“You want validation or eggs?”
“Eggs. Want me to make toast?”
“It’s toasting.”
“Damn, you’re good.”
He took another healthy sip of the drink and felt his nerves begin to uncurl. As he did, he thought it was funny how Ward, for all his shrewdness, hadn’t noticed how upset his former son-in-law was. But Bliss, who was rarely shrewd about people, had seen his edginess right off.
Score a first for Bliss. Maybe getting older really did turn people into adults. Finally.
“Want to eat there or in the kitchen?” she called.
“Kitchen.”
He stood and walked in his stocking feet to the cool tile floor in the kitchen. There was nothing awkward or slow about his movements. One of the things he had done as sheriff of Moreno County for the past fifteen years was to get rid of the doughnut-gut brigade. Any man—or woman—who wanted to rise under his command was as fit as their fifty-four-year-old boss was.
He slid into a chair whose cushions were striped in orange and gold and lime. The omelet Bliss set in front of him on an elegantly simple white plate was light, fragrant with some exotic cheeses, and filled with chunks of ripe tomato and tender ham. Fresh chives were scattered across the top. He picked up a fork, cut off a mouthful, and bit in. Heat, textures, and something spicy zinged his tongue.
“Oh, man,” he said, forking in another mouthful. “Sure you don’t want to get married again?”
“That’s it. I’m calling the Enquirer to come and interview my alien.”
“Yeah, well, before they get here, think about it. We had more going for us than most.”
Silently she refreshed Rory’s drink, poured a mild gin and tonic for herself, and waited for him to get around to whatever it was that had brought him to her door in the first place. Though she would have undergone torture rather than admit it, she loved watching him enjoy her food. Cooking was her one domestic accomplishment. That and sex.
Come to think of it, the sex hadn’t been at all domestic. Not with Rory. She’d had other men, but none of them had been as good for her as her ex, damn him. She couldn’t live with the man and couldn’t stop thinking about living with him.
Marriage.
Again.
What if he was serious?
What if he wasn’t?
“You’re biting your thumb,” Rory said.
Guiltily she put her hand behind her back. She gnawed on her thumb only when she was feeling unusually insecure. And only Rory noticed it. She didn’t know whether that irritated or enraged or reassured her. All three, probably. Just one of the many things about their relationship that kept it from dying a simple, painless death by indifference.
In silence Rory finished the omelet, ate the toast she’d brushed with olive oil and herbs and a hint of cheese, and carried his plate to the sink. With the economical motions of someone who was used to cleaning up after himself, he soaped the dish, rinsed it, and set it on the rack to dry.
Then he scooped up everything else in the kitchen that she’d used to prepare his meal and began washing them, too.
Bliss wanted to gnaw on her thumb again. She didn’t know what was on Rory’s mind, but she knew she wasn’t going to like hearing about it. What intrigued her was that he wasn’t eager to tell her, either.
“Spit it out,” she said when he began cleaning the counters with a soapy sponge.
“How much money do you go through every month?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You just send the bills to Ward and he pays them.”
“Not all of them. I have a trust fund from Mother and Grandmother.”
“How much is it?”
“What the hell is this all about?” Bliss asked.
“Concerned Citizens for Sane Development.”
“Shit. I knew it. You came here to chew on me for Daddy.”
Slowly Rory shook his head. He dumped the sponge in the sink, dried his hands on a towel in the same cheerful colors as the dinette chairs, and went to stand close to her. Very close. Close enough to smell the perfume she always put on at night after her shower. He wondered how many other men had stood like this, scenting her, wanting her, and then peeling off one of her silk wrappers and diving in. But thinking about that would just piss him off.
“You may or may not get to keep Artists Cove.”
“Sandy Cove. And I’ll keep it.”
“Maybe. And maybe Savvy will cut a deal with the Pickfords.”
“Then I’ll raise the kind of holy hell that will make the kind of headlines Daddy doesn’t like.”
Rory just shook his head wearily. He knew Ward could just stall signing the Artists Cove compromise until the merger was complete. Then he could tell his daughter to go to hell. And he would.
“You think Daddy’s going to beat me on this one, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you came here?” She crossed her arms defensively. “You never used to like singing in the I-told-you-so choir.”
“I came here to find out how much cash you have that isn’t attached to your father.”
“Interest on the trusts. A few investments.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why? Is he threatening to cut me off again?”
“He hasn’t ever threatened that and you know it.”
“I know it’s always there, like a gun at my head. If that isn’t a threat, what is?”
“Then why do you keep poking at him?”
“Because I’m an adult and I shouldn’t have to run to Daddy for money!”
“Try living on your income.”
She made a disgusted sound. “Saint Rory. Why should I live like dirt? He never did. All he did was marry into Savoy money and he had the world at his fingertips. I’m a Savoy by birth. I deserve better than to be kept at heel like Honey Bear.”
The corners of Rory’s mouth turned down. “The blood thing again. Jesus, Blissy. Maybe if Gem hadn’t rubbed Ward’s nose in her wealth and bloodlines, they’d have had a marriage instead of an armed truce.”
“The only people who sneer at bloodlines don’t have any.”
“As usual, this is going nowhere.” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re too much like your father. That’s why you drive each other nuts.”
“Just because I don’t spend my life saying ‘yes, sir, whatever you say, sir’ doesn’t mean—”
“We’ve been around this track,” Rory cut in, turning away. “Thanks for the omelet.”
Bliss hesitated, then stretched out a hand he didn’t see. Hastily she withdrew it. “Rory.”
He turned toward her.
“I…” Her voice died. She began gnawing on her thumb. “Oh, hell. Is he really mad?”
“He’s really determined. Different thing entirely.”
“He wants to develop the Savoy Ranch in his own image, a monument for the ages.”
“Maybe. And maybe he just wants to make enough money to keep all the Savoy-Forrests in beachfront condos. The deal you cut with CCSD will cost half a billion in land alone, not to mention what the developed property would be worth.”
“But the tax write-off—”
Rory’s laugh wasn’t humorous. “Blissy, you should talk to that accountant of yours. If we can’t develop the ranch, we won’t have any profits to write off taxes against. If you don’t sell off or develop big chunks of the land, all that Savoy wealth everybody is busy spending won’t amount to a fart in a tornado.”
Dana Hills
Tuesday evening
10
The high school gymnasium smelled vaguely of old socks and sharply of fresh floor cleaner. Instead of the usual crowd of teenagers working painfully hard to be cool, there was a swirling, ever changing flood of people holding paintings from their attic or basement for Susa Donovan to anoint as worthy of cultural as well as familial interest.
“Sweet God,” Ian muttered. “I haven’t seen this much crap since I raised geese for a 4
-H project.”
“Geese?” Susa asked.
“No room for a pig or a pony. Besides, the geese mowed the lawn for me.”
Susa laughed and felt like hugging him. For the past hour she’d been smiling and trying not to hurt someone’s feelings about the cultural worth of Great-Aunt Sissy’s fabulous study of a rose from bud to petal drop…in mauve, of course.
“Uh-oh,” he said, spotting a woman with a look of hope and determination on her face.
“Remember,” Susa said quietly, “these are treasures to the people who brought them.”
“Lost Treasures Found.”
“What?”
“The name of a shop I was in earlier. Bought a nifty old movie poster. No bargain, but in great condition.”
As Ian spoke, he stepped in front of Susa to protect her from a woman who was carrying more paintings than the average county museum. One of the event organizers and a leading figure in the American Figurative Artists Association, Mr. P. E. Goodman fluttered around her like a balding, scalded moth.
“I’m so sorry,” Goodman said to Susa, rolling his eyes toward the matron. Then, in a hissing undertone, “She’s a big supporter of local artists. Wouldn’t hear of only three to a customer.”
Susa smiled through her teeth. There were some in every crowd who just knew that the rules didn’t apply to them. The fact that Susa was built more like a pixie with laugh lines than an Amazon with fangs probably had something to do with the fact that everyone assumed they could just walk all over her.
“Ms. Donovan will be happy to look at all your offerings,” Ian said, smiling gently at the matron even as he blocked her access to the table.
“I knew she would. My grandmother’s paintings are of a much higher quality than—”
“We’ll start with these,” Ian said over her. As he spoke he took three paintings from the woman’s armload and put them on the table in front of Susa. “There, that was easy, wasn’t it?”
Before the woman could get past Ian’s smile, she found herself being escorted by him back to the auditorium doors, where the end of the line awaited her.
“We’ll see more of these paintings in no time at all.” Ian patted the matron’s armload of family pride. “I know Susa is particularly eager to look at everything you brought.”
“But I’m…the line is so…”
Ian was already gone, blending into the crowd even as he speared through it back to Susa’s side.
The red-faced Goodman stared when Ian reappeared alone as swiftly as he’d left. “How did you do that?”
“He smiled,” Susa said.
Goodman glanced at her.
“Killer smile,” Susa assured him.
“Want a job?” Goodman asked Ian.
“I have one, thanks.”
“If you ever—” Goodman began.
“If he ever wants another job,” Susa cut in, rapidly assessing and rejecting the first of the three paintings in front of her, “he’ll apply to Donovan International.”
Goodman wasn’t stupid. He went back to lining up people and making certain that a name or address or contact number of each owner was somehow attached to every painting.
Ian’s dark eyebrows lifted. “Donovan International, huh? Sounds like an order.”
Susa half smiled. “My son Lawe said you were bright. What’s more important, so did Dana.”
“I’m flattered.”
The sideways glance she gave him was amused. “I don’t believe you.”
“Lawe said you were quick.”
She laughed out loud. “I like you, Ian Lapstrake.”
“Now I’m flattered.”
She stood, gave him the kind of quick, smacking kiss she bestowed upon her family males, and sat back down to study the paintings left by the matron, who was still wondering how she ended up at the back of the line again.
“This one isn’t by the same hand as the other,” Susa said.
Ian looked from one painting to the next. Flowers. Lots and lots of flowers. “How can you tell?”
“A century of experience.”
“Bull. You haven’t been around longer than forty years.”
“Flatter me some more, I’m amenable. I’m also old enough to be Lawe’s mother, remember?”
“I’m working on it. So tell me, is the Donovan as tough a bastard as his sons say?”
“Absolutely.” She set the second picture on the table behind her, with the few she had decided merited more study. “Better looking, too.”
“Well, dang. How am I going to win you away?”
Snickering, shaking her head, Susa moved on to the third painting. “I wish I had another daughter for you.”
“Something wrong with the ones you have?”
“Husbands.” She tilted her head to one side and slanted the painting in her hands so that it caught the light from all angles. “Remarkable.”
“Is that good?”
“In this case, no.” She put the third painting on the reject table, looked at the long line of eager humanity in front of her, and questioned her own sanity for agreeing to thumb through Moreno County’s attics in quest of fine unknown artists. As a publicity boost for the Friends of Moreno County, it was a great idea. Now that she had to actually do the looking…well, she’d get through it somehow.
“Time for a break,” Ian said. It wasn’t a question, or even a suggestion.
Susa’s head snapped up. “Have you been taking lessons from my husband?”
“Your oldest son, actually.”
“Archer?”
“Yep,” Ian said cheerfully. “He called and told me to be sure you didn’t get tired.”
“Told you? He didn’t ask?”
“Told.”
“That’s Archer,” she said, but she was smiling a mother’s affectionate smile. “I’ll do fifteen more people.”
It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a fact.
In that moment Ian understood how Susa managed her hardheaded sons and equally hardheaded husband. She smiled. She coddled. And she didn’t budge worth a damn.
“Yes, ma’am. Fifteen it is.”
Ian stepped away from the table and began counting bodies. He had gotten to thirteen when he spotted Lacey Quinn.
Dana Hills
Tuesday evening
11
Lacey shifted from one foot to another while balancing the three bubble-wrapped paintings and fending off random surges of the crowd. She glanced at her watch. Four people waited ahead of her, holding one or two paintings each. Maybe ten more minutes at most. Susa Donovan sized up paintings the way she painted—with energy, intelligence, and economy. Rarely did she take more than a minute with any of the canvases that people had brought to her for judging.
But what really rocked Lacey back on her heels was the man standing between Susa and the crowd. Except for the suit, he looked just like the guy who’d bought an old Western poster at Lost Treasures Found a few hours ago.
Nope. Can’t be, she reassured herself. I’m hallucinating because I’m nervous.
Then the man smiled at something Susa said and Lacey’s nerves ratcheted up several notches. Different clothes, same heart-stopping smile, same man: Ian Lapstrake. Under other circumstances she’d be happy to run into him again, but not now, not with her arms full of paintings she’d promised couldn’t be traced back to her. The fake name she’d invented to go with the e-mail wouldn’t do any good if Ian remembered her.
Maybe he won’t recognize me. Or if he does, maybe he’ll forget my name. He sure wouldn’t be the first man to do that.
Watching him from the corner of her eye, Lacey tried to decide if Ian was one of the Donovan family Susa’s biography had mentioned. Maybe a son-in-law. Then Lacey remembered the outline of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket and wondered if he was Susa’s bodyguard.
The crowd heaved, pushing Lacey a foot closer to the table where her grandfather’s work would be judged. Susa looked very elegant with her short, silver-streaked da
rk hair and sleek black pantsuit. An unusual twisted rope of semiprecious gems hung around her neck to her breasts. Deep green gems winked in her earlobes.
Lacey wished she’d taken time to do more than gather up her hair and clamp it in place with a holder the size of her hand and the colors of the rainbow. At least it was a match for her paint-stained jeans, ankle boots, and the vivid, loosely swirling blouse she’d fallen in love with at a garage sale two weeks ago. A bulky, colorful jacket hung over her arm beneath the paintings. The jacket was a wild patchwork of velvet scraps. It didn’t actually “go” with anything in the fashion sense, but seeing it always made her smile.
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