He stepped out first and held a towel open for her, a huge white sheet that wrapped fully around her. He bundled her into it, grinning down at her before grabbing one for himself. She snatched it from him and rubbed it over his magnificent body, mostly to satisfy her need to make sure he was real.
She almost let herself get lost helping him but somehow found restraint after making sure his back was dry. When his towel slipped down, she noticed the mark on his hip bone. It was a scar lighter against his darker skin, like the imprint of a seal. A crossed sword and key with a crown over it. Around it was an intricate tribal sun.
Her admiration of the mark made her still her drying efforts, and he followed her look to it with a soft smile.
“What does it mean?” she asked, reaching out to touch the place. It felt cooler than the rest of his warm skin.
“I got it for my twenty-first birthday.” He hesitated and searched her eyes. “It is a gift from Pele.”
“The soccer player?” she asked warily.
He smiled impishly at her. “No. It’s a longer story than we have time for right now.”
“It’s lovely,” she said, enjoying the way the sun looked like it was spinning with rays of scars and ink in his skin. She particularly enjoyed the feel of it under her fingertips.
With effort, she focused on toweling dry her own body. She admired one particularly deep bite on her shoulder and grinned up at him, dabbing at the blood.
“Pussycat?”
He smiled hungrily at her. “Sunkist?”
“Am I going to be a were-cat now?” she asked, pointing to the mark.
“Ah. No!” He snapped the towel at her, missing but making a loud crack. “I’m not a were-cat. I’m a…that is, you saw my spirit-form. I’m a spirit-beast.”
“Yeah, you’re a beast all right.” Again, she struggled for restraint when all she wanted to do was put another mark on his neck. “Put a shirt on. You’re driving me crazy.”
He chuckled and gracefully shrugged into the clothing in question, tsking at rips, the missing buttons and lamenting the spatters of wine. But, he was mostly able to conceal himself from her.
She stayed wrapped in the towel, sighing. “I need my things from your limo.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll get them.” He finished dressing, looking utterly lick-able in the steamy room. For a moment, he gave her a look like he was considering pouncing on her and closed his eyes. “Devil woman.” He grinned at her and slipped out of the room. “I’ll be right back, beautiful.”
She turned to the foggy mirror and swept it clear, sighing at the reflection. This was not the image of a woman who inspired that sort of hunger. Orange curls framed her face, tumbling down her back in a wild array of wet ringlets. Her hawkish nose had been broken and healed badly and her mouth was too wide for her narrow face. Her lips were swollen and bruised from the delicious bites. Nutmeg freckles covered her face, darker over her cheeks and chin, and there were several scars and marks she’d earned in the ring.
She’d been called badass many times, but beautiful, never. Until now. An electric thrill ran through her palm and she smiled to herself.
Moving out of the bathroom, she padded down the line of doors, peering into a guest room and a sewing room and several doors that were locked before she heard the door close downstairs. Christopher made his way up the stairs on silent feet and grinned at her, burdened by her two little suit cases, the fur, scepter and legal papers.
“I’ll put these in the bedroom?” He hesitated, still uncertain about breeching that particular room.
“Yes. It’s all right. Hot Wings won’t getcha.”
He crinkled his nose at her and she followed him into the bedroom as he lay her things on the bed.
“All right, sexy. My numbers are downstairs. Home, the Hideout, my folks and my cell phone. Good luck getting a signal on that thing, though. I’m not ignoring you if you call it.” He searched her eyes, seeming reluctant to leave, but clearly, they had used up his remaining time.
“Okay.” She reached up and slid hands through his damp hair and leaned into his touch. He did the same to her, holding a rough fistful of her curls to pull her in close. The kiss was careful in contrast, just a lingering caress of lips and brush of noses.
“I’ll see you later,” he promised, keeping her tight against him.
“Yeah,” she whispered, making no move to escape him.
The smile he gave her was adoring as he held her a moment longer. She forced herself to take the step back, slipping out of his hold.
At the front door, she watched his graceful strides carry him to his fancy SUV. She felt the effort of each of those steps and did her best to let him go.
She’d gone her whole life without him. A few hours apart couldn’t be that bad.
Right?
Chapter 11
Exploration
She filled her time as any good friend would. She took pictures of Hot Wings and sent him to Beth and Jen back home. Because if anyone would appreciate that art, it was those two women.
She had never thought of Amy as a sexual woman. They’d never ever discussed sex. Somehow, she assumed Amy’s sexuality had been like her own. Turned off. Amy was a widow. She had no children.
This erotic artwork changed Frankie’s whole perspective. Her aunt was naughty.
The naked, winged bather smirked all the while she snapped photos. She rolled her eyes. “Loincloth, buddy. You’re getting one.” It was like seeing Amy’s boyfriend naked. Who was almost Frankie’s uncle.
Awkward.
There was no cell signal but as soon as she got to town she would text them everything. She wished she had taken a picture of Christopher. They would never believe it if she just told them.
After dressing in a ripped T-shirt and jeans, she lounged by the window, looking through the legal paperwork. It outlined basic details of her inheritance. The restaurant, the car, motorcycles, horses, house, barn and two-hundred-fifty acres of land. There were several maps showing property lines and topography.
Pride spread through her chest as she traced the borders with her fingertip. Someone had handwritten along the western line beside a small lake, Harris-Wallace.
So, Christopher had not been full of shit when he said he would ride to her. What a smart ass. She felt herself smiling.
Do you promise to steward the land? Do you swear to protect and preserve it?
Those seemed practiced words, and she did not expect the sensation filling her now. The relentless protectiveness fire under her skin.
Upturning the rest of the packet, a small jewelry box fell out. She stared down at it as she drummed her fingers over the top, feeling a tingle through the soft leather.
Taking a long breath, she opened it to reveal a ring. A huge teardrop diamond set in a platinum and gold band. The main stone was the size of her thumb. The intricate leaf and branch pattern curved around to cradle smaller diamonds like glimmering dewdrops. It tingled against her skin with a familiar and welcome warmth.
The inscription on the heavy band read, Wing to Wing and Oar to Oar ~ W.R.
W.R.
Amy’s husband had been Austin Stephens but he died before Frankie was even born. Amy never remarried and never talked about any romance.
Amy also had a naked man in stained glass in her bathroom she never mentioned.
Oh God. Uncle Hot Wings.
The band slid loosely over her swollen knuckles. Shuffling to the dresser, she eyed the jewelry boxes. She would tuck it away so she didn’t lose the gaudy thing.
A silver oval engraved with a filigree bee and hummingbird sat up front. She opened the lid and sucked in an involuntary breath. An emerald lay inside, flickering with a lurid, verdant glow. The big stone filled the box.
It couldn’t possibly be real.
Could it?
That thing should be locked up in a drawer or a vault. The lid had an elegant engraving. For my green-eyed Goddess & Love ~ W.R.
W.R.
/> Letting the lid close, she warmed by the sentimental message. Who the hell was W.R.? She ran through names but nothing struck her.
Other boxes held rings, necklaces, bracelets and elaborate collections of hair clips. The gold and silver items were encrusted with a full rainbow of sparkling stones. She assumed they were costume jewelry.
She picked up a thick bangle bracelet, the red and green stones creating a vine and leaf coiled pattern. Within was an engraving. A halo for my angel ~ W.R. 1988
She shut the box of glittering gems, fingers tingly. Glaring over her shoulder at the bathroom, she said, “Uncle fucking Hot Wings.” No way. Oh, God. Had she met this person at the wake and didn’t even know it?
No one said so.
She ran through faces from the half-drunk, jet-lagged day before. Dark hair, black hair—blond. The little shit Mambo. She replayed the fight, and his cocky fucking smirk. She remembered the way his mouth had formed the words, “…you? Or Him?”
Him?
Him who? Uncle motherfucking Hot Wings?
Awkward.
Behind the other boxes sat a small wooden box. A chill cut against her knuckles when she opened it. Inside lay a modest wedding set, a small round diamond and golden band. Inside the band were simple words To my wife, A.S.
Austin Stephens. Amy’s dead husband.
Pain stabbed up through her mark and she dropped the ring back into the box. She rubbed her hand and the ring on her finger gleamed, warming against her with a consoling thrum.
Despite it fitting loosely before, now that she wanted it off, it was stuck. A horrible, choking guilt smothered her. She couldn’t wear this ring.
Oh, she really couldn’t wear Uncle Hot Wings’s ring!
And yet, it stayed snug in place despite her efforts. The stones mocked her with cheerful sparkles.
With hands aching, she walked around the room, spotting a book on the desk. A red ribbon tucked into the page marked a place. She opened the page and saw her aunt’s careful handwriting. A journal entry listed the date at the top only a week ago, days before Amy had died.
Frankie, Darling,
My secrets have trapped me and karma has come for me at last. I thought I would have a lifetime to fix things. Too clever for my own good.
I created this empty life of secrets and half-truths, expecting one day you would feel them in your heart and want more.
More truth.
More freedom.
It was always my wish to free you from your cage. You are too magnificent to be held like this, frozen in amber. Understand what we did was to protect you.
I thought it was for the best you learned to protect yourself, but I had no idea it would make you refuse the kindness of others. I know this is hard for you, but if you ever loved me or Frank, know that you can trust people.
It is wise you are wary, but Barbara and Anthony are friends to you as is Delphine and Sebastian and Mano. They have guarded my secrets for a lifetime and would take them to their graves to protect you.
The time of secrets is over. You are so strong, but as your father taught me, trust and love are more powerful. I want you to discover that too.
When you read this, know that all my life has only been to protect you. You must live. Live. Do not let fear hold you back.
I love you!
Frankie read the entry several times before sinking into the chair. Her hands shook. The words resounded in her, making her palms burn.
Do not let fear hold you back.
The hairs on her arms prickled. A disquiet tangled up in her throat as she slowly pushed away the book. Fear instilled in her by Ellen had held her back. She could have enjoyed this time with Christopher years ago. Right now, she wanted to get to that part of living. She would go and have a look at the family restaurant and begin the adventure.
In the garage, the Datsun 240Z waited for her, its orange paint shiny and bright even after all the years. The room smelled like memories of her childhood, oil, gas, and rubber. The tools were clean and orderly on shelves and walls. Frank might have worked on his first bikes here; Amy certainly had.
She breathed it in as she walked around, running her hand over the workbench before admiring the motorcycles. One, she knew to be Amy’s in familiar orange and black. Like the car, it was classic and well loved. The other lay under a dusty cover that she pulled back to reveal a huge black and chrome machine.
“Oh, baby,” she whispered and felt an excited little shiver as she swung her leg over the beast. She was damn lovely, but sadly keyless. Frankie would have to wait to swoop in on her iron horse and ride off with Christopher.
Reluctantly covering the bike, she slid into the car. It rumbled to life with a low growl. She relaxed into the soft leather seat and drove back into civilization.
* * * *
The town of Yountville slumbered on Sunday afternoon. Washington Street looked empty except for a few people walking or jogging. Most of the stores were closed. Amy had always said ‘sleepy’ but this bordered on catatonic.
Several establishments lined the main street, the first one welcoming guests being the Wallace family’s crown jewel; the Celtic Loom. The old stone building looked modest, all masonry stones and raw beams with a post out front on which hung a colorful tapestry.
There were the usual bed-and-breakfasts between parks and green spaces lined with roses and fountains and other restaurants.
The Hooligan’s Hideout looked more formidable, its dark wood and stone touched by an old fire. The sign for the restaurant’s logo was a man in profile, the lower half of his face wrapped in a bright red cloth, the brim of a hat low over burning eyes. The gaze hinted at something both mysterious and naughty, as though the brigand smiled behind his scarlet scarf.
Three Compasses sat at the intersection where Yount Street met up with Washington Street. The building looked distressed by design to bring out a sun-bleached appearance. The large courtyard was surrounded by low wrought iron and juniper. The front of the triangle of property opened to the view of the center of town.
The sign featuring two Spanish dancers announced Orange Tango. It sat a block down Washington, the restaurant painted in lively orange and green, tucked between thick citrus bushes.
She’d driven less than a dozen blocks but lost track of the restaurants. This was serious competition—how could the tiny town support it all?
How could she make it?
Doubt stabbed at her but she shoved it away.
“I am going to do this,” she said it aloud to make it true.
She turned off the main street at Oak Circle and drove down more than a block before she spotted the sign for the bar.
Her bar. The Pickled Salamander.
Tucked away, the building sat back on the lot. Painted a soft yellow with white trim, it almost looked like a house. The landscape was designed to look like a dry river bed with lavender growing up on the stone banks and statues exploring the environment.
Over the tops of the windows in gleaming bronze letters, The Pickled Salamander. An oval sign in wood hung on the corner like a coat of arms. On the white background, a pink-bellied salamander climbed a wineglass.
She drove past once to admire it and then turned around and pulled into the parking lot. Texts and voicemails started arriving.
For a moment, she sat reading texts.
‘Hot Wings? Lordie!’ Beth.
‘We miss you.’ Jen.
‘Where are the boys?’ Beth.
‘Pictures of cowboys.’ Jen.
‘More pictures!’ Beth and Jen.
There were messages from Dave starting before the drinking and progressing into booze saturated misery.
She read them with a sinking heart.
For a moment, she hesitated and then sent the text.
‘Alive and well in Yountville, please stop worrying.’
She glanced up at her bar again. It looked nice outside, but would it hold up inside? She climbed out of the car and took one step up the shadow
ed path before Intuition whispered a soft, but urgent, Careful.
Chapter 12
Vandals
She came around the corner saw the door standing wide open.
A warning shout went up from inside. From the distance, she couldn’t make out words but she heard raised voices followed by the familiar, unmistakable sound of a scuffle before a crash and suddenly two figures came sprinting out the door, almost tumbling into each other as they made their escape.
Their faces were covered in black masks, bodies unfamiliar in dark, shapeless clothes. They were sexless, athletic but not large.
Training instinct roared, Fight!
Intuition whispered, Careful.
Her body responded to the first fight response.
She grabbed on to the nearest body, its frame coiled back around at her with an unnatural agility and speed. With a snarl, the vandal lashed out at her with a knife. It looked antique, the blade curved like an old harvest knife. She felt the cold hiss as it passed close to her face. The blade melted through a chunk of her curls, leaving behind the stink of burning hair.
The shock of the strange, hungry cold made her let go and leap back. Instead of advancing for another swing, the person turned and fled, darting for a fence and climbing over with practiced ease. The other was far ahead, going the other direction, vanishing between buildings.
She glared after them, heart pounding as the street around her swelled with unnatural silence. Turning to the bar, she sprinted to the door, wary for others who might be waiting for her inside.
The scent of mixed booze ghosted from the doorway. “Oh fuck.” That much stink meant there was a massive liquor mess beyond the shadows of the doorway.
She braced herself for what she’d find as she moved from bright August sunshine into the shade of the bar. All the liquor bottles behind the bar were strewn across the floor in a smelly, flammable lake. Tables and chairs, left in broken heaps, filled the space.
Lies That Blind Page 10