Rebel Waltz (16 page)

“And so?”

“And so… your guess is as good as mine, my boy. Your guess is as good as mine.”

A little blankly, Rory said, “I've hitched my wagon to a loaded gun.”

Jake nodded slowly. “But it'll never hurt you, Rory. It'll just make one hell of a bang.”

Rory rose to get more brandy. “I'm already bracing myself for the noise,” he confessed.

“That's always wise,” the older man agreed. “Because you've only got one sure thing to hold on to.”

“Which is?”

Jake's sharp green eyes were unfocused, far away in memory, and he was smiling softly. “Your Clairmont woman. They're unlike any other, Rory. They sprang from stock that brought charm and grace to a raw new land. They speak softly and gently, hiding their steel. They understand without being told that they're as strong as the strongest man, and they fight when they have to.”

Rory smiled just a little. “Scarlett and her Tara,” he murmured.

Looking up, Jake returned the smile. “Most people come away from that book thinking there were two kinds of Southern ladies,” he said wryly. “Melanie, the gentle, fragile flower, seemingly weak but somehow strong. And Scarlett, determined, strong-willed, selfish, passionate.

Clairmont women are both of those—and neither. Unlike Melanie, a Clairmont woman would never look to another for strength. And unlike Scarlett, she'd never lose the man she loved because she didn't understand him.

“That's something you can always be sure of, Rory. You'll never be able to say your wife doesn't understand you… because she always will.”

Rory thought about that. There was something both exciting and strangely unsettling about being known that well. As much as he loved Banner, he didn't feel that he completely understood her. Yet, at the same time, he understood her better than any woman he'd ever known. And what he didn't understand about her intrigued him.

Like her temper. He was, as he'd said, already braced for a sudden bang. He was wary enough to feel the need to peer round each corner before he turned it. But he was also aware of bemused fascination. He hadn't needed Jake to tell him that a life with Banner would be well worth
the—he hoped—infrequent bangs of her temper. If nothing else, it would certainly keep him on his toes!

He left Jake alone in the library and went in search of his wife-to-be, finding her upstairs, talking to one of the maids. She turned to him as the maid went on down the hall, sliding her arms up around his neck and smiling.

“Jake offer you any advice?”

“D'you think I'd ask him for any?” he managed after a startled moment.

“I know you did, love,” she said serenely.

“I have definitely hitched my wagon to a loaded gun.”

“Guns are no danger.” She smiled. “If you know how to handle them.”

He sighed. “I think I'd better learn that… real quick.”

Her fingers moved to his shoulders. “You're tense,” she noted, frowning slightly.

“D'you blame me?” he retorted.

She didn't respond to that, but took his hand
and began leading him toward her bedroom. “I know just the thing to relax you.”

Rory followed a bit warily, saying nothing until she was closing the door behind them in her bedroom. “Just what'd you have in mind?”

“Strip,” she ordered cheerfully.

He blinked. “The last time you got my clothes off, milady, you stole them.”

“I never repeat myself,” she advised.

“Still, I'm not going to take my clothes off unless I put them under the pillow!”

She laughed as she turned toward the connecting bathroom. “If it'll make you feel better.”

Cautious, but curious in spite of himself, Rory removed his clothing and placed it over a chair near the bed. When she tossed him a towel from the bathroom and instructed that he lie across the bed on his stomach, he began to realize what she had in mind. But he waited until she was sitting on the edge of the bed, opening a bottle of oil, before he commented.

“Massage? Where'd you learn that?”

“I read a book. Now, close your eyes and relax.”

Given the inescapable fact that he had only to be near her to feel fiery desire, it seemed incredible that the touch of her hands could possibly put him to sleep.

But there was magic in her fingers, her strong, slender artist's fingers. Magic that loosened taut muscles and seemingly sapped all energy. She was silent as her hands moved over his back, kneading muscles gently and firmly, gliding smoothly over oiled flesh. He felt boneless within minutes, and slipped into a deep, utterly relaxed sleep before he even realized it.

When he woke, the lamplit room was still and quiet. And he was alone in the bed and covered with a sheet. He focused on the clock on the nightstand, surprised to find that it was nearly midnight. His clothes were still lying over the chair, and his robe lay across the foot of the bed. He sat up and reached for the robe, wondering where Banner was, then made a startled discovery as he realized his entire body was glowing
with oil and feeling wonderfully relaxed from the massage.

Staring blankly at the wall, he muttered, “I slept through that?”

“You certainly did,” Banner said in amusement, closing the hall door behind her as she came into the room. “But then—that was what I wanted you to do.”

Pained, he demanded, “How could you let me sleep through one of the high points of my life, milady?”

“I'll wake you up next time,” she apologized gravely.

He pulled her down beside him, then frowned. “There's a smudge of green paint on your nose. Have you been working while I slept off the effects of your wicked fingers?”

She rubbed the smudge away, only saying in a vague tone, “Fancy that.”

“Banner—” He was uneasy, and wasn't quite sure why.

“I love you,” she said solemnly, gazing into his eyes.

“I love you, but—”

“Do you realize no man's ever slept in my bed before?”

Distracted, he said in mock horror, “What… never?”

“Never. You'll be the first to spend the night here.”

“Ummm.” He gazed at her, saying thoughtfully, “My father always said never to be the first at anything—to wait and see if anybody died from it.”

She slipped her arms up around his neck, smiling. “Next stop heaven?”

“I'm game,” he murmured, just before his lips found hers.

Rory found himself distracted quite a bit during the next few days. And he always seemed to be distracted just at the moment when he was wondering where Banner kept disappearing to. She would get him involved in something, whether it was talking to Jake or watching a
young Thoroughbred being trained by Scottie, and then vanish. Anywhere from an hour to several hours later, he'd find her occupied with some innocuous chore, such as cutting flowers or discussing the evening's menu with the cook.

It was the in- between that bothered him.

But his future wife was maddeningly elusive. She never gave him a chance to ask what was going on, always distracting him with a seductive smile or an innocent remark—both of which were virtually guaranteed to put his mind on things other than questions.

“Jake, she's planning something!”

“I'd say the planning stage was past, lad. She's probably—um, executing the plan right now.”

“D'you know what she's doing?”

“I'm just guessing, lad.”

Rory was guessing as well, and his guesses led him to her cottage studio—where he found a cosy little cottage bare of any artist's paraphernalia. Only two completed paintings reposed placidly on easels. Her worktable, paints, brushes, blank canvases—all gone.

He ran her to earth in the rose garden, where she hadn't been only ten minutes before, and was determined not to be distracted this time.

“Banner, where's all your equipment?”

She looked up from her kneeling position before a splendid Crimson Glory and smiled at him. “Oh, I've moved it.”

Dropping down to sit cross- legged beside her, he frowned. “Why? And where?”

She was weeding industriously. “Why— because I wanted to. Where—that's none of your business, darling.”

Rory was unoffended, but uneasy. “You… just wanted someplace private to work?” he guessed.

“Something like that. You don't mind, do you, darling?”

“I'm not quite sure,” he said slowly. “You aren't—uh, busy getting even, are you, milady?”

“I'm weeding, Rory.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You worry too much,” she told him firmly.

“I think I haven't been worrying enough.”

Banner changed the subject abruptly. “You know, you never did tell me what you bribed Conner with to get him to accept that Creole cook during your party.”

Absently, he replied, “What? Oh, that. I just told him I needed his cooperation and help in my courtship of you, that's all. That butlerly exterior hides the soul of a romantic.”

She laughed softly. “So that's why he keeps glancing at my ring with a look of triumph. I did wonder.”

Rory blinked. “You're a devious wench! I wasn't going to tell you about that.”

“Caught you with your guard down, didn't I?”

“And distracted me again too. Banner—”

“I haven't asked you if you're going to New York. You are going with us, aren't you?”

He sighed, abandoning his fruitless probing. “I certainly don't want to miss your first show. I'm coming even if you tell me not to.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Revenge?” he suggested dryly.

“Rory, I'm surprised at you!”

“Are you?” he asked even more dryly.

She giggled suddenly and got to her feet. “Not really,” she confessed. “I rather thought you'd been worried about that.”

“Wouldn't care to set my mind at rest, I suppose?”

“Not just yet,” she responded gently, offering him a hand up.

Rory took the hand and rose to his feet, sighing again. “You're a devious, unscrupulous, conniving little witch, Miss Clairmont, and I can't think why I love you so much.”

“Amazing, isn't it?”

Having lost her for several hours on the day before they were to leave for New York, Rory was on the veranda when he heard her rather battered VW pull into the drive and up near the side of the house. He got to his feet, but had barely crossed to the steps when she came running lightly up them.

Before he could ask, she said cheerfully, “Just
a few last- minute things I had to take care of in Charleston. Have you packed for the trip?”

“I even packed a suit of armor,” he said, slipping his arms around her as they stood together on the top step.

“Ah. Suitable for being flayed in, I assume?”

He winced. “That's a painful word.”

She kissed his chin. “Darling, I love your body just the way it is—unmarked.” Then added wickedly, “Trust me.”

“It's just that the other shoe's taking a damned long time to drop,” he explained.

“It should make a satisfying thud, then, don't you think?”

Rory groaned. “Milady, I'm going to do my damnedest never to get you mad again!”

T
HE TRIP TO
New York was uneventful. They'd reserved a suite in a hotel fairly near the gallery, and spent a couple of hours settling in before taking a taxi to see how David Moore had set up for the show, which was scheduled to open the following day.

Banner surprised Rory by not appearing the least bit nervous; she was cheerful when David met them at the door, and didn't seem at all
disturbed by the coming ordeal of public and critical scrutiny of her work.

It made Rory very nervous.

David conducted them on a tour of his gallery, explaining how and why he'd placed each of Banner's paintings as he had. Then he took the three of them—Banner, Rory, and Jake—out to dinner. He was unashamedly excited about the show, especially since everyone he'd invited to the opening had accepted; tomorrow promised to be a day to warm a gallery owner's heart.

Late that night, as they lay together in their room, Rory tried one last, plaintive time.

“Would you please drop the other shoe, milady?”

Moving even closer to his side, she murmured sleepily, “Can't stand the heat, hero?”

“The suspense.”

“Mmmm. It's good for your character, I'm sure.”

“Witch.”

When they arrived at the gallery the next afternoon, it was teeming with chattering people. David immediately met them, beaming, offering glasses of champagne and introductions. Rory enjoyed Banner's bemusement as people sincerely praised her work, and he stepped away from her to watch.

It was quite some time later that he became aware of someone staring at him, and turned his head to see a young lady who was a total stranger to him. As his eyes met hers, puzzled, she suddenly giggled and turned rather hastily away. Increasingly bewildered, he realized then that there was quite a bit of smothered laughter directed toward him. Uneasily aware that the shoe had somehow dropped without his noticing, Rory racked his brain, trying to figure out where it had landed.

Jake, who had wandered off to look over the paintings, suddenly materialized beside him. And the older man looked as if he were about to burst out laughing. “My boy,” he said unsteadily, “I sincerely hope and trust you have a strong ego.”

Rory looked at him with foreboding. “Will you please tell me what she's done?” he requested carefully.

Even more unsteadily, Jake said, “I think— she's made damned sure the punishment—fit the crime. You sprang the show on her, so… so she's springing something on you—at the show.”

Taking a deep breath, Rory said, “Where is it?”

Jake gestured helplessly. “Just around the corner there.”

Warily, Rory made his way around the corner indicated, studiously avoiding the smiling people staring at him. He rounded the corner, stopped… and his reaction—after the momentary impulse hurriedly to find himself a quiet, dark corner—was sheer rueful amusement.

Banner had gotten even. Oh, how she had gotten even.

The painting—tagged not for sale—was remarkably well done, especially considering the few days she'd had to work on it and the fact that she'd painted entirely from memory. He now knew why she'd “moved” her equipment
and materials, and why she had disappeared so frequently these last days.