"That brings up the question of what to do with it until we can get your colleague here to examine it," Virgil said. "Now that we know it's worth two hundred grand or more, I don't like the idea of leaving it here."
"I could take it home with me," Arizona replied. "My security is top of the line. But the spies up at the institute keep a round-the-clock watch on me. If they see me take something from this place into my house, they might get curious. Don't want to draw any attention right now while we're at such a critical point in Project Log Book."
"I've got a security system for the paintings in my gallery," Octavia said slowly. "I suppose I could store the Upsall in my back room for a week."
"Good idea," Virgil agreed. "It should be fine in your back room. Not like Eclipse Bay is home to a lot of sophisticated art thieves."
Photon smiled benignly. "You illuminate us with the radiant light of your kindness." Chapter 6
The row of shops that lined the street across from the pier was dark and silent at this hour. The last rays of the summer sun were veiled behind the thickening layer of clouds. Whitecaps danced on the slate-gray waters of the bay.
Nick parked in the small lot. When he climbed out from behind the wheel, a snapping breeze tugged at his wind-breaker. Storm on the way, he thought. Summer squalls were not unusual for this time of year here on the coast.
Octavia was already out of the passenger seat. The bouncy wind whipped her hair into a froth and caused her long, full skirts to billow around her legs. She laughed a little as she grabbed a handful of her skirts to keep them from blowing up around her thighs. Her eyes were bright. He got the feeling that she was savoring the raw energy of the approaching storm. Maybe she tapped into it for her fairy magic or something. Seemed logical.
"We'd better hurry," she said. "The rain will hit any minute."
"Right."
With an effort he wrenched his attention away from her flying hair and skirts and opened the rear door of the BMW. He reached inside and hoisted the painting. Octavia had wrapped the picture in old newspapers before leaving Thurgarton's cabin.
Carrying the painting under one arm, he walked with her to the door of Bright Visions.
"You really think this thing is worth a quarter million?" he asked.
"Between you and me? Yes. But we'll all feel more secure once we've had a second opinion."
She continued to struggle with her skirts with one hand while she withdrew her keys from her shoulder bag. She opened the front door and stepped quickly into the darkened interior of the shop to punch in the code that deactivated the alarm system. Then she flipped some switches to turn on the lights.
"Who'd have believed that old Thurgarton would have possessed a valuable work of art?" He carried the painting into the shop. "He was no collector. You saw how he lived. How the heck do you suppose he got hold of it?"
"I haven't got a clue." She led the way across the showroom to the long counter. "As I told you, there isn't a lot of Upsall's work around. It's amazing to think that one of his pictures has been sitting out here on the coast all these years."
"Who says we're not a bunch of real sophisticated art lovers here in Eclipse Bay?"
"Certainly not me." She opened the back room and turned on more lights. "You can put it there with that stack of paintings leaning against the far wall."
He surveyed the crowded back room. Rows of paintings were stacked five and six deep against every wall. Empty frames of all shapes and sizes were propped in the corner. The workbench was littered with tools and matting materials.
"No offense," he said dryly, setting down the painting, "but this place looks almost as cluttered as Thurgarton's cabin."
"Gallery back rooms always look like this."
He straightened. "The finding of a previously unknown Upsall should make for an interesting story in some of the art magazines."
She smiled. "I can see the headline now. Conspiracy Buff, New Age Cult Leader and Porn Shop Proprietor Inherit Lost Upsall."
"Be interesting to see what they do with the money." He walked back to where she stood in the doorway. "Well, so much for tonight's thrilling adventure in the world of art. Are you ready for dinner? I'd take you to Dreamscape, but Carson is there and we wouldn't be able to talk in peace. How about the Crab Trap? It's not as good as Rafe's place, but it's not bad."
"You do realize that if we dine in any of the local restaurants, there will be a lot of talk tomorrow?"
"So what? Hartes are used to being talked about in this town."
"I know."
Belatedly it occurred to him that she was not accustomed to being the subject of local gossip. "Look, if this is a problem, we can go back to my place. I've got plenty of food in the house. Comes with having a growing boy around. I'm not saying that it will be what anyone would call gourmet, but-"
She cleared her throat. "I bought fresh asparagus and some salmon fillets this afternoon."
Fresh asparagus and salmon were not generally purchased on a whim. He considered the possibilities.
"You planned to invite me back to your place?" he asked finally.
"To be honest, it struck me that it would be more comfortable to eat there rather than in front of an audience composed of a lot of the good and extremely curious people of Eclipse Bay."
He smiled slowly. "Fresh asparagus and salmon sound great."
The atmosphere was making him very uneasy, but for the life of him, he could not figure out what was wrong. On the surface, everything was perfect.
Dinner had gone smoothly. He had taken charge of the salmon while Octavia had dealt with the asparagus and sliced some crusty bread. They had sipped from two glasses of chardonnay while they worked together in her snug, cozy kitchen. They had talked easily, for all the world as comfortable as two people who had prepared a meal together countless times.
It was almost as if they had already become lovers, he thought. A deep sense of intimacy enveloped them and it was starting to worry him. This was a far different sensation than he had known with other women in the past. It was not the pleasant, superficial sexual awareness he had experienced on previous, similar occasions. He did not understand the prowling tension that was starting to leave claw marks on his insides.
Maybe this had not been one of his better ideas. Then again, looking back, he was pretty sure he'd never had much choice. If you went hunting fairy queens, you took a few risks.
He stood at the sink in her gleaming, white-tiled kitchen and washed the pan that had been used to steam the asparagus. Nearby, Octavia, a striped towel draped over her left shoulder, went up on her tiptoes to stack dishes in a cupboard. When she raised her arms overhead, her breasts moved beneath the thin fabric of her blouse.
Damn. He was staring. Annoyed, he concentrated on rinsing the pan.
She closed the cupboard door and reached for the coffeepot. "Black, right? No cream or sugar?"
"Right."
She poured coffee into two cups and led the way into the living room. He dried his hands, slung the damp towel over a rack, and followed her, unable to take his eyes off the mesmerizing sway of her hips.
What the hell was wrong with this picture? he wondered. This was exactly how it was supposed to look, precisely how he had hoped it would look at this point.
She curled up in a corner of the sofa, one leg tucked under the curve of her thigh, mug gracefully cupped in her hands. The fire he had built earlier crackled on the hearth.
She smiled at him and he immediately felt every nerve and muscle in his body shift from Yellow Alert status to Code Red. An almost irresistible urge swept over him to pick her up off the sofa, carry her into the shadowy room at the end of the hall, and put her down on a bed. He flexed one hand deliberately to regain control.
It had been like this all evening, as though he were walking the edge of a cliff in a violent storm. One false step and he would go over into very deep water. It didn't help that outside the rain and the wind had struck land with a vengeance some forty
minutes ago.
He crossed the living room to the stone fireplace, picked up an iron poker, and prodded the fire. The blaze didn't need prodding, but it gave him something to do with his hands.
"I've enjoyed your books," she said. "I've got all four in the series."
"I noticed." He put aside the poker, straightened, and glanced at the bookshelf where his novels were arranged between two heavy green glass bookends. "We authors tend to pick up on little details like that."
The bookends looked expensive, he thought. Dolphins playing in the surf. One-of-a-kind pieces of art glass, not cheap, utilitarian bookends picked up at a rummage sale.
There were other quietly expensive touches in the cottage. An exotically patterned carpet done in shades of muted greens and gold covered most of the hardwood floor in front of the dark-green sofa. The coffee table was a heavy sheet of green glass that rippled and flowed like a wave of clear lava. A couple of framed abstract paintings hung on the walls.
Not the kind of furnishings you expected in a weekend or summer house, he thought. He had the feeling that she had deliberately set out to make a home here. And now she was planning to depart for good.
"Tell me," she said, "was it difficult to make the decision to leave Harte Investments when you decided to write full time?"
"Making the decision was easy." He sat down on the sofa and reached for his coffee mug. "Getting out of the family business was a little more difficult."
"I'll bet it was. You were the firstborn and from all accounts you showed a talent for investments."
He shrugged. "I'm a Harte."
She gave him a fleeting smile. "There must have been a lot of pressure on you to take over the helm after your father retired."
"My parents were very understanding and supportive." He took a swallow of coffee and slowly lowered the mug. "But Sullivan went off like Mount Saint Helens."
"I believe it. Harte Investments was your grandfather's creation. Everyone around here knows what he went through to recover and build a new company after Aunt Claudia-" She broke off. "After Harte-Madison went under."
He wrapped both hands around the mug. "Dad tried to shield me from the worst of the blast but no one could have suppressed that explosion. Sullivan and I went a few rounds before he finally realized that I wasn't going to back down and change my mind."
"It must have been a difficult time."
"Yeah." He took another sip of coffee. "But we got through it."
"It's a tribute to the strength of your family bonds."
"Uh-huh." He did not want to talk any more about that time in his life. It was tied up too closely with Amelia's death. He glanced around the room. "Looks like you planned to stay here for a while."
She raised one shoulder in a tiny shrug. "Plans change."
He couldn't think of anything to say to that so he tried another topic. "Heard you've been seeing Jeremy Seaton."
"We've had dinner together a couple of times." She sipped her coffee.
He looked at her. "Mind if I ask if there's anything serious in that direction?"
She pursed her lips and tilted her head slightly. Thinking. "I would describe my relationship with Jeremy as friendly."
"Friendly." What the hell did friendly mean?
"Jeremy and I have a lot of interests in common."
He nodded once. "The art thing. Jeremy paints."
She gave him polite concern. "Is there a problem here?"
"You tell me." He put his mug down with great care. "Is Jeremy going to have a problem with you and me having dinner tonight?"
"I doubt it." She looked surprised by the question. "But if he says anything, I'll explain the situation to him."
"How, exactly, do you intend to explain it?"
"I'll tell him that we're just friends. He'll understand."
"Just friends," he repeated neutrally.
"What else?" She put down her own mug and looked pointedly at the clock. "Good heavens, it's getting late, isn't it? I have to go into the gallery early tomorrow to frame some of the children's pictures, and I'm sure you're anxious to pick up Carson."
"Kicking me out?"
"It's been a long day," she said by way of an apology and got to her feet.
"Sure." He rose slowly, taking his time.
She handed him his black windbreaker and opened the door for him. Smiling all the while. Friendly.
He went outside onto the front porch. The squall was dying fast, leaving behind crisp, still-damp air.
"Drive carefully," she said.
"I'll do that."
He pulled on his jacket but did not bother to fasten it. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stood looking out into the night. He could hear the distant rumble of waves crashing against the bottom of the bluffs behind the cottage.
He turned slowly back to Octavia.
In the porch light, her hair glowed the color of the flames on the hearth inside. He could feel the magic that swirled around her.
He'd had enough. He knew now what was wrong with this picture.
"Something you should understand before we go any further here," he said.
"What's that?"
He took two steps back across the porch, closing the distance between them. He kept his hands in the pockets of his jacket, not trusting himself to touch her.
"Whatever else this turns out to be," he said evenly, "it isn't about being just friends."
She blinked. Her lips parted but no words emerged.
Just as well because he did not want to talk.
He kissed her, hands still in his pockets, leaning forward a little to claim her mouth. She did not flinch or step back but he felt the shiver that went through her.
He deepened the kiss deliberately.
Her mouth softened under his. He got the feeling that she was tasting him; testing him, maybe. Or was it herself she was testing?
She made a tiny, unbelievably sexy little sound and his blood ran hot in his veins. His breathing thickened.
He raised his head slowly. Breaking off the kiss required a serious act of willpower.
"Definitely not just friends," he said.
He turned away, went down the steps, and got into his car.
A short time later he drove into the newly paved, heavily landscaped parking lot at Dreamscape and slotted the BMW into the empty space next to Rafe's Porsche. He glanced at his watch as he got out. It was after eleven. The restaurant had been closed for over an hour. The vehicles that remained in the lot belonged to the overnight guests. There were a number of them.
Dreamscape had been an immediate success from the first day of operation. In addition to tourists, the inn drew a steady clientele from the institute and Chamberlain College.
He walked up the steps of the wide veranda that surrounded the lower floor of the inn. The front door opened just as he reached out to lean on the little bell.
"Heard the engine," Rafe said. "Figured it was you." He stood aside to allow Nick into the front hall. "Want some coffee?"
"No, thanks. Just had some." He nodded at the balding, middle-aged man who emerged from the office behind the front desk. "'Evening, Eddie."
"Hello, Nick. Come to collect your boy?"
"Yes."
"How was the hot date with the charming Miss Brightwell?" Rafe asked.
"No comment."
Rafe gave him a commiserating look and closed the door. "That bad, huh? You know, I wondered if she was really your type."
"No comment means no comment. I thought you Madisons were real big on a no-kiss-and-tell policy."
"Hey, we're family now, remember?" Rafe grinned. "I'm just trying to show a little brotherly interest in your personal affairs, that's all."
"Brotherly interest, my ass, you're just-" He broke off at the sight of Hannah appearing in the opening that led to the central corridor and the solarium.
"About time you got here," she said.
"It's not that late," Nick said, feeling oddly defensive. "Just because
you old married folks go to bed early doesn't mean the rest of us are obliged to keep the same boring hours."
"Good point." Rafe raised a brow. "It isn't even midnight, Cinderella. What are you doing here this early? I told you we'd be happy to let Carson stay the night if you got lucky."
Hannah turned on Rafe with a withering glare. "You told him that? You actually said something so extremely tacky?"
"He's a Madison," Nick reminded her. "He was born tacky. We can only pray that your classy Harte genes will overpower his unfortunate genetic inheritance when you two decide to start making babies."
Hannah gave him an odd look. Rafe's mouth curved but he refrained from comment. Nick got the feeling he was missing the joke.
"Well?" Hannah said in that tone of voice that meant she was deliberately changing the subject and everyone else had better go along. "How was the date with Octavia? Did you have a nice time? Where did you two have dinner?"
He studied his sister. There was something different about her lately. He hadn't been able to put his finger on it but it was almost as though she harbored a special secret. Marriage definitely agreed with her, he thought. But, then, with the glaring exception of himself, it agreed with Hartes, in general.
"Her place," he said neutrally.
"Oh, man," Rafe muttered. "You went back to her place and she kicked you out before eleven o'clock. Not good." He shook his head. "I'd be happy to give you a little brotherly advice on how to behave yourself on a first date with a nice lady, Harte. Least I could do, you being family and all."
"You can take your helpful dating advice down to the Total Eclipse Bar and Grill and stuff it where the sun don't shine."
"Touchy, are we? Okay, but it's your loss, pal."
He'd had enough, Nick decided. He looked at Hannah. "Got my son?"
"Sound asleep in the library." Her expression softened. "Winston is keeping an eye on him." She hesitated. "He seemed a little concerned about your relationship with Octavia."
"Winston is concerned about my personal life?"
"Not my dog. Your son. He mentioned several times this evening that he was afraid you might make her mad."
Rafe sighed. "Apparently even little Carson is aware of your lack of finesse with the ladies."
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