Summer Reads Box Set: Volume 1

by Freethy, Barbara

  She had to admit he was an attractive man, with his raven black hair that was curly and thick and a little longer than it should be. His blue eyes blazed against his tanned cheeks, and there was a hint of a dark beard along the jawline. He wasn't the sophisticated executive she was used to seeing, but the rugged, extremely physical, very masculine sort of man that she almost never encountered. The kind of man who didn't tend to frequent high-scale gift and antique emporiums or museums, two places where she spent most of her time. Which was probably why she felt a little rattled around Mr. McAllister.

  It was annoyance, irritation with his impatience, that made her feel hot and bothered, nothing more, certainly not attraction. Even if she were attracted, he obviously was not. He hadn't spared her more than a few disgusted glances in the last twenty minutes. It was clear that he wanted this over and done with, so he could get on with his life. She felt exactly the same way. She didn't need his condescension, his disinterest. She'd gone out of her way to entertain his grandmother, and she was sure her father would be making a more than generous offer to Riley and his grandmother in very short order. She didn't have a damn thing to apologize for, and she would not let him make her feel uncomfortable.

  She straightened in her chair as the waitress brought over plates of food for them to sample. This was a lovely tea, and she was going to ignore Riley and enjoy it. At least Nan and Millie were fun. They chattered on, never seeming to notice the tension between Riley and Paige, which grew with each passing moment. She almost wished he'd talk. His silence, his unreadable expression bothered her. She was used to men who spoke about themselves, about their work, about everything they were interested in. She knew how to handle such men. Actually, you just had to listen, and she'd always been a good listener. If she hadn't been, she never would have gotten her father's attention. He was a great storyteller, and everyone knew that a great storyteller needed a great audience. That's what she'd been—her father's audience.

  What was she now? The annoying question entered her mind again. Each day it seemed to come back louder than before, more insistent, more demanding of an answer. And it wasn't just about her father, but about her mother and her grandfather and her role in the company. She was restless, itching to do something more important at Hathaway's than plan parties and museum events. But with her grandfather at the helm of the company, her father as head buyer, her mother in charge of operations, and long-time family friend Martin Bennett overseeing the retail division, there was nowhere for Paige to go. The company ran smoothly without her. No one really needed her—except they did, because the irony was that she was the heir, the only heir. The company could never belong to Victoria, because she wasn't a blood Hathaway. David didn't want to do anything but buy art objects, and Martin wasn't a blood relative. Which meant it would all one day belong to Paige.

  But what was she supposed to do in the meantime? Just wait for her turn? That's what they all seemed to want. A sigh escaped her lips as her thoughts led her down a familiar, wearying maze from which there was no way out. She was relieved when Riley cleared his throat and made a point of checking his watch. At least his irritation distracted her from her thoughts.

  "This is all very fascinating, but how much longer do you think your father will be?" he asked. "It's been over an hour."

  "I'm sure he'll be here soon."

  Mr. Lo stood up and bowed to them. "Thank you very much for your attention."

  "Thank you for the delightful presentation. I learned a great deal," Nan said.

  "I am glad you were pleased."

  "Thank you, Mr. Lo," Paige said as he left the table.

  "Now then, Miss Hathaway," Riley said. "Let's talk about my grandmother's dragon."

  "Before we do that, I need to use the ladies' room," Nan interrupted, getting to her feet.

  "Out that door to the right," Paige told her.

  "I'll go with you," Millie said. "I drank so much tea I'm about to float away."

  As soon as they left, Paige wished she'd gone with them. Riley had the sharpest, bluest eyes she'd ever seen, and right now his gaze was fixed on her. She shifted in her chair, not used to such a close, deliberate appraisal. She wondered what he saw, and she practically had to sit on her hands to prevent herself from reaching up to make sure her hair was still in place.

  "You look nervous," Riley commented. "Why is that? Is there something about this ugly dragon I should know?"

  At least he thought the dragon was making her nervous and not him. That was a relief. "I'm just distracted. I have a lot of work to do."

  "So do I. Yet here we are, having tea."

  "What kind of work do you do, Mr. McAllister?”

  "I run a security company."

  "What does that entail? Bodyguards? Computer security? Burglar alarms?"

  "All of the above, whatever the customer needs. Who does the security for this store? Do you know?"

  "Of course I know. It's Wellington Systems."

  He nodded. "I thought I recognized some of their work, but they're not the best anymore. Bret Wellington spends more time on the golf course than he does on keeping up with the latest security systems."

  "Mr. Wellington is a good friend of my grandfather."

  "That explains it, then."

  "I suppose you think your company is better."

  "I suppose I do," he replied, a small smile on his lips.

  She played with the napkin in her lap, wishing the ladies would come back because Riley made her nervous.

  "So, why is my grandmother's dragon so popular?" Riley asked. "Frankly, when I first saw it, I thought we should toss it in the trash."

  "It's good you didn't. If it's truly a bronze from the Zhou period, then it's quite old. Besides its age, dragons are revered in Chinese culture. They are believed to be divine mythical creatures that bring with them prosperity and good fortune. The Chinese dragons are the angels of the Orient. They are loved and worshipped for their power and excellence, boldness, and heroism. I don't know what story your dragon has to tell, but I suspect it will be fascinating."

  "You think that dragon is going to talk to you?"

  "No, but I think my father will be able to tell us something interesting about it."

  "Speaking of your father, maybe we should go find him."

  "It takes time to do an accurate appraisal. I'm sure you want him to be accurate."

  Riley rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "There are quite a few places interested in the dragon—Sotheby's, Butterfields, Christie's, not to mention an incredible number of smaller dealers. That makes me wonder if it might be better if we worked with one of the auction houses. If everyone wants the dragon, they can bid on it."

  "While that certainly is an option for you, I believe we can make you an excellent offer. The House of Hathaway is secondary to no one, Mr. McAllister." It was a phrase her grandfather, Wallace Hathaway, had said on a thousand occasions. She was surprised at how easily the words crossed her lips, and somewhat annoyed, too. Her grandfather usually sounded like a pompous ass when he said those words, and she had a feeling she'd just presented herself in exactly the same way.

  "We'll see about that," Riley replied.

  "See about what?" Nan asked as she and Millie returned to the table.

  "We were just discussing the dragon's value," Riley told her.

  "I can't wait to find out what your father thinks," Nan said. "And I want to thank you again for tea. It was fabulous."

  "It was my pleasure. I enjoyed myself, too."

  As Paige finished speaking, her father entered the tearoom, his hands noticeably empty.

  Riley stood up abruptly. "Where's the dragon?"

  "In safekeeping, I assure you," David said smoothly. He then directed his attention to Nan. "I'd like to keep the dragon overnight, if I may. I know an appraiser who won't be available until tomorrow, but I'd very much like him to look at it. While the piece appears to be very promising, there are many fakes in today's market. And I want t
o be absolutely sure the piece is truly an antiquity. We'll need to run numerous tests."

  "That sounds fine," Nan replied.

  "Wait a second. Why don't we bring the dragon back in the morning?" Riley suggested.

  "I'd like to study it further this evening," David replied. "We have excellent security, Mr. McAllister, if that's what you're concerned about. Your piece will be very safe in our hands, I promise you, and it will be insured as is every other piece in the store. I've taken the liberty of writing up a receipt." He handed a piece of paper to Nan.

  "I'm not worried at all," Nan stated.

  "Grandmother—"

  "Riley, this is the House of Hathaway. They have an impeccable reputation. I trust them completely." She turned back to David. "I'd be happy to leave the dragon here until tomorrow."

  "Thank you. If you'll give Paige a call tomorrow afternoon, we'll set up a meeting." He extended his hand to Nan. "On behalf of the House of Hathaway, I want you to know how very much we appreciate the opportunity to evaluate your dragon, Mrs. Delaney.

  "Oh, it's my pleasure," Nan said, stuttering somewhat under David's charming smile.

  David departed, leaving Paige to say the good-byes. She walked the ladies to the door and was not surprised when Riley lagged behind.

  "Is this really necessary?" he asked her.

  "My father thinks it is." She didn't know the appraiser her father was referring to but he was the expert, and if he felt they needed a third party's judgment, then that's what they needed. "You can trust us, Mr. McAllister."

  He gave her a cynical smile. "Nothing personal, Miss Hathaway, but I don't trust anyone. If anything happens to that dragon, I'll hold you responsible.”

  "Nothing will happen, I assure you."

  "Then neither one of us has anything to worry about."

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday afternoon had come too quickly, David Hathaway thought as he walked purposefully across town, the strap of the heavy canvas bag clenched tightly in one hand. There was still much to do, but the hour was growing late. The air had cooled, the traffic had grown noisy with the early evening commute, and the sun was falling lower in the sky, sometimes completely blocked by the tall skyscrapers of San Francisco. It was almost four o'clock. Mrs. Delaney and her grandson would be arriving at the House of Hathaway in one short hour. They would expect to receive the dragon or an offer of purchase. While he might be able to stall Mrs. Delaney, her grandson was another story.

  David paused on the corner, wondering if he shouldn't have put off this visit until after they'd purchased the dragon. But he had to show Jasmine—to be sure. He would have liked to come earlier, but Jasmine had been out all day. When he had finally reached her, she had told him not to come, but she always said that. And this was too important.

  Crossing the street, he walked under the concrete foo dogs guarding Chinatown's main gate and past a red-faced deity protecting a local herbal shop from atop a rosewood shrine. He was only a few blocks from San Francisco's financial district, but the atmosphere, the neighborhood, had completely changed. Leaving Grant Avenue, the main thoroughfare through Chinatown, David headed down a narrow side street, past Salt Fish Alley, where the odors of fish and shrimp being cured in large vats of salt was overwhelming, past Ross Alley, once notorious for gambling, and past the Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory, where women still filled hot cookies with Chinese fortunes.

  This wasn't his Chinatown, this tourist-attraction that played to the interests of tourists and locals who wanted to experience a little of the Orient in their hometown. His Chinatown was a continent away, in the streets of Shanghai. Veering away from the commercial avenues, he entered a residential neighborhood where apartment buildings were crowded together, one after another, hugging each other as tightly as the large, close-knit families that lived inside the small rooms. Jasmine's building was at the end of a lane. He used the back stairs leading up from the garden to her apartment. Three short knocks, and he waited.

  For a moment he thought she wouldn't answer. His uncertainty was uncomfortable, unthinkable, an emotion he didn't know how to handle. Jasmine would come. She would let him in; she always had before. She had loved him like no one else. She had said she always would.

  He hadn't treated her well. He knew that deep in his soul, in a place he never chose to visit. There were too many painful emotions there, feelings he kept hidden away. Sometimes he wished he could change, but as Jasmine once told him, it was easier to move a mountain than to change a person's character. For better or worse, he was who he was. It was too late for regrets. In his hand was something special. A thrill of excitement ran through him as he considered the possibilities.

  The door slowly opened. Jasmine stood in the doorway, looking far older than her forty-eight years. She wore a black dress that was but a variation of her usual black pants. He remembered a time when she had dressed in colors as bright as those she used in her paintings, when her face had lit up with joy and wonder. Now there was nothing but darkness—in her eyes, her face, her voice, her apartment. The heavy incense she burned made it difficult to breathe. He sometimes wondered what she was mourning, but he had a feeling he already knew. So he didn't ask questions, and she didn't offer explanations.

  "You shouldn't have come. I asked you not to," she said in a somewhat hoarse voice. He wondered how often she spoke to anyone. Had her voice grown raspy from disuse? A twinge of guilt stabbed his soul. Had he done this to her? If they had never met, would she have ended up here?

  "I had to come," he said slowly, forcing himself to focus on the subject at hand.

  "It is always this way in the week before Elizabeth's birthday. That is when you seek me out. But I can no longer comfort you. It isn't fair of you to ask."

  Her words put a knife through his already bleeding heart. "This isn't about Elizabeth."

  "It has always been about her. You must leave now."

  He ignored the anger in her eyes. "I have a dragon that looks very much like the one in your painting, Jasmine."

  Her eyes widened. "What did you say?"

  "You heard me."

  "It doesn't exist. You know that. It was something I saw in a dream."

  "I think it does exist. Let me come in. Let me show you."

  Jasmine hesitated. "If this is an excuse—"

  "It's not." He glanced over his shoulder, not seeing anyone but feeling as if they were being watched. There were many eyes behind the thick curtains that covered the nearby windows. "Let me in before someone sees me."

  "Just for a moment," she said, allowing him to step inside. "Then you must go before Alyssa comes."

  "I will go," he promised, "after you look at this." He pulled the dragon out of the canvas bag and watched her reaction.

  Her gasp of disbelief told him everything he needed to know.

  * * *

  Riley McAllister pedaled harder, the street in front of him rising at an impossibly steep angle. Even the cars were parked horizontally to protect from accidental runaways. Most people were content to ride their bikes along the bay or through Golden Gate Park, but Riley loved the challenge of the hills that made up San Francisco.

  He could feel the muscles in his legs burning as he pumped harder, the incline working against him. He switched speeds on his mountain bike, but it didn't help. This wasn't about the bike; it was about him, what he was capable of doing. It didn't matter that he'd conquered this hill a week ago. He had to do it again. He had to prove it wasn't a fluke.

  His chest tightened as his breath came faster. He was halfway up the hill. He raised his body on the bike, practically standing as he forced the pedals down one after the other, over and over again. It was slow going. He felt as if he was barely moving. A car passed him, and a teenage boy stuck his head out the window and yelled, "Hey, dude, get a car."

  Riley would have yelled back, but he couldn't afford to waste a precious breath. Nor could he afford to stop pedaling. Otherwise, he'd go flying backward down the hill a
lot faster than he'd come up. He pressed on, telling himself this was what it was all about, pushing the limits, forcing the issue, achieving the impossible. He was only a few feet away from the top of the hill now.

  Damn, he was tired. He felt light-headed, almost dizzy. But he wouldn't quit. He'd faced bigger challenges than this. He couldn't give in. Quitting was what his mother would have wanted him to do, what she'd told him to do many times. If you can't do it, just quit, Riley. You're just not that good at things. You're not smart. You're not artistic. You're not very musical, but you can't help it. You take after your father. Whoever the hell he was. Aside from his name, Paul McAllister, Riley knew absolutely nothing about his father.

  The funny thing was the more his mother told him he couldn't do something, the more he wanted to prove her wrong. That feeling had driven him through boot camp and a stint in the marines, and it was still driving him today. Maybe he was as big a fool as his grandmother, believing that his mother might actually care that he'd ridden up the steepest hill in San Francisco today.

  Forget about her. He heard his grandfather's stern, booming voice in his head now. This isn't about your mother; it's about you. No one else can fight your battles for you. In the end we all stand alone. So when it comes your time to stand front and center, raise your chin high, look everyone straight in the eye, and know in your heart that you're up to the challenge.

  The words sent him over the top of the hill.

  Pumping a fist in the air, he coasted across the intersection. In front of him was one of the best views in the world, the San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. He could see sailboats bouncing along the bumpy water. Alcatraz was in the distance, a ferry boat pulling up to the famous old island prison. Angel Island lay beyond, Marin County, the rest of Northern California. The world was literally at his feet. At least his small part of the world. And it felt good. Damn good.