Pursuit (30 page)

She’d smiled and taken his arm. Which he’d extended without even thinking about it. The gesture came out of some primordial male DNA he hadn’t even been aware of. He hadn’t grabbed her hand, which he would have done normally. No, he’d offered his arm, just as if he were Count Matthew of Sanders. The crazy thing was, Charlotte had taken it completely naturally, as if men had been offering their arms to her forever. Maybe they had.

Maybe she was Princess Charlotte of Fitzgerald in disguise. Jesus, what did he know?

He’d seen her emerge from the bedroom, so beautiful and so regal, and every cell in his body had snapped to attention, as if escorting POTUS himself. Only gorgeous and female, and not some middle-aged politico. He’d offered his arm, she’d taken it, and they’d walked to Lenny’s scruffy Jeep as if to a limo.

“What was that thing you were talking about with Ensler—koochy-koo? Something about the paint.”

“Koochy . . .” Her brow furrowed, then she shook her head, smiling. “Oh, I see. We were talking about a pigment. Cochineal. Red. That was the color I was using to paint your tee shirt. Which was gorgeous by the way.”

That was nice of her to say so, but it was just a plain, ordinary, red tee shirt, which he’d bought in a packet of three for five bucks at the local market. Matt never spent much on clothes.

“Glad you liked the tee shirt. What’s cochineal? Why is it so special?”

“Well, first of all, it’s got a long and glorious history in Mexico. It was Mexico’s second most important export after silver. It was a dye, used for the robes of kings and cardinals, as precious as silver or gold. Before it was discovered, red—or better yet, scarlet or carmine—was the rarest dye of all, exclusively limited to royalty and the Princes of the Church. After the discovery of cochineal, even the aristocracy could use red cloth. And then upper-class women all over Europe went crazy because they could paint their lips and cheeks red. It was called Spanish Red, and it earned Spain millions and millions of pounds. How Spanish Red was produced was one of the greatest industrial secrets of all time—sort of like the secret to nuclear fission in the fifties—and it was fiercely protected. Men died trying to crack the secret of cochineal. Most people thought it was a rare berry, some thought it was a nut.”

“So?” Matt glanced over at her, lips curved upward as she told the story. “It wasn’t a berry, it wasn’t a nut. What was it?”

“Insects,” Charlotte said crisply. “The blood of insects. Trillions of them. Growing on the prickly pear native to Mexico. You scrape them off and boil them and—voilà! Crimson. There were probably 10 million insects in that tube I used to paint your tee. It’s still used in lipsticks and it’s one of the few substances allowed in eye shadow. And you’ve probably consumed millions yourself.”

A sharper rut than most rattled their bones as the Jeep dipped violently in and out of the hole. Matt handled the Jeep with ease. This was a smooth stretch of interstate compared to some of the roads he’d driven on in Afghanistan. He wrestled the steering wheel instinctively and turned over what she’d said in his head. Lipstick and eye shadow?
I don’t
think so.

“Honey,” he said, “I don’t want to disappoint you, but I think I can safely say I’ve been cochineal-free all my life. I can guarantee you that I have never worn lipstick or eye shadow. Ever. Not even at Halloween. Not even when drunk.”

“No, but you’ve probably downed Cherry Coke or eaten junk food. The insects are otherwise known as coloring additive E120.”

Bingo.

“Damned if you’re not right.” Matt laughed. “I’ve probably consumed trillions of insects, then. Well, I’ve eaten worse in the field, and I’m still alive.”

He was glad the talk had come round to the painting. He’d been waiting for a way to introduce the topic, and this was perfect.

Matt wasn’t greedy. He never had been. When the other guys went on and on about some car they wanted—
needed
somehow—to make their lives complete, or some watch or expensive gun, he just shut up. The Navy provided everything he needed, and more. He had been part of the greatest military machine in the history of the world and it provided just fine. He lived first in barracks, then in BOQ, he had three square meals a day—ten hot squares during Hell Week when they were burning ten thousand calories a day—and the best weapons on Earth.

How could an Armani suit or a jacket by those other Italian guys with the initials compare to his dress whites? Any jerk with five thousand bucks could buy a suit. You had to
earn
the right to wear the dress whites of the US Navy—especially with the chestful of medals he had. He’d paid for them with about a million drops of sweat and pints of blood. No car he could buy could compare to the 130,000-dollar Humvees he drove in Afghanistan. No expensive flat watch could compare to the sophisticated diver’s watch the Navy had provided. So the greed gene had just passed him by.

Or so he thought. But as he was staring at his half-finished portrait and he heard that Ensler wanted to buy it, a tsunami of possessiveness roared through him. When he heard Ensler make the offer, a voice in his head roared—
No! No way! That painting is mine!
He wanted that portrait with a ferocity that astonished him. No one else could have it. It only occurred to him later—much later, when the flash heat of possessiveness as intense as that of a dog with the last bone on Earth had faded—that he might in some way have done harm to Charlotte. She needed the money, she was just starting out her business relationship with this guy Ensler, and Matt had stepped right in the middle, maybe wrecking her chances by laying claim to a painting her new client wanted. Though Matt had no intention of giving up the painting, he did owe Charlotte an apology.

“Honey . . .”

Charlotte turned her head sharply at the suddenly serious tone of his voice. “Yes?”

“I’m not too sure how to say this, so I’ll just come out with it. I want you to know I’m good for the painting.” He was, too. Even if he had to use every last cent he had stashed in the bank. Matt was very conscious of the fact that he’d deprived Charlotte of a good sum of money. Though Charlotte looked like a princess, she lived very frugally. Her delight at being able to sell her works had been impossible to hide—she needed the money. But that painting of his couldn’t go to anyone else but him.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Her hand touched his forearm briefly. “You’re . . . good for it? Good for what?”

“The money. For the painting.” She continued looking at him out of huge eyes, as if he were talking Sanskrit. “My portrait. You know—the one with the red—”

“Oh!” She blinked and gave a half laugh. “This is crazy. Good Lord, I’m not going to take your money. That portrait was for you, anyway. I was flattered that Perry wanted it, but I wouldn’t have sold it to him. I might sell him another one I was thinking of painting, though”—she glanced at him with a sly smile—“just you in your swim trunks and nothing else, pure beefcake. Women will go wild. I’ll make double the price of the other one. Sort of like a
Playgirl
centerfold only classier.” She made a little cluck of false sympathy. “Of course you’d have to pose for hours and hours and
hours
. And you will because I’m going to give you your portrait, and you’ll owe me, big-time.”

Matt’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until he saw her face. She was laughing at him, the little witch.

The rutted track was straightening out, and candles in low bowls appeared, lining both sides of the road.

Matt could see straight ahead to a large, torchlit structure, the uncertain light reaching only about twenty feet high up the walls. It was a massive shape in the darkness limned by the flickering light of the torches and the last embers of the sun. Cars a mile ahead were turning off the track and parking.

Matt wished he could drive at a mile an hour and that the concert would be over by the time they made it. “I guess we’re almost there.”

Charlotte looked at him and smiled knowingly. “You look like you’re about to go to the gallows. It’s only a concert, you know. You might even enjoy it.”

Yeah, sure.
“Do we have to sit next to what’s-his-name—Ensler?”

The road took a sudden, steep dip, and Matt shot his arm out to steady Charlotte.

“No,” she said, softly. “We can sit by ourselves.”

Thank God for small favors,
he thought sourly.

They were there. Two young men in black pants and formal white shirts with ruffled fronts were stationed between two tall torches, pointing the cars to the right, to a huge empty lot, which was filling up fast with cars, trucks, and pickups.

Matt parked and walked around the Jeep to open Charlotte’s door. Her long skirt was tight, and she had to swivel both legs to the side. Matt reached inside the cabin, grasped her narrow waist, and lowered her to the ground. Her feet touched the ground, but he didn’t let go.

Her arms were curled over his, and they stood there on the gravel, car doors opening and slamming shut, voices calling out in Spanish and English from across the parking lot. The wind brought in the smells of the desert, and Charlotte’s perfume rose in his nostrils. Her mouth was open, delectable and wet, her gray eyes wide, eerily pale in the torchlit darkness. They were surrounded by people. Cars kept driving in, the passengers pouring out, streaming into the big building. Several hundred feet crunched over gravel, and women’s laughing voices rose in the night air.

Matt barely noticed. They could all have been on the moon as far as he was concerned. All he saw was Charlotte’s lovely face looking up at him, and his entire world narrowed down to that pale oval.

Matt bent his head, pressed his mouth to hers, and felt her mouth open to him with a sigh. Oh God, she tasted like heaven, like springwater and sunshine and a sweet something that was simply her. The taste of her went immediately to his head in a hot rush of blood.
Take it easy
,
don’t rush her
a voice in his head said, but the voice was dim, coming from far far away. Almost inaudible past the wild drumbeat of his heart. He wanted to pace the kiss, coax her mouth open gently, deepen the kiss by slow degrees, but the heat simply erupted in him in a volcanic upsurge.

One second their lips were touching and the next he’d widened his stance, pulled her close to him, and was holding her head for a deep taste of her, heady and spicy. Her tongue met his, and he jolted at the electric current that ran through him. His hand moved from her waist to her breast and felt the soft perfection of her. His thumb circled her nipple, and she whimpered. He pulled her even more tightly against him, angling his head for an even deeper taste of her . . .

“Hey, Charlotte!”

Charlotte gasped in his mouth and pulled away. They stared at each other, Matt gritting his teeth in frustration. He wanted back where he’d been seconds before—lost in her. Charlotte looked slightly shocked, pupils dilated until only a rim of gray the color of daybreak showed. Her mouth was wet and swollen from his. She was so desirable his teeth ached.

“Charlotte! Hey!” It was Perry Ensler, all in black, waving his arm wildly, walking with a short round man with long black hair and a goatee.
Laurel and Hardy,
Matt thought sourly. He had nothing against Perry Ensler except that he’d interrupted the best kiss Matt had ever had. And now that the spell was broken, he didn’t think he’d be able to coax another one out of her—not with half the population of Baja streaming in through the huge doors set in the wall of the massive building barely visible in the distance. Charlotte lifted a hand and waved at Ensler. He cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Catch you after the concert maybe!” Charlotte nodded, raised her hand, and smiled feebly. She stood still a moment, then blew out a breath.

It took her a moment to meet his eyes but she did, finally. Matt said nothing at all. It was her call, to acknowledge the kiss or not.

“Wow,” she said finally, on a soft exhalation of breath.

Yeah,
wow
just about covered it.

Matt reached into the cabin of Lenny’s Jeep and brought out Charlotte’s shawl. He opened it and draped it over her shoulders, hands lingering for a moment, feeling the delicate shoulder bones underneath the skin. She lifted her hand to touch his briefly, then lifted it away. “We’d better get going,” Matt said quietly, wishing the damned concert were over, and they could be alone. He took her arm and set off, following the endless stream of people.

Tall, ancient oaks whispered in the night breeze as they made their way through the winding, candlelit path, the sound mixing with the laughter and conversation of the other concertgoers. He heard Spanish, of course, and American English, but also snatches of French and German and some language that was either Swedish or Danish, he couldn’t tell.

“Come on, honey.” He guided her through the crowd, hand at her back, seated her, then took his own seat. Once he had them settled, he looked around. The Convento de San Agustìn was austere but eerily beautiful. By the flickering light of the torches, it looked otherworldly, like a spaceship from the past.

“Looks more like a medieval fortress than anything else,” Matt said.

“It’s got an interesting history, it’s one of the oldest Spanish missions in Mexico, hence its .

. . primitive appearance.” Charlotte smiled up at him. “You’ve never been out to the mission?”