by London, Cait
The three Tallchief brothers got slowly to their feet, and three forbidding frowns pinned him. Instantly Sybil, Lacey and Talia swooped and drew the brothers into a western two-step dance.
Alek propped his boots on an empty chair and met Elspeth’s dark stare. He watched as she slowly rose and gathered her shawl about her.
Alek caught her at the door, his hand shooting past her head to open it. Elspeth did not look at him, but swept out into the night. Elegant, he thought, pure elegance of a lady who is just about to lose her temper.
Alek caught her within ten steps, walking along with her. She slanted him a cool look. “I prefer to walk alone.”
He looked at the round moon and inhaled her fragrance and kept walking beside her. “It could be dangerous.”
Still keeping his gaze, she snapped her fingers and instantly, Olaf and Thorn appeared from the shadows. Talia and Duncan’s huge dogs were gentle with children and dangerously protective of the Tallchiefs. The sheriff, playing a Caruso tape loudly, paused on his drive through town. Both dogs howled, lifting their heads to the moon. The sheriff turned the music down, and the dogs quieted. His spotlight hit them.
“I can tell when those dogs are around that the Tallchiefs are together. Who’s that with you, Elspeth?”
“Talia’s brother, Alek.”
“Alek Petrovna? The guy on television? Heard he’s putting out the old newspaper in another week. See if you can get his autograph, okay?” The sheriff’s patrol car glided down the street to Caruso’s vibrating tenor.
With his finger, Alek scribbled “Petrovna” on her back.
She jumped, glaring at him. “How dare you! Don’t think you can pick me up and kiss me like that, Alek. It looked like…like a claiming…as though you were making certain that everyone knew that you wanted me…as though you were pasting a big She’s Mine sign on me. Everyone saw—and then you had the nerve to—”
“Hey, the sheriff asked for my autograph, okay?” He bent nearer, enjoying her heated expression.
“Oh!” Elspeth turned and walked a few steps with him at her side. She rounded on him again. “Never—repeat, never—write ‘Petrovna’ on me, and while I’m at this, don’t ever kiss me again, Alek.”
“I like kissing you, Elspeth-mine. I’d like to catch up on that necking, too.” To reinforce his statement and to ease his need, Alek bent to brush his lips across hers. “Ah, you’re a fierce woman, Elspeth. When you come calling for me, I might be half-afraid to step into all that passion. You’ll have to hold my hand and woo me.”
“If I came calling for you, Alek, it would be to end this.”
“End it, but first you’ll have to stand and fight me. You’ll have to clear out what’s between us,” he challenged, then bent to kiss her ear and blow into it. “You’re hot for me, Elspeth…sweet on me. Admit it.”
Her head went back, but before she could slash at him, Alek jerked her into his arms and placed the tip of his tongue exactly in the part of her mouth. He kissed her thoroughly, fitting the slender, taut shape of her body to him, absorbing her into his loneliness, feeding upon the warmth stirring within her. Then Elspeth’s lips moved to his, and her head slanted and rested upon his shoulder, cupped by his palm. Something savage, haunting and painful settled within Alek as he held her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her against him until her eyes were at a level with his.
“I like touching you and kissing you, Elspeth.”
When he placed his face in the curve of her throat and shoulder, her fingers hovered, then stroked his cheek. Her heart raced against his skin. She tensed, her voice a whisper. “Do you?”
“It’s not necking, but it’s a promising start,” he admitted.
“I’ve never necked.”
“Then you’re behind, too. Care to catch up? My pickup has new upholstery.”
“That rattletrap. Whatever you paid for it, it was too much.”
“I’ve never had a chance as an adult to putter and repair, to make things right. I like it.”
Her fingers splayed through his hair, played with the curls and touched the earring. “Petrovna, we both know that you can’t stand here all night, holding me like this. You’ll get tired eventually.”
Then Elspeth bent her head and nipped his lip. She said quietly, “Thorn…Olaf…come,” and the two huge dogs leapt, bracing their paws on Alek’s back, waiting for Elspeth’s next command. “You’d better put me down,” she said quietly. “They might think you’re detaining me.”
She was wrong. He could hold her all night. “I’d like to. Or you could detain me, like you did that night you played detective.”
“There are people who need protecting. You don’t.”
She’d needed protection from him that long-ago night, and he’d been too wrapped in his grief and passion to recognize it. “Who held you when you cried, Elspeth?” he asked quietly, lowering her to her feet.
The flash of emotion in her expression told him more than he wanted to know; Elspeth had never allowed anyone to comfort her since the death of her parents. She’d always been so strong for the rest of the Tallchiefs. Yet he’d held her that night in the tepee and knew how terribly fragile she was.
This time, Alek didn’t try to hold her when she moved away. He shoved his hands into his back pockets to keep from reaching for her as she walked away.
The taste of Elspeth lasted long into the night. To keep his sanity, Alek began writing queries for the shawl. Clive Hardeness in London was friendly with a group of specialized antique collectors, and he would be a good place to start. Alek rubbed his earring and looked at the midnight light in Elspeth’s studio. He would have what Elspeth sought and he would know why she had whispered, ‘The Marrying Moon.”
Five
“Elspeth!” mark redman hurried across the gallery’s office to greet her. Outside the gallery, May sunshine spread like warm butter over Denver’s streets.
In Amen Flats, the Sentinel had become a three-week success story. Alek had worked night and day, giving her some reprieve from the noise next door to her. There was no reprieve from the jump in her heart, the tightness of her throat each time Alek looked at her. Focused, she corrected. Alek had focused upon her and was testing her, playing games that didn’t interest her.
She told herself that again…that Alek’s games didn’t appeal. He was out to prove something, and she wouldn’t have any of it. She could hold her distance, she told herself, and he’d get bored. While she was away from Amen Flats, she’d forget his taunting kisses and the way her blood heated at his torments. She’d return to Amen Flats, restored and without thoughts of Alek.
A pleasant businessman in his thirties, Mark wore a loose silk shirt and slacks, and his long hair was in a ponytail. He took in her leather vest, chambray blouse and woven belt, long skirt, soft moccasins. He grinned as his practiced fingers traveled over her woven bag. “Perfect. Just the artsy look that sells. Keep the braids, will you? Sometimes we get an artist who looks just fine, and then the night of the opening, they go off and change it.”
Mark touched her vest’s leather fringes, decorated with beads. She didn’t mind his examination of her woven belt, the intricate, ancient designs. “Perfect. You look great in the Tallchief plaid, too. We’ve sent out invitations to our clients, and they’ll love to meet you. You saw the brochure we did on you? I want you to be comfortable about how you’re managed.”
“The brochure was wonderful, and the braids are here to stay.” Elspeth allowed Mark to hold her hand. She liked him, this easygoing man who had stopped by her booth one day and asked about her work. An expert on wools and textures, Mark had presented a comfortable advance on the contract to deal with his gallery exclusively for two years. She saw no problem when he’d asked her to promote her work by making appearances.
Mark studied her face. “You’re tired. Probably scared about the showing and working too hard. Take the day to rest, will you? We’ve got to wow them tomorrow night.”
�
��I’ll be fine, Mark…if your assistants don’t think my driftwood for free-form wall hangings are fire-wood. They’re from Tallchief Lake.”
“We’ll take care of them. You’re comfortable with the showing schedule we worked out? You’re okay to travel with the exhibits after the showing? Having the artist there to explain technique will add up to sales. Did you bring me anything new?” Mark rubbed his hands together; he sounded like a child at Christmas.
She liked the friendly way he draped his arm across her shoulder. Then she moved away, unused to comfortable men. “I have new pieces. They’re out in my van.”
Mark pushed the intercom buzzer. “Make certain Ms. Tallchief’s things are taken to the apartment, will you? Bring her work to me.” He winked at Elspeth. “I can’t wait. My partner says you’re certain to set record sales and your price will go up. He’ll be at the opening tomorrow night. He’s the one who really liked your work in the first place. He’s already bought several pieces.”
“Really? That just shows he has good taste. I look forward to meeting him. Who is he?”
Mark chuckled. “He’s the silent end of the deal. He bought in as a silent partner in December. Prefers to handle his own introductions. The guy has a big past—has traveled everywhere and has made a bundle in investments. He’s a celebrity wanting to remain anonymous, and I respect his wishes. I like him, and he’s been good for building a new clientele. It’s kind of cute to see a big tough guy go all woozy over your work. He touches it as if he revered every thread. Once he pointed your work out to me, I recognized your talent right away.”
After two and a half months of Alek invading her life, Elspeth looked forward to Mark’s offer of the gallery’s apartment, to traveling with the exhibit for the next two weeks…and escaping Alek Petrovna.
Mark showed her around the gallery, explaining to her about the natural light bringing out the colors of her work. Mark latched on to her weaving like a mother hen picking over her chicks.
“What’s this? Not your usual,” he said as an assistant brought in one of her new works.
The hanging was slender, lacking the Native American elements of her other work. The tightly woven, hand-spun wool had leaped into her fingers, pale stripes of mauve and tan. In places, she’d used a fork as a beater, keeping the weave tight and heavy. In others, the weave was looser, freer. The weft, running horizontally, was tighter in places, giving a curve that flowed throughout the piece. She’d kept the frame simple to highlight her weaving. The colors heated to gold and dark red, circling a pale cream center with one burst of brilliant vermilion, then eased to deep waves of mauve and tan.
Mark skimmed his hand down the uneven, nubby texture. “Emotion vibrates in this. The colors shouldn’t work, not in that design…but they do. It’s almost alive beneath my touch. What’s the theme? Life? No, nothing so broad. Its message is infinite, too deep to explain—the heat and feeling in it just fly out. Is it titled? We’ll have to put something really pricey and obscure sounding on it.”
“I haven’t decided.” The colors had come to her at sunset, the dying light glistening in the wool, the texture—now smooth, now rough—presented shadows upon its surface. Elspeth didn’t want to think about what she had created, or why it was different from the rest. The design and texture had sprung from her heart, unfettered by her plans and sketches.
The making of this work had cost her, wrung something from her that both hurt and gave joy. The elements in her other work sprang from her heritage, but this was new, coming from her alone.
Mark jotted a note. “Names…titles, hike up the price. Make a list. We’ll pencil it in later. By the way, my partner has ordered some dresses for you…for the promotion events. They’re pricey, but just the thing to present you this first time.”
“Mix…mingle…talk wool. Make sales.” Mark glanced down at Elspeth’s cerulean blue silk gown, which was supported by two tiny straps. A shimmering fringe ran across the bodice, then the gown clung, defining her slender body until it flared from her calves to her feet. Mark eyed her hair, pulled straight back into an elegantly twined chignon. “Wow! What a babe!”
Elspeth shot him a frown. Her stomach ached, and she rubbed her palms together. “Don’t grin. You know I’m nervous. You have no idea how I dislike this…packaging. The clothes in the apartment are too many, too expensive and…exotic. I feel naked enough with my work on display.” She resisted telling him about the mountain of seductive lingerie, scraps of lace and satin she’d found among the clothes.
“Just part of the game…don’t want a little-villager image who sells cheap.” Mark flipped the blue topaz beads at her ear. He touched her bare upper arm. “You’ve got muscles, kid. It’s exciting to know that a strong woman created your work. Just a selling point my partner thinks will work as we package you for the public.”
“I’m not the exhibit. My work…” Elspeth began. Her head throbbed, and in another minute she would return to her room. The gallery was packed, brightly lighted and everything she wanted to avoid.
The guests wanted too much, picking at the pieces of her life. One woman wanted to know if Elspeth had children, and how nice it was to pass a feminine tradition down to children.
Elspeth ignored the familiar pain and answered that her works were her children.
“I must have that,” a woman told her husband, pointing to the untitled hanging. “I’m not much on that Native American-theme stuff and plastic arrow-heads, but this would be great in our bedroom—it’s so sensuous, so erotic.”
“Plastic arrowheads,” Elspeth muttered to Mark.
“Shh.”
Mark leaned closer to Elspeth. “Do more like that…the erotic stuff. We’ll pick up another clientele—”
“Not a chance—”
Mark turned, his expression lighting as he shook hands with Alek Petrovna. “Hey, guy. We’ve been waiting for you. This is Elspeth Tallchief, one talented weaver woman.”
Alek, dressed in a collarless black silk shirt under an expensive suit jacket and loose slacks, loomed at her side. His brows and lashes gleamed in the bold light, his cheekbones cut at angles across his face and there was nothing soft about his mouth and jaw. His scars and shoulder-length, unruly hair only added to his dangerous look, drawing women’s eyes. Alek did not look away from Elspeth. One eyebrow lifted, mocking her. He took Elspeth’s hand and raised it to his lips. He did not let it go at her first tug.
The shawl draped around his shoulders was fringed and elegant, fluttering as he moved. Elspeth noted the merino wool and the fiery gold-and-red design made in Paisley, Scotland.
Una’s shawl.
She almost ripped it from him, but didn’t only because she treasured the fine work and her heritage. The man was another matter. Alek had found a new way to enter her life. The shawl was his declaration. Aware that the crowd was focused on Alek, a tall, striking man dressed in a suit and a fiery feminine shawl, she rounded on Mark. She sheathed her fury in a whisper. “Is this your partner? Is this the man that I’m supposed to travel with, to the exhibits?”
She could feel the snarl of anger curling in her. Alek should have looked silly in the shawl; he didn’t. The soft, fiery texture only enhanced his dark skin and black, amused eyes, and she hated him more for that.
Surprised by her hushed fury, Mark was alarmed. “Well, yes. Alek is my partner. He pointed me to your work. I’m glad he did. The first pieces we sold brought a hefty price, but with this showing that will go up. Elspeth, this is Alek—”
She rubbed her temples, her headache pounding. “I know who he is. Mark, you should have told me—”
“I’m her admirer. Let’s not belabor details, Elspeth. Mark, don’t sell that piece. It’s her best work, and let’s show it off.” Alek reached out the flat of his hand to caress the hanging in a blatantly sexual manner that took her breath away. Then he wrapped his arm around her waist and eased her through the crowd, despite her resistance. “I knew blue would look good on you.”
They were on the patio and alone. Elspeth jerked free and gripped the wooden railing. In another minute, she’d—“What do you think you’re doing?”
Her earring gleamed in his ear, challenging her.
Clearly bothered by Alek’s commandeering and Elspeth’s unexpected temper, Mark strolled into their battlefield. He looked worriedly from Elspeth to Alek. “Is everything okay?”
“Go away, Mark,” Alek murmured. “She’s just a bit nervous.”
“Yes, please, Mark. Go away. I’ll be fine.” Elspeth wanted Alek to herself. She wanted to strangle him. He’d invaded her life and now her heritage. When they were alone, she said, “I want that shawl. How much?”
“You’ll have to fight me for it, love. Or you could tell me about the Marrying Moon.”
Every nerve in Elspeth’s body stretched taut. No one had ever dared to toy with her, to push her as Alek had done. She wasn’t certain how she might react, but with Alek the prospect excited her more than weaving. “You deliberately packaged yourself in something that is mine. This could be war.”
“Mmm. I’m not going anywhere. Do your damnedest.” He leaned to brush a kiss on her nose, playing with her.
“You’d better take care of it. You chose this—” her hand swept down her gown “—and those bits of lace called lingerie. Alek Petrovna, you are a jerk…. Where did you get that shawl?”
“As a matter of fact, Talia picked the lingerie. I told her I wanted to give a woman friend something nice. Since I’ve been out of the lingerie game for a while and you were the wearee, my taste ran to bare flesh and nothing else. She has matching styles that she wears for Calum alone. The shawl is from a Paisley shawl collector. Sybil described it to me perfectly. It needs a broach, don’t you think?” Alek’s hand caressed the shawl.
She couldn’t let him get away with that. Elspeth caught his curls in her fist and drew his face down to her level. He didn’t deserve kindness. He’d invaded her privacy; she didn’t intend him to leave unmarked. Alek’s kisses had been hot and hungry, leaving her without a complete thought. She intended to do the same to him and maybe more. Elspeth tossed away the red flag of caution tugging at her; Alek needed a lesson, and she intended to give it to him.