“Lab rats,” she said, and there was no mistaking the bitterness in her tone. “He treated us like lab rats, experimenting with various drug regimens, prodding and probing, trying to find the right buttons to push to make us perform on command.”
“I’m sorry,” Trick said, meaning it.
“Who committed me to that hell?” she asked, her voice raw with emotion. “Did Marcello’s snooping discover that?”
“He wasn’t snooping,” Trick protested. “Information is power. We were trying to protect you.”
“You said that already,” she said coldly. “I didn’t believe it the first time, either.”
His hands tightened convulsively on her upper arms. “Nevada—”
“Don’t!” She wrenched herself free. When he started to pull her back into his arms, she threw up her hands in a defensive posture. “Just don’t.”
“Okay.” He took a step back.
“Who committed me?” She rapped out the words.
He shook his head. “We don’t know. There’s nothing like that online. No admittance records. No patient records of any kind.”
“Wouldn’t matter if there were,” she said. “Yelena checked my file. There were no names. No background information at all aside from an address.”
“An address?”
“In San Francisco,” she told him.
“Why do I not feel better?” Marcello asked himself as he trudged down the drive toward the Granger mansion. After all, he had told Britt the truth, that he was married. And yes, perhaps he had lied as well, if only by omission, by not telling her how he felt about her, but it was better if she did not know, better to make a clean break, better that she hate him than pine for something that could never be.
But he still felt sick to his stomach.
And yes, part of that probably stemmed from all the wine he had drunk. He was going to have one truly wretched headache tomorrow. That much was certain.
But part of it—a big part of it—was due to the fact that Britt had reacted to his bombshell with such equanimity. True, she had seemed a little taken aback, but she had not yelled or looked hurt or even as if she cared very much one way or the other. Had he made a fool of himself by opening up his private life to her scrutiny? Had he misread all the signals? Had she never been interested in him in the first place?
Doubts haunted him, and some dark, indefinable emotion stirred.
Was it Trick she had wanted all along?
He had assumed Britt had invited Trick along on her car-shopping trip just to make Marcello jealous, which he had to admit had worked, but what if Trick had been the target of her affections from the beginning?
Pain and chagrin knotted his stomach, and when he glanced up to see Trick silhouetted against the kitchen blinds, anger added itself to the emotional stew.
Marcello covered the remaining distance at a near run, slamming dramatically through the back entry and into the kitchen. Trick, slumped over the counter staring at something cupped in his hand, did not even look up.
Which made Marcello’s anger flare even hotter. “How was your trip?”
“Completely uneventful, at least until Britt spotted the Jeep parked in front of the Gold Rush. That led to some pretty major drama,” Trick said. “How’s the redhead? Or maybe I should ask, who’s the redhead?”
“A tourist,” Marcello told him. “No one of importance.”
“That wasn’t the way Britt read the situation.”
“Are you accusing me of flirting?”
“Were you?” Trick asked.
“Were you?” Marcello countered.
Trick shot him a baffled look. “What?”
“Were you flirting?”
“With the redhead?”
“No, with Britt.”
Trick was so startled that he dropped the object in his hand. A ring, Marcello realized. It went rolling across the room, coming to rest finally at the base of a cupboard. Trick bent to retrieve it, then shot Marcello a quick grin. “Britt’s apparently not the only one with a jealous streak.”
“I am not jealous,” Marcello said with all the dignity he could muster. “Merely protective. Britt is a decent woman, deserving of respect.” He paused. “I would hate to think you had taken advantage of her vulnerability.”
“Vulnerable? Britt? Did you see what she did to that redhead?”
“Do not attempt to change the subject,” Marcello said. “Just answer one question. Did you sleep with her?”
“What would it matter if I had?” Trick shrugged. “You’re not going to.”
“You bastard.” Marcello took a clumsy swing at him, but Trick was able to step out of the way. “She deserves better than you.”
“She deserves better than both of us put together,” Trick said. “Unfortunately, she’s determined to have you.”
The shock of it stole Marcello’s breath for a moment. Then, “Me?” he managed.
“You,” Trick said with a smirk.
Marcello failed to see any humor in the situation. “No longer. I told her about Antonia.”
The smirk disappeared. His words had taken Trick by surprise. “Told her everything?”
“Enough,” he said. Enough to make her hate him. Enough to make her keep her distance.
“Pretty well pissed off, was she?”
Marcello nodded glumly. He knew what he had done was for the best, but…
“Welcome to the club,” Trick said.
“Britt is angry with you, too?”
& {" wp hldquo;Not Britt. Nevada. She wasn’t happy when she found out I had you dig up information about Dr. Appleton and his institute.”
“Women,” Marcello said with feeling.
“Amen,” Trick agreed.
NINE
Though it had been well past midnight before she’d gone to bed, Nevada woke a little after six. She figured she’d have the kitchen to herself, but Trick was up already. He’d used the last of the milk to make hot chocolate to go along with his omelet and English muffins. Used the last of the English muffins, too, which meant she had her choice of dry cereal or leftovers. She decided to go with the leftovers.
“What are you doing?” Trick asked.
“Wrapping this veal parmigiana in aluminum foil.”
“Let me rephrase. Why are you doing what you’re doing?”
She turned the oven control to 350°. “Because I don’t want to eat my breakfast cold.”
“Veal parmigiana for breakfast?” Trick made a face.
“I’d have had cereal,” she said, “only someone used all the milk.”
“But—” he started.
She talked right over the top of him. “Or I’d have had a muffin, but someone ate all of them, too.”
“Sorry,” he said, looking suitably chastened.
“No biggie. I like veal parmigiana. Maybe not for breakfast, but…How long do you think I should set the timer for? Twenty minutes?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I only do omelets and steaks.”
“You really ought to spring for a microwave,” she said.
“We aren’t going to be here that long—just until we sell the place.”
“You could take the microwave with you when you leave.”
“Not where I’m going.”
She eyed him closely, her head tilted to one side.
“You look like an inquisitive robin,” he said.
“You look like a pirate.”
“It’s the eye patch,” he told her. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some of my omelet?”
“I told you before. I hate eggs.”
“So you do. I’d forgotten.”
“Where are you going that you can’t take a microwave?”
“I’m no ~u gt exactly sure,” he said. “Somewhere warm. Probably an island in the South Pacific. Possibly Tahiti. I speak passable French.”
“The Caribbean’s more pirate territory, isn’t it?”
He slid his omelet onto his plate alongside his
buttered muffins. “Hmm? Oh, well, I don’t plan to go into the pirate business. I was thinking more of a charter boat. Cap’n Trick’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Honestly? It sounds like a cereal.”
“What do you think of Cap’n Granger?”
“Better,” she said. “How about Marcello? Will he be signing on as first mate?”
“That’s up to him,” Trick said. “Marcello, are you planning to sign on as first mate when my ship comes in?”
Nevada turned to see Marcello propped against the doorjamb, pressing his temples with his fingertips.
“Ungh,” he said.
“Is that a yes or a no?” she asked.
“I think it’s a where-the-hell’s-the-aspirin?” Trick translated as he dug through the medicine in the cupboard next to the refrigerator. He passed the aspirin bottle to Marcello, who dry-swallowed three tablets before passing the bottle back to Trick.
“Grazie,” Marcello muttered, then collapsed in a chair, once again clutching his head.
Apparently he hadn’t been kidding when he’d told her he was taking a page out of Trick’s book.
“The oven’s hot,” Trick told her. “The light just went out. You can stick your veal parmigiana in whenever you’re ready.”
Marcello raised his head and stared at her with bloodshot eyes. “Veal parmigiana?” he asked. “For breakfast?”
“I don’t see why everyone has such a hard time with that.”
Marcello’s eyes widened so far the whites were visible all around his irises. He gagged, then slapping both hands over his mouth, lurched from his seat and dashed for the bathroom.
Nevada spent the day waxing floors. Trick had agreed that fresh paint was a good investment. He’d sent Marcello off to pick up some at the nearest Home Depot in Carson City. So she figured between finishing up the floors and painting the walls, there was enough work to keep her busy for another week. Maybe two or three. By the first of June at the very latest, she should be ready to continue her search for the truth about her past.
But somehow, the idea didn’t excite her as much as it should have, and she wasn’t sure how much of that lack of enthusiasm was due to the lurking fear that she really was a psycho nut job and how much was merely a natural reluctance to move on since Midas Lake in general and the mansion in particular had become her comfort zone.
After dinner—steaks, since it was Trick’s turn to cook—she wandered down to thƒere zoe lake, where she found Britt Petersen skipping rocks across the water’s surface with all the concentration of a true Olympic champion.
“Am I interrupting?” Nevada asked.
Britt shot her a grim look. “You’re not bothering me, though I warn you, I’m not the best of company right now. Harry Wagner, my manager, all but physically tossed me out of the lodge, said I was scaring the guests.” She lobbed another rock. It skipped four times before sinking below the water.
“I’ve been terrorized by the best. Or maybe I mean the worst. Anyway, your sour mood doesn’t bother me.”
“Good,” Britt said. She chose another flat rock from a pile at her feet, then straightened abruptly, turning to Nevada with an apologetic expression. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean good that you’d been terrorized. I meant—”
“I knew what you meant,” Nevada said.
Britt smiled, a shaky and somewhat unconvincing smile, but a smile nonetheless. Then she skipped her rock. A three-hopper this time. “How’s…everything at the mansion?”
And by everything, she meant Marcello. Or so Nevada suspected. “We’re making progress,” Nevada told her. “The wiring’s officially up to code now. Every scrubbable or dustable surface has been scrubbed and dusted. The front lawn’s been reseeded. The roses have been pruned and fed. The kitchen…well, I don’t think Trick’s going to do a major overhaul on the kitchen, though he’s thinking about replacing the old linoleum with tile, and we may be able to talk him into a new sink and countertops.
“I spent my day waxing wood floors while Trick tinkered with the plumbing. It probably needs to be replaced, too.”
Britt skipped a couple more rocks. “How about Marcello?”
Nevada smirked. “Spent most of the morning on the upchuck express. Then Trick sent him down to Carson to buy some interior latex. He’s not back yet.”
“Oh,” Britt said, her voice so utterly neutral that it was a dead giveaway.
An awkward silence fraught with unvoiced questions enveloped them. Nevada tried skipping a rock herself, but it sank the second it touched the water. “Trickier than it looks,” she muttered, then, “Did they take your mug shot?”
Britt whipped around to face her. “What?”
“Trick told me what happened at the Gold Rush Saloon last night.”
Britt muttered an extremely rude word. “Why doesn’t he just take out an ad in the paper?”
“No need. The story’s bound to make the next edition of the Nugget. Maybe not the front page, but…”
Britt scowled. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“No,” Nevada said quickly, then, “Well, maybe a little.”
Britt skipped three rocks in a row without saying a word, then she turƒd, quoned back to Nevada. “No,” she said.
“No what?”
“No mug shot,” Britt told her. “The redhead refused to press charges—God knows why, because if I’d been in her situation, I sure as hell would have. But since she didn’t, the cops let me off with a warning. I think Jan Hooper, the officer who hauled me in, thought the whole thing was hysterically funny, but I wasn’t laughing.”
Nevada wasn’t, either, though she wanted to. “Marcello’s a mess.”
Britt snorted. “At least you didn’t say Marcello’s a mess, too.”
“He’s upset,” Nevada said.
“Tough,” Britt snapped.
“And confused.”
“And married,” Britt said bitterly. “Don’t forget married. Damn it, why didn’t he just tell me that up front? Why wait until I’m…”
What? Nevada wondered but hesitated to ask.
Trick eyed the sixty gallons of paint that filled the front entry and smiled to himself. Twenty-one rooms to paint. A job of that magnitude ought to keep Nevada busy for a while.
And that was good, because he didn’t want her to leave yet. He didn’t want her to leave at all. He wanted…well, damn, that was the thing. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted. Not when it came to Nevada.
Okay, that was a lie. He knew what he wanted. He wanted her—smart, funny, hard-working, egg-hating Nevada.
Trick’s smile grew wider as he pictured the way her upper lip quirked when she was trying not to laugh, the way her jaw tilted when she was pissed. She fascinated him. He liked everything about her from the sweet, soft curves of her body to the thick, dark hair that floated around her shoulders in a billowing cloud. And best of all, he liked her lovely, almost classically beautiful face, especially those expressive dark green eyes that seemed to glow when she was happy, shoot sparks when she was angry, and cloud over whenever she was worried or frightened. She hid her thoughts whenever she felt threatened, hid herself, and that vulnerability spoke to him, too.
Nevada White appealed to him on many levels and provoked strong reactions—a fierce need to protect her and an even fiercer need to possess her. It was that second one that concerned him, because, after all, they scarcely knew each other. She’d been in Midas Lake less than two weeks now.
Whereas he’d known Luisa Gallo all his life and had truly believed she’d cared for him, though, as it turned out, his money was all she’d really cared about. They’d been together on and off for almost three years, but after his accident, she hadn’t even stuck around long enough to see if he would regain consciousness. He’d thought he loved her. He’d thought she loved him. He’d been wrong on both counts. Obviously, when it came to women, his judgment was sadly flawed. Equally obviously, he had no business now mooning over a wom
an he barely knew.
Hell, the truth was, Nevada diƒ way odn’t even know herself.
And wasn’t that a nightmare scenario? He tried to imagine what that must be like, not to know your name or where you came from. The questions, the uncertainties must have nagged at her constantly.
Which reminded him, he needed to tell her what the jeweler had said about the ring. She would be wondering if that information would help her in her search.
So tell her he would, and if part of him knew he was just making up excuses to be with her, the rest of him ignored it.
He’d seen Nevada head down toward the beach earlier, but she hadn’t returned to the house. If she’d come back up the trail, she’d gone straight to her apartment.
Trick let himself out the front door. The evening air was crisp but not cold. Summer, even here in the mountains, lurked just around the corner. Wouldn’t be long before the rose garden Marcello had worked so hard to restore was full of blooms.
He circled around to the back of the house, then paused by the sundial to enjoy the sunset, a rich vermillion backdrop for the sharp peaks to the west. Higher up, ribbons of color faded to fuchsia, then rosy pink and lavender as they stretched across the evening sky.
Even though Marcello had invested a lot of time in thinning out the trees, you still couldn’t see the beach from this vantage point. Trick eyed the trailhead dubiously. Probably not the smartest idea to try to hike down to the water on his gimpy leg, and it wouldn’t help to go back for his cane, either. Covered in a thick layer of pine needles, the terrain was too uneven, the path too slippery for a man with a bum leg.
He could manage the steps up to Nevada’s apartment, though. Might as well check there first anyway.
He was standing on the landing, poised to knock, when he heard her call from down below. “Need something?”
He turned. “Just to talk to you for a minute. I had Marcello run an errand for me this afternoon.”
She crossed the rose garden quickly, moving with athletic grace. “Besides buying all the antique white latex interior paint in Carson City?”
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