“I warned you.”
“You did, and I refused to listen. I seem to have developed a latent penchant for living dangerously.”
She didn’t know how dangerously, Griff thought. She couldn’t possibly. Her biggest fear going into this had been that he wouldn’t like her breasts or the way she dressed, and that he would try to change her. Why would any man want to change her when she was perfect exactly as she was?
She’d been gutsy and honest with him about her ghosts, and he had banished them and watched her bloom as a lover, becoming secure and passionate and giving—never even suspecting he had a secret of his own. And that he wasn’t nearly as gutsy or honest as she was.
Distracted by his own grim thoughts, he had to drag himself back to listening, as she said, “I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you the bad news about bird number three.”
He wanted to groan. He’d forgotten they hadn’t even gotten to the real bad news yet.
“You found that one, too, didn’t you?”
She regarded him with long-suffering affection. “I said bad news, Griff. If I found it, I would have said I had good news, right?”
“Right. Of course.” He nodded as if he weren’t so caught in this web of his own weaving that he felt like he was strangling. “So you definitely have not found number three?”
“It’s even worse than that, Griff. It might not be ‘findable.’ It’s altogether possible the Boris Aureolis Piping Plover does not exist.”
“You’re kidding?”
She shook her head sadly. “It’s true.”
Griff let the news sink in, certain there had to be a catch somewhere. It couldn’t possibly be this simple. He told himself to stay cool, thinking this must be how Moses felt when the Red Sea parted before him, presenting him with what appeared to be a clear path to a better place. He felt amazed, and grateful and blessed beyond belief, and at the same time a little uneasy about trusting those two giant walls of water enough to step between them.
There had to be a catch. There was always a catch. Wasn’t there? He forced himself to refocus his attention on what Rose was saying.
“…and she’s been collecting nearly as long as Devora.”
“She’s the woman who sold you the Zebra Finch?”
“Right. She was fiftyish, really nice—she even invited us to stay for dinner.” As if sensing how badly he wanted her to get to the point, she sat up straight and continued. “Anyway, she’s researched the subject extensively, even joined special Meissen Societies, and turned up lots of information about Aureolis and his work—both fact and rumor—that Devora didn’t know. Which is surprising because Devora prided herself on being knowledgeable about the things she loved. Maybe she knew and just never mentioned it. Except, I tend to doubt that, since we were always discussing our collecting addictions.”
“Rose, honey, the bad news you’re about to tell me any second now, does it fall into the category of fact or rumor?”
She pursed her lips, her green eyes thoughtful. “Neither. It’s in the category reserved for legends.”
Legends. He was right, it wasn’t going to be simple.
She regarded him pensively. “From your expression, I have the feeling you would prefer I save all the fascinating details about his mistress and the duel and the missing glaze formulas for another time and just stick to the facts. Am I right?”
“You’re brilliant,” Griff replied. “I’m sorry about rushing you, sweetheart, but this is really important to me.”
Smiling that smile he’d been carrying around in his heart for weeks, she gave his forearm a squeeze. “Say no more. I understand completely what this means to you.”
Want to bet? Griff thought, furious with himself for having allowed things to reach this point.
“The legend,” began Rose, “is that Aureolis set out to make a series of twenty-four pieces—in other words, an even two dozen. But problems developed with one of his designs, something about the angle of the tail feather, and rather than take the easy way out and fudge a little to make the piece structurally sound, he insisted on scrapping the bird entirely and selecting another to replace it. Care to guess which bird didn’t make the cut?”
“The Piping Plover,” muttered Griff, sifting this new revelation through the dangerous maze of secrets and half-truths in his head.
“How nice! We’re both brilliant. So, twenty-five original designs, but only twenty-four in the actual series. Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
She nodded. “It’s been a point of contention for over two centuries. Obviously, there was at least one original casting of the rejected model—more likely several. Supposedly the problem wasn’t discovered until after the first painting and glazing was complete. And then more samples were probably made as Aureolis attempted to remedy it. It was only when he realized he couldn’t fix it without compromising authenticity that he insisted on replacing it entirely.”
“So what happened to the…what did you call them—samples?”
“Good question. Unfortunately, the answer depends on who you talk to. Factory records suggest that Aureolis ordered all of them destroyed. But here’s where it gets really interesting. It seems the head honcho at the factory at the time suspected Boris was sleeping with his wife, which he wasn’t—he was actually sleeping with the man’s mistress…” She noted his expression and said, “But that’s another story. Some collectors say that the boss-slash-irate-husband sold the samples privately, to strike out at the man he believed was cuckolding him and to cast a shadow on his reputation.”
“Cuckolding?”
Rose shrugged. “I always wanted to use that word and never had the opportunity.”
“The punch line, Rose,” he prodded. “Get to the punch line. Is there a Piping Plover or isn’t there?”
She lifted her hands in ambivalence. “There is and there isn’t. The world of Aureolis fanatics is split just about down the middle, according to Dana. Some dismiss it outright, others consider it inferior work but wouldn’t mind owning one of them if they do exist. Then there are those who believe the original samples still exist, but that one of them would be the quintessential piece for any Aureolis collector, because it represents the fragile nature of his art and his fierce drive for perfection.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Griff countered, waving his hand impatiently. “But how many Piping Plovers are actually out there? And where? And can Devora’s damn collection be considered complete without it?”
“Very few. Who knows? And technically, no. At least, I believe those are the answers, assuming I heard the questions correctly as you were barking them at me.”
He had barked at her. But only because he was anxious to know if this bizarre quirk of fate she’d uncovered was going to be his salvation or simply drag him in deeper.
He offered her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I guess I’m just in a hurry to know where I stand. So if you wouldn’t mind barking that last answer at me again, I’d be real grateful, ma’am.”
“How grateful?” she countered, matching his playful drawl with a seductive, heavy-lidded look that ordinarily would have him salivating.
“I’d rather show you,” he told her. “Just as soon as we’re finished here.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” Dropping the Mae West imitation, she continued. “I may have been exaggerating when I said it was bad news. It’s closer to neutral news, sort of left up to your own interpretation. For instance…”
“Rose!”
“You’re barking again.”
“Sorry. Just quit trying to cushion the blow and say it.”
“How do you know I was trying to—?”
“Because I know you,” he said in a gentler tone.
She sighed. “Okay. According to Dana, who seems to know all there is to know on the subject, the answer to your question is no. Technically, the collection cannot be considered complete without the Piping Plover. Which we’re about as likely to find as we are to drown in th
e Sahara.”
He sat silently, looking past her, as options and possibilities streamed through his head. Process data; take action. Everything in life was a simple two-step process for him. Always had been. There were no second passes in combat.
“That was a joke,” Rose said, bringing his concentration to an end. “Drowning…the Sahara…?”
“I get it.” He smiled, then laughed outright.
“Not that funny a joke.”
He drew her closer. “I guess it was just the way you told it,” he murmured as his lips settled on hers and lingered.
“Then you’re not upset?” she whispered against his cheek, as he progressed to kissing her throat, nibbling her earlobe, making her eyelids flutter and her pulse race beneath her skin.
“Not at all.”
“I worried you might be. Not that you should be. I mean, there’s complete and then there’s complete.”
“And then there’s real complete,” he said, smiling, unbuttoning the top few buttons of her sleeveless dress and kissing her there, as well.
“I have an idea.”
He grinned against the warm satin of her breast. “So do I.”
“I thought you could…” She hesitated as he used his tongue on her sensitive flesh. Griff could feel the tremor that went through her, and it made him crazy. She continued in a rush, an edge to her tone as if she was determined to get it out.
Let her, thought Griff. He wanted her undivided attention tonight and he was willing to be patient. Especially in view of the weight she had just lifted off him.
“I think you should go ahead and donate Devora’s collection to the Audubon Society according to plan, just the way she would have wanted. And I think you should also include a picture of the Piping Plover and a short explanation of the legend surrounding it.”
“That still wouldn’t make it complete.” It sounded like an accusation even to his ears.
“Well, no,” she agreed. “But I think it’s the sort of thing Devora would have done, and since you’re doing this in her honor…”
“You’re right. I’ll do it.” At that moment he felt able to do anything, and wanted only to do this—make love to Rose without shadows and secrets hovering over him. The realization filled him with relief and a wired kind of energy.
The whole thing had been taken out of his hands. The collection could never be completed, at least not technically, and that was plenty good enough for him. He could never fulfill the terms of Devora’s will. The house could not be sold. And he would never have to make a decision in that regard.
Best of all, however, now Rose never had to know about any of it.
Home free.
He straightened and started kissing her mouth all over again. He held her face in his hands and with featherlightness kissed her eyelids and the tip of her nose. Never had she seemed so fragile to him. In spite of her warmth and her eager response, he had the sensation of holding spun glass, and it made him more tender than he had ever been.
With one hand he undid a few more buttons and slipped his hand inside to wander over the soft curves of her belly and hips and bottom. His fingers skated along the lacy edge of her panties, and he smiled. One of his favorite things about undressing Rose was discovering what her panties looked like each day. Even when she was all denim and overalls on the outside, underneath she was pure silk and lace, pale colors, tiny satin flowers and ribbons; he could never make up his mind whether he wanted to rip them off her or kiss her right through them.
Right now, he wanted much more than he could manage to take standing in the middle of the kitchen. He reached for her hand and led her to big cushy old chair, which he knew from recent experience would accommodate them perfectly for what he had in mind.
He sat and pulled Rose on top of him. She moved easily, her muscles pliant, her expression dreamy. She smiled at him with lips that were red from his kisses and eyes heavy with desire.
When he cupped her breasts, she leaned into the caress, lowering her mouth to his for kisses that were long and lazy, drifting, open-mouth kisses that melted one into the next.
She drew back, her smile dazed now, and pulled his shirt over his head.
“I want to feel you against me,” she whispered, moving to make that happen. “With nothing in between.”
Griff skimmed his fingers down her back and along her thighs. When she trembled, it wasn’t longing he felt, but tenderness, and when she opened his jeans, it wasn’t an urge to take that reared up inside him, but an urge to give. He wanted to give Rose everything there was for a man to give a woman, more than he had known there was to give, more than he was sure he had in him.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice was husky. “So beautiful.”
She looked at him as he said it, not flushing or averting her gaze as she had at first when he told her how amazingly perfect and astoundingly beautiful she was to him. She’d come to believe it. She’d come to believe him.
She touched him inside his jeans, and he groaned, the desire floating just beneath the surface becoming more insistent. Still looking into each other’s eyes, they moved their hands, caressing, skimming, tantalizing. Desire became need and need became demand.
Griff worked his jeans lower. She pulled her skirt aside and lifted. He took her hips and drew her back down and onto him—a long, slow, sliding possession that made his head fall back and his eyes slam shut.
When he opened them, he was looking into a clear green lake, and through it, into the woman’s heart beyond.
“I love you,” she said.
It was not the first time she had said those words to him. She’d said them once before, blurted them, really, and immediately wished she could take them back. He’d seen it in her eyes.
That first time he hadn’t said anything, either. He hadn’t been sure what to say, or what he felt. So instead he’d kissed her to shut her up, and made love to her all over again so he wouldn’t have to think.
This time he knew what he wanted to say. The words were everywhere inside him…everywhere but where he needed them to be—on his tongue.
He had never said I love you to a woman before. He wasn’t sure he’d ever said it to anyone before. And he was sure he had never wanted to say it as badly as he wanted to at that moment.
Rose’s gaze refused to waver, and still the words could not get past whatever had them locked at the back of his throat, making him feel as if he was about to choke on them.
Finally, she dropped a kiss on his mouth and moved her hips enticingly, drawing him back into the rhythm of mating. But those green lakes weren’t as clear as they had been just seconds ago, and suddenly Griff realized she was moving without him.
“Damn.” He moved her aside and got up, jerking on the zipper of his jeans and pacing a few feet away, keeping his back to her. His breath shuddered out of him. “Damn. I’m sorry, Rose.”
“Don’t be.” He felt her hand on his back and then the warm pressure of her body as she snuggled against him. “These things happen. I—”
He exploded. “They don’t happen to me. None of this has ever happened to me before.” He pulled away and turned to face her, as she yanked her dress together and hugged herself to keep it that way.
“From the minute I met you things have been happening to me that never happened before…that I never wanted to happen before.”
“Hold it right there,” she said, looking less fragile and very angry. “If this has something to do with me saying I— what I said, then let me make it clear that you don’t have to say anything you don’t want to say, or do anything you don’t want to do. So if you’re feeling some kind of pressure—”
He clasped her upper arms. “That’s just it…I do want to say it. For the first time in my life, I want to say it.”
Her expression didn’t change.
He shut his eyes.
“Ouch,” she said, and Griff realized he was squeezing his fists with her arms still inside.
“I’m sorry,” he to
ld her, rubbing the red marks gently before letting her go. “Tell me again.”
It was an order, and Rose was about to tell him to go to hell, when she looked into his eyes and got a different message entirely. The look in his eyes was beseeching, and afraid. Typical. The man was great at barking orders and lousy at asking for what he needed.
“I love you,” she said.
His eyes closed and slowly reopened, still full of longing. “Again.”
She wanted to punch him, and hug him. She did neither.
“I love you, Griff,” she said. “You don’t have to say you love me back. You don’t even have to love me back. That’s not the way it works.”
“That’s the trouble. I don’t know how it works, but I’m pretty sure I know a little about how it doesn’t work. It doesn’t work unless there’s trust…and truth.”
Listening to him, watching his face, Rose’s feelings shifted like the tide, from love and empathy, to confusion, and finally to dread. Her stomach muscles clenched so tightly they ached. It was the same feeling she always had in the House of Horrors, tensed and waiting for the next ghoul to spring at her from out of the darkness. This room wasn’t quite as dark, but it suddenly seemed a lot darker than it had a few moments ago.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” he said. “It’s something I should have told you right at the start. I wish to hell I had, but back then it seemed simpler to…keep things to myself. I had no way of knowing it would come to matter so much. It never occurred to me that I…that you would come to mean everything to me.”
Ten minutes ago those words would have made her melt into a bigger puddle of mush than she already usually was around him. Now they only made her more anxious.
“What do you have to tell me?” she asked.
“The truth, about why I was so desperate to get you to help me find the birds…and about why I came here in the first place.”
Rose watched his chest rise and fall, once, and again. She knew exactly how it felt to lay with her cheek there, to match her breathing to his.
She ran her tongue across her lips, but it didn’t help. Her whole mouth was dry. She felt dry, like tinder waiting for the flames.
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