Novels 03 After Twilight, page 4
As if to underscore his words, the rain began to fall in earnest. She bit her lip, considering her options. Her heart and body were of one mind and her brain quite another. She looked up into the blue of his eyes.
Her brain lost.
“Why don’t you come to Sidhean? It’s closer.”
Braedon sat on a bench in Kacy’s hallway, watching her pull her sweater over her head. The heavy cotton cable slid up her torso, exposing first the soft curves of her jean-clad hips and then the swell of her breasts beneath the jersey of her T-shirt. He sucked in a breath and tried to concentrate on removing his boots, but his mind was stuck on instant replay and he found himself wishing for slow motion. A wet nose nuzzled against his hand, bringing him back to reality with a thud.
“I think you’ve made a friend for life.” Kacy laughed, the sound filling him with warm sensations he wasn’t sure he could identify. Wasn’t sure he wanted to identify. “I’ll just go and put the kettle on. The front room’s in there. Make yourself comfortable.” She headed for a door at the back of the hall.
He told himself this was the perfect opportunity to have a look around, to try to find something to implicate her, but his feet seemed to have other ideas and he found himself following her.
The kitchen was bright and cheerful, a pleasant change from the wet, gray afternoon. In contrast to the ancient walls of the cottage, the furnishings seemed wrong somehow. Not exactly out of place, just not what one would expect to find in a tiny cottage on the edge of the Burren.
People here barely scratched a living out of the land. They didn’t have antique French refectory tables and priceless Welsh dressers. He ran a finger along the edge of the dresser, enjoying the feel of the smooth, worn wood. And they certainly didn’t fill those dressers with Waterford and Pickard.
He frowned, looking over at Kacy. She was humming softly, her back turned as she puttered with the tea things, carefully arranging the pot, sugar bowl, and cream pitcher on a tray. He was reminded suddenly of his mother. She had loved tea time, always insisting they use their best china.
He glanced at the cups Kacy was reaching for. His mother’s best had certainly not been Limoges. His practiced eye recognized it even from here. He surveyed the rest of the kitchen. The ancient Aga in the corner looked right at home, and beside the cooker was the requisite ice box. An ancient one at that. The only appliance that seemed out of place was the microwave—but even it had the battered look of secondhand. He frowned at the incongruity. Another puzzle. Kacy Macgrath seemed full of them.
He stopped himself, confused at his own indecision. In New York, he’d been so certain of her guilt. But here, in her kitchen …
He blew out a breath, trying to bolster his resolution. She had to be guilty. Everything pointed to her. And he wanted her to be guilty.
Didn’t he?
He watched her arranging the tea things, impatiently pushing back the strands of hair that fell in her eyes. Right at the moment, guilty or not, all he wanted was to run his hands through the soft silky mass of her hair.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He needed to stay focused. If she was guilty, he’d find out soon enough.
“Almost ready.” She turned to him, a biscuit tin in her hands. “Could you open this? I can’t seem to manage it.”
He reached for the can, surprised at the spark that leapt between them when their hands touched. Kacy jerked back, her eyes wide. She’d felt it, too. He couldn’t decide if that pleased him or scared the hell out of him. Neither, he decided, yanking the tin open with more force than necessary.
Biscuits flew everywhere, landing on the floor and the cabinet, even in the sink. “I’m sorry, I guess I was a little overexuberant.” He shrugged, reaching to retrieve several from the counter.
She smiled, adding a couple that had landed on a shelf to the plate on the tray. “It’s okay. Mac certainly thanks you.”
Sure enough, the dog was happily gobbling up the fallen plunder. Braedon sighed. “Well, at least he helps with the cleanup.”
Mac barked in agreement and the teakettle whistled in dissonant harmony.
“If you think you can manage, why don’t you take the tea things into the front room. I’ll pour the tea and follow you in a sec.” She reached for the tea tin and began spooning leaves into the pot.
“Right.” He picked up the tray. “I’ll just be in here, then.” He sounded like a damn schoolboy. A lower-class Irish one at that. He’d worked half a lifetime to eradicate the accent. These days, it only surfaced when he was rattled.
And Kirstin Kacy Macgrath Madison definitely rattled him.
She had no business getting involved with anybody. None at all. She was not capable of making a good decision when it came to relationships. Her marriage had been a sham. One of the more painful things she’d ever had to endure. Almost as painful as …
She shook her head. This was not the time to think about her father. Kacy poured the hot water into the pot and tried to make herself see reason. Unfortunately, the irrational part of her brain was firmly in control.
There was just something about Braedon Roche that spoke to her. Something she saw in him that reflected her own need. She suspected he kept his protective walls every bit as high as hers. There was a connection. She’d felt it at Fin’s and she felt it now. Like a current running between them, linking them intrinsically.
She was out of her mind.
She slammed the lid on the teapot, checking the tin to make sure it did in fact contain tea and not some crazy aphrodisiac. She wasn’t usually like this. Good Lord, she was standing in her kitchen thinking about cosmic connections with a total stranger. Next thing she knew she’d be blethering on about true love.
God, she needed her head examined.
“Can I be of any further help to you?” he called from the parlor.
She heard the hint of Irish lilt in his voice. Fin was right. “No. No. I’m fine. On my way.” She grabbed the teapot and pushed through the swinging door into the front room.
He was standing in front of the sofa, tray still in his hands, staring at the Monet. Her Monet.
“It’s wonderful.” He motioned to the painting with the tray, the teacups rattling in their saucers. “The Custom Officer’s Cottage. A favorite of mine.”
She set the pot on the table, and then took the tray from him and put it down, too. “You like Monet?”
“I do. I just never expected to find him here.” His eyes never left the painting.
“I suppose I could take that as an insult.”
“None intended. It’s just that the last time I saw this painting, it was in a museum in Rotterdam.”
She laid a hand on his arm and whispered, “It’s still there.”
“What?” He turned to face her, his expression priceless. “I know art. Well, at least a little. I know a Monet when I see one.”
She flushed, suddenly feeling insecure. She wasn’t in the habit of sharing her secret. She never knew how people would react. Her father had said it was a poor rendition, and Alex had accused her of lying. She wasn’t certain she wanted to risk someone else belittling her.
The Monet was special. It was something that belonged only to her. Braedon was watching her. Waiting for an explanation. She breathed in and out—oxygen for fortification. “It’s a copy.”
He’d moved closer now and was looking at the painting, really looking. “A damn good one.” He turned to face her, his eyes narrowed to tiny blue slits, the intensity drilling into her.
“Who painted this, Kacy?”
She swallowed. In for the penny and all that. “I did.”
Chapter 4
“YOU?”
All traces of any connection between them vanished in an instant. The walls were back in place, higher than ever. Braedon’s look sent a shiver down Kacy’s spine.
“Yes, me.” Her voice came out a whisper. She sat down on the sofa and stared at her hands, not sure exactly what she had done, feeling like a schoolgirl caught red-handed by the nuns, nevertheless. So much for telling the truth. She swallowed and attempted a weak smile.
His frown only deepened. “When?” The question shot out and hung between them in the air.
“In college. I studied art restoration. The idea is to try to match the original as closely as possible. I thought it would be interesting to see if I could copy the entire thing. Right down to the paint used.” She gestured at the Monet. “This was my attempt.”
“I see.” The line of his face softened, although the edge was still in his voice. “And have you painted others?”
She chewed on her bottom lip, wondering where these questions were coming from. Still, there didn’t seem any harm in answering. At least the angry look was gone. “One or two. But they didn’t turn out as well.”
“Where are they?”
Suddenly her own anger flared. “Excuse me, did I miss something? I don’t believe I realized this was an inquisition.” She met his gaze full on.
His face changed as the impact of her words hit him and he fidgeted uncomfortably. In a flash, the interrogator disappeared and the charming man from the pub was back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound that way. I’m just interested. Unfortunately, sometimes I come across as too intense.”
Warning bells went off in her head, but he smiled at her, and they stopped as suddenly as they’d started, as if someone had stuffed pillows under the clappers. “It’s okay,” she said, accepting his apology. “I’m probably overreacting.”
He sat down, reaching for a cookie, looking incredibly at home on her sofa. Right somehow. She shook her head, struggling to pick up the train of the conversation.
“Your artwork,” he prompted.
“The copies.” Her brain clicked back on, for the moment stifling her libido. “A friend of mine has one of them. It was a Gainsborough. Really bad rendition, but Kathy needed cheap art.” She felt herself relax.
“And the other?”
“A Martin.”
“Fauvism, an interesting choice.” Both eyebrows lifted, almost disappearing behind the dark hair falling onto his forehead.
She shrugged. “I think it’s in my studio, somewhere.”
“You have a studio?” He’d relaxed completely now. Maybe she had overreacted. Somehow the thought relieved her. She didn’t want to be cautious around this man.
“Well, it’s a big name for a little room. It’s just off the kitchen. Used to be a storage room, but the light is good and so I decided to paint there.”
“You use it for work?” He was being polite now, going through the social motions. He sat back against the sofa cushions, one leg crossed casually over the other.
She sipped her tea, surprised to find that her hands were shaking. “No. Not really.”
He frowned. “But I thought you restored art?”
She shook her head. “I studied it. Even worked for a little while, but then I quit.”
“Didn’t you like it?” He tipped his head to one side and raised an eyebrow inquisitively.
“I loved it. There is so much that goes into restoring a painting to its original state. I specialized in Dutch miniatures.”
He reached for his teacup, taking a sip, regarding her with curious eyes. “But if you loved it so much, why did you stop?” He leaned forward, interested again, the intensity back in his eyes. His moods were mercurial.
“Family commitments.” Despite her attempt to keep the words light, they came out in staccato succession. She swallowed, trying to control her emotions. Accentuate the positive. After all, her life was in the here and now. “I am thinking about going back to it. I’ve had some recent inquiries. A professor from Italy called about a consultation. So I’ve decided maybe it’s an omen. Time to dip my fingers into professional waters again.”
“And you can do that from here?”
“I think so.”
Mac dropped down onto the rug at Braedon’s feet, cookie crumbs clinging to his whiskers. He reached down and scratched the dog between the ears. “So what made you choose to live here?”
Because she’d been running away, and it was the perfect place to lose herself—again. Old habits died hard. And Alex’s death had only intensified them. But that was hardly an answer for polite conversation. She forced herself to smile. “Lindoon or Ireland?”
“Both, I guess. Seems an isolated spot for someone with your occupation.”
“I like Ireland.” She shrugged.
He swallowed the last of his tea and put the cup and saucer back on the tray. “But why Lindoon?”
She paused, trying to order her thoughts before she answered. “In a way, this is my home.”
“You’re from here?” He raised a skeptical eyebrow, reminding her of Mr. Spock.
“No. Obviously not. But my granny was. This is her cottage, and her father’s before her, and so on.” She shrugged. “It’s the closest thing to a family I’ve ever had.”
He studied her for a moment and she felt bare under his probing eyes. “She certainly did well for herself, your granny.”
Again, she had the distinct feeling that this was more than a casual question, but this time she was ready with an answer. Everyone was surprised at the contents of the cottage. “No. The things are mostly mine.”
“I see,” he said, although his voice clearly indicated he didn’t. “For an unemployed artist, you’re doing pretty well for yourself.”
She felt her hackles rise again. “Not that it’s any of your business, but most of these things were inherited. They’re family pieces. Except for a small trust fund, they’re all I have. So I guess you’ll just have to adjust your image of me as a poor starving artist living in a hovel in Ireland.” She glared at him, wondering if she had the nerve to throw him out.
“I’m sorry. I was out of line. I was just surprised to see all this here.” He gestured at the priceless antiques scattered about the room.
How could she adequately explain her need to have her father’s things around her? A futile effort to fill the void he’d left in her heart. She shook her head, banishing the past, and smiled at Braedon, accepting his apology. “It’s all right. You’re not the first one to mistake me for something I’m not.”
His steady gaze met hers and she tried to read the message written there. Whatever it was, it made her heart beat faster. The man was an enigma. One moment making her want to throttle him and the next making her want to lose herself in his arms. One thing was certain, though, Braedon Roche had gotten under her skin.
The doorbell chimed.
“Saved by the bell.” She flashed him what she hoped was a carefree smile and went to answer the door.
The man on the threshold could only be described as dapper. He was small and round, with a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. All he needed to look perfect was a bowler and an umbrella. Sort of a cross between Santa Claus and Mr. French.
“Good day, signora.” Okay, Mr. Italian. The little man smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I am Professor Eduardo Baucomo.” He bowed politely. “You are expecting me, no?”
She felt rather than heard Braedon come up behind her. Goose bumps rose on her arms as his warm breath caressed the back of her neck. She blinked at Professor Baucomo, trying in vain to remember why they were still standing there.
“Kacy?” Braedon’s voice was impatient and Baucomo looked at her expectantly.
She jumped, pulling her riotous thoughts in order. “Of course I was expecting you, Professor, please come in.” She backed up to gesture him into the house, colliding with Braedon in the process. His body was hard against hers and she resisted the urge to rub against him. She jerked forward, breaking the contact.
The professor looked confused and slightly amused as he watched the two of them. “I have come at an inopportune moment?”
“No.” They both answered at once, sounding more like guilty children than adults.
“I see.” The little man shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“No, really. I was just leaving.” Braedon sat on the bench and began pulling on his boots.
“Please, Professor, have a seat in there.” She pointed to the parlor door, trying to calm her surging hormones. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
The little man smoothed his moustache and disappeared through the sliding doors.
Braedon shrugged into his jacket.
“I’m sorry. I really do need to meet with him. He’s come all this way just to see me.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, his blue eyes suddenly intense. “Have dinner with me tonight.”
Say no, her brain instructed firmly. She stared up at him, her heart in her throat. “All right.” So much for logic. She was a wimp, a great big wimp.
He grinned, his teeth white against his tan. “Fin’s?”
“As long as we’re not going for the food.” She smiled, suddenly feeling absurdly happy.
“Personally, I think I’m more interested in the view.” His eyes traced a slow path from her head to her toes and back again.
She flushed under his heated gaze. “I’ll … I’ll meet you there.”
He squeezed her shoulders and leaned close, his lips brushing hers.
Lightning.
White, hot lightning.
One instant he was kissing her good-bye, and the next, he was out the door without a backward glance. She stood on the top step, watching him walk away until he disappeared into the mist, a finger pressed to her lips.
Rico stood in front of the sofa, staring at the painting. It was good.
Damn good.
Of course, with his unique expertise, it was obvious to him it was a copy. But he doubted there’d be many others who would realize they weren’t looking at an original Monet. He ran a finger along the bottom of the canvas. The paint was even old.
He blew out his breath in a soft whistle. Damn good.
“I’m sorry, Professor Baucomo. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” Kacy Macgrath breezed into the room, holding out her hand.
He raised it to his lips, using the moment to examine her more closely. She was a beautiful woman. Nothing like he’d imagined. Fragile, almost wispy. A good breeze would blow the girl away. Ye t there was something tangible about her, too. A woman a man could depend on. He smiled, lingering over her soft skin. For an old man, he had a foolish young heart. “It is no problem. It is me who should be apologizing. I have interrupted a—what do you call it—afternoon delight?”
