I said I’d never received any complaints,” Dash corrected.
Once again that soft blush colored her cheeks. “Anyway,” she continued, pretending not to be moved by the devil in his eyes, “I thought that if you were any good at carpentry work, perhaps you’d like a job.”
“A job?”
Claren couldn’t miss the disbelief in his tone and worried that she’d managed to insult him, after all. “Well, of course, it was only a suggestion. But it would come with room and board, and since you’re currently out of—uh, between jobs,” she corrected quickly, “and with the jazz festival in town this weekend, you’ll never find a place to stay, so I thought it might solve both our problems.”
Dash had been afraid that he was going to have to live out of his car to keep an eye on Darcy’s niece. Instead, the woman had fallen into his lap like a ripe plum.
“It just might at that.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, appearing to take time to ponder her offer. “All right,” he declared, “you’ve got yourself a handyman.”
Claren let out a breath she’d been unaware of holding. “About your fee—”
“Let’s worry about that later.” The thought of accepting money from her bothered him more than the deception. At her worried look, he said, “I’d hate to ruin this excellent dinner with a financial discussion.”
They finished the meal in companionable silence. There was more that needed to be said, emotions that needed to be dealt with, but there would be time for all that later. For now it was enough to enjoy the moment, Dash decided.
Because before this was over, circumstances would force them to face a reality that promised to be anything but pleasant.
CHAPTER 5
THE FOG HAD COME IN, wrapping the town in a soft silver blanket. As they drove to the house, located ten miles outside Port Vancouver, the car’s headlights cut a yellow swath through the darkness.
“I’ll never be able to eat again,” Claren moaned.
“You should have skipped the blackberries and cream. Do you always eat like a starved orphan?” The inappropriateness of that particular question sounded like a brass gong.
“I’m sorry.” Dash shook his head, disgusted by his behavior. “That was an incredibly insensitive thing to say.”
“Is that an apology?” From what she’d seen thus far, Claren decided that Dash was not a man accustomed to asking for forgiveness.
“I suppose it is.”
Claren smiled. “Then I accept. And as for the blackberries, fresh fruit is one of the perks of living in Washington. Besides, I couldn’t resist the temptation.”
“Have trouble with temptation, do you, Irish?”
“Always,” she said with a soft, rippling sigh. “Poor Aunt Winifred. I think I was the bane of her existence. ‘Watch and pray,’” Claren quoted, “‘that ye enter not into temptation.’ Matthew 26:41.” Considering the sexual chemistry that kept flashing between them, she wasn’t about to continue the quote about the spirit being willing, but the flesh weak.
“Very good,” Dash said, fighting down the surge of angry memory her words created. His back still bore the faint crisscrossing of scars inflicted in childhood by a hell-and-brimstone minister. “You must have gotten all the gold stars in Sunday school.”
“Aunt Winifred was fond of quoting scripture.” Another sigh. “I think she had an appropriate quote for everything.”
“You should have told her that you could resist everything except temptation,” Dash suggested.
A handyman who could quote Oscar Wilde. Once again Claren was intrigued by the complexities of this man. And although she had hundreds of questions, she’d have to be patient. Dash was not a man to open up easily. A woman would not get inside his head unless invited.
“Oh, I couldn’t have done that,” she insisted, returning her mind to the conversation at hand. “My aunt didn’t like people who talked back to her.”
“And it was important that she like you?”
From what Darcy had told him about Winifred Wainwright Palmer, the fact that she might like a person wasn’t exactly proof of a sterling character. Claren’s aunt was a relentless social climber; as such, she would approve of anything or anyone who could possibly improve her status in the community.
“Of course it was.” Claren shifted on the seat, turning toward him, tucking her legs under her. “You have to understand,” she said earnestly, “when I came to America, I was only twelve years old. I’d lost everything. My parents, my home, my country. I could tell right away that I was a terrible disappointment to my father’s family.
“I didn’t dress correctly, I didn’t talk correctly and I didn’t behave correctly. I think I realized from the very first that whatever I did would never be quite good enough.”
But that hadn’t stopped her from trying, Claren considered. From doing everything she thought would help her become a person her aunt and uncle could admire. And love.
“I don’t believe that,” Dash said. “Oh, not the part about you losing everything,” he said when he felt her about to argue. “I’m talking about you not being good enough to meet your aunt’s lofty standards. Although I’ve never met the woman, your aunt Winifred sounds like a damn fool.”
She smiled. “Thank you. You’ve no idea how badly I need to hear that. Especially after…”
Her voice drifted off. Just thinking about her aunt’s reaction to her calling off the wedding made her weary. Proclaiming that boys will be boys, her aunt had insisted Claren overlook her fiancé’s little peccadillo.
Unfortunately that was exactly the problem. Elliott Byrd was a boy. A spoiled, selfish, conceited, egocentric brat.
“That must have been some fight,” Dash’s voice broke into her furious thoughts.
“What?”
“Your fight with that Byrd fellow. It must have been a doozie.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because it’s obvious from the way your conversation dropped off that you’re thinking about having run out on the wedding, and the temperature in this car just dropped at least twenty degrees.”
“One of these days I’ll tell you what happened,” she said, not wanting any secrets between them. “But not now. I still need some time to look at it objectively.”
If it didn’t have anything to do with the case, Dash wasn’t certain he wanted to know. He’d already gotten too close to this woman; he damn well didn’t want to start sharing intimate stories.
“Whatever you say,” he said agreeably. “And for the record, if you’re really serious about this new outlook on life, you should quit worrying about how to make people like you. It isn’t necessary.”
His words were the same ones that Darcy had been telling her for a very long time. And there was a warmth underlying his tone that she hadn’t heard before.
“What a nice thing to say. Does that mean that you like me?”
It was definitely a loaded question. “You’re awfully stubborn.”
“I know. It’s an O’Neill family trait,” she admitted. “One I share with my uncle. But Darcy always told me that I should think of it as tenacity.”
Although it was an unpalatable thought, Dash couldn’t help wondering what else she shared with her uncle. A boatload of smuggled gems, for instance?
“And you’ve got one hell of a temper,” he said.
She grinned at that. “I know. I’m still rather amazed to discover how quickly it came back after all these years. But you’re dodging the question. Do you like me?”
So many lies, Dash considered. Although he’d probably regret it, he decided to tell her what little truth he could. “Yeah, Irish,” he said. “I like you. Okay?”
She folded her arms across her chest, hugging in that encouraging thought. “Okay.”
They stopped at a convenience store, picking up some milk, coffee and English muffins for breakfast. Unable to resist the lure of local produce, Claren also selected cherries, blackberries and peaches, along with a selection of homemade jams and jellies. When she returned to the front of the store, where Dash was waiting, he arched a brow at her overloaded basket.
“What, no boysenberry pie?”
Claren flashed him a bright smile of gratitude. “Good idea,” she said, selecting a fresh-baked pie from the glass case. “Do you want to get the ice cream, or shall I?”
Muttering something about metabolism, Dash made his way through the narrow aisles back to the frozen-foods case. When he returned, he couldn’t help noticing that the teenage night clerk was looking at Claren in a way that was anything but businesslike. The kid’s eyes, behind the thick lenses of his glasses, were practically burning a hole through the red silk draping Claren’s pert breasts.
“Anything else, dear?” Dash asked, putting an arm around Claren’s shoulders and pulling her close. “Perhaps some fresh strawberries for breakfast tomorrow morning?”
Startled by his sudden display of intimacy and the way his gray eyes had turned dark and dangerous—like those of a wolf guarding his lair—Claren could only stare and sputter an inarticulate reply.
She found her voice once they were back in the car. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You practically stamped a No Trespassing sign on the front of my chest.”
“At least it was right where the clerk would see it,” Dash returned hotly. “Or didn’t you notice that the horny little bastard was practically staring right through that damned dress.”
Was the man actually jealous? Claren found the idea definitely appealing. “Actually I did,” she said with a faint smile.
At first she’d been surprised by the young man’s obvious male interest and had looked to see if there was some sexy young girl standing behind her. Then she had remembered what she was wearing and decided that Maxine was definitely right. Clothes did make the woman.
“So why didn’t you tell him to paste his damn eyes somewhere else?”
“And miss watching you act like a Neanderthal?” Claren asked sweetly. “It was really quite entertaining, Dash. Why, I can’t remember when I’ve been treated to such a primitive display of masculine possessiveness. Although I am a bit disappointed that you didn’t drag me out to the car by the hair. It would have made my exit so much more dramatic.”
Dash’s mouth tightened, but Claren thought she saw a ghost of a smile hovering at the corner of his lips. “Next time,” he muttered.
As they drove through the night, Claren recalled her parents and how they’d fallen in love. She had heard the story of her parents’ courtship so many times before their death that she could recite it by heart. Many times over the past twelve lonely years, the memory of that romantic meeting had given her much-needed comfort.
Her father, James Wainwright, a Washington racehorse breeder, had come to Ireland to buy a horse at the annual Ballinasloe fair. Although the eventual price turned out to be twice what he’d planned, he’d never uttered a word of complaint about the inflated cost. Indeed, he’d gotten a bargain, James Wainwright had told his adoring daughter. Because along with the horse, he’d won the horse’s owner, Claren’s mother, Maura O’Neill.
That’s when Claren’s mother would pick up the story, explaining how she had fallen in love with the American at first sight and immediately set her cap for him.
Not that it had taken much feminine wile, James always broke in at this point, claiming that he’d tumbled head over heels for Claren’s mother the first moment she’d brought the horse into the ring. After all, he’d joke with a deep rich chuckle, woman and horse were a magnificently matched set: Maura with her thick hair the very same color as King Galway’s gleaming strawberry roan coat.
And although Maura’s temper would always flare at this point and she would heatedly complain at being compared to a horse, from her smile and the light in her eyes when she looked at her husband, Claren understood that her mother was only pretending to be offended.
James Wainwright and Maura O’Neill were married three days later, to the delight of Maura’s older brother, Darcy, and the collective horror of James’s family back in the United States. Nine months to the day of her parent’s wedding, Claren was born, and for the next twelve years, there couldn’t have been a happier—or more loved—girl anywhere in the world.
Dash heard Claren’s soft sigh. “Tell me about the house,” he said. “Darcy said it was the grandest house in America.”
Claren forced away the thought of her parents’ death. It had happened so many years ago, yet sometimes it seemed like only yesterday.
“Darcy’s guilty of exaggeration,” she answered. “As usual. But it is pretty amazing. It’s situated on thirty acres, on a bluff overlooking the strait. It also has a view of Hurricane Ridge.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It was built in the early part of the century as a summer home for a shipping baron who’d moved to Seattle from Boston. Since the owner and his wife had eleven children, and money hadn’t been a problem, the house is unusually spacious. Later it became an inn.
“That’s when Darcy discovered it. He always stayed there whenever he came to Washington,” Claren told Dash. “There’s this one room on the third floor, with an enormous window that lets in the morning light. Darcy said that it was the best painting light in the state.”
“I suppose he should have known,” Dash acknowledged, thinking back on the way Darcy had toted his paints and canvas all over Jamaica, searching for the ideal spot to set up his easel.
“I suppose so,” Claren agreed. “Anyway, one day about six years ago, he arrived unexpectedly and found the room booked by a pair of newlyweds. When he demanded that the owner move them to another room, the owner refused. So Darcy bought the place, right on the spot.”
“That so
unds like Darcy,” Dash decided.
The old man was hot tempered and accustomed to having his way. For not the first time since Darcy’s mysterious disappearance, Dash wondered exactly how far Darcy would go to get what he wanted. Would he actually stoop to involving his only niece? A woman who obviously adored him?
“I hope he let them finish their honeymoon before he evicted them.”
Claren caught the sharp edge to his tone and glanced over at him. “Of course he did. I thought you liked Darcy.”
“I do. Did,” Dash corrected. “But you can’t deny that he could be pretty selfish from time to time.”
“True. But sometimes, perhaps being selfish is a good thing.”
From her soft, thoughtful tone, Dash knew she was thinking about her habit of continually putting aside her own desires for others. “You’ve got a point there, Irish,” he was forced to agree.
He turned off onto the private road that led to Darcy’s house. They’d gone about a quarter of a mile when they were brought to a stop by a large, electronically operated wrought-iron gate.
Damn, Dash thought. St. John hadn’t warned him about any gate. And he hadn’t thought of it, either. After all, what did an artist need with a state-of-the-art security system? A smuggler turned terrorist, Dash considered grimly, would find such precautions more than necessary.
“What do we do now?” Although Dash knew he could get past the electronic controls with ease, he couldn’t risk making Claren suspicious.
“No problem.”
She unfastened her seat belt, knelt on the seat and retrieved the oversize tote from the back seat. The movement caused her dress to rise up, giving Dash an enticing view of lace-topped stockings.
Turning around, she sat back down and began digging through the bag. “Here,” she said, pulling out a large silver key ring. Claren was grateful when an arched brow was Dash’s only response to her carrying around the keys to a house she’d supposedly not planned to live in. “I think they’re labeled.”