Midnight Jewels (4 page)

She took the news well, Croft decided. It pleased him that she wasn't the kind to scream and have hysterics. Of course, he could have been more subtle. But he was still annoyed at the way she had tried to lock him out of her shop earlier, so he couldn't resist the chance to shock her.

The fact that she had managed to draw such a response from him at all surprised him. Normally he did not allow himself to act on the basis of such minor emotional prods. He was accustomed to people acting uncomfortable in his presence. Sometimes they had good reason to feel that way.

Mercy was still edging backward, probably heading for the kitchen where there was undoubtedly a back door. She was watching him alertly, waiting for him to pounce, but her eyes held a staunch challenge. She was no coward.

"What exactly do you mean by saying you're an expert in violence, Mr. Falconer?"

Croft sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. People were always reassured when a potential aggressor kept
his hands out of sight. "I own three schools of self-defense. Two in California, one in Portland, Oregon."

She blinked and relaxed slightly. "You mean you're an expert in judo or karate?"

"Something like that," he answered vaguely. "The method I teach is my own. It's based on some ancient martial art techniques that most of the western world isn't very familiar with."

She smiled suddenly, clearly relieved to be given a logical explanation. "That's fascinating. I guess it explains it."

"Explains what?"

"The way you move. The way you seem to sort of, well, float. It's very disconcerting." She gave up trying to explain. "Never mind. I'll get
Valley
. I've got it in a box in the kitchen closet. Remember, you're welcome to look at it since you've come all this way, but it's definitely not for sale." She dropped her purse onto the sofa, turned and went into the kitchen.

Croft stared after her, aware that he wouldn't have minded more time with that smile. He liked the way it lit her eyes. She had very nice eyes. They were a green shade that mirrored her emotions with compelling clarity. It was like looking through a piece of translucent jade. In the short time he had known her he had seen everything from curiosity to fear in that gaze. He found himself wondering how Mercy's eyes would reflect passion.

.Croft shook his head, a little startled by the direction of his thoughts. He was there on business, and when he was working he never allowed anything, especially sex, to distract him.

Still, Croft acknowledged with his usual blunt honesty, he couldn't deny that Mercy Pennington interested him. It wasn't because she was exotically beautiful. He decided the earlier analogy to jade was appropriate for the rest of her.

Jade was a subtle stone that rewarded only the careful observer.

One had to study jade and get to know it thoroughly before one could properly appreciate it. The way it reflected light, its inner strengths and shadows, the way it wanned to the touch were all quiet manifestations of its character that were not obvious to the casual eye.

But Croft had learned long ago to look carefully at that which interested him. And Mercy, for some reason, perhaps because of her connection with the book, definitely interested him.

He guessed she was in her late twenties. She wasn't tall, probably only about five foot five. A good seven or eight inches less than himself. Her hair reminded him of the tawny sections of his rottweiler's black and tan coat. It was a rich, warm shade of brown that made him want to put out his hand and stroke her. He wondered in silent amusement how Mercy would feel about being compared to his dog.

Her hair was caught up in a neat little twist at the moment. Croft guessed it would fall below her shoulders if a man were to remove the pins that anchored the silky strands. As it was it revealed the delicate nape of her neck, a soft, vulnerable curve
that reminded him of a flower stem. He realized he was finding the sight sensual and provocative. His body stirred and Croft grew annoyed. He had learned to master himself over the years and it was disturbing to discover that this green-eyed slip of a woman could jar that sense of self-control.

Her face was a collection of well-defined, reasonably attractive features. Wide eyes, faintly almond shaped, tilted up at the corners. Her nose was pert, mouth soft, lower lip slightly fuller than the upper.

The rest of her was even softer looking than her mouth. She was wearing a variation of the Ignatius Cove uniform, khaki slacks and a close fitting green cotton polo shut. But
the shirt didn't have an animal on the left breast and the slacks didn't have a designer logo. Her loafers were scuffed and pleasantly aged.

Croft paused to think about that left breast. Both it and its companion were on the small side, but there was a satisfying fullness that appealed. It was not his nature to be attracted to the overblown look. As in everything else, it was subtlety that caught his attention.

The khaki slacks fit well over her gently rounded hips. He could imagine cupping those well shaped buttocks in his hands, lifting her up until he could cradle her intimately against his thighs.

"Damn," he muttered.

"Something wrong?" Mercy called from the kitchen. A cupboard door slammed.

"No." There was no way he could explain what was wrong. He didn't understand it himself. Better to deny it altogether. He heard her footsteps on the kitchen tile and realized she was returning with the book.

It was the book he was there to study, not Mercy Pennington. He would do well to remember that. Normally he didn't have to caution himself about getting distracted. He seldom if ever got distracted unless he chose to be.

He glanced around the apartment as he waited for her to appear in the doorway, unconsciously picking up further clues about Mercy. The place was filled with color and a certain amount of casual clutter. She obviously favored bright, vivid hues. There was no mauve, pale mint green or baby blue in the compact, well lit room.

The sofa was lemon yellow, accented with turquoise throw pillows. The lamps were high tech in design, deep orange with all sorts of kinky twists and turns. The bookcase was also orange, finished in a shiny lacquer
that added sparkle to the room. There was more sparkle from the mirrors on the wall behind the sofa that picked up the tiny scrap of cove
view. The carpet was a strong slate gray and the walls were stark white.

The pictures on the walls caught Croft's attention. There were dozens of them, all watercolors, all done by the same hand and all showing a terrible technique and a total lack of understanding of the medium. There were pictures of the cove as seen from the tiny balcony of the apartment, pictures of sunsets on the water, pictures of sailboats, pictures of the islands lying offshore.

The colors of sky and water had been laid on with a heavy hand. A lot of purple and cobalt blue. The sails on the boats were far too bright. The islands were thick green blobs on the horizon instead of misty, half-seen visions. The sunsets were the same orange as the bookcase in the living room. Whatever delicacy of line or subtle color that might have been achieved had been ruined at the start by a brush that had obviously been wielded by an assertive, poorly trained, although clearly enthusiastic hand.

Croft was startled to find himself oddly charmed by the cheerful watercolors on the walls. Normally such lack of restraint would not appeal to him. At the same time he felt an urge to take the painter by the nape of her neck, lead her to the paper and show her how watercolors should be done.

He knew without asking that the pictures had been painted by Mercy Pennington.

The one other purely ornamental feature in the living room was a brilliantly hued wooden screen. It was in three parts and stood six feet high. This was a professional, not an amateurish creation. The panels were painted with a stunningly exotic tropical motif, all lush green leaves, turquoise sky, brilliant flowers and vivid orange fruit that must have come directly from the artist's head. It didn't look like any fruit Croft had ever seen. All in all, the scene was one of primal innocence, a tropical paradise, an unreal, too vivid dream.

But in the center panel a sleek, golden-eyed leopard crouched. It was an intruder, a lethal visitor that was not truly a part of its surroundings. It was a creature from another, far more sinister world and it brought a threat to paradise and innocence. It dominated the environment in which it found itself, faintly disdainful of the soft, bright beauty surrounding it. The expression in the leopard's gaze was remote and superior, arrogant and detached. It was as if the leopard knew another kind of reality and preferred that other, more natural habitat. But there was a longing in those great, golden eyes, too, a silent, secret wish to be part of the lush, sweet brightness that was all around.

The impossibility of the leopard ever being accepted in paradise was what made Croft turn away from the panel painting. For its own peace of mind, the creature of the night had better continue to enjoy its separate, more dangerous reality.

Croft finished his examination of Mercy's living room just as she walked in with an old, leather bound book in her hand. "Did you buy your furniture to match the screen or did you buy the screen to match the furniture?" he asked out of curiosity.

She grinned, her eyes bright with appreciative laughter. "I bought the screen and then had to get new furniture to go with it. Not the most efficient way to furnish a place."

"No, but there's a certain logic to it," he admitted.

"I take it you don't approve of my taste?"

He thought about that, turning the question over in his mind while she raised her eyebrows. "It suits you," he finally said, satisfied with the decision.

"Gee, thanks. I think. I'll bet I can guess how your house is furnished. Very bare, with no unnecessary bits and pieces hanging around to clutter up the place, hmm? Maybe the austere, Japanese style with shoji screens, wooden floors, a
couple of elegantly stark pieces of furniture? That would go nicely with your line of work and suit your image."

He was taken aback by the easy, off-the-cuff guess. It was far too accurate. The fact that .she had read his tastes so easily was mildly alarming. Lucky guess, he decided. "How did you know?"

"We all have our gifts," she said pointedly, clearly delighted with her own perception. Her eyes were alight with the small pleasure. It was obvious she was warming rapidly to him, becoming increasingly relaxed in his presence. "Some of us can keep door bells from ringing. Others are good at taking wild guesses about strangers' homes. Actually, it wasn't all that hard. There's something about you that makes me mink of austerity and total self-reliance. I'd hate to know your politics. I don't see you as the liberal type. Are you one of those crazy survivalists who lives out in the Oregon woods and collects high powered rifles and small tanks?"

He couldn't tell if she were teasing him or not, and that was disconcerting. "What do you dunk?"

She sighed. "I think that, whatever else you are, you're not crazy. You're far too self-controlled to be nutso the way those survivalists are."

"I've managed to survive so far," he said carefully. "But I'm not interested in guns. They're too impersonal. And I don't own a tank, large or small."

"Just a Porsche."

She nodded as if that explained something else. He was about to demand just what the car explained when she forestalled him by holding out the volume in her hand. "Here's the book. Maybe it won't be the copy you want, after all. Then you won't have to feel bad about missing out on it."

"There are only a handful of copies in existence. As far as I know all of them are in the hands of European collectors.
I'm almost certain this is the book I want. That's why I drove up here from Oregon this morning."

"I'll bet you never do much of anything unless you're absolutely certain you've got all the answers first," Mercy grumbled.

He looked up from the title page of
Valley of Secret Jewels
and saw the flare of deep feminine awareness in her eyes. The knowledge that she was attracted to him made his mouth curve very slightly in satisfaction. "I've found it pays to have answers before I take action, especially when it comes to dealing with people. There's an old saying about knowing your enemy. I believe in it."

She smiled a little too brightly. "Got a lot of enemies?"

"No. I'm as selective about my enemies as I am about my friends." He checked the roman numeral publication date of the book in his hand, turning the old, yellowed pages with care.

"How about your lovers? Are you just as selective about them?"

The question amazed him. He would never have thought Mercy Pennington bold enough to ask such a thing. Croft raised his eyes slowly from the page he was studying, aware from the slightly higher note on which she'd ended the query
that she was already regretting her rashness. Then he saw the embarrassment in her gaze. He knew she would have given anything to call back the words. Unwittingly she had just revealed a great deal about herself. He could use what he was learning about her.

"A man has to be far more careful about his choice of lover than he does about his choice of either friend or enemy. Friends and enemies are well defined. You always know where you stand with them unless you're stupid. But lovers aren't as easy to know and understand. They can go either way, can't they? Become friend or enemy. And who can tell the difference until it's too late?"

The embarrassment and chagrin he saw in her green eyes were very revealing. So was the light wash of color in her cheeks. A suitable punishment for her recklessness, he decided. She was sincerely wishing she hadn't allowed herself to be goaded into the question in the first place.

That was the thing about impulsiveness. It contained the seeds of its own retribution. He had a hunch Mercy Pennington had suffered before for her own brand of rashness. She knew the consequences but sometimes she couldn't help herself. She was the kind of woman who would let her emotions sway her logic. In a tight situation she would follow her instincts, and those instincts would be tied to whatever emotional bonds she had established. If she had children she would be as protective as a lioness.