Shattered Blue: A Romantic Thriller

by Jane Taylor Starwood

  If the rainy season ever came. Right now the whole Southwest was shriveling under a long drought. The first time he’d seen the Mimbres Valley, driving the back roads of New Mexico with his father the summer he’d turned fifteen—the summer before the accident—these same hills had been lush and green, the roads lined with wildflowers. He wanted to see that again. The drought couldn’t last forever, could it?

  He looked at the sky, where a few wispy clouds floated eastward, toward the dark undulations of the Black Range. The rest was a chalky blue expanse. Sooner or later, rain would fall. In the meantime, the dry weather was perfect for building a strawbale house. At this rate, he’d have the roof completed and the walls up before any rain fell. Baled straw was water-resistant, but still, it would be good to get the walls done before the rains came.

  Matt pulled into the parking lot in San Miguel, checked his cell, and swore under his breath. Twelve missed calls in the last two days: nine from Vanessa; two from his attorney, Bill Dwyer; and one from his sister, Jenna.

  He decided to get the worst over with first and listened to Vanessa’s calls in order.

  “Matt, darling,” all sweetness and light, “call me back as soon as you get this. It’s about the closing.”

  “Matt, where are you?” Hardness creeping in. “Did you really have to move to the back of beyond? Call me.”

  “Are we playing games now, Matthew?” Icicle cold. “Call me the minute you get this. It’s important.”

  And more of the same until the last call at ten twenty-three this morning, her voice edged with steel: “Matthew, it’s clear by now that you’re avoiding me and shirking your responsibility to the firm. I have to say, considering your recent behavior, I’m not surprised.

  “Well, if you’re even listening, we’re closing on the sale of your share of Brennan and Thomas tomorrow, whether you’re back from the dead or not. Three o’clock, at B and T. Your attorney will be there. You’re making this very difficult, as always. Take care, dearest.” That last word dripping with sarcasm. “And, oh yes, in case I haven’t told you lately, go screw yourself.”

  Vintage Vanessa. Matt laughed without a trace of humor. She knew all his buttons and had long since mastered the art of pushing them. He felt a tension headache coming on, the first since he’d left L.A.

  He looked at his watch: twelve forty-three. It was a twelve-hour drive. If he left by three, he could be at Jenna’s by three a.m., catch a little sleep and make the meeting in plenty of time. But he was damn well having a burger first.

  He called Vanessa’s cell and praised all the gods in the universe when it went straight to voice mail. He kept his voice flat and neutral, his message without polite preamble. “I’ll see you tomorrow at three, and I’ll have my pencil sharpened.” To stab into your ice-cold heart, he added in his head.

  As badly as he wanted to tell her off, he’d be damned if he’d do it over the phone. When he reamed out the woman he’d planned to spend his life with, have a family with, until she’d jumped into the sack with Rod Thomas, his best friend and other business partner—who’d get his own special reaming out—he wanted to be looking right into her glittering green eyes.

  Those eyes. Had they bewitched him, so he couldn’t see what she was until she already had her claws in him? Of course witchcraft was bullshit, but something had rendered him blind to Vanessa’s true character. She hadn’t suddenly turned into a controlling, avaricious bitch with round heels after they’d married.

  The fact was, he’d been his own worst enemy. His blindness to Vanessa’s flaws was finally laid bare by his big sister, Jenna. His ego had sustained a huge hit when Jenna made him take a long, hard took at the ugly truth: He’d let Vanessa lead him around by his all-too-willing penis.

  Dickwad.

  Matt slammed his hands on the steering wheel, then kneaded his aching neck. He knew the pain was richly deserved. Ah, well. Psychoanalysis to be continued. Or maybe he should just put it behind him and chalk it up to a hard lesson learned: Try to always think with his big brain and keep his little brain zipped up in his pants, at least until he was sure what he was getting into.

  The unintentional double meaning in that drew out a rueful smile. Who he was getting into was more to the point.

  He picked up the cell from where he’d tossed it on the seat and made two more calls, arranging to huddle with Bill Dwyer before the closing and telling Jenna he was coming. Then he went inside, sat at the long, scarred counter and ordered a double cheeseburger, a large order of fries and black coffee. And then he added a small side salad to appease the heart-attack gods. Not a lot of health food on the menu here. Not that he was complaining.

  By the time his order was placed in front of him, Matt’s stomach was growling and his Vanessa-induced headache had gathered into a tight fist at the base of his skull. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to shake it off. What he really needed was a good massage.

  With that thought arose a vivid memory of Shane MacKinnon’s strong, warm hand in his. He smiled as he bit into his burger. Mmmm, juicy.

  Down, boy!

  Damn, he was a hound. But maybe he shouldn’t be so hard on himself. He had his own personal drought going here. How long could a red-blooded male be expected to hold out?

  Shut up and eat your burger, dickwad.

  He smiled and ate.

  A little while later, when he turned down the access road, Matt saw Shane’s Ranger parked next to her house. She was back.

  He thought for a minute. He needed a neighbor to keep an eye on his place while he was gone, didn’t he? Sure, it was a thinly veiled excuse to see her again, weasel his way into her good graces, but it wasn’t entirely dictated by his little brain. The woman intrigued him. There was something mysterious about her and he wanted to know more. Intellectually.

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t one hundred percent intellectual, but it wasn’t a hundred percent physical, either. Sixty/forty. To be painfully honest with himself, it was more like forty/sixty. Okay, thirty/seventy. Whatever. The best part was, she sure as hell wasn’t anything like Vanessa. Score a thousand points in her favor. A hundred thousand.

  A few dusty minutes later he was rumbling across the arroyo bridge and past an open gate with those blue bottles propped along the top. He’d have to remember to ask her what the story was with those.

  He gunned his truck up the last of the steep slope and parked next to the Ranger. This close it was even more beat-up than he’d thought. So what? Maybe it was all she could afford. Maybe she didn’t care about shiny things. Yeah, intriguing. And refreshing. So un-Vanessa-like.

  Through the window he saw a large, sunny kitchen that flowed into a sunny dining area. Rustic, but nice.

  He knocked on the door, waited. No answer. He looked around, saw a brass bell mounted on the wall, rang it a couple times. Nothing. Maybe she’d gone for another run in the hills. Or maybe she was in one of the outbuildings.

  He headed around the side of the house and heard music. Classical, familiar: “Morning Mood” from Grieg’s “Peer Gynt Suite.” Matt followed the sound along a gravel path to a flat-roofed adobe building about fifty yards downhill from the main house. The wall facing him was all windows and sliding glass doors. Through them he saw Shane standing in front of an upright loom.

  Matt stood there watching her, waiting for her to notice him. She was really into her weaving and he was reluctant to disturb her Zen-like concentration. Her hands seemed to move in time with the music, passing a shuttle of black yarn over and under the strings with graceful fingers, pulling it, pushing it, molding it into something whose final shape only she knew.

  So she was an artist, and this was her studio.

  Around the room, other looms held finished or half-finished weavings. From what he could see, they were amazing. She had a real talent for combining wool and found materials into something unique and beautiful. He knew some of his clients—former clients—would love these. Maybe—

  Shane turned and saw him. Froze. Fr
owned.

  He watched her tuck the shuttle into the warp threads, lower the volume on the CD player and slide open the door so fast it banged in its track.

  Matt felt heat suffuse his face. A peeper, caught in the act. But it wasn’t like that. He opened his mouth to explain. She didn’t give him a chance.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Brennan?”

  “Sorry, I—”

  “You’re trespassing.”

  “Now, wait a minute, I was looking for you. I heard the music, and—”

  “And what? Decided to spy on me?”

  Damn, Matt thought, she’s impossible. He ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath. Just say it. “Listen, I have to go to L.A. for a couple of days and I was wondering if you’d mind keeping an eye on my place.”

  That threw her, he could see it in her eyes.

  “You want me to watch your place?” she asked him.

  “Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind. Nothing major, just call me if anybody goes up there who shouldn’t. Which would mean anybody.”

  “Call you?”

  “Sure. I’ll give you my cell number. And if I could have yours, just in case—”

  “I don’t have a cell phone,” she said.

  “All right. Your landline, then.”

  She was silent for a moment, and her frown deepened. What was that about?

  “Don’t you have it already?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t. I guess I could look it up.”

  “Not unless you know how to find an unlisted number.”

  “Unlisted. Okay.” He paused. She was jumpy and suspicious for some reason, and he didn’t want to make it worse. “Listen, why don’t I just give you my number and we’ll leave it at that.”

  He took a business card out of his wallet and a pen out of his pocket and wrote on the back.

  “It’s an L.A. area code,” he said. “And I put my personal email on there, too.”

  “I don’t email.”

  “You don’t?”

  She shook her head. “No computer.”

  Matt didn’t know what to say to that. No cell, no computer. Stranger and stranger.

  He watched her glance at the back of his card, then turn it over and look at the front.

  “Brennan and Thomas,” she read aloud, “Architecture and Interior Design. This is your company?”

  “Yeah. Or was. That’s why I have to drive out there. I’m selling my share to my partners.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  Matt tried to keep his expression neutral. No way was he going into that ugly business, not before he knew her better. He hoped he’d get the chance. This encounter wasn’t going very well so far.

  “Sorry, that’s none of my business,” she said.

  “Maybe I’ll tell you the whole sad story some day.”

  Her eyebrows rose.

  “Or not,” he added. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. So, will you give my hill a glance now and then, let me know if anything looks fishy?”

  When Shane looked into his eyes, he felt heat spreading through his chest in the general vicinity of his heart. A warning sounded in his head: Danger, Matt Brennan, danger.

  She cocked her head again, pursed her mouth. “I might not be here the whole time.”

  “That’s all right. Thanks, I appreciate it. And by the way, could you please call me Matt? ‘Mr. Brennan’ makes me feel like I’m getting sent to the principal’s office.”

  That got a surprised laugh out of her, an amazing, life-affirming laugh, clear water rippling over pebbles in a mountain stream. That corny image actually popped into his head, as if he’d suddenly landed in the middle of a romance novel. He wanted to hear her laugh again.

  And he wanted to get out of here before he said something really dumb, like, “Marry me and have my children.” The whole thing was nuts, completely nuts.

  “All right, Matt,” she said. “And I’m Shane. Have a safe trip.”

  “What?” Focus, man, focus. “Oh, right. Thanks, Shane. I’ll see you in a couple days.”

  As he started to leave, he thought of something else he wanted to tell her. “That’s a great name, by the way. ‘Shane MacKinnon.’ It suits you.”

  He watched her stiffen, her eyes go cold and opaque as she stared at him.

  “Shane? What’s wrong?”

  Her gaze dropped to the ground. Then she cleared her throat. Obvious stalling tactics, but why? What had he said? Damn, her hands were shaking.

  She was seriously upset, that was clear. Angry, confused and scared all at once, if he was reading her right, but he couldn’t imagine why his comment about her name would throw her like that. It made no sense. He waited until she composed herself and looked up at him again, wearing a tight smile that didn’t come near her eyes.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Everything’s fine.” But she couldn’t quite pull off the lie. “I just need to get back to work.”

  He didn’t want to let her go like that. He made his voice gentle, trying not to spook her again. “I’d love to see your weavings. They look beautiful from here.”

  “What? Oh. Maybe some other time. You’ll have to excuse me, I really need—”

  “Sure, okay, sorry. I’ll be going, then. See you, Shane.” He turned away, then turned back. “Look, I didn’t mean—”

  But she’d already gone inside, sliding the door closed behind her, pulling heavy drapes across the window wall. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a lock click.

  What the hell was going on? She acted like he was about to jump her, or maybe she wanted to jump him, but not in a good way.

  On the way back to his truck, Matt made up his mind to steer clear of Shane MacKinnon. Something was going on with her that he didn’t want to get drawn into. Women with complicated baggage were not on his current agenda, no matter how beautiful they were. Or how talented, sexy and intriguing. That way lay madness.

  The smartest thing would be to run the other way.

  Shane sat down hard in the twig chair, gripping its arms until her knuckles turned white. She went over the conversation in her head. It couldn’t be him, could it? The phone whisperer wouldn’t come out with a casual comment drawing attention to her name. The man on the phone was sneaky, underhanded, not up-front like that.

  And when she accused him of already having her unlisted phone number, he didn’t know what she was talking about, she could see it in his eyes. Honest eyes.

  Shane dropped her head into her hands. Oh, hell. She’d made such a fool of herself.

  She needed to find out who the phone whisperer was, but how could she do that without giving up her secrets? Even if she could afford to hire a private investigator, which she couldn’t, she’d have to reveal her past in order to find out who was harassing her. She wasn’t ready for that.

  But there was a way she could find out more about Matt, if only to set her mind at ease. For the first time, Shane wished she had a computer, so she could do that Google thing Beth talked about.

  She pushed out of the chair, unlocked the door and started walking up to the house to call her best friend. Her only friend. How pathetic was that? She needed to get out more.

  All the way up the path, as the gravel crunched beneath her sandals, she thought about Matt, and how he’d made her laugh when she’d least expected it, and his eyes. His warm, brown, melted-chocolate eyes.

  SEVEN

  It was ten after three in the morning when Matt arrived in West Hollywood. He parked in the driveway of the Craftsman bungalow that had been in his family for three generations and smiled to see that Jenna had left the porch light on. He let himself in with his key, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Matt had been raised in this house; coming here always felt like coming home. He carried his duffle bag through the living room, down the hall to his old bedroom, which Jenna used as an office and sewing room but had furnished with a comfortable daybed.

  The furniture throughout the place was new since his childhood, and
it seemed like Jenna painted the walls a different color every year, but the bones of the house were the same. It was familiar and welcoming, as a house should be. As a home should be.

  He thought of all the sleek, glass-fronted beach houses he’d designed and built in the last several years. No comfort there, no welcome. Just hard, shiny surfaces, a sterile display of status and wealth.

  He’d let himself get sidetracked somewhere along the line. Sidetracked by empty promises and false gods. He felt like he was just waking up from a long, restless sleep.

  Sleep. That’s what he needed now. But he was too hopped up on all the bad coffee he’d guzzled trying to keep his eyes open for the last hundred miles. If Jenna were up, she’d make him hot cocoa with milk, baby him like the mother she’d been to him ever since Mom and Dad died. Twenty-two and recently married to her first husband, Jenna had stepped up, taken him in and saved him from flying off the planet in his grief and rage.

  There was a time when he’d felt guilty for adding more strain to his sister’s already troubled marriage, but the eventual breakup had turned out to be a good thing. Jenna had found Brian, and they’d had a beautiful daughter. No cause for regret there.

  He’d love some hot cocoa right now, but he didn’t want to bang around in the kitchen and risk waking his sister and niece. He couldn’t wait to see Steffie. About to turn eight, she was the prettiest, smartest little girl in the universe.

  A framed photo of his niece sat on Jenna’s desk; he picked it up. Two Christmases ago, he guessed. Steffie was sitting on the floor in front of a Christmas tree, wearing pink pajamas, surrounded by crumpled wrapping paper. She held up a stuffed penguin and smiled a gap-toothed smile. A happy kid. Sweetest kid in the world.

  Two Christmases ago. Three weeks before Jenna had to tell that sweet kid her daddy was coming home from Afghanistan in a flag-draped coffin.

  Matt’s eyes, already burning from exhaustion and hours of glaring headlights, blurred and stung.