“There were some excellent works. The ones by Victor Ouego were nice, and—”
“Victor Ouego, nice? The man has no sense of depth. His use of light is appalling.”
She cut a grin in his direction, and he found himself chagrined and returning her smile.
“Señor Ouego’s subject matter does leave a lot to be desired.”
They walked the path until they reached the barrier separating his lands from Leander Skerry’s. In silent accord they turned back in the direction of Skerry house.
Alistar stared up at the sky. “What of Mary Bouché?”
“Her subject matter is somewhat trite, but her use of color is impressive and incomparable.”
It struck him then. She had a good eye. “What? You don’t care for the small French provincial town?”
She gave him a pained smile. “Not in every picture,” she said primly. “Seems to me there’s more to France. Like the Riviera—you know, like in the movieTo Catch a Thief? Or vineyards. There are lots and lots of vineyards.” She waved out a hand. “Trains, the Bastille, Sacré-Cœur. At least, she’s finally given up on the Eiffel Tower and the Versailles Gardens.”
Alistar was not tempted to take her hand in his. Not in the slightest. He clasped his fingers at his lower back. “So, you won’t be addressing Ms. Bouché in your piece, I take it?”
“No. Maybe.” They walked in silence, except for the trees, of course. They were always present. More so with his thirty-third year looming like the guillotine. Briefly, he wondered if it had been the same with his ancestors.
Suddenly, they were standing at the terrace steps on the backside of Skerry House. Steps of concrete, not wood. The air was fraught with tension. A heady, sensual tension. The sun had moved behind a wall of dark clouds, turning the manganese-blue hue of her eyes to the swirling gray of the Atlantic. They were in for a storm, it would seem.
He leaned in slowly, giving her every opportunity to back away. A thrilling whisper of excitement raised the hair on his arms as she mirrored his actions. His arms swept around her waist, pulling her into his chest, his mouth descending on hers. Her lips parted beneath his. Their breaths mingled.
Exerting every effort to bridle a hunger that threatened to swallow him whole, he moved his tongue against hers. Desperation started as a low rumble in his blood. In the shortest countdown in history, desire skyrocketed to capture every impression he would need to carry him through the impending horrors on the horizon. His arousal was swift and fierce, and set off bells.
Bells?
He pulled away, his eyes on the sheen of her lips.
“My cell phone,” she said in a husky voice that had him tempted to yank it from her and chuck it into the Chad Brook. “Tarron? Hi.”
Alistar stepped away, giving her privacy, despite being consumed with lust and curiosity.
“Sounds good,” she said after a moment, then clicked off. She went up two of the concrete steps. Each one up pierced him with the acute pricked pain of a poisoned arrow, morphing him to stone where he stood. She glanced over her shoulder. “Would you care to come in? I have wine. And while I’m not the greatest cook, I’m passable…”
It took him a moment to realize she was inviting him to dinner.
“I mean, if you have other plans—”
A large drop of rain plopped on his nose, breaking his trance. “I would be honored.” Try and stop him.
“Ha, you say that now.” The skies opened, and she ran up. “My notes.”
He hurried after her. She snatched a notebook off a chaise. Her pen flew in another direction, a wad of paper in the other. Laughing, he scooped up both and dashed inside through a mudroom into a surprisingly modern kitchen. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. Rusted metal. Rusted metal scraped against the inside of his chest. He’d likely need a tetanus shot. He tossed the pen on an island with a granite counter. It landed with a clatter. He started to throw the wadded paper, butAldisin a feminine flourish caught his eye, and he flattened it out to a crinkled sheet and read,Jess Aldis is at it again.Reminding him of the lie he was living at the worst possible moment of his unworthy life.
It was time to confess who he was. She had a right to know.
He tapped the paper. “You don’t care for Aldis’s work?”
Peyton’s expression grew tight, but beneath that he saw a wretched suffering that slashed at his insides, further shredding the lining of his stomach. As if layers of paint were being stripped away with turpentine to expose canvas after canvas of images painted, one on top of another. He would definitely require a tetanus shot. “My apologies,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to distress you.”
She started, seemingly jarred from the innocence of his question. “No. It’s okay. I—well, the truth of the matter is—” She stopped, and he thought he would crumble from the weight of his need to know. She took in a deep breath, turning away from him. “I’ve never told anyone this before.” She opened the refrigerator. “When I was studying for my master’s in fine arts, one of my first assignments was to write a review of Aldis’s first popular work.” She gave him a cautious smile over her shoulder, quickly turning away again. “It was the scene of a murder. You may be familiar with it. It’s the painting that put him on the map. Ironically enough, it did the same for me.”
Alistar’s gut clenched hard. He shoved his fist in his jeans pocket to still the trembling. “Yes, I know the one. It’s calledWithin the Shadows.” The words squeezed past a constriction in his throat, foreboding curling through him like a snake ready to strike.
“Yes, that’s the one.Within the Shadows.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. She seemed to have forgotten the open refrigerator door. Her fingers white-knuckled as she clutched the handle. “In the shadows, a child is clinging to the dead man’s legs. I think the child is me.”
