Love Will Find a Way (13 page)

"I thought you wanted the truth," he said, his gaze settling on her face.
 

"I want the right truth," she said, hugging her arms around her waist as a chill ran through her.

"There's only one truth." He paused. "I do believe it was an accident. But the only way we can prove that is to answer the questions we both have. I'm not the enemy, Rachel."

"Sometimes it feels like you are," she whispered.

"I'm not."

"You're going too fast for me."

"I know you're scared, but you're not the kind of woman who can look the other way."

"Maybe I'm exactly that kind of woman. Because haven't I done just that? Isn't that why I'm standing here wondering about a man I thought I knew? Isn't that why I never went through the checkbook or asked where the cash came from or found out why Gary was taking money out of his savings account?"

"So what do you want to do?" Dylan asked, frowning. "Do you want to protect Gary? Protect yourself? Hide from the truth? Or do you want to start looking in all the dark corners? It's your call, Rachel. Tell me what you want to do. But tell me now. Because once we start, we're not going to stop, not until the end – wherever that may be."

It was dark in this corner of the basement, the only natural light coming from a small window just above the ground. It wasn't the best place to work, but it was the most private. Carly rolled her head from side to side, hearing the tired click in her neck as she did so.

It was no wonder she was stiff; she'd been standing in front of her easel for almost two hours. The time had passed in a flash. That's the way it was when she painted. It could be one minute or one hour; she lost all concept of time until she checked her watch. But reality had finally intruded on her consciousness in the form of a big thud from above. Rachel was probably home.

She wondered if Dylan was with her. The two of them certainly had an odd, tense relationship. Despite Dylan's close relationship with Gary, he hadn't spent much time at the farm over the years. Whenever he had come, he'd been cool, polite, but didn't let down his guard. And Rachel had never had much to say about him either. Had Dylan disapproved of Gary and Rachel's marriage? Was that why he always seemed uncomfortable around Rachel? Or was it something else altogether that had kept him away -- like some unwanted sparks …

 
Rachel would be horrified at the suggestion that there was something between them or some attraction on Dylan's side, but then Rachel was a bit naïve when it came to men.
 
She'd married Gary when she was twenty years old. She'd never been with anyone else. Now Gary was gone.
 
She sighed, feeling a wave of sadness. She didn't like thinking about Gary.
 
It hurt too much.

So she focused her attention back on the portrait in front of her.
 
She'd drawn Antonio, but she hadn't done his face justice. His eyes weren't right. They seemed too distant, as if he were looking away from her toward someone else. And his mouth was too tight, too sophisticated, and too cold.

But he wasn't the problem; she was. She wasn't that good an artist. Not like her mother, who actually had paintings hanging in a gallery. She'd seen them once. She'd gone to Southern California for the weekend with some friends, and on a Sunday they'd driven over to Laguna Beach for a sidewalk art show. She'd stopped in front of a gallery, and there it was -- a picture of a little girl sitting on a wicker chair next to a pot of purple violets. The little girl had been only five or six, but she had recognized her immediately. It was Rachel, and the signature in the corner belonged to their mother.

She had had to borrow money from all of her friends to come up with enough cash to buy the painting, but she'd done it. She simply couldn't walk away from it. It was a link to a family she'd never known.

For Rachel, it was different. She'd had years with their mother, spent time with her, sat for a painting. Carly couldn't help wondering why her mother hadn't painted her. Had she been too young?
Too ugly?
Too boring?
Too average?

Setting down her own brush now, she walked over to the closet and removed the painting she'd stashed away almost three years ago. She'd covered it with brown paper just in case anyone ventured down to the basement, not that anyone ever did. Once, about fifteen years earlier, they'd gotten water in this part of the house and as a result had moved all their storage up to the more spacious attic. The basement was just a dark stone area with a low ceiling and lots of pipes. Oh, there were still a few old suitcases and apple crates holding tools and such toward the front, but Carly liked them there because they blocked the back view of the basement, which she'd turned into her own private studio.

Lord knew she couldn't paint upstairs. She'd never hear the end of it. After they'd moved back to the apple farm, her father had refused to buy them crayons, much less paints. He'd discouraged them from any artistic endeavors, terrified that one of them might turn out like their mother. Sometimes she wondered what her mother was like. Not that she'd tried to find her. Why should she? Her mother knew where she was, and she'd never come back, not once.

She'd tried to talk to Rachel about her, but like her father, Rachel always changed the subject.
 
In fact, she seemed to hate their mother. But Rachel didn't look hateful in this painting.
 
She had a yearning, wistful, somewhat hopeful look, as if she were seeking approval.
 

Maybe that's exactly what she'd been doing. Had her mother given her that approval? She traced her mother's signature with the tip of her finger. It was a beautiful painting. Her mother was truly gifted, catching every emotion on her daughter's face. She had to have seen Rachel's insecurity, yet she'd still walked away. Her art had meant more to her than her children.

A deep, familiar ache in her heart, made her put the cover back over the painting.
 
She shouldn't miss what she'd never had, but she did. She missed having a mother. She was an adult now, but there was still a hole in her life, a hole that she could never fill.
 
She put the picture back in the closet. As she did so, the door to the basement opened.

Panic ran through her. Someone was coming. Damn! She looked at her paints strewn about, the half-finished portrait, the dozens of other sketches she'd tossed onto the old card table. If Rachel came down here, if she saw...

Carly dashed around the wall of suitcases and apple crates, hoping to ward off the intruder, and crashed straight into a very hard body.

"What the hell?" a low male voice ground out.

Strong hands grasped her arms, which was probably a good thing, since she seemed to have stopped breathing.

"Carly?"

"Travis?" she asked in surprise. "What are you doing down here?"

"Your grandmother said she saw a mouse in the kitchen. She asked me to set some traps down here and in the attic."

"A mouse?" she echoed, stalling for time.
 

"What are you doing down here?" he asked, giving her a curious glance.

"Just looking for something," she lied.

"For what?"

"Something," she said, blocking his way.

"Okay," he said easily. "I'm going to check the rest of the basement and see if I can find any signs of a mouse."

"There aren't any mice down here. I've already checked," she said quickly. "Tell Grandmother that you couldn't find anything."

"Are you asking me to lie to your grandmother?" he drawled. "I don't think I could do that."

She let out a sigh of exasperation. "Of course you could. And it's not a lie. You can go up to the attic and look there."

"I will as soon as I finish up down here," he said firmly, moving her to one side with his strong hands.

"Travis, wait," she said hastily.

"What don't you want me to see? Do you have a secret love nest down here or something? I know
,
this is where you mix the secret love potions for Antonio. I'm right, aren't I?" He gave her a big, mischievous grin.

"No, you're not right."

"Then I'll just take a look -- "

She grabbed his arm and held on for dear life. "No."

He glanced down at her hand on his arm. "That's a mighty strong grip you got there. Never thought you'd be holding on to me so tightly. You must want something. Hmm." He rubbed his jaw with his free hand. "What could you want?"

"I want you to leave."

"If you wanted me to go, you wouldn't be holding on to me like I was the last tree in the orchard."

"Travis, would you just leave?"

"I might. What's it worth to you?"

"What do you want?" she asked with annoyance, trying to curb her temper, because she couldn't give him the complete satisfaction of seeing her totally lose her cool. He loved to push her buttons and she had to stop reacting.

"I want a kiss."

"I don't think so. What else do you want?"

"An open-mouth kiss. Want to keep negotiating?"

"I'm not giving you a kiss."

"Then I'm going to turn right around and see what it is you're so hell-bent on hiding from me." He started to move, and she grabbed his other arm, holding him in place. In fact, she was now holding him so close, his chest grazed against her breasts and an odd tingle ran down her spine.

He looked down at her. "You've got me where you want me, babe. What are you going to do about it?"

"You cannot tell a soul," she warned.

"About what? Your secret love nest or -- "

"This," she interrupted, releasing his arms to grab his face. She planted a quick kiss on his lips. At least it was supposed to be a quick kiss, but his arms went around her waist and hauled her up even tighter against his chest. When she tried to move away, his mouth came back down on hers. His lips were firm and warm and moved in a way that was far more appealing than she would have imagined. Of course she was planning to pull away. She just needed another second.

And in that second it was Travis who broke off the kiss, Travis, who smiled down on her in that frustratingly annoying manner of his, Travis, who'd just made her lose her good sense, not to mention her equilibrium.

"Fine, you got your kiss, now go," she said abruptly.

"Okay."

When he moved, she didn't try to stop him. Her mistake. He turned toward the back of the basement instead of the front, and before she could react, he was standing in front of her easel, the smile completely wiped from his face.

"Did you draw this?" he asked in wonder, glancing around the small alcove containing her artist's supplies.

"You can't tell anyone. You know about my mother. You know how much this would upset Rachel, and she's had enough upset in her life."

"You're good," he murmured, staring at her painting again.

"Not good enough. It doesn't look anything like Antonio."

"Because you're drawing the wrong man."

"Don't start."

"Oh, I haven't begun to start, Carly. You have talent, but your subject is wrong. You need to paint someone you know. Someone like me."

"I don't want to paint you," she said sharply, feeling slightly bad at the wounded expression on his face. "Look, I told you before."

"I know, you don't want me.
That's why you almost ripped off my clothes a second ago."

"I did no such thing."

"Then why is my shirt unbuttoned?"

She dropped her gaze from his face to his shirt, realizing with horror that the top two buttons were indeed undone, and she distinctly remembered spreading her palms across his hairy chest. Oh, God! She would never live this down.

Before she could reply, Rachel's voice rang out from far above. "Carly? Carly, where are you?"

"She can't see this," Carly said in a rush, grabbing Travis's hand and pulling him away from the alcove and up the stairs. "Please," she begged just before she opened the basement door. "Don't tell her."

Travis didn't reply, and she didn't have enough time to wait for an answer, only to open the door and push him into the hall.

Rachel was a few feet away, followed by Dylan.

"Oh, there you are," Rachel said. "You have a phone call. What were you two doing in the basement?"

"Uh," Carly faltered, wondering how to match whatever she said with whatever Travis would say.

"Just checking for a mouse. Your grandmother thought she saw one," Travis replied. "But it's all clear."

"You better get the phone, Carly. It's Antonio," Rachel said.

"You don't want to keep him waiting, that's for sure," Travis added.

Carly shot him a grateful look. "Thanks for helping me look for the mouse."

"No problem."

"Actually, I'm really glad we ran into you, Travis," Rachel said. "I want you to meet Dylan Prescott. He's a longtime friend of Gary's and he's going to help me finish the house."

"Nice to meet you," Travis said as the two men shook hands. "Gary was a good man. Any friend of his is a friend of mine."

"Likewise," Dylan said.

Rachel watched as the two men took their measure of the other. Travis was broader, with lighter hair and not as many edges. Dylan was leaner, sharper, and seemed to dominate the hallway, even though he was the slighter of the two men. But he had a presence that couldn't be denied, a presence that continued to set her back on her heels.

She still hadn't answered his question about whether or not she had the guts to look into the dark corners of her life, because the truth was she didn't know the answer.

What she did know was that as soon as she said, "Let's go," they'd be going a hundred miles an hour, and she wouldn't be able to stop even if she wanted to, even if the truth became too much to handle.

"I need to check the attic," Travis said. "I'll see you both around."

"What's in the attic?" Dylan asked when Travis disappeared down the hall.

"Hopefully not mice," she said.
 
"But there's a ton of other stuff.
 
My pack rat tendencies used to drive Gary crazy. Everyone in my family likes to keep things, save them for a rainy day, and I'm no exception. But Gary was always out with the old and in with the new."