Deadly Gift (19 page)

The staff members were all dressed in colonial garb, right down to the Martha Washington caps the women wore.

They were ushered to an elegantly set table in an alcove and presented with a wine list.

“Wine?” he asked her.

“Whatever you’d like.”

“I’m fond of a good beer on tap, actually, but you’re welcome to whatever you’d like.”

“A good beer on tap will be lovely,” she assured him.

As they waited for their drinks to come, Caer studied the menu intently.

He leaned closer to her and said, “You’re not getting out of it, you know.”

“Out of what?”

“Telling me your life story.” He took the menu from her. “Will you let me order for you? I’m not trying to be chauvinistic, I’m just trying to make sure you get a great American meal.”

“Please. By all means.”

Their waitress returned with their drinks. They’d both ordered a dark seasonal beer from a local brewer. She sipped, loving the flavor, as he ordered.

He chose turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and green bean casserole for both of them, with mini hot dogs and mustard for an appetizer.

“As American as apple pie—which we’ll have for dessert,” he told her. “Now. Go on.”

She took another sip of her beer, grinning. “You are persistent.”

“Have to be. It’s the only way to solve a mystery. And the Irish can make any story dramatic, I’ve learned.”

She laughed. “Really? All right, then. My father was one of the faerie folk, and my mom was…a banshee. They lived around the Giant Stones near Tara. I have one sister who disgraced the family by running off to live with the leprechauns.”

“How about the truth?”

She looked at him, noting the tone of his voice, and set her glass down. “My father was killed fighting when I was fifteen. My mum died soon after. She was very sick. My siblings wound up spread out around Ireland. My baby brother was adopted and taken to Australia. And I’ve been lucky enough to acquire a good education and a job that gives me a great deal of satisfaction.”

“Sounds like you had a tough time of it, growing up,” he said, but he didn’t apologize for making her bring up what must have been sad memories. They were just part of life.

“But you do have good friends,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Mary and her family. They were lovely people. I really enjoyed that pub—Irish Eyes. And they think the world of you there.”

“Oh. Aye, well, thank you.”

He was staring at her again. She met his eyes and found herself wondering about his thoughts.

She almost started when his hand touched hers across the table, his fingers moving gently. It wasn’t a sexual gesture, but it seemed to be the most erotic thing she had ever experienced.

“What is it about you?” he asked, and his voice was husky.

“I…don’t know?”

He laughed, and the sound was deep and rich, as sensual as the brush of his fingers.

“I can’t figure out what you’re really up to, but the more time that goes by, the less I care. I look at you, and I trust you, even though it’s against everything I’ve ever done, been or known. You speak, and I’m nearly hypnotized by the sound of your voice.”

She didn’t know what to say. She was frozen in place, and her throat had closed up. She was afraid that if she tried to speak, she would squeak.

Salads arrived along with the mini hot dogs, which were accompanied by delicate little cups that held mustard and ketchup. He drew his hand back. She straightened in her chair and thanked the waitress, who smiled, told them to enjoy their salads and their appetizer, and moved away.

Caer tasted a hot dog and pronounced it delicious.

“There’s an American treat for you,” he promised.

She chewed delicately, taking her time. He seemed to enjoy them himself.

“You like my story because it’s similar to yours,” she told him.

“I don’t like to hear anything that’s painful,” he said. “People shouldn’t have to lose their parents when they’re young. It’s as unnatural as a parent losing a child. I’ve seen that happen, too. All in all, I’ve seen some pretty horrible things out there. So I’m glad to hear you’ve done well on your own, and to know that you have good friends.”

“What if I really had been the child of a faerie and a banshee?”

“Are you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then…?”

“There are strange things in this world that could be true,” she told him.

He hesitated. “I’ve seen some strange things, I admit, but usually it’s strange people who cause everything around them to seem…strange.”

“So you don’t believe in ghosts?”

She was surprised by his hesitation, but then he grinned and said, “Actually, even my very tough oldest brother might believe in ghosts. I’ve never been really sure.”

“Ghosts are real,” she said softly.

“Have you spoken with any lately?”

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“No, I’m not.” He shrugged. “There’s real—and there’s not real. That’s just the way it is.”

A string quartet—dressed in colonial style—was playing chamber music in a far corner. She turned to watch them.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Aye.”

“Puccini,” he said.

Their appetizer plates were whisked away and their dinners arrived. She found that she especially loved the stuffing, which had corn, nuts and raisins in it.

They ordered more beer.

He told her more about Louisiana and the family plantation, insisting that she really had to see it one day. He talked about Florida, as well, growing up in the north of the state, working in the far south. She talked a bit about her work as a nurse and educated him on Irish history. The time passed quickly.

When they finished, she was relaxed. As they returned to the car and headed to the pub, he entertained her with stories about the scrapes he had gotten into with his brothers, and how their mother only had to grab one of them by the scruff of the neck or speak a single word to make them shape up.

“She was that scary?” Caer asked.

“She was that wonderful,” he said, looking straight ahead. “We loved her to pieces. We were a little wild, but we all adored her. And my dad, of course. We all wanted to grow up to be just like him. In a way, we’ve managed that.”

At the pub, she was introduced to jazz. She loved the sound of it. They sat in a booth, and she leaned against him, his arm resting easily around her shoulders.

She didn’t think she’d ever felt more blissful.

There’s real—and there’s not real.

That was what he’d said.

At the moment, though, it was real. And she loved it.

They listened to the music for a long time, the silence between them a very comfortable thing. When they left, she was loath for the evening to end.

“I don’t want to go back,” she admitted out loud.

He glanced at his watch. “Well, I can show you one more thing in Newport, if you’d like.”

“Really? What? It’s late, isn’t it?”

He laughed. “Yes, it’s late, but I can get us in.”

“Oh?”

He drove for about five minutes. They weren’t exactly off the beaten path, but neither were they in the midst of a commercial area.

He parked in front of a long commercial building that looked both very old and very well cared for. She realized that small placards on the different doors advertised an art gallery, a piano store, a photography studio and, on the last door, a music studio.

“Yours?” she asked him.

“My latest acquisition. On the upper level. Just up these stairs.”

He drew out his keys and started up, and she followed.

The reception held a desk, a sofa and several chairs, all tastefully antique. Magazines of all sorts covered the coffee table, and it seemed a very comfortable place to wait. “The sound studios are this way.”

He walked along the hall, opening doors as he went. She was fascinated. There were monstrous machines with all kinds of buttons, and glass cubicles that held nothing but microphones and stools. Headphones hung neatly on rungs by the doors.

“I’m amazed,” she told him. “And extremely impressed. But when do you find time to work here?”

He laughed. “I don’t, really. I send people here to do the work for me. These days I have managers and technicians who do most of the work.”

“It’s incredible.”

“It’s a good studio,” he told her. “People like it. The important thing, of course, is the quality of the sound you produce. But it’s good to be comfortable. There’s more.”

He led her down to the end of the hall, where there was a full kitchen, and behind it, a bedroom, sleek and inviting, with a lush private bath. The carpet was a rich blue, the bedspread a shade deeper and piled high with pillows.

“Who lives here?” she asked him.

“No one. It’s for visiting artists, but there isn’t one at the moment.”

At that moment, Caer made a conscious decision.

This was her night.

She might never have another one.

She walked into the room. It was lit only by the glow coming in from the kitchen, and she thought she had never seen anything more inviting.

Zach had remained in the doorway.

She turned to him. “Aren’t you supposed to make a move now, or something?” she asked softly.

“I can’t say it hasn’t occurred to me,” he told her. “But it wasn’t my intent when we started out tonight. It wasn’t even my intent when we came here.”

“It wasn’t my intent when we started out this evening, either,” she said. “It
is
my intent now.”

Still, he didn’t come to her. She didn’t know how long she could hold out before she felt like an idiot and went racing from the room.

She didn’t have to find out.

He strode over to her, and she was suddenly grateful for the dimness, because she was shaking, tremulous, not at all sure. Then his arms came around her. She had visualized so much before….

But this…This was real.

All the wonder, warmth, strength and vibrancy she had imagined were there in his embrace. And then…the tenderness in his fingers as he lifted her chin, and the hot, deep wonder of his kiss when his lips found hers, a touch at first, molding shape against shape, and then a burst of hunger and his tongue deep within her mouth, amazingly intimate, a harbinger of things to come, searing and frantic.

The kiss could have lasted forever and she wouldn’t have complained. But then she felt his hands on her, and she instinctively moved her own. She felt the silky brush of fabric as her dress was pulled over her head; her fingers were awkward against his buttons, but she learned quickly.

Naked was even better.

Flesh against flesh. The quickening of muscle, the feel of his heart, the rise and fall of his breath, mingling with her own. They tangled together, falling upon the bed, and she was curled in his arms, locked in another passionate kiss. She was half atop him. She was beneath him. She lay, barely able to breathe, as his lips moved from hers and touched flesh, tenderly, erotically, with fever and heat. Her fingers moved over his shoulders, nails raking lightly.

His mouth…

His kiss…

So intimate. She felt her blood racing, every inch of her flesh so alive, so unbelievably alive and vital. Felt him, his caress upon her breasts, her throat, her ribs, her inner thighs. She yearned for greater intimacy even as she feared it. Awkward and tentative at first, she touched him in return, learning that her instincts were all she needed, that she could touch and thrill him, that her kisses spurred his fever. And then they were an incredible tangle of give and take, limbs and torsos, fingers and hands…lips caressing, a shattering ride of wild and liquid movement. There was nothing that did not seem incredible, the wickedly sweet arousal, the feel of him inside her, the staggering, blinding ecstasy that came at last in a shuddering moment of climax, and the euphoria that swept over her again and again like an ocean tide as she drifted down, held in the curve of his arms. And all the while, she felt the rhythm of beating hearts, and the rise and fall of their breathing, the sweet and precious pulse of life.

This was real….

His face was in shadow, his expression difficult to read, as he rose up on one elbow, tenderly touching her cheek.

“What is it about you?” he asked her.

She turned to him, glad that a note of laughter escaped her lips. “What is it about
you?
” she asked him.

“Honestly, this room is for visiting musicians.”

She laughed again. “Of course.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know a few Irish tunes.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Only that I’m sure you do. And that you sing them well. And that your singing will be as great an enigma as everything else about you.”