The MacGregor Grooms (5 page)

“Hmm? Oh, the flowers. More of a flow, less rigid lines. Something like what Monet did in Giverny.”

“Yes, you’re right.” And her eyes went soft, her lips curved again as she imagined it. “I tend to follow directions exactly when I’m learning. You make fewer mistakes that way.” She angled her head, and the dappled sunlight flickered over her face, turned it dreamy again, soft again. “But then you’d look at things with an artist’s eye. And I don’t imagine you worry overmuch about making mistakes.”

“Not usually.” But he realized he was worried about making one now, with her, here where the light was lovely, the music soaring and the air carrying just a shimmer of scent that was her, turned earth and young flowers.

“I do, so I plan things carefully and very rarely deviate.” Something about him tempted her to make an impulsive turn, almost demanded it. And she imagined the trip would be just as wild and fast as the ride they’d taken the night before.

The kind of ride, Layna reminded herself, where a woman could end up crashing very abruptly, and very hard.

“I guess that’s enough for now.” He shoved his pad in the bag. He had to go, before he did something stupid. Like touch her again. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.” She got to her feet when he did, intending to see him out. But they only stood there, a bit too close for comfort.

“I know the way out.” He took the first step back. He had a feeling if she walked inside with him he’d be unable to stop himself from doing that stupid thing. Like pulling her against him, taking a good long taste of that mouth. Then dragging her to the floor to take a great deal more of her while Chopin crashed around them.

“All right. Well … goodbye.”

“Right.” He picked up his bag, turned. He’d nearly made it into the house and away before he was compelled to turn back. She was still standing there, the sunlight on her hair, those misty green eyes watching him.

“There’s a Dali exhibit at the Smithsonian. Opens Wednesday. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

No, absolutely not.
“All right,” she heard herself say, with some surprise. “That’ll be fine.”

He merely nodded and strode into the house. He made it to the front door before he started cursing himself.

He thought of a dozen reasons to break the date. He’d have preferred to go alone, enjoy and absorb the exhibit. Then perhaps find an interesting woman to discuss it with. Over coffee or a late supper.

That was, D.C. reminded himself, the way he operated.

But he didn’t break the date. Or the next one he found himself making with her. It baffled him that he enjoyed her company. It made absolutely no sense. She liked art to express something specific in tangible terms. She preferred her music subdued and her movies with subtitles.

They ended up debating half the time, sitting over steaming cups of espresso or glasses of wine. Somehow they’d managed to have three fairly civilized dates. He wondered if she was as surprised as he that they’d enjoyed themselves.

They were about to have a fourth. Four dates in two weeks, D.C. mused. It was … bizarre.

He stepped back from the canvas, frowned at it. He often worked in watercolors for a change of pace. He hadn’t intended to do a portrait. The sketches he’d done of Layna had simply been an exercise. But they’d nagged at him until he’d given in and begun to commit the image to paper.

Watercolors would suit her. Cool tones, soft lines. He hadn’t selected a sketch of her smiling. Again and again, he’d been drawn to his quick study of her looking straight ahead, mouth soft and serious, eyes aloof.

Frosty sex, he thought now. It was the expression of a woman who challenged a man to chip through the ice to the heat. And if he did, what then? Would it be a flash or a simmer, a slow burn or an explosion?

The wondering was maddening, D.C. decided. And erotic.

Painting her this way was both intriguing and frustrating. He had to know. He’d never bring that face to life until he knew what went on behind it.

When that realization struck him, his shoulders relaxed, his mouth curved up. Of course, that was it. That was why he kept going back. He wanted to paint her, and he couldn’t until he knew her.

Pleased that the puzzle had been solved, he set his brush aside. He picked up his coffee, drinking deeply before he realized it had gone stone cold. With a grimace, he started downstairs to brew a fresh pot.

When his buzzer sounded, he switched directions and found his mother on the doorstep.

“I’ve caught you at work,” Shelby said instantly.

“No, on a break.” He gave her a hard, one-armed hug. “And now you can make the coffee.”

“Fair enough. I promised myself when you moved back I wouldn’t start popping in unannounced.” She smiled up at him as they walked back to the kitchen. “But Julia sent me new pictures of Travis, and your father’s not home. I had to share them with someone.”

“Let’s see.”

He shoved unopened mail, a few dirty dishes and a sketch pad into a pile on the table. Shelby dug a pack of snapshots out of her purse and handed them over as she turned to hunt up coffee beans.

Her son, she thought, with an eye roll at the state of his kitchen, lived like the clichéd starving artist. But if it suited him, it was fine with her.

“Damn. He’s great, isn’t he?”

“He looks very much like you did at that age.”

“Yeah?” Foolishly pleased, D.C. glanced up from his nephew’s grinning face.

“Those MacGregor genes. Good blood,” she said in a fair imitation of Daniel. “Strong stock. And speaking of The MacGregor, have you heard from him lately?”

“Mmm. Just a few days ago. He wanted to thank me for doing him a favor, then nag me to come up for a visit. Grandma’s pining again.”

Shelby laughed as she ground fresh beans. “You’d think he’d come up with a new one. To hear him say it, you’d think Anna sat around moping all day.” Angling so that she could see D.C. as she measured out coffee, she cocked her head. “What favor did you do for him?”

“Layna Drake,” D.C. answered absently, as he studied the snapshots. “Aunt Myra was badgering him about her—asked him to have me escort her to that deal the other night.”

Shelby tucked her tongue in her cheek. “Oh really? And you bought that, did you? Foolish, foolish boy.”

“Huh?” He blinked, then shrugged. “No, it’s not his usual marry-the-girl-and-make-babies-for-your-grandmother deal. He doesn’t think she’s my type—told me straight-out it was a one-shot to get Myra off his back.”

Shelby opened her mouth, shut it again. Very, very foolish boy, she thought, amused. “I see. And what did you think of her?”

“She’s all right. Great face. I want to paint her.”

“You—” Shelby nearly bobbled the clean cup she’d found in the cupboard. “You don’t do portraits.”

“Now and then.” In fact, he was debating which snapshot he’d use to paint little Travis as a gift for his sister.

Once again Shelby decided to keep her mouth closed. Her son had indeed done some portraits. Of the family, she thought now. Of people who mattered most to him.

Just what, she wondered, did Layna Drake mean to him?

“You’ve asked her to sit for you?”

“No, I’m working from sketches.”

“Then you’ve been seeing each other.”

“Off and on. A few times.” He glanced up. “Why?”

“Just curious,” Shelby said lightly. “I know her parents slightly. She doesn’t seem a great deal like them.”

“And is that a good thing or a bad thing?” He moved his shoulders restlessly. “She doesn’t have much to say about her family.”

“Well.” Shelby turned, leaned back on the counter. “I suppose I’d call them surface people. Lots of gloss. She has the polish, but there seems to be more under it. I prefer undertones, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Appreciating the fact that his mother could always put her finger on the pulse, he grinned. “I’m working on getting down to them with her. I like her—haven’t figured out why yet, but I do.”

“She isn’t your usual. That wasn’t a complaint,” she added with a laugh when D.C.’s grin turned into a typical MacGregor scowl. “Or a criticism. Just a comment that your usual choice of women lean toward the bohemian or the flamboyant. And she’s neither.”

“I didn’t say she was my choice, I said I liked her.” Now he grinned again. “And I’m told my
mother was a flamboyant bohemian.”

Shelby lifted her eyebrows. “I heard that somewhere. What ever happened to her?”

“She made it fashionable, and she’s still the most important woman in my heart.”

“Oh.” Touched and delighted, she moved over to fold her arms around him, to rest her cheek on the top of his head. “I’m so glad you moved back, so glad, D.C., that you’re here where I can pretend I’m not going to drop in on you.”

“Dad pretended not to drop by yesterday.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed. “Don’t stop.”

“Can’t.” She sighed. “But we won’t hover.”

“You never did. You were both just always there—even when you weren’t.”

“That’s our job.” She kissed the top of his head, then turned back to pour the coffee.

“Can I keep this one?” he asked, holding up a shot of Travis showing off his two teeth in a grin.

“Sure. Sketches in here?” Casually, she flipped open the book on the table, browsing through until she came to several studies of Layna Drake. “She’s lovely,” Shelby murmured, and a little part of her heart sighed. “You’re very attracted to her.”

“She’s got a great face.” When his mother’s gaze shifted to his, held, he shrugged. “It’s no big deal. Grandpa’s right, she’s not my type.”

“Yes, The MacGregor rarely misses a step.” Cagey old goat, she thought as she sat down to enjoy her coffee. He was probably already planning the wedding reception.

She decided then and there it was time to go shopping. She’d take a look at what Drake’s was showing in the new spring lines.

*   *   *

Layna’s assistant was all awed eyes and reverent whispers as she popped her head into Layna’s office. “Ms. Drake, there’s a Mrs. MacGregor to see you.”

“MacGregor?” Layna glanced up from her sample book. “Shelby MacGregor?”

“Yes. The former First Lady. She’s right out there. I couldn’t believe it.”

“Oh.” Flustered, Layna ran a hand over her hair, scanned her office to be certain everything was in place. “Show her right in.”

Layna rose quickly, smoothed her skirt, hitched at the line of her jacket, then rubbed her lips together to see if she’d chewed off her lipstick again. The answer was yes, but she didn’t have time to dive for her bag and repair the damage. She moved forward with a smile as Shelby came in.

“Mrs. MacGregor. What a pleasure.”

“I know I’m interrupting your work, but I was shopping and thought I’d just drop in for a moment.”

“I’m delighted you did. Please sit down. Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea?”

“No, no, don’t fuss.” Shelby smiled easily as she surveyed the woman and her office. Tasteful, she decided, choosing a high-backed chair with a petit point seat. Cool but not cold, controlled but not rigid. “I won’t keep you long. I was just browsing through casual wear. You have a lovely selection.”

“Thank you. Of course, I’m already focused on next fall.” Though puzzled, Layna smiled as she sat. “Plaid’s the big news.”

“That will delight my father-in-law. You haven’t met Daniel, have you?”

“Yes, actually. My godmother wanted to visit and didn’t feel up to making the trip to Hyannis
alone. I went up with her for a couple days last fall. It’s an amazing house, and your in-laws are delightful people.”

“Yes, indeed.” And the plot thickens, Shelby thought. “Of all the grandchildren, D.C. most resembles Daniel.”

And she saw it, that flicker in the eye, the faint rise in color. Oh my, Shelby thought. She’s hooked.

“Yes, I suppose so. They’re both a bit larger than life, aren’t they?”

“The MacGregors are all a bit larger than life. They’re demanding, charming, frustrating, generous. Being married to one, I can say that boredom ceases to be part of my vocabulary. And very often chaos becomes the key word.”

“You must handle chaos very well.”

“Oh, Layna, I adore chaos.” With a laugh, Shelby rose. “I’d love to have lunch sometime.”

“I’d like that, very much.”

“Then I’ll check my calendar and we’ll set it up.” Shelby took her hand, held it a moment. “When the man is larger than life,” she began, “the woman has to be smart and clever. You strike me as a smart and clever woman, Layna.”

“Ah … thank you.”

“I’ll call you,” Shelby said as she breezed out. But first, she decided, she was going to call Daniel. After she’d blistered his ears for meddling in her son’s life, she’d tell him she very much approved of his choice.

That, she mused, would throw the old devil off balance a little—long enough, she hoped, for D.C. and Layna to figure out they were falling in love.

*   *   *

Crowded, noisy clubs were stimulating. That was why D.C. enjoyed dropping into one occasionally. He could listen to the music, the chatter, watch the movement. Most of all, he could see the shapes of thoughts and emotions. When he sketched in a place like Blues Corner, he didn’t sketch faces or bodies, but feelings.

Layna watched him, studied the slashes and splots and squiggles he drew on his pad. She didn’t understand them, but they were fascinating just the same. Just like the man who created them.

He had kicked back and was lounging at their tiny table, shoulders braced against the wall behind them. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt, and had yanked his hair back with some thin string of leather. The lights were a dim, hazy blue; the tables around them jammed with bodies. On the stingy slice of stage a man with hair down to his shoulders plunked deep notes from a bass guitar, while another wearing tiny sunglasses blew aching tenor notes from a sax. A painfully thin young man caressed the keys of a scarred piano.

Seated on a stool was an old black woman with a face as wrinkled as a raisin. She sang in a voice like whiskey and cream about the miseries of love.

Layna didn’t understand the music, either, though it pulled and stroked at something deep inside her. It made her sad. It made her want. For somehow the singer made the idea of love worth all the misery that came with it.