Darknight (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 2) (4 page)

“Ever had malbec?” he asked, pouring some for me.

“Yes,” I replied, and allowed myself a small smile at his expression of surprise. “We take wine very seriously in the Verde Valley, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” He tipped an equal amount into his own glass and then set down the bottle. “I just didn’t think you grew malbec grapes there.”

“We don’t. But Grapes — that’s a restaurant in Jerome — serves all kinds of wine from all over the world. I’ve tried pretty much all of them.”

“I’m impressed. When I was your age, most of the girls I knew were more into Jell-O shots or rum and Cokes or maybe mojitos if they were being really sophisticated.”

“‘When I was your age’?” I lifted the glass and sipped; the malbec was good, big and fruity, with a velvety feel on the tongue. “What are you, a whole five years older than I am?”

“Something like that.” He raised his glass to me. “Happy birthday.”

I wished he hadn’t reminded me. Was that the point of this elaborate spread, to try to soften the blow of my being here with him and away from my family and friends on my birthday? I almost told him to go to hell, but for some reason I couldn’t force the words past my lips. It was pretty obvious he was doing his best to make things as easy for me as he could, and equally obvious that, while he’d behave as his brother asked up to a point, he certainly wasn’t going to force me into any intimacies I didn’t want.

If only I could convince the hungry, lustful side of my brain that I really
didn’t
want those intimacies. At least not with a Wilcox.

“Thanks,” I replied, after a pause I was sure he noticed. “So what are we eating?”

Something in his posture relaxed, as if he’d been wondering if I was going to make a scene. If only he knew how close I’d come. “Those are bacon-wrapped dates,” he said, pointing with his free hand, “and this is the tortilla española, which is sort of layers of potato and egg, and those are mushrooms with red peppers — ”

“Okay, slow down,” I broke in. “Where do I start?”

“Try a date.”

I pulled the toothpick out of the morsel, decided it was a little too big to stuff in my mouth all at once, and instead cut it in half and lifted a bite to my mouth. “Holy crap,” I said after I was done chewing.

“You like it?”

“It’s amazing.”

And so was pretty much everything else he’d brought. It might not have been the birthday dinner I’d imagined, but it was certainly better than I had hoped. For a while we just talked about the food, which seemed like a nice, neutral subject. I was careful with the wine, too, making sure I took sips of water in between sips of wine so I wouldn’t lose my head and get tipsy. That, I thought, sneaking a peek at Connor’s black-lashed green eyes as he was focused on setting a slice of manchego cheese and ham on my plate, could get me in a lot of trouble.

Then I asked, “So how long have you had the gallery?”

“About two years.”

“And the paintings?”

“Mine,” he said shortly.

I supposed I should have guessed, but for some reason his reply took me by surprise. On the wall behind him was a study in reds and corals and dark olive, a bent tree surrounded by stark rock. Somewhere near the Grand Canyon, I thought. Like every other painting in the apartment, it was strong and sure, a study of color and light.

“You’re really good,” I said honestly. “I mean,
really
good. Do you sell your work in the gallery?”

His mouth tightened. “No.”

“Why not?” I asked. “People would eat this stuff up. Do you show in other galleries, then?”

“No. I paint and I hang them here. When I run out of room, I shuffle them around. A bunch are in storage.”

That didn’t make any sense to me at all. Why on earth would he be hiding his paintings away instead of showing them to the world? “But they’re so good — ”

“They’re just for me, okay?”

Somehow I got the feeling that wasn’t the truth, or at least not most of it. I didn’t know either of them very well, but I’d already gotten a sense of the dynamic between Connor and Damon Wilcox. “It’s your brother, isn’t it? For some reason he doesn’t want you to paint?”

Silence for a few seconds. Connor reached out and poured himself some wine, then refilled my glass. The bottle was already more than halfway gone. Finally he said, “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“I try not to.” Ignoring my previous caution, I allowed myself a large swallow of wine. “I guess I’m trying to understand why he’d have a problem with your painting. I mean, if you weren’t any good, okay, but — ”

“The
primus
’s brother is supposed to be as successful as he is,” he cut in. “Gallery owner is fine. Starving artist? Not so much.”

“As good as you are, I doubt you’d be starving.” I took a bite of ham and cheese, then pointed my fork at the spread in front of us. “Case in point.”

A reluctant grin touched his mouth…his lovely, lovely mouth.

Eyes back on your plate, Angela!
I scolded myself. At least there was plenty on that plate to keep me distracted.

“It’s…complicated.”

“It always is, isn’t it?” I speared the last bacon-wrapped date with my fork — hey, it was my birthday — and dropped it on my plate. “I get that he’s the
primus
and everything, but I’m having a hard time figuring out this whole ‘when he says jump, you ask how high’ thing with you two.”

The grin disappeared. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Of course he didn’t. I hesitated, trying to decide if I should push it, but a second glance at the flat line of his mouth told me it was probably better if I left it alone…for now. But he’d have to open up eventually if he thought he was ever going to have a chance with me.

A
chance
? What the hell was my brain doing? I shouldn’t be thinking about whether I should be giving him any chances — I should be thinking about what steps my clan members were going to take next, and whether there was any way for me to circumvent the fiendishly strong wards that had been put in place on Connor’s apartment.

“Have it your way,” I said, and recklessly poured the remainder of the malbec into my glass.

A pained expression crossed his face, but whether that was because I’d taken the last of the wine for myself or because he was still irritated with my line of questioning, I couldn’t be sure. In silence he set aside his napkin and rose from the table. For a few seconds I thought he was walking away because he was upset, but then I realized he’d simply gone to the kitchen to fetch another bottle. Not a malbec this time, though; the sunburst on the label was familiar. Arizona Stronghold.

He yanked out the cork and refilled his glass. “Did you email anyone while I was out?”

Talk about your abrupt shifts in conversation. “No,” I said.

One eyebrow lifted slightly. “Why not?”

“Well, the damage was already done, according to your brother. I didn’t see the point.”

It was obvious he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with that statement. He fiddled with the cork, which he’d left sitting on the table, before swallowing some of the wine he’d just poured. To tell the truth, I still wasn’t quite sure why I hadn’t sent another email, except that my family already knew the most important thing — that I was all right — and I didn’t really know what to say besides that. I wasn’t ready to let them know that Connor was my consort, the man I’d been dreaming of for the past five years. Goddess knows what their reaction would be to that little bombshell.

Maybe I could’ve tried confiding in Sydney, but she really didn’t have a grasp on the politics of the situation. She probably would have asked me why I hadn’t jumped Connor’s bones already. Some part of me was trying to figure that out, too — the part that seemed to go into heat every time I stared too long at any one portion of his anatomy.

He set down the wine cork. “I’m having a hard time figuring you out, Angela.”

“You’re not the first,” I said with a shrug, trying to lighten the moment. “I drive my friend Sydney crazy sometimes.”

A nod, and the beginnings of that smile once again. I hoped it wouldn’t disappear quite so quickly this time. “Full?” he asked, nodding toward my plate.

I actually was. That last date had pretty much done me in. “I think so.”

“Well, I hope you saved a little room. I got some dessert, too.”

I always had room for dessert. “I could probably squeeze that in somewhere.”

“Good.” He got up and began gathering up the plates, and when I began to stand so I could help, he waved me off. “It’s okay. You stay put.”

Whether he was being extra conscientious to make up for his brusqueness earlier or because he was trying to make nice on my birthday, I wasn’t sure, but I stayed where I was and allowed him to clear the table. He busied himself in the kitchen for a few minutes, and then he came back out with two slender slices of what looked like flour-less chocolate cake on fresh plates. A lumpy white bag was shoved under one arm.

He put the larger of the two slices in front of me. “I don’t have any candles, but — ”

“It’s fine,” I said hastily. The last thing I wanted was for him to start singing “Happy Birthday” to me or something similarly corny. “The cake looks great.”

“There’s a bakery around the corner. I went and got the cake while they were working on my order at the tapas place.” As he sat down, he extricated the white bag from under his arm and set it on the tabletop. A brief hesitation, and then he pushed it toward me. “I got you something. I know it can’t make up for not being there with your family on your birthday, but….”

Mystified, I set down my fork before I had even taken a bite of cake. He’d bought me a birthday present? When would he have even had time for that? I surmised that maybe he hadn’t actually been at the gallery all the time he was gone. But still, that he’d gone out and gotten something for me —

“You didn’t have to.” The spiteful part of me wanted to say that he couldn’t make up for kidnapping me by buying me a birthday present, but I held my tongue. He was doing the best he could. It wasn’t his fault that he’d gotten sucked into his brother’s crazy schemes. It seemed clear enough to me that he was doing everything in his power to make sure I didn’t suffer any more in the aftermath of those plans.

“I wanted to.”

Now I was the one who looked away first. I’d seen need in those eyes, and desire…but hesitation, too. He wouldn’t force me, no matter what. Of course, with the way my body reacted to even his briefest touch, I thought there wouldn’t be a good deal of forcing involved.

I reached out and took the bag. It was very heavy.

“Sorry it isn’t wrapped or anything. The store was out of gift bags because it was busy today.”

“That’s fine,” I said automatically, then reached inside. Something metal, it felt like, wrapped in tissue paper.

I pulled the tissue paper away and pulled the object out of the bag, then gasped. The silver links gleamed in the low light from the bronze and frosted glass fixture overhead, the turquoise nuggets glowing amidst each of those links. It was a concho belt, the sort of thing I’d always coveted but could never really justify the expense.

Apparently misinterpreting my awed silence, Connor said, “I noticed that you seemed to like turquoise jewelry, so I thought you might like the belt. If you don’t — I mean, if you’d rather have something else, I can take it back.”

“Oh, no,” I told him hastily. “It’s perfect. I mean, I’ve always wanted one, and could never afford it. I just — I’m startled, I guess.”

“But you like it.”

“I love it,” I assured him, turning it over in my hands, admiring the workmanship of the stampings, the smooth bevels around the turquoise nuggets. As I did so, I caught the faint markings on the back of each concho:
.925
. That meant the belt was solid sterling, not the nickel silver I’d assumed it had been made of. Those kinds of belts were expensive enough, but one of solid silver? It had to have cost him at least a thousand dollars, if not more.

How could I accept such a costly gift from him? But I somehow knew if I refused it, he’d be upset. It would be a refusal of him as well. I couldn’t make myself do that. Despite my best efforts to harden myself to him, to not let him wiggle his way into my heart, I had a feeling he was doing that very thing.

“I’m glad,” he said, and went to take a bite of his cake, acting as if it was no big deal that he’d spent more on that one gift for me than anyone had ever spent on me in my entire life.

I murmured, “Thank you,” and followed his lead, picking up my fork and helping myself to the cake, which was rich and moist and velvety. My head was still spinning, though.

What was the catch phrase from that old
Star Trek
show?

Resistance is futile.

I was beginning to understand that all too well.

A
fter dinner
we watched some TV, then went to bed early. Still strange, still so mind-bendingly odd how we could be so casual about saying our goodnights and retiring to our separate rooms. The lock on my door was blasted to hell and back, and yet I knew that really wasn’t going to be a problem. Connor was giving me my space, letting me do with it what I willed.

What that would be, I had no idea. To say I was confused by the situation would be an understatement. He was friendly one moment, completely closed off the next. Not that I had to search too hard for the reason why he’d shut down when he did — no, that was all about his brother. What was going on there, I had no idea. Damon obviously had some strange power over Connor, one that seemed to go far beyond merely being his brother. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was a kind of mind control, since that one confrontation I’d overheard had told me Connor was willing to stand up to his brother when the occasion called for it. But he also showed no inclination to talk about their relationship…and I had to believe something lay there that would explain everything, if he would only open up about it.

The odds of that seemed roughly on par with the likelihood of Damon showing up at the apartment and announcing that I was free to go back to Jerome. As I lay down to sleep that night, acutely aware of Connor’s presence just across the hall, I wondered what it would take to get him to talk, and whether I even had the ability to pry open that particular oyster to get at the pearl inside. I had to believe I did. The situation couldn’t go on like this indefinitely.

I just didn’t know what I would do when it did finally change.

T
he next day
went a little more smoothly, mainly because at least I knew what to expect. Connor let me know that he’d be working — “the gallery usually isn’t open on Sundays, but it is this weekend because of the holidays” — and I spent my day being bored out of my mind watching TV. I would rather have read, but he didn’t seem to have many books around except art books and some leftover textbooks, and there was nary an e-reader or tablet in sight. Since he’d left his laptop behind, I supposed I could’ve downloaded an app to access my books, but somehow that seemed too invasive.

I debated emailing Sydney, then decided against it. It just felt too strange to open an ongoing dialogue like that on someone else’s computer, and I didn’t have the faintest idea how I would even begin to explain the situation. Maybe now that my aunt knew I had the avenue of communication open, she’d be checking her email more often, but again, I didn’t even know what to say to her.

Hi, Aunt Rachel, I’m captive in Connor Wilcox’s apartment, but it’s okay because he’s taking really good care of me. I’m not sure I even want to come home. Hope everyone is having a wonderful Yule!

Yeah, right.

That night it was pizza and chianti.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you don’t cook,” I told Connor as he set the pizza box down on the dining room table. “You know, I could make something.”

“You could?” he inquired, looking dubious.

“I was raised by Rachel McAllister. She would have thought she was being derelict in her duty if she didn’t teach me how to cook.”

It was true; while I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was as good a cook as she was, I definitely knew my way around a kitchen. And making dinner would at least give me something to focus on. Something complicated that would take up a large chunk of the day. That sounded like a great idea.

He was still looking at me with that one raised eyebrow. It was an expression he appeared to have mastered…and one that only intensified his good looks. I forced in a breath, making myself think of possible dishes to make the following day and not how much I wanted to reach out and touch him, feel the fine, sculpted bones of his face under my fingertips.

I shivered, then said quickly, “How about tamales? We usually make up a big batch around the holidays. That, and some homemade black beans.”

“How big a batch?”

“Well, the recipe I know makes about fifty.”

“Fifty?” He’d turned slightly away from me, and was in the middle of transferring a piece of pizza to his plate when he stopped and gave me a look that told me he thought I’d taken leave of my senses. “Isn’t that a lot for two people?”

“We usually share. You can freeze some, or wrap some up to take to your clan members. Don’t you do anything for Yule?”

Studiously glancing away, he put together a plate of pizza for me before sitting down. “There’s usually a dinner on Christmas Day. Kind of a potluck thing. Damon actually hates it, but it’s a tradition, so it keeps on happening. I just figured I wouldn’t be going this year.”

Because of me,
I mentally finished for him. He probably didn’t dare risk taking me out of the house before our bond was complete, but on the other hand, he was just enough of a nice guy that he didn’t want to leave me alone on Christmas. I almost told him he didn’t have to worry about that, but I decided to leave it for now.

“Well, even if you don’t go, you can still provide something for the potluck. Consider it a peace offering from the McAllister clan to the Wilcoxes.”

“Maybe.”

That was all he seemed willing to give me for the moment, so I let it go and concentrated on my pizza and wine. The pizza was decent — nothing gourmet like I’d get at Grapes or at Bocce down in Cottonwood — but it was rich and laden with cheese, so I couldn’t complain too much.

“But it’s okay if I make tamales?”

He sighed, and reached out to take a drink from his glass. “Sure. Give me a list, and I’ll try to get out and go shopping tomorrow morning before the gallery opens.”

His tone was still not all that enthusiastic, but I decided to ignore it for now. Maybe he just wasn’t looking forward to braving the crowds at the supermarket, where everyone would be fighting over the last bags of fresh cranberries and Jell-O mix or something. He’d probably be even less thrilled when he saw some of the specialized items I’d need, but I’d have to risk that.

At least I had a plan.

H
aving asked
for a pencil and paper the night before, I was able to hand over my shopping list the next morning. The lengthy list of ingredients and tools provoked another raised eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything until he got to the part where I’d drawn another line across the page and written down another, smaller list of more items.

“Duck…port…dark cherries?” he inquired. “That doesn’t sound like any tamale I’ve ever had.”

“It’s not for that,” I replied. “It’s for Christmas Eve. I don’t have to make it, though — maybe I should have asked if you had plans with Damon or something.”

“Damon?” he repeated, and shook his head. “Hardly. Damon’s not exactly the holiday spirit type. Anyway, he doesn’t recognize Christmas as a holiday. He just does the potluck because it’s a family tradition. We do celebrate Yule, of course, although that was sort of…disrupted…this year.”

Because of me.
Well, to be more precise, because of their kidnapping of me. I sure wasn’t going to feel guilty for screwing up their Yule celebrations.

“Well, we McAllisters never pass up an opportunity for a party, so we do Christmas, too,” I said. “And there are members of the clan who do go to church, so it’s something a little different for them.”

“Church? Really?”

I lifted my shoulders. “As Aunt Rachel likes to say, a visionary is a visionary, whether he’s Jesus, Buddha, or Mohammed. Why not celebrate his birth? It doesn’t run counter to our other beliefs, more like…alongside them.”

To my surprise, Connor actually nodded. “I kind of like that. And duck for Christmas Eve is fine, if you really want to go to the trouble. But I need to get going if I’m going to scrounge all this stuff before the gallery opens. Luckily, there’s a Bed, Bath, and Beyond in the shopping center next to Safeway, so I hope I can do it all in one stop.”

“I hope so, too.” Now I was starting to feel a little bad for making him go get all those supplies. On the other hand, it wasn’t my fault that I was stuck in his apartment with nothing to occupy myself.

He just nodded and went to the hall closet to retrieve his overcoat and scarf, then let himself out. Although I was more used to being alone in the place by now, it still felt empty and echoing without him.

Man, two days in this place and you’re already losing it,
I scolded myself. Then I went into the kitchen and started pulling out the things Connor did have already, like a glass measuring cup and a set of measuring spoons, and wiping down the counter in preparation for the process of making the tamales and beans. His kitchen wasn’t large, but it was laid out well, unlike the cramped space in Aunt Rachel’s apartment. The kitchen in my big Victorian was much larger, naturally. However, since it hadn’t been updated yet, it still left a lot to be desired. This place had a much better setup for my first solo tamale flight.

I’d just have to hope I didn’t screw it up.

C
onnor came back
about an hour later, laden with so many boxes and bags he had to make two trips up from wherever his vehicle was parked to unload it all. “And now I’ve got to get down to the gallery. It’s already past ten-thirty.”

“Sorry,” I said, and I did actually mean it. I hadn’t intended to make him late to work…and also, seeing all those supplies spread out on the kitchen counter and dining room table made me realize how much I’d asked him to buy. “I didn’t realize it would be so much.”

“It’s fine.” He didn’t smile. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” And like that, he was gone again.

I looked out at the grocery bags and the boxes with the new pans and gadgets, and took in a breath. Time to get to work.

And work it was, but I found myself enjoying it. Chopping things and stirring things and watching the clock to make sure everything is cooking more or less at the desired rate keeps you busy but doesn’t overtax the brain. By the time I had the pork roast in the dutch oven — newly purchased — and the beans in the crockpot — also new — I realized it was almost one o’clock. My stomach growled, and I wondered if Connor was going to bring me lunch the way he had before, or whether he’d decided he’d bought enough groceries that I should be able to scrounge something.

I probably could have, but he showed up a little past one with more sandwiches and an apology for running late.

“It’s been crazy busy,” he told me as he bit into the Italian sub he’d just unwrapped. “Which is good, I guess. I’ve already paid off your little shopping expedition this morning.” He paused then and lifted his head to take an appreciative sniff. “That smells good. What is it?”

“Pork roast in the oven and red chili sauce on the stovetop. Oh, and beans in the crock, but I don’t think they’ve really had time to ‘work’ yet.”

“Who knew you were so domestic?”

“I could have told you, if you’d asked.”
Or if your brother had been interested in anything about me besides me being the
prima, I thought. But that seemed like I was treading on dangerous ground, so I hurried to add, “My aunt always made cooking fun, so I like doing it. Now, cleaning toilets? Totally different.”

Another one of those heart-wrenching grins pulled at his mouth. “No worries there. I have a cleaning service.”

And how are you going to explain me to them?
I wondered, but didn’t ask. Considering how spotless the place was when I showed up — especially for a bachelor’s apartment — I had to guess they’d been here recently and probably wouldn’t be back until after the holidays.

I only said, “Thank the Goddess!” and then took a bite out of my sandwich. He seemed to recognize that I was trying to keep the conversation light, so he ate along with me in silence until we were both done.

“Back to the salt mines,” he commented. “The gallery’s open until six, so I’ll be up a little later than yesterday.”

“That’s fine,” I replied. “I’m shooting for dinner around seven.”

“Sounds good.”

If our relationship had been different, this was the moment where he should have bent down to kiss me goodbye before he left. But we weren’t there. Not by a long shot.

He left, and I went back to work.

A
round two-thirty
I took a break, as I was waiting for the broth from the pork roast to cool so I could skim off the fat. The day had gradually begun to darken, but not because of approaching night. Not that early. No, I could see gray clouds gathering outside. It had done the same thing the day before, but no snow had fallen, so I wasn’t sure what the lowering skies really meant.

I went to the window to look at the weather and the streets below. Not that much had changed, although they didn’t seem quite as crowded as they had been the day before. Well, that made sense, since today was a Monday and probably a lot of people were at work. But it was still busy enough, and once again I found myself wishing that I could be down there in the fresh air, window-shopping and enjoying myself. Making tamales was a welcome distraction, but it didn’t exactly provide much mental stimulation.

As I watched, a sleek black Range Rover pulled up to an empty spot at the curb just below the apartment and in front of the gallery. The door opened, and a tall dark-haired man got out. Almost at once I recognized him as Damon Wilcox, and I pulled in a worried little breath, wondering if he was going to come up to the apartment again. I really didn’t want to imagine what his reaction might be if he barged in here and found me playing domestic goddess in his brother’s kitchen.

But as the minutes ticked by and he didn’t appear, I realized the apartment must not have been his destination at all. He must have gone to the gallery.

While I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation, I didn’t possess the sort of clairvoyance that would allow me to eavesdrop on the two brothers from up here. All I could do was wonder what it was that Damon wanted. Scratch that. I had a pretty good idea of what he wanted. I was just surprised that he’d approach Connor in his gallery. It might be owned by a Wilcox, but it was still a public place that most likely would be filled with civilians doing their last-minute holiday shopping.