"You've done enough."
"You deserved it, McKenna. You had no right to force your attentions upon me when you already have a woman right under the same roof."
"Son of a bitch," he said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "You're jealous."
"I shall not dignify that with an answer."
"You're jealous," he repeated, as if savoring the words. "I'll be damned."
"You, Mr. McKenna, can go straight to hell."
He stood in the doorway for an eternity, his beautiful eyes shifting with a thousand different emotions. "I think I will," he said, with a mocking bow. "Don't show me out, Alex. I already know the way."
He slammed the door behind him and Alexandra sat very still at the edge of the bed and listened as his footsteps disappeared down the hallway.
Chapter Thirteen
Matthew was halfway down the stairs when he saw it. He stopped, an angry red mist still swirling around his head, and stared at the delicate lacy shawl crumpled on the fourth step from the top.
Alexandra's.
The girl was nothing more than a foolish virgin, given to playing dangerous games. She enticed, she teased, she promised endless delight but when the time for game playing was over and the time for passion begun, she skidded to a stop.
He bent down and retrieved the shawl, letting the shimmering square of fabric slither between his fingers as if it were the silk of her hair. She thought it was Dayla who held his heart, Dayla who warmed his bed, Dayla who fired his dreams and ignited his fantasies.
Crushing the shawl in his hand he buried his face in its soft folds, inhaling the sweet perfume of wildflowers and Alexandra.
Sweet, fiery Alex who deserved better than anything he could offer her. Leaving her bedroom was the most difficult thing he'd ever done.
And probably the finest.
Why then did he feel as if a part of him had died? Stuffing the shawl into his pocket, he headed toward the library for a drink.
#
Stephen had planned it as a dress rehearsal, a chance to make certain he could make his way back to Sea View and slip inside without being noticed. The success of his plan depended on it and, thus far, things had progressed without a hitch. His horse had covered the distance between Westhampton Beach and Sea View quickly and Stephen had managed to make his way up the dunes with no trouble.
The house was dark except for the hall lamps and a light in the rear. The French doors to the library were open and Stephen crouched down behind an azalea bush as McKenna muttered a few words to Dayla then retreated with his bottle of vodka. The gas lamp on the desk burned brightly and Stephen cautiously peered inside the room in time to see Dayla puttering near the wall safe hidden behind one of his uncle's rare still lifes. Except for some old family letters, the safe had remained empty for at least twenty years and when his uncle had given Stephen the combination a few months ago it was to provide him with a place to store his own valuables.
That was exactly what Stephen had done. The small portrait of Marisa Glenn—painted when she was still Mary Margaret Kilbride—was tucked away inside. Stephen had found it in Rome, in a tiny gallery near the Via Veneto and he'd paid a small fortune for it. Andrew had destroyed most of his work from the Hudson Valley period; this was one of three paintings to survive.
When Andrew died, Stephen could name his own price.
And then the unbelievable happened: before his horrified eyes, Dayla removed the still life from the wall and placed it against the leather wing chair. Her dusky fingers spun the dial left, then right, then left again and Stephen groaned as the door to the safe swung open.
He held his breath as she reached in and extracted a sheaf of letters neatly tied with a faded red ribbon and was about to close the safe door when she hesitated then reached back inside.
The painting.
The bitch had the painting in her hands and Stephen knew it would now only be a matter of time before it found its way back to his uncle Andrew.
"It doesn't matter," he whispered into the darkness. A delay, that's all it was. One small setback in an otherwise perfect scheme. He'd think his way through this the same way he'd thought his way through everything else. He was a Lowell, one of a long line of pirates and privateers and men willing to take what they wanted, consequences be damned.
Anyway you looked at it, Andrew Lowell was a dead man.
Stephen was smiling as he disappeared back into the night.
#
Saturday morning Alexandra arose early, ostensibly to get a head start before the temperature rose. She was glad that Andrew had once again requested she pose in the afternoon and she had been quick to agree. The thought of being enclosed in a sweltering attic room while the afternoon sun blazed overhead made her dream of icy streams and tall glasses of lemonade.
Dreaming of icy streams and lemonade was infinitely safer than dreaming of Matthew McKenna, which was exactly what she'd done all night. Each time she closed her eyes she'd seen his face in the moonlight, heard his voice, felt the touch of his hand against her cheek.
And, God forgive her, each time she drifted into sleep she relived the wild surge of desire she'd found in his arms.
She came down to breakfast trembling with anticipation and terror, only to find the elusive Mr. McKenna had saddled a chestnut and ridden off just after dawn. She managed only a half piece of toast before her appetite fled and she headed out to the carriage house.
When he didn't return for luncheon she was almost relieved, for the dark shadows beneath her eyes were testimony to her restless night. Indeed, she wondered if she would ever sleep again. She could imagine herself lying awake night after night, listening for the sound of McKenna's footsteps in the hallway outside her bedroom door.
She was ashamed to admit to herself that she'd wished he would force his way in and pull her into his arms, even though she was certain to suffer eternal damnation for even thinking such a thing.
When she arrived at his studio shortly after two, it came as no surprise that Andrew Lowell recognized her distress immediately.
"You look awful, girl," he greeted her.
"Thank you," she said grimly, taking her usual position near the French doors. "How kind of you to mention it."
He muttered something about temperament being the province of the artist not the model. She was about to retort that she was an artist too when Dayla placed a hand upon her shoulder and whispered the word, "Please," low into her ear.
He's ill, Alexandra told herself as he began to work. He had earned the right to be crotchety and fractious. In fact, today she preferred it for it meant no conversation. She didn't believe she could find a single amusing story to while away the hours as he worked.
He worked steadily, occasionally breaking the silence to tell her to turn her face more toward the window. By the time the sun was halfway to the horizon, she was gazing moodily out at the window to the beach below. The tide was low and sandbars stood out in bold relief against the shimmering pools of water dotting the landscape. A few hundred yards out, gentle waves splashed against the receded shoreline and she imagined herself there, as the cool water swirled around her ankles and calves.
And then she saw him.
Knee-deep in water was Matthew McKenna. It was difficult from that distance to tell what trousers he was wearing but she could easily make out his white cambric shirt with the sleeves rolled up clear above his elbows. He wielded a long wooden instrument like the one she'd seen the men using to dig for clams in Georgica Pond, but there all resemblance ended.
Those men had worked slowly, methodically, conserving their energies in order to see the job through but there was no moderation in Matthew's movements. He worked furiously as she watched him, his powerfully muscular forearms glistening with saltwater and sweat in the fierce yellow light. She imagined she could taste him against her tongue, his skin warm and resilient to her touch, and her eyes fluttered closed for one heartstopping moment.
He toiled as if possessed, as i
f he were trying to drive out some black demon coiled around his heart.
How well she understood.
Nothing about her life seemed familiar to her any longer. Not the sounds of the birds flying overhead, nor the scrub pines ringing the house, nor the sight of her strange and familiar face in the cheval mirror each morning—nothing was as it once was.
Newly discovered emotions smoldered inside her, making it difficult to eat or sleep or think about anything beyond the way Matthew McKenna made her feel.
"Turn toward me, girl!" Andrew snapped. "I do not intend to paint the back of your head."
Dayla, who had been sitting in the corner of the room sewing, looked up. "Perhaps this is enough today."
"I say when it is enough," Andrew roared, "and it is not!"
Beyond the window, Alexandra saw Matthew rip off his shirt and tie it around his waist, baring his chest to the sun—and to her fevered gaze.
"Turn to me, girl!" Andrew repeated. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"
"Yes," she said, rising from her chair. "I do believe I have."
"Where do you think you're going?"
She hesitated, torn between her desire to leave and her longing to stay. "I—I am feeling lightheaded. I need to—"
"If you're lightheaded, then sit down."
"I cannot."
"Cannot?" He turned to Dayla. "What does she mean 'cannot'?"
Dayla's eyes met hers. "She would like to return to her room, Andrew."
His attention swiveled back to Alexandra. "Do I pay you to hide in your room, girl? I do not think it is asking so much that you give me an hour of your time."
"I cannot," she repeated, her gaze drawn again to Matthew on the sunswept beach. "Please—the heat. I am not myself."
Andrew opened his mouth to speak but Dayla stepped in. "She is ill, Andrew. Let her be."
This simply wasn't fair. Now she was indebted to Matthew's woman.
"Sir," she began, "if you can find it in your heart to allow me this one favor, I swear I'll—"
"Save your swearing for what is important," Andrew said. "Go to your room."
"You cannot know how I appreciate this kindness that you've—"
"Go to your room," he bellowed, "and cease this infernal talk."
She was anxious to get away, but his voice stopped her in the doorway.
"And, girl?"
She paused, heart pounding. She had pushed him too far; she knew it.
To her intense surprise, the hint of a smile played across his countenance. "Get some sleep. I cannot have a model with circles beneath her eyes."
"I shall make it up to you, Mr. Lowell. You can withhold pay or—"
"Go!" he roared. "Go before I change my mind and put you on the next train out of town!"
Chapter Fourteen
Matthew stayed out on the beach. It was dusk when he finally made his way back to the house where he presented Cook with two wooden buckets of steamers that sent her into rhapsodies.
Energy still coiled inside him like a mainspring and he decided to walk along the beach, in an attempt to think his way around the hopeless tangle his life had become.
The girl was falling in love with him. Even he, blinded by desire, could see the signs. Her swift changes of mood, the way those golden eyes watched him last night, the soft touch of her hand as she straightened his cuff. She was so young—too young to understand how it was with him. How could she, when he often found it difficult to understand himself?
Married yet not married.
A father in his heart but not in fact.
A rich man living as a beggar in another man's home, drinking himself to the death he so richly deserved.
He snatched a piece of driftwood then sent it sailing into the ocean. What could he offer her but a life spent in the shadows, neither honored wife nor pampered mistress, condemned to wait until the day came when he could give her more.
He thought of Madolyn, of her greed, of her excesses, of the sorrow he had brought to her. Alexandra deserved better than the lowlife drunkard he'd become. One day a man like Stephen Lowell would come along, all polished and poised in his white flannel pants and navy blue blazer and her untried heart would tumble to his feet. There wouldn't be a damned thing Matthew could do except dance at her wedding and pretend it didn't matter.
But he knew it would.
He would regret it every day of his life.
#
In Westhampton Beach that night, Stephen was about to have dinner.
"If there is anything more I can do for you, Mr. Lowell, please let me know." The young chamber maid with the big green eyes smiled up at him, her dimples deepening.
He chucked her quickly under her chin and pressed a half-dollar into her warm palm. "You are a veritable haven in a troubled world," he said, sitting down to table. "Rest assured I'll ring for you if need be."
Blushing to the roots of her light brown hair, the maid closed the door behind her and, at last, he was alone.
At times it was too easy. Women like the little chambermaid were ripe fruit hanging on a low branch. :They tumbled to the ground in the slightest wind. It was the ones you had to reach for that had the sweetest taste.
And he'd believed Marisa's little girl would have tasted sweeter than honey.
It was a shame that now he'd never had the opportunity to find out.
For a while he'd entertained elaborate notions about the way he'd seduce her from under McKenna's nose. He'd fantasized about the way she'd feel beneath him, the way her rounded hips would arch to meet his...
No matter. That time was past. He'd learned that last night as he hid behind the azalea bushes and watched his future unfold in the dusky hands of Andrew's whore.
It was now or never.
He plunged his knife into the slab of blood-red steak on his plate and cut off a piece.
He had no choice.
His ship left tomorrow.
The murders would be tonight.
#
Without the sleep draughts he had been squirreling away, Andrew's pain was more intense, but the keenness of mind that resulted made the suffering almost bearable. Fooling Stephen had been difficult; fooling Alexandra that morning had been easy. Oddly enough, he had felt not the slightest whit of guilt over tricking Stephen while a vague feeling of remorse had settled upon him when he saw the trusting look in Alexandra's eyes.
Daylight was gone but still he worked on her portrait by the yellow glow of the gas lamp on his nightstand. How was it he seemed to recall each nuance of expression, each angle and plane of her face, in almost excruciating detail?
None of it made any sense.
In three weeks he had not seen overmuch of her, save for those sessions in his studio. She spent most of her hours up in the carriage house attic while he was a prisoner in his suite of rooms.
Yet, there it was. Without her to model for him, he had somehow captured her.
His palette was heavy with color. Rich mounds of silver white and raw sienna and a Veronese green so lustrous it seemed to breathe. He dipped his brush into a swirling mixture of sunlit flesh tones and began to bring light to her face. His hand, gnarled though it was, flowed effortlessly across the canvas in a way that startled him. The face of the young girl came to life as if the Almighty had touched her shoulder and breathed life into her lovely body.
But, wait. Lovely as she was, something was not quite right. The angle of the cheekbone was a shade too rounded. The breasts, too full. The look in her eyes held a slyness he had never before observed in Alexandra.
Was the eye of the artist seeing something that he could not?
He glanced down at the oil painting Dayla had handed him that morning. Annoyed, he had propped it up against his easel at his feet, not caring to fathom what deep secrets his woman thought it possessed.
Of course.
Somehow his mind had played tricks upon him, substituting features of one girl for features of the other in an artistic give-and-take. Except
for their coloring which was, indeed, vastly different, the two models actually had a great deal in common: the same proud carriage; the same intelligence blazing in their eyes. The same pronounced cheekbones and dimpled chin and—
Ridiculous.
What connection could there possibly be between a little chambermaid from the old Van Voorhies estate and a penniless art student from Provence?
The woman in the picture was young—no more than a score of years. Her long coppery-blonde hair spilled over shoulders unbowed by worry while her cornflower blue eyes held the hint of a smile, as if she held a secret deep within her soul. She wore a silk kimono of the palest goldenrod with delicate embroidery tracing an exotic pattern along the sleeves and across the front. The robe had slipped down low enough to expose the rounded tops of her full young breasts and his body jerked with the sudden violent memory of their ripeness against his mouth.
"Ridiculous," he mumbled. What in hell was he thinking? He'd had a thousand models in his day. Why was he remembering the texture of this one's skin, the smell of her hair so clearly across the years? Much as it chagrined him, perhaps Stephen was right after all. Perhaps pain did dull one's judgment and hinder one's perceptions. As if on cue, a stabbing pain radiated up his spine, and he could do naught but hold his breath until it released him. Beads of sweat trickled down his back and sides yet he felt gripped by ice, and it took a quarter hour for his body to recover from the onslaught.
Daunted, he opened his nightstand drawer and retrieved one of the pills he had stashed away.
Perhaps a good night's sleep was what he needed after all.
#
"Too hot," muttered Cook as she put away the last of the dinner dishes and untied her white apron. "'Tisn't natural to be so hot in May."
The house shimmered with a heat that not even the coming of darkness had lessened. The back door was open wide, the better to catch the breezes rising off the ocean, and the window curtains were pulled back with strips of yellow ribbon.
Fire's Lady Page 18