The Promise (10 page)

Suppressing a laugh, she walked to the dresser and
began pulling out clothes with no thought as to what she was
grabbing. Then, with garments in hand, she eyed him thoughtfully.
"Turn your back."

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't budge.

"Unless you want me to go back out there like this,
turn your back."

With a rakish grin, he shrugged and turned away. She
caught her breath at the clean strong lines of his bare shoulders.
The man was a magnet. She simply couldn't quit staring. Even the
white of his bandage enhanced his sexuality. With shaking hands,
she quickly pulled on a pair of faded cut-offs and a tee-shirt.

"You can turn around now."

He spun around, the look of surprise on his face
almost comical. "You're not going out there in that."

"You sound like my grandfather."

"Well, I shouldn't wonder if you insist on
entertaining gentleman callers dressed like that."

Gentleman callers? "You were expecting a ball
gown?"

"No. I was expecting something that covered more than
the robe did." He glared at her, his gaze raking up and down her.
Funny when he did it, she felt all hot and squirmy inside, but when
Nick did it, she wanted nothing more than to slap him silly.

"Cara?" Nick.

"I've got to go. This will have to do." She pulled an
oversized tee-shirt from another drawer. "Here, it wouldn't hurt
you to cover up, too." She threw the shirt at him, watching as he
snagged it one-handed. With a mock bow, he sent her a crooked smile
that for all the world seemed a promise of things to come. She
quelled a surge of desire. What had come over her? She waited until
he moved out of range of the open door, then walked back into the
living room, pulling the door closed behind her.

"There, that's better. Sorry to keep you waiting."
She sat on the arm of a chair. Nick traced the curve of her calf
with his eyes and she actually felt herself blush. Maybe shorts
hadn't been the best idea. "Can I get you something to drink?"

He was settled on the sofa, one leg crossed casually
over the other. He looked as if it were his home, not hers. Somehow
the familiarity grated on her nerves.

"I'll take a Scotch, neat."

She was halfway to the cabinet when she remembered
the Scotch was in the bedroom. What was left of it. Her heart
couldn't stand another whispered conversation with Michael. She
obviously was not cut out for subterfuge.

"I'm out."

Nick frowned. "What happened to the bottle I gave
you?"

Another of his annoying habits. He seemed to find
great delight in stocking her house with delicacies he wanted to
have on hand. Quite presumptuous really. "It's gone. Gin?"

"Fine."

He didn't sound fine, but frankly, she didn't care.
She dropped a couple of ice cubes in a glass and mixed the drink,
being careful to go light on the gin. No sense in adding fuel to
his lust-filled glances. "You said you had business to
discuss."

She crossed to the sofa and held out his drink, a
cheerful smile firmly in place.

"I want to talk about the paintings." He touched the
glass, but rather than taking it, he slid his hand down to cover
hers. Unless she upended the drink, she had little choice but to
join him on the sofa.

"We've been down this road before, Nick." Several
times.

"Look. I love the series, and I want them. It's as
simple as that." He reached for the drink with his left hand,
keeping her fingers entrapped in his right.

"You haven't even seen them. You saw
The
Promise
once for maybe five minutes. How could you possibly
love
them?"

"I know what I like, Cara mia." He shrugged. There
was subtext here, but she be damned if she knew what it was.

"Well I'm flattered. But I've told you, the paintings
are no longer mine to sell. They belong to Solais."

He leaned forward, tightening his fingers, a shadow
of anger passing across his face. She winced and he loosened his
grip, the shadow dissipating almost before it began. "You've
already sent them?"

She pulled her hand free, absently rubbing it against
her shorts. "No, although I should have. I've gotten most of them
crated for shipping, but I need to finish up. I was planning to get
in to the studio yesterday, but —"

"I know, you were unavoidably detained. Well, you'll
simply have to tell them you've changed your mind."

"I can't do that. It's the Solais Gallery, and you
know as well as I do that it's a miracle they wanted them in the
first place. If I were to back out now, I'd never sell to them
again."

"Well, we'll simply have to find a way around that.
You can name your price."

"I'm sorry, Nick. I can't. I intend to honor the
contract with Solais."

"Damn it, Cara, you're not being reasonable."

"I'll paint you something else."

"But I want
those
paintings, Cara." He grabbed
both her wrists in his hands.

She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong.
"Nick, stop it. You're hurting, me."

He leaned forward, his glacial eyes boring into hers.
"My dear, I simply won't take no for an answer." The icy fury in
his eyes scared her. He was close enough now she could smell the
gin on his breath.

"I believe the lady said no."

If the situation hadn't been so frightening, it would
have been absurd. Michael stood in the bedroom doorway clad in his
jeans and her tee-shirt. What had served as a nightshirt for her,
barely fit over his broad shoulders. The cotton clung to his
muscles, outlining the hard lines of him and displaying the grossly
distorted figure of Tweety Bird across his chest.

Nick rose, dragging her with him, then froze,
obviously completely thrown by the man in the doorway. Cara jerked
free, and took a step in Michael's direction.

"Who the hell are you?" Nick's normally elegant voice
was lost in his anger, his classic good looks marred by the rage
etched on his face.

"The cat."

Cara watched as Nick pulled himself together,
schooling his face into the social equivalent of bland, his gaze
going first to Cara, then Michael, then back to Cara again. "And
does the cat have a name?"

Cara opened her mouth to answer, but Michael was
faster.

"Michael Macpherson. And I think it's about time that
you were going."

Nick's mouth twitched at the corner, the only sign
that Michael's words affected him. With a shrug he focused his
attention on Cara. "I'm sorry if I upset you, Cara mia. I'm afraid
I got carried away." He moved to touch her, but Michael moved
faster, stepping neatly between them.

"I said it's time for you to go."

Nick was in full control again, cool composure
masking any hint to his real feelings. "Very well. We'll talk
later."

Cara poked her head around Michael. "I'm not changing
my mind, Nick."

"I understand. I shouldn't have overreacted. It's
just that I wanted them so badly. Forgive me, darling?" He actually
managed to look contrite.

Cara smiled weakly. "Of course." Anything to get him
out of here before Michael throttled him.

With a last blistering look at Michael, Nick strode
into the mud room. A few seconds later the door slammed behind him,
rattling the windows.

Cara blew out a long breath, her eyes meeting
Michael's. "He wouldn't have hurt me. He was just angry about the
paintings."

"Maybe not, but I didn't think it was worth taking
the chance."

She sank onto the sofa, grateful for its support.

Michael sat in the easy chair, leaning forward, his
blue eyes filled with concern. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Cara smiled. "I'm fine. Besides, isn't that supposed
to be my line? You're the one who got shot." She leaned back and
closed her eyes. "Maybe we should clarify a few things."

"Fine by me. I'll start. Tell me about your
paintings, the ones that Nick wants so badly."

Cara opened her eyes, surprised at the turn of the
conversation. She'd been expecting him to talk about being shot not
her artwork. "There's not much to tell. Once when I was a kid, I
stumbled on the ruins of an old mine up in the mountains. It was a
long way from here. Straight up the canyon, something like five or
six miles past the tunnel where I found you. I'm not good at
distances.

"Anyway, I managed to climb up to a ridge of sorts,
nestled in a valley, and there it was, perched on the top of the
mountain, defying nature. There wasn't much left. Fallen timbers
and a sink hole. The remnants of a shack of some kind—one window,
unbroken, silhouetted against the sky. It seemed so lonely there,
sort of lost in time. So I sketched it from various vantage
points.

"Then a few months ago, I came across the sketches,
and remembered the mine. I tried to find it again. I went to where
I remembered it being. But it wasn't there. I guess it had been too
long. Whatever had been there was gone. Anyway, for whatever
reason, it still called to me. So I painted it. But I never could
seem to get it right—to capture the magic. So I painted it again
and then again. Each time using a different angle and different
light. The result being the series of paintings Nick was talking
about."

"One of the paintings is called
the
Promise
?"

"Yes, that's the only one Nick's actually ever
seen."

"So why did you call it that?" His voice tight,
almost tense.

"My grandfather used to talk about a silver mine
named the Promise. It was lost, too. Like my mine. Made me think of
all the hopes and dreams that died in those mountains." She
shrugged. "So I named the painting after it. It just seemed right
somehow. Why do you ask?"

"Because," his gaze met hers, his eyes full of pain,
"my father owned the Promise."

"I feel like the whole world has turned
upside down." Patrick twirled the shot glass with his fingers, the
amber liquid swirling along with it.

"Ain't surprisin'." Pete swallowed his whiskey with a
single gulp and picked up the bottle for more.

Patrick glanced around Owen's saloon. Dust danced in
the sunbeam streaming through the open door. The Irish Rose never
closed, and the place was always packed. With the mines working day
and night, there was always a steady stream of men either just
getting off their shifts or just going on. And it seemed a man
wanted a shot to start the job, and then a few more to hold him
over until he was up the mountain again. Just at the moment Patrick
was inclined to agree. He turned back to Pete, fighting the sick
feeling in his gut. "Michael didn't kill our father."

"You know that and I know that, it's just that Amos
Striker seems to have missed out on the fact."

"Amos Striker's no better than a — "

"True enough, but ain't no good yellin' it out for
the world to hear." Pete jerked his head in the direction of the
other patrons of the saloon.

Patrick felt himself go hot, a combination of anger,
alcohol and embarrassment.

Pete lifted his glass, pondering his whiskey for a
moment, obviously choosing his words. "On the positive side, Owen
promised to ride shotgun on the man. You heard him."

"Yeah, for all the good that'll do." Patrick knew he
sounded sullen, but he felt like he was hamstrung. Everybody
telling him how to think, how to feel.

Pete raised his bushy eyebrows, his steady gaze
meeting Patrick's—waiting.

"It's just that it seems to me that Owen could have
stood up more for Michael."

Pete contemplated his glass again. "Well, now, Owen
likes to sit on the fence until he knows which way the wind's a
blowin'. That's how he's made a success of himself."

"But we're talking about
Michael
."

"Don't make no difference. Patrick, I know you and
Owen are close, but you've got to see the truth of it. He ain't got
the family loyalty you think he does."

"That's ridiculous, Pete. He and my father have been
together almost since they came to this country. He traipsed all
over the California gold fields with us bankrolling my father so
that he could discover the next mother lode. Hell, Owen was the one
who raised us."

"Rose was the one who raised you. Never forget that,
boy."

Patrick felt his face grow hot. "You know I didn't
mean any disrespect to Mother. But Owen's always been there for
me." He met Pete's steady gaze. "He was there for me after Mother
left. Father sure as hell wasn't." He downed the liquor in the shot
glass, a shudder rippling across his shoulders. It was still hard
to talk about his mother's desertion.

"You see what you want to see." Pete shrugged and
filled both their glasses.

"Mornin' boys. Did I hear talk o' the mother lode?"
Arless Hurley sidled up to the bar, his cheeks already showing the
rosy glow of a bit too much alcohol. "Sorry to hear about yer Da,
Patrick."

"Thanks, Arless."

Pete signaled the barman, who set a glass in front of
the miner. Arless filled it to the rim and swallowed the contents
with a single gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Ah, that'll bring a man to his senses all right." He cocked his
head to one side, and eyed Patrick speculatively. "Any word on
where exactly Duncan found the silver?"

"What do you know about it?"

Arless grinned good-naturedly. "No' much. I heard
word 'round town, the night Duncan met his maker. He wasn't being
none too quiet about it, if ya take my meanin', but I figured he
was just bletherin'. So, I didn't give it another thought." He
paused and poured another round, obviously enjoying himself.

He leaned forward conspiratorially. "But then, this
mornin' I found meself in need o' a little female companionship."
He burped. "So I headed over to Corabeth's. She don't charge a man
his life's savings like them fancy girls over at Belle's. Why I
remember—"