"So you're a reporter," she said. If only he were not.
"Not exactly. I'm a novelist who freelances because he isn't quite ready to trust his fate to royalties."
"Yet," she prompted, liking his candor.
"Yet." The warmth in his voice implied a smile.
"What kinds of novels do you write?" If he wasn't an actual reporter, maybe...and she did owe him for his help tonight.
Walking beside him, she couldn't help noticing his physical presence, the sturdy, upright frame her magical senses revealed, and the firm muscles, evident through his jacket sleeve, in the arm she gripped. The combination made her heart beat faster.
She felt feminine and admired. And that was so dangerous.
"I write thrillers," he replied. "The Max Grant spy books."
"How fun! I think my dad has read a couple of those."
"Please tell him I appreciate it. What do you read?"
"Pretty much everything. Westerns, mysteries, romance."
"Yeah? I like westerns, too. Do you read Zane Grey?"
"And Louis L'Amour and even Owen Wister. But I keep coming back to stories with some romantic thread. Any romance in Max Grant's life?"
"Sometimes. But he mostly blows stuff up."
"You sound proud of that," she teased. "Living vicariously?"
His voice light, he said, "Some days, yeah. Besides, you have to build up to a good explosion. It has to mean something in the story, or it's just a distraction."
"I never thought about it like that."
"Neither did I," he said wryly, "until I tried to do it. Gallery door is just ahead. Do you want to go back to that table where you were before?"
"Yes, but wait a minute." She stopped.
He stopped, too. "What is it?"
"If you want to email me your interview questions via my website, I'll look at them. I appreciate what you did tonight, and I'm grateful that you want to promote my work, but..."
"But you've been burned," he said quietly.
"People have tried." Once again, Griffin was the elephant in the room, but she never spoke of him to strangers. None of them did.
"That's fair," Rick told her. "Thanks."
Caro nodded acknowledgment. "I just realized you've stayed quite a while tonight."
"Every time I look at the tapestries, I see something new. I didn't discover classical music, like the Stravinsky, until college, when I took Music Appreciation in the mistaken belief it would be easy. But rock and folk have always been up there for me. And I was hoping to talk to you again, as I said. You and I like a lot of the same music."
Was there a hint of something more than artistic interest there? The idea pleased her, but she didn't know him, not really. That fact and his very real charm made him dangerous.
"Shall I walk you into the gallery?" he asked
"You don't need to, but thanks."
"Then I'll be going. I left a business card with Belinda for you. If you ever need a PR guy, let me know." He took her right hand in his. Her heart kicked as he added, "It was a pleasure meeting you."
"Same here." She tamped down the urge to flirt a little, to test the waters and see whether she really was sensing male-to-female interest from him. She couldn't encourage anyone she didn't already know and trust, not seriously, anyway, but there was nothing wrong with admitting to herself that she was attracted.
Forewarned was forearmed, after all.
He released her hand, and Caro swallowed against a ping of regret in her chest.
"I'll email you those questions," he said.
"You do that." They would never see each other again, and that was for the best.
Chapter Three
The online reviews for last night's opening would be up. It was just after eight a.m. now, and they'd likely been posted by six. The thought made Caro's throat tighten as she walked up the stairs to her loft apartment with her friend Mindy Page.
Caro had put off reading the reviews to go for her daily run with Mindy. Now, though, the run was done–three seconds faster than usual, not bad for a chick who had to hold her companion's elbow with one hand and keep a white cane flush with the track's edge with the other while she ran. Staying lined up was easier with the traditional, sectional cane than with the laser.
"Top step," Mindy warned. On the mornings when she and Caro ran, she showered and changed for work at Caro's instead of doubling back to go home. "So what's on your mind? Reviews? Hunky reporters? Both?"
"Both." Caro grimaced. "I thought I was hiding it better."
"Maybe I know you too well," Mindy suggested.
"There is that." Walking down the hall, Caro swept her cane in front of her and held Mindy's elbow to stay straight.
"I know you have to be careful, Caro. I do. But you can't put your life on hold until Griff is vindicated."
"Because it might never happen," Caro said tightly. "I know that. But I have to believe he had a good reason, that he's not what they say he is."
"And you can't be with someone who doesn't accept that." Mindy patted Caro's hand on her arm. "I know."
Caro nodded. She'd tried twice, even gotten almost to the I love you stage with one guy before she found out he'd been hiding his belief that Griffin was a traitor. And then there'd been the reporter who'd tried to cozy up to her, pretending he wanted to date her when his real agenda had been getting a story on her brother.
If only Griffin would contact her or their parents. Or Will. Somebody who could get word to them.
If he would only explain his reasons, the tiny fear that haunted her darkest moments, the dread that he might really have gone rogue, would lose even the minuscule foothold it held in her mind. She knew it was the same for her parents.
Plus she'd know he was still alive.
"At least with Jerald," Mindy said dryly, "there was no chance you'd get serious."
"Was it that obvious?" Caro wrinkled her nose.
A flash of impish humor in the air told her Mindy was grinning. "Not to him," Mindy said.
Caro opened her door. When she and Mindy were inside, she set her cane in its corner by the door and flipped the locks.
"Back in a few," Mindy said. She'd left work clothes and toiletries there when she picked Caro up.
"No rush." Caro's two-bedroom loft had a great room with the kitchen at one end and a dining area, with a glass-topped table and four low chairs, between it and her living room space.
She'd chosen the loveseat and chairs upholstered in pink, green, and yellow, the loveseat in a floral and the two armchairs in stripes. Coming home, she usually stopped to savor knowing she was in her own space, that it was both cozy and cheerful with colors she loved. Today, though, she was too nervous.
She'd left her computer on the desk between the living room and dining area. When she pushed the power button, her laptop hummed and woke in a second.
She used the computer's voice program to direct it to the online arts section of the local paper, the Telegraph. While it loaded, her mind wandered back to Rick Moore and his chivalry and his compliments.
He was a stranger. A writer. A part-time journalist, and sometimes those were the worst, desperate as some were to hit the big time.
Yet he gave off a steadiness, a sense of purpose. And he was polite. With a voice that gave her the shivers.
Not to mention his physical presence. Walking at his side had felt...good. Enough so that she'd casually asked Belinda Parkhurst about him. Belinda had said he was a nice guy, had covered events at the gallery for a couple of years, even briefly dated the daughter of a client.
There was no use dwelling on things that were better left alone, but Caro couldn't stop thinking about him. She'd even made sure to get his card from Belinda last night. Really, what was the point in that?
She started hot water for tea, then used the arrow keys and voice program to scan the arts page. There was a review. Caro's heart jolted with nerves as the mechanical, male voice described her as "a bright new talent."
The review was all she could've hoped but rated the work as "all the more impressive because of the labor its visually challenged creator must have endured to shape it." Caro winced at that. She had abilities most people with visual impairments did not.
Weaving those tapestries hadn't been a snap for her, but she couldn't let herself forget the advantages her magic gave her. Someone with the level of vision she'd claimed to have, just enough to see the colors at very close range, would've found the task far more difficult.
The shower stopped. Caro set out Mindy's favorite mug, a chunky one with dachshunds on the side, and dropped a teabag into it.
"Open Macon Arts Weekly," she told the computer as she poured hot water over a teabag in her own favorite mug, heavy, white stoneware banded with pink roses. The tabloid also had a website for current events in the arts scene. Mom had said their reviewer, Burton McCree, was at the show.
In the bathroom, Mindy's hairdryer whined.
The headline called the show brilliant. Wow. The computer read, "A superb new show melds tapestries and music."
That sounded promising. Cradling her mug between her hands, Caro leaned against the counter and inhaled the fragrance of orange pekoe steeping.
The computer app started reading, and the beginning was encouraging. If McCree thought her tapestries had "energy and life," then–
"Unfortunately," the computer announced, "the complexity and nuances of the works in question are too subtle to have been accomplished by an artist with the limited eyesight Ms. Dare claims."
The words slammed into Caro's chest. Gulping for breath, she pressed a fist to the ache.
The computer continued, "One must ask whether her mother, accomplished sculptor Lara Dare, assisted in the creation of these works. Lara Dare's sculptures are often exhibited at this same gallery."
No. No, no, not after all my work. All the false starts and reworking and backbreaking hours. Caro blinked against tears.
This review could destroy her career before it truly launched. "You could have asked me," she choked. "Asshole."
"Caro?" Mindy hurried into the room. "What's wrong?"
Caro swallowed hard and gestured at the computer. "Look at that. This is what comes of putting myself forward in the Mundane world. Dad warned me, but restricting myself to mage buyers would limit my horizons."
"And you're so tired of that," Mindy said, changing directions to reach the desk.
Caro nodded. "I'm so damned tired of the limits I've let blindness impose on me. Others with more restricted vision than I have live full lives. I want to do the same."
"Of course you do. You will. This guy's an ass, Caro."
"But how many other people are thinking what he came out and said?"
Caro groped for a chair at the table. Her hands shook as she set her mug down. Nothing spilled, but she clenched her fists to still them. Under her outrage lay a sick current of fear.
"You knew there would be doubters," Mindy reminded her, joining her at the table. "This doesn't mean you shouldn't have tried, shouldn't have stepped outside the box a bit. You don't want to stay your dad's research assistant forever."
No. I don't.
The thought brought Caro's anger back to the fore. Somehow, it steadied her. She was not a liar or a fraud.
"Those tapestries are my work. Mine alone. I can prove it."
Her countertop phone rang, and the talking caller ID announced her mom's cell number. Caro started to stand, to reach for it, but stopped. Slowly, she sank back into the chair.
"Should I get that?" Mindy asked. "The art world is your mom's turf. She knows so many people, surely including ones who would help."
"She does," Caro confirmed, "and using her friends would demonstrate that one charge in the article is true, that I can't make it without my parents pushing me along."
She blew out a hard breath. "Going to Mom–or Dad–isn't an option."
The phone rolled to voicemail. Maybe Mom would think Caro was still out with Mindy. Talking to either of her parents wasn't smart until she had a plan in place. The answering machine beeped, the signal to leave a message.
"Darling," her mother began, her voice tight with anger. "If you haven't read the reviews yet, wait until we talk. One of them is not what we'd hoped, but your father and I are discussing the best ways to handle that. It's an affront to me and to you, and possibly actionable, so–"
If Mom and Dad dived into this, they'd steamroll it forward and Caro would be watching from the sidelines. As usual.
Worse, Burton McCree would think he was right.
Caro stood and grabbed the phone. "Mom, I'm here. I've seen it."
She scrubbed tears away with her sleeve.
"Darling, that man has his nerve. If he'd only asked, we could've told him what we told everyone, that you could distinguish colors if you held them close to your eyes."
"It's in the press release that went to Mundane outlets. Obviously, he doesn't believe it." And how dared he not? Except... "It's logical to think seeing gradations of color that way would be difficult–"
"He should have checked his facts. Your father plays golf with Lewis Hughes, who owns that tabloid and several others. He can–"
"No." Caro sucked air and steadied her voice. "No, Mom. If you and Dad handle this for me, you'll justify McCree's patronizing attitude. I have to take care of this myself."
She'd only recently realized how badly she'd let her ability to handle the outside world slide.
"That's understandable, but what can you do that will be as effective as your father using his connections or even threatening to sue the man for libel?"
"I can prove him wrong," Caro replied. Before her mother could ask how, Caro added, "I have a plan. But I want to line it up before I tell you." Actually, she needed to think it up.
Rick Moore's parting words sprang to mind. If you ever need a PR guy, just let me know. Whether he had some other agenda or not, he could help her with this.
"Caroline, there's nothing wrong with letting us be a buffer for you."
The pain in her mother's voice twisted Caro's heart. "There is, Mom, if the buffer becomes a crutch I can't do without."
Losing Griff–for now, only for now–had made her parents more protective of her. She'd let them do that because she'd been afraid, but it was time for that to stop.
"You've had some unfortunate breaks." Mom's voice shook. "On top of that, Griffin's situation has made us all draw back a little."
"I've been drawing back for years." Since she was eleven, long before Griff disappeared. "We agreed I needed to strike out on my own. It's time. That means I handle this."
Her mother sighed into the phone. "All right. All right, honey, but let us know if we can help."
"I will." They disconnected.
"You sure about this?" Mindy asked.
"No." Caro gently set the phone in its cradle. "Rick Moore is at least a part-time reporter, a species I've learned not to trust. Better to take a risk on him, though, than crawl back into the cocoon. So could you get me his business card off the fridge?"
"Sure. If you're actually going to talk to Mr. Major Heartthrob–because I'm telling you, I noticed when he left you at the showroom door last night, the guy is hot, not to mention built–then this crap review isn't all bad."
Mindy put the card in Caro's hand. Moving her thumb over it, sensing the colors, Caro found the maroon numbers on a white background.
Here goes nothing.
#
Rick ducked under his sparring partner's slashing blade. Dropping to the mat, he swept Jason Greene's legs out from under him.
Jason grunted as he landed hard. The silvery aura around him, his magical shielding, wavered.
Yes! Rick funneled magic through his broadsword and zapped Jason in the right shoulder. The spell on the blade, like the one on Jason's, reduced the power to a mild sting rather than a dangerous blast.
"Time." Their instructor, burly former deputy reeve Larry Monroe, stepped onto
the mat. "Sorry, guys, but my Self Defense for Women class is due in fifteen minutes. Since most of them are Mundanes, I need to clear away all the special gear."
"Right," Rick said. "Thanks, Larry."
Rick and Jason rolled to their feet. Facing each other, they raised the swords straight up in front of them and bowed, saluting each other, before stepping off the mats.
Twice a month, Rick met Jason in Atlanta or Jason drove to Macon so they could spar together. Rick had first honed his magical combat skills so he could protect his mother and sister if the need arose, then had kept them up because investigative reporters hung out in seedy parts of town and often made enemies. These days, though, he worked out because he enjoyed it and it kept him in shape.
"How are you doing with that Dare story?" Jason asked as they walked into the locker room. He shoved his longish, dark brown hair out of his face. "Any news on that plan to embed with deputy reeves for a raid on a ghoul nest?"
"Not so far," Rick replied. At Rick's request, Stan had agreed to slot Jason in as the photographer if the embed was approved. Rick wanted someone he could trust at his side in case they landed in a tight spot. "If it comes through, we're going to be glad we kept in practice."
Ghouls lived in rural areas, in small clusters they called nests. There they kept Mundane and mage prisoners for breeding purposes and animals for fresh meat. Wiping out those nests was an essential part of protecting both Mundanes and the mageborn, but it was dangerous work.
"We may be extra glad," Jason said, "if ghouls are around Macon now. Today's MageWire reports that they grabbed some Mundane guy who was driving by, out near Bond Swamp."
"Well, shit. Let's hope the deputies catch them soon."
Rick shrugged out of his tunic, or gi. "As for the story, reading Jim's notes made me remember things that I'd forgotten, some that seemed odd at the time."
"Like what? Spill."
Rick shrugged into a blue t-shirt. "You know Jim never stopped with the usual reports that were public record. This time, he also interviewed Dare's former teachers, mage and Mundane, and his captain on the Savannah PD. His criminal justice professors at the University of Georgia. His former art instructors and his martial arts sensei."
Sentinel: A Light Mage Wars Novella (The Light Mage Wars) Page 3