Moving Target (16 page)

Smiling back, Dana shook her head at the unexpected flash of Lawe’s smile. The man could melt glaciers with it. “No wonder the Donovans get away with murder.”

“Not literally,” Archer said easily.

But the look they passed among themselves said
Not recently
.

“Is one of your clean rooms available within the next four days?” Archer asked.

Dana knew when a subject was being changed. She also knew when not to point it out. “For the Donovans, of course.”

Archer’s smile was like Lawe’s, surprising in a man who otherwise looked like a hard piece of business. “Lawe has some emeralds and several dealers we’ve never heard of want to look at them.”

“Would Tuesday be all right?”

“Fine. You can bill it to Donovan Gems and Minerals.”

Dana waved her hand in dismissal and turned to Lawe. “We could work out an exchange. My West Coast emerald expert just went to work for the Smithsonian. His wife likes Washington, D.C. Go figure. Anyway, if you would be willing to be listed as a consultant on faceted gems for Rarities Unlimited, we’d be willing to let you use the clean rooms for your own business.”

“Take it,” Archer said. “It’s a good deal.”

Dana smiled like a cat.
Gotcha.

A
s the automatic gate to Erik North’s property rolled shut behind Serena’s car, she wondered if she had done the right thing. She couldn’t hear the gate lock behind her. Not really. It was more like something she felt. When all was said and done, no matter how much she needed to know about her inheritance, and no matter how deeply Erik intrigued her, she really didn’t know the man.

I didn’t know Warrick, either, but I went to his house alone at night, she reminded herself. And I got insulted for my trouble.

At least she could be certain that Erik hadn’t come out to the desert to kill her. If he had, she would be dead. Then she wondered if maybe he had held back because he was looking for more than just a few pages from the Book of the Learned. Maybe he thought she had more treasures.

The feeling of playing blindman’s buff with her own life was frightening. She was accustomed to taking care of herself, to needing no one else, to living with the rest of humanity at arm’s length. She didn’t take it to her grandmother’s extreme of becoming a desert hermit, but trust still came very hard to her, if at all.

She glanced at the sleek electronic unit on the seat beside her and sighed. It was hard to keep on being afraid of a man who left his personal communications unit with you just so that you could call the cops if you panicked.

Hold that good thought
, she told herself.

Stroking her scarf for luck and comfort, she followed Erik’s silver vehicle up the curving driveway. From the layout of the land, she guessed that the lot was about two acres, perhaps more. Like the Warrick estate, Erik’s property was bounded by a high, solid wall. Unlike the Warrick estate, she guessed that the rocks in this wall had come from a very old building. Except for the reddish color, the stones reminded her of London Bridge, which had been imported piece by numbered piece from England and plunked down in the middle of the Arizona desert.

Indeed, there was a distinctly medieval feel to the layout and design of Erik’s home. Unlike the Warrick estate, Erik’s didn’t have any Old World trees pruned into unusual shapes along the driveway. Instead, there were random plantings of jacaranda trees whose lacy, fernlike leaves made fragile shadow patterns over the cement. Beyond the jacarandas there were mature citrus trees heavy with fruit, various kinds of palm trees, and bougainvillea vines, along with lavender, honeysuckle, and other plants she couldn’t identify.

Rather wistfully Serena looked back at the shadows beneath the jacaranda trees. Several times a year she tried to reproduce or at least suggest the grace of a jacaranda in her weaving. So far, none of her efforts had lived up to nature.

When Serena saw Erik’s house up close, she forgot about her failed weaving designs. The roof was slate, like an old country house in England. The walls were blocks of reddish stone of a kind she hadn’t seen outside of the red castles of Caerlaverock and Carlisle in the Scottish borderlands. Medallions and occasional panels of colorful glazed tiles balanced the unrelieved stone. Instead of the griffins, lions, stags, or other heraldic figures she expected, the tiles contained stylized Celtic designs that could have graced anything from illuminated manuscripts to ancient weavings. Blue, gold, violet, red, yellow; the colors were as brilliant as the designs were surprising.

Belatedly Serena realized that Erik was standing by her van door, waiting for her. She grabbed her big purse and got out, handing over his phone/computer as she did. With a swift glance, he checked the readout window. Nothing urgent. At least, nothing as urgent as his impatience to see Serena’s pages.

Factoid still hadn’t checked in. Neither had Erik. He didn’t want to talk to Rarities about Ellis Weaver Charters in front of Serena. Mentally cursing the restrictions of distrust, he shoved the unit back in its case at the small of his back.

Automatically Serena locked the van before she turned to face her host. He had just finished stowing the expensive electronic unit in a holder behind his back. His quick, economical movements told her that it was a familiar action to him, rather like picking up a weaving shuttle was to her.

“The illuminated manuscript business must be good,” she said, looking at the spacious yard and big house. Then she heard her own words and winced. “Sorry. Some people have to work at putting their foot in their mouth. It comes naturally to me.”

He smiled. “No problem. I’m the fourth generation to own North Castle. Granddad knew my father well enough to tie up all the loose cash in a trust to maintain the family home, so I can’t take credit for any of it.”

“Smart man.”

“Me or Granddad?”

“Yes. Where on earth did you get those fabulous Celtic tiles?”

“My mother made them.”

Serena’s left eyebrow rose in a graceful arc of surprise and reappraisal. “The designs are quite incredible, both ancient and somehow modern. All the spirals and intensity of the ancient Celts but none of the claustrophobic feeling.” She stared past him at the tiles set into a walk leading to the front door. These weren’t glazed in vibrant colors. The tantalizing design came from subtle shadings in each tile and careful placement of every tile. “Extraordinary. Some of the most elegant design work I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Why? Your mother did it.”

“Didn’t I mention that I created the designs?”

She threw up her hands. “Right. Be flattered.”

“Is this where I compliment you on your fine eye? No one else has realized that the designs were a modern take on ancient themes.”

She shot him a sideways look. “Why do I not believe you?”

“Beats me. I’m telling the truth. No one else has noticed. Oh, they like the designs and all, but they don’t understand them. You do. Want to see my attack cuckoo?”

Serena’s jaw dropped. “One of us is crazy.”

“I’m looking forward to finding out which one.” He held out his hand. “Come on. He should be on the back wall gathering courage for his afternoon drink. If we’re real quiet, he won’t see us.”

“Who won’t?”

“Cuckoo.”

“One o’clock and none is well,” she muttered. “At two do we get to meet cuckoo-cuckoo?”

Erik laughed, pulled her close for a one-armed hug, and said, “I suppose I shouldn’t tease you, but, damn, it’s fun to fence with someone as quick as you are.”

She was in the middle of hugging him back when she realized what she was doing. She pulled away so fast that she stumbled.

“Easy, there,” he said, steadying her with quick hands. “The walk is uneven. Tree roots keep growing and tiles don’t.”

“Then I’ll have to watch where I’m going very carefully.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t worry. I’ll catch you if you stumble.”

“Thanks, but I’ve been on my own two feet for a long time.”

Hoping his irritation didn’t show, Erik turned away and opened the front door lock without even noticing his favorite design set into the door, a stylized tree of life. It seemed like every time he made a little forward progress with Serena, she jumped backward. At this rate he would still be trying to see those illuminated pages on the Fourth of July.

“I’ll show you around in a few minutes,” he said, pulling her almost gently into the house. “But if we don’t hurry, he’ll be gone.”

“Who?”

“My attack cuckoo, remember?”

“Erik, you’re worrying me.”

He glanced down, saw that she was mostly teasing, and urged her quickly through the house into the kitchen. A glance at the spa told him that they were just in time.

“Stand next to me here,” he said quietly. “Now, don’t move. Without turning your head, look out at the spa. See him?”

Serena did as she was told and saw a large mottled brown-and-cream bird drinking with quick, nervous darts of its head.

“Cuckoo my rear,” she said, barely moving her lips. “That’s a roadrunner.”

“Which is a member of the cuckoo family.”

“You’re teasing me again.”

“Not this time.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Bloodthirsty, aren’t you?”

“About promises and vows, yes.”

He looked at her violet eyes for the space of one breath, two, and then said, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Serena wanted to smile, but couldn’t. Erik’s tawny eyes were intent, almost predatory, and so familiar her heart squeezed. A shiver went over her skin, leaving her feeling as though someone was walking on her grave. Again.

“Good thing death won’t be necessary,” she managed. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for yours.”

“Another compliment.” He smiled and wished she wouldn’t run if he kissed her the way he wanted to. “You’ll turn my head.”

“Not before you turn my stomach.”

He laughed so hard that the roadrunner started and flew up to the top of the wall. “Just for that, I may leave the Irish out of your coffee.”

“Good idea. I have a long drive home.”

“Leucadia, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

He glanced out at the angle of the sun. “There’s plenty of time. Did you eat lunch or would you like a snack?”

She hesitated.

“That means you didn’t eat lunch and would like a snack,” Erik said. “How do you like smoked salmon?”

“Any way I can get it.”

“You’re about to get lucky.”

He walked around the kitchen pulling a plate, cups, silverware, and a can from cupboards and drawers. He handed her the can.

She looked at the label:
KING SALMON CAUGHT BY ERIK NORTH
. “Really?” she asked.

“Really. I have friends up north.”

She pried up the tab, pulled off the top of the can, and inhaled deeply. “Yum. Mr. Picky will never forgive me.”

“Mr. Picky?” he asked, even though he knew that was the name of her pet. She wouldn’t know that he knew, which was something he had better keep in mind instead of watching her lick her lips.

“My cat. He’ll smell salmon on my breath and be really mad at me.”

“I’ll give you a mint.”

“You could give me gasoline mouthwash and Picky would still know. He has a thing for smoked salmon.”

“Want some bread or crackers to go with it?”

“Only if it will make you feel better.”

Smiling, he handed her a fork. “Enjoy.”

She took a bite of salmon and made a husky sound of pleasure. “You must have caught this one in heaven.”

“Alaska.”

She was too busy rounding up a stray crumb of fish with her tongue to answer.

Abruptly Erik turned away and began cutting pieces of cheese from a big chunk of Gouda. If he kept on watching her lick salmon off a fork, he was going to start thinking with his dick. Not smart.

So he washed off grapes, sliced up an apple, and put out a tube of sesame crackers. “Coffee? Tea? Soda? Water? Beer? Wine?” he asked, not looking at her.

“Coffee,” she mumbled, then swallowed quickly. “Please.”

“Black or doctored?”

“Sugar.”

He started to pour out the morning’s leftover coffee, only to have her grab his wrist.

“I’d rather drink it out of a cup than the sink, if you don’t mind,” she said.

“I was going to make a fresh pot.”

She glanced around, saw a microwave, and said, “Don’t bother. I’ll just nuke it.”

“No wonder you use sugar.”

He poured the cold coffee into a mug, nuked it, and handed the steaming cup to her. He smiled when he saw that most of the salmon was already gone.

“Want another can?” he asked.

“My cat would execute a contract on me if I ate more than one can.”

“Mr. Picky is a cat assassin?”

“If you can have an attack cuckoo, I can have a cat assassin.”

He grinned. “I’ll send some salmon home with you.”

“I should refuse.”

“But you won’t.”

“Are you kidding? Do you know how good this salmon is?” She licked the fork clean and sighed.

Erik decided it was a good time to call Rarities. Either that, or do something really stupid like feeding Serena smoked salmon tidbit by tidbit—with his tongue.

“I’ve got to check on something,” he said, turning away. “I won’t be long.”

She made an indecipherable sound and began eating grapes, apple, cheese, and crackers with equal parts of pleasure and efficiency.

Erik went up the stairs three at a time, strode down the flagstone hall with its old Persian carpet, and went into his bedroom. Everything was neater than he had left it, which meant that the housekeeper provided for by his grandfather’s trust had been at work while he was gone. Without a glance at the familiar furnishings, he sat at his desk near the big bed and passed all the information/speculation he had on to Dana and Factoid.

Though he was only gone a few minutes, Serena was down to the last grape and slice of cheese. The look on her face said that she had enjoyed every bite.

“Okay,” he said. “Wash your hands and you can see my etchings.”