by Ann Lawrence
They spoke as strangers. “Yes,” Maggie said softly, “and I apologize again for my behavior. I never expected—”
He gave a rueful laugh and withdrew his hand, which Maggie realized she still held.
“I get strange reactions all the time,” he said. “In my pauper days, when I was designing the game, it made sense to use myself as the Tolemac warrior. Now, let’s just say, it’s inconvenient.”
They stood in awkward silence for a few moments. Then he swept an arm out to indicate the computers. “Why don’t we get started, Miss O’Brien?”
“Maggie,” she offered.
He nodded.
She sat at his side. Near enough to touch. A feeling of being at sea without a sail, in a boat that just swirled along with the current, made her dig in her tote bag for a notebook and pencil and hide her embarrassment.
And as if it really mattered, Maggie consulted her list of questions. Just as she had not told Kered the truth of where she had come from, she would not tell Derek Townsend the truth of why she was interviewing him. She’d consider it a two-fold quest—for now—a quest to discover how she could ensure the game continued, and, at the same time, a quest to discover who this man really was.
Consuela entered with a cup of tea and insisted Maggie drink it. “Don’t pester Miss O’Brien,” Derek said, taking the cup and placing it at Maggie’s elbow. “I think Miss O’Brien, I mean Maggie, seems quite recovered.” The housekeeper left with further admonitions that Maggie drink.
“So,” Maggie said, trying to regain some semblance of a professional demeanor, “you do cover art for Hearts on Fire Publishing. Do you paint any covers other than romance?” How was she going to bring up the game?
“Not often. Hearts on Fire keeps me busy—”
“Excuse me. The British accent. Are you from England?”
Derek Townsend tipped his chair back and Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. He was so large and familiar.
“My mother was British, my father a colonel in the American Air Force.” He swiveled his chair to face the sheet of glass and gestured at the distant mountains. “My father taught military history at the academy. I bounced around a bit from England to here as a kid.” When he swung his chair around to face her, she bit her tongue to keep from screaming out her frustration.
Why didn’t he recognize her? What cruel trick had life played on her? Instead, she kept her tone as neutral as his. “How did you come to be the model for the covers?” She pointed over her shoulder with her pencil in the direction of the half-naked Highlander.
Flags of color appeared on his cheeks. “It’s a long story, but basically, I’d made up this Tolemac Wars game as a kid and thought it might be a lark to fashion it into a computer game. I found some backing, did the artwork and so on, but it wasn’t making enough money to feed me…so my agent suggested I do cover art. Hearts on Fire gave me my first commission, and the rest is history.” He fiddled with his keyboard. “Of course, I don’t paint the covers in oils anymore.”
Maggie found herself staring at his face. He had beautiful skin for a man whose tan told her he spent many hours outdoors. “Why don’t you tell me how all this computer stuff works? And why don’t you paint in oils?”
She sat on the edge of her chair, barely able to follow what he said. She kept searching his words for some sign he recognized her, for some opening to mention her fears for the game’s demise.
“For years,” he said, “I did the paintings the traditional way, but now I use the computer for everything. I go through a photo shoot with the models in costume, then I scan in the photos I like and…paint.”
“Paint?” Maggie tried to concentrate on her notes. “Whoops, excuse me.” She hastily dug in her tote bag to find the mini tape recorder. How unprofessional she must appear. What if he threw her out? He had a temper.
No. Kered had the temper—like a swift summer storm. She started the recorder. She could listen later, bring back each word he had said.
“Watch. This is called a stylus,” he said, holding up what looked like a thin plastic pencil. She thought of those doodle boards from childhood where you could lift the plastic sheet and make your drawing disappear. “I use the stylus just like a pencil.” He moved the stylus across a hard plastic pad lying by the computer’s side, and on the screen an image appeared.
Maggie stared, agog, as he sketched a face. Her face. “Now, I can pick different options, depending on which software I’m using, and vary the medium.” He moved the stylus to select from a drop-down menu on the screen. As his hand moved, blue shading appeared as if rendered by chalk. “As soon as I get the information from the art director, I start to sketch—”
“Are your sketches computerized?” Her voice was barely a croak as she watched him work.
“Sure. Then I fax them to the art director, who changes things to suit himself, and when I get approval, I start to work on the final product.”
“How long does it take you to complete a cover?” Maggie watched his deft hand as he added detail to his sketch of her. The speed with which he worked took her breath away. In moments, she had come alive on the screen. He drew her hair loose and flowing across her shoulder, not in a French braid as she wore it today.
“Used to take me maybe four or five days to do a traditional oil painting, once the art director approved the sketches.” He grinned. “Now it takes me…four or five days. You see, the principles are the same. The computer isn’t doing the artwork, I am. Whether I’m using the computer or not, it’s still a composition. I need to plan the same way, balance the values, and so forth. There’s a structure underneath, a design. That doesn’t change just because I’m using a computer.”
He added color to her hair, highlights he could not know existed. Maggie swallowed hard. There was a sensual aspect to the drawing, almost as if…
“Watch.” He played with his keyboard and she disappeared from the screen. The opening sequence of Tolemac Wars appeared instead—in earthly hues. Pike’s Peak. Her heart lurched.
“This is one of the landscapes I did for Tolemac Wars. I can choose to leave it the way I’ve painted it here, or I can make it otherworldly by changing the color values. All the Tolemac Wars scenes are my favorite places, altered to fit the game. I love the red rocks of Monument Valley.” He used his stylus to make more changes. The mountain colors shifted through various shades as he demonstrated. At red, he stopped.
“More brown.” She said it softly and he spun to face her. They stared at each other for several long moments. Finally, he lifted the stylus and altered the color.
“I can tint the sky, too,” he said with a touch of hesitation. The heavens on his screen deepened through the blue scales to deep purple.
“Darker,” Maggie instructed. “Like velvet on an ancient king’s robe.”
He did as directed, but slowly, his head turned away so she could not see his expression. A pulse throbbed in his temple.
Maggie desperately wanted to know if the people of Tolemac were figments of his imagination. “How do you know what the characters should look like?”
He rolled his shoulders a moment, then faced her again. “Hearts on Fire always sends me a few pages of the hook describing the characters. I read them and when the photo shoot is set up, I make sure the costumes are correct. The little details, like hair color and eyes, I take care of later. And I buff the pecs—”
“No,” Maggie interrupted. “The beggars. The warriors. How do you know? I meant in…Tolemac.”
“I think them up in my head, Maggie. That’s it. I decide.”
She had nothing more to say. Her mind was blank.
He thought them up. Was she insane? Had she suffered some collapse after the fire and simply imagined it all?
Sitting next to this man made her doubt her sanity far more than when she’d tried to explain it all to Gwen.
“But you didn’t come to discuss Tolemac Wars, did you?” His words challenged her. His expression remained as neutral as befo
re. He moved his head, and the sun’s glare on the lenses of his glasses concealed his eyes as effectively as a blindfold.
Maggie shook her head. She had to get out of here. Yet the thought of leaving him hurt. She consulted her notepad. What other excuse had she to stay? “Do you mind discussing the issue of respect? Are you pleased to be known as an illustrator of romance novels?” She’d almost forgotten the question that had gained her the interview in the first place.
Derek busied himself loading another program into the computer. “To do a cover, I need to know everything a painter doing fine art knows. My training is classical, by the way. I’m a romantic at heart. Doing these covers allows me to work with figures in many historical settings. It gives me an opportunity to time-travel, so to speak. An artist must put many elements together in a composition. If he likes what he’s doing, it shows, regardless of the medium.”
He grinned at her. The smile reminded her of other smiles.
“I love the authors,” he said. “They’re great. They treat me with respect. They’ll let me know if I get any details wrong, too.” Then he frowned. “If I did science fiction covers, my work would probably be collected. I know the Tolemac Wars poster gets stolen off shop walls. But when I say I do romance covers, there isn’t the respect there.”
Maggie nodded. “I suppose the writers feel the same way. I understand many romance authors feel they don’t get the respect writers of other genres do.”
“I wouldn’t do anything else right now. If I can only convince the board of directors to let me do Tolemac Wars II, I’ll be busy for years.”
He wanted to keep the game going. “You have to!” Her voice rose to a squeak. She forced herself to be calm. “I mean, everyone loves the game. You can’t end it.”
“Yes, well, I just draw the game. I don’t control the corporate heads.”
“Will you be the model for Tolemac Wars II?” she asked with trepidation.
“No,” he said abruptly and drew a file folder toward him. He shuffled through a neat pile of sketches. “I can’t play the part anymore,” he said. “I’m getting too old, and the publicity is stifling.” With a flick of his wrist, he pitched a sketch onto the desktop.
Maggie picked up the page. The Shadow Woman. The character blended with the lights and darks of the forest in the background, her hair almost a part of the leaves. The pendant about the woman’s neck, however, gleamed from the dappled shade and drew the eye. “Nice.” Maggie handed it back without further comment. If he expected a reaction, he wouldn’t get one. Her heart and mind were frozen in a state of shock, mixed with the fear that some madness possessed her. She could be as impassive as he.
“Mr. Derek?’’ Consuela stood in the doorway, a large tray balanced on one arm. “Lunch?”
“Oh, my, is it lunch time?” Maggie’s chair slid away as she leaped up. “I have to go.” She reached for her tote bag on the leather couch.
“Why not stay for lunch?” Derek suggested. “I’d like to show you how the computer records my sketches. I can run them back like a movie from the very first line.” He sounded exactly like an eager child wanting approval.
How could she refuse?
Consuela arranged the lunch tray on the coffee table as Derek Townsend worked and Maggie pretended to listen. In truth, her mind whirled like a storm over the Sacred Pool, preventing rational thought.
Half an hour later, Maggie perched in the center of the couch and selected a chicken salad sandwich and a glass of iced tea.
“By the way, what software do you use for your writing?” Derek asked, offering her a dish of lemon slices for her tea.
“None. I don’t own a computer. I hate them.” She fumbled the lemon wedge into her glass.
He grinned and laughed. “You must have a hard time living in the real world.”
“Yes,” she said. So much so, I want to leave it.
The artist settled far too close to her on the tan couch. “What made you decide to write this article?” he asked, stretching out his long legs. Maggie imagined them encased in black leather and felt her body heat.
She averted her eyes and studied Pike’s Peak before answering. “I have a friend who owns a video game store and subscribes to Video Game magazine. When I read about your concern over the lack of respect accorded romance illustrators, it piqued my interest.”
They ate in silence for a moment, or he ate—she just arranged and rearranged the sections of her sandwich. Abruptly, he stood up, stretching his long frame. The sight was torture.
“Why don’t you stop by tomorrow? I’m doing a final photo shoot for Tolemac Wars. The very last one. We’ll be doing a final piece that will be used on a home computer version that will be in the stores for Christmas.”
Maggie jumped to her feet. “Yes. Thank you. I’d love to. What time?” The last one? What did that mean? How would that affect the game? She had to find out.
“Three o’clock?” He offered his hand. She took it. His fingers clasped hers, and she remembered all the limes Kered had touched her with love. She gave his hand a perfunctory shake and walked away to gather her jacket and bag.
Maggie took a final look over her shoulder at Derek Townsend as she left the room. Everything about him was hauntingly familiar, the way he cocked his head, the way he unfolded from the chair. Her vision blurred with tears, her head ached with confusion.
He was Kered.
And he was not.
Derek Townsend placed the lunch tray on the kitchen counter. He put the dishes in the dishwasher. He wiped the tray, carefully placing it on top of the refrigerator. The whole time he cleaned up, he frowned. When the kitchen was practically hospital-sterile, he slumped at the round oak table in one corner and propped his chin on his hand.
“Maggie O’Brien,’’ he mused aloud. Now he knew her name. He had put her in the game. Or suggested her. Never had he felt such an uncontrollable urge to hug someone. She needed hugging. Damn it, he needed hugging.
She acted almost frightened.
People often reacted strongly to him—ever since kindergarten—but they never fainted. That’s what happens when your mother is six feet tall and your father tops her by several inches.
He tipped the chair back on its legs, but when it creaked, he thought better of it. He let it drop with a thump and whacked the table. If Maggie O’Brien didn’t arrive for the photo shoot tomorrow, he’d go get her. After all, he needed to know if she was just a woman with an undefined aura that drew him, or if she was the woman he’d put in the game—the Shadow Woman—a protectress, a warrior in her own right.
Consuela strolled in and sat down across from him. “Where’d that sweet child go?”
“Back to her hotel,” Derek said. And maybe out of my life forever, he thought.
“So, explain yourself. Poor child looked as if she’d lost her best friend. And don’t make up some fairy tale. I clean the studio, you know. You can turn pictures to the wall or bury them behind others, but eventually they gotta be dusted.”
“Snooping doesn’t become you,” he said, rearranging the sugar bowl with the salt and pepper shakers.
“All I know is you’ve painted that poor girl without her clothes, yet you two acted like you’d never met. Never could understand why you can’t just paint a nice bowl of fruit or a vase of flowers—”
“So you’ve said. Many times.” Derek grinned, then he frowned. “Consuela, do you believe in ESP or pre-cognition or any of those things?”
“I believe in the PTA and the CYO. What do you mean?” She put the sugar and salt and pepper back where she liked them.
“Two years ago, I did a Tolemac Wars convention in Santa Fe. I was browsing around the Palace of the Governors when I saw this woman in the square.” He looked off into a distant place. He could almost feel the heat of the sun coming off the buildings in waves. He did feel the same intense jolt of knowledge he’d felt then. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The woman fascinated me. I tried to discover her name. She wore
a distinctive piece of jewelry that I thought might identify her, but no luck.”
Derek took a deep breath. “I sketched the woman, and her necklace, to help me remember. She stood in the square with two children, twirling in a circle. The look of joy on her face…mesmerized me.” In fact, he’d raced back to his room to commit her to paper. And had been drawing her ever since.
“So, you had to come home and paint her all bare?” Consuela said with disgust, then rose and attacked the already clean countertops.
“No, I did not paint her nude—then. I did sketch her, though. It seemed important at the time to meet her, but I looked away for a moment, and when I turned back, she was gone. She had disappeared. No one knew her name. I lost sight of her—until today.”
Consuela paused, sponge in hand. “That’s mighty creepy. How’d you come to paint those other paintings of her?”
“Dreams, Consuela. Dreams.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Maggie stood in Derek Townsend’s doorway and gaped in disbelief. The artist stood before the great glass windows garbed only in buff breeches and high leather boots—and arm rings. His hair lay in a tangled mane about his shoulders. His glasses were nowhere to be seen. Every inch of his bare arms and naked chest were as she remembered. Her body reacted. She took a deep, steadying breath.
Derek abruptly turned as if sensing her scrutiny and impaled her with an intent look. He lifted a leather jerkin from the hand of a small woman whom Maggie had not noticed before, so mesmerized had she been by Derek Townsend’s near nakedness.
She felt the heat of embarrassment sear up her cheeks. “Hi. Consuela told me to come on back.”
“Hi, yourself,” Derek said, slipping on the jerkin. He belted it, concealing from her the opportunity to see if he, too, bore a birthmark shaped like a sacred eight on his chest. She sidled near and perched on the arm of the couch. “This won’t take long,” he said.
The photographer, a woman in her early forties, bustled about the end of the room that had held the stacks of canvases Maggie had abused the day before. Now the area was crowded with a white backdrop and what appeared to be umbrellas on poles.