Free Reads

Fire's Lady

Chapter Thirteen

Matthew was halfway down the stairs when he saw it. He stopped, an angry red mist still swirling around his head, and stared at the delicate lacy shawl crumpled on the fourth step from the top.

Alexandra's.

Leave it there, his mind said. Janine will fetch it for her in the morning. The girl was nothing more than a foolish virgin, given to playing dangerous games. She enticed, she teased, she promised endless delight but when the time for gameplaying was over and the time for passion begun, she skidded to a stop.

He bent down and retrieved the shawl, letting the shimmering square of fabric slither between his fingers as if it were the silk of her hair. She thought it was Dayla who held his heart, Dayla who warmed his bed, Dayla who fired his dreams and ignited his fantasies.

Crushing the shawl in his hand he buried his face in its soft folds, inhaling the sweet perfume of wildflowers and Alexandra.

Sweet, fiery Alex who deserved a hell of a lot better than anything he could offer her. Leaving her bedroom was the most difficult thing he'd ever done.

And probably the finest.

Why then did he feel as if a part of him had died? Stuffing the shawl into his pocket, he headed toward the library for a drink.

Stephen had planned it as a dress rehearsal, a chance to make certain he could make his way back to Sea View and slip inside without being noticed. To be naught but a simple stopover before heading for New York City. The success of his plan depended on it and, thus far, things had progressed without a hitch. His horse had covered the distance between Westhampton Beach and Sea View quickly and Stephen had managed to make his way up the dunes with no trouble.

The house was dark except for the hall lamps and a light in the rear. The French doors to the library library were open and Stephen crouched down behind an azalea bush as McKenna muttered a few words to Dayla then retreated with his bottle of vodka. The gas lamp on the desk burned brightly and Stephen cautiously peered inside the room in time to see Dayla puttering near the wall safe hidden behind one of his uncle's rare still lifes. Except for some old family letters, the safe had remained empty for at least twenty years and when his uncle had given Stephen the combination a few months ago it was to provide him with a place to store his own valuables.

That was exactly what Stephen had done. The small portrait of Marisa Glenn--painted when she was still Mary Margaret Kilbride--was tucked away inside. Stephen had found it in Rome, in a tiny gallery near the Via Veneto and he'd paid a small fortune for it. Andrew had destroyed most of his work from the Hudson Valley period; this was one of three paintings to survive.

When Andrew died, Stephen could name his own price.

And then the unbelievable happened: before his horrified eyes, Dayla removed the still life from the wall and placed it against the leather wing chair. Her dusky fingers spun the dial left, then right, then left again and Stephen groaned as the door to the safe swung open.

He held his breath as she reached in and extracted a sheaf of letters neatly tied with a faded red ribbon and was about to close the safe door when she hesitated then reached back inside.

The painting.

The bitch had the painting in her hands and Stephen knew it would now only be a matter of time before it found its way back to his uncle Andrew.

"It doesn't matter," he whispered into the darkness. A delay, that's all it was. One small seback in an otherwise perfect scheme. He'd think his way through this the same way he'd thought his way through everything else. He was a Lowell, one of a long line of pirates and privateers and men willing to take what they wanted, consequences be damned.

Anyway you looked at it, Andrew Lowell was a dead man.

Stephen was smiling as he disappeared back into the night.

Saturday morning Alexandra arose early, ostensibly to get a head start before the temperature rose. She was glad that Andrew had once again requested she pose in the afternoon and she had been quick to agree. The thought of being enclosed in a sweltering attic room while the afternoon sun blazed overhead made her dream of icy streams and tall glasses of lemonade.

Dreaming of icy streams and lemonade was infinitely safer than dreaming of Matthew McKenna, which was exactly what she'd done all night. Each time she closed her eyes she'd seen his face in the moonlight, heard his voice, felt the touch of his hand against her cheek.

And, God forgive her, each time she drifted into sleep she relived the wild surge of desire she'd found in his arms.

She came down to breakfast trembling with anticipation and terror, only to find the elusive Mr. McKenna had saddled a chestnut and ridden off just after dawn. She managed only a half piece of toast before her appetite fled and she headed out to the carriage house.

When he didn't return for luncheon she was almost relieved, for the dark shadows beneath her eyes were testimony to her restless night. Indeed, she wondered if she would ever sleep again. She could imagine herself lying awake night after night, listening for the sound of McKenna's footsteps in the hallway outside her bedroom door.

She was ashamed to admit to herself that she'd wished he would force his way in and pull her into his arms, even though she was certain to suffer eternal damnation for even thinking such a thing.

When she arrived at his studio shortly after two, it came as no surprise that Andrew Lowell recognized her distress immediately.

"You look awful, girl," he greeted her.

"Thank you," she said grimly, taking her usual position near the French doors. "How kind of you to mention it."

He muttered something about temperament being the province of the artist not the model. She was about to retort that she was an artist too when Dayla placed a hand upon her shoulder and whispered the word, "Please," low into her ear.

He's ill, Alexandra told herself as he began to work. He had earned the right to be crotchety and fractious. In fact, today she preferred it for it meant no conversation. She didn't believe she could find a single amusing story to wile away the hours as he worked.

He worked steadily, occasionally breaking the silence to tell her to turn her face more toward the window. By the time the sun was halfway to the horizon, she was gazing moodily out at the window to the beach below. The tide was low and sandbars stood out in bold relief against the shimmering pools of water dotting the landscape. A few hundred yards out, gentle waves splashed against the receded shoreline and she imagined herself there, as the cool water swirled around her ankles and calves.

And then she saw him.

Knee-deep in water was Matthew McKenna. It was difficult from that distance to tell what trousers he was wearing but she could easily make out his white cambric shirt with the sleeves rolled up clear above his elbows. He wielded a long wooden instrument like the one she'd seen the men using to dig for clams in Georgica Pond, but there all resemblance ended.

Those men had worked slowly, methodically, conserving their energies in order to see the job through but there was no moderation in Matthew's movements. He worked furiously as she watched him, his powerfully muscular forearms glistening with saltwater and sweat in the fierce yellow light. She imagined she could taste him against her tongue, his skin warm and resilient to her touch, and her eyes fluttered closed for one heartstopping moment.

He toiled as if possessed, as if he were trying to drive out some black demon coiled around his heart.

How well she understood.

Nothing about her life seemed familiar to her any longer. Not the sounds of the birds flying overhead, nor the scrub pines ringing the house, nor the sight of her strange and familiar face in the cheval mirror each morning--nothing was as it once was.

Newly discovered emotions smoldered inside her, making it difficult to eat or sleep or think about anything beyond the way Matthew McKenna made her feel.

"Turn toward me, girl!" Andrew snapped. "I do not intend to paint the back of your head."

Dayla, who had been sitting in the corner of the room sewing, looked up. "Perhaps this is enough today."

"I say when it is enough," Andrew roared, "and it is not!"

Beyond the window, Alexandra saw Matthew rip off his shirt and tie it around his waist, baring his chest to the sun--and to her fevered gaze.

"Turn to me, girl!" Andrew repeated. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Yes," she said, rising from her chair. "I do believe I have."

"Where do you think you're going?"

She hesitated, torn between her desire to leave and her longing to stay. "I--I am feeling lightheaded. I need to--"

"If you're lightheaded, then sit down."

"I cannot."

"Cannot?" He turned to Dayla. "What does she mean 'cannot'?"

Dayla's eyes met hers. "She would like to return to her room, Andrew."

His attention swiveled back to Alexandra. "Do I pay you to hide in your room, girl? I do not think it is asking so much that you give me an hour of your time."

"I cannot," she repeated, her gaze drawn again to Matthew on the sunswept beach. "Please--the heat. I am not myself."

Andrew opened his mouth to speak but Dayla stepped in. "She is ill, Andrew. Let her be."

Oh, dear God! This simply wasn't fair. Now she was indebted to Matthew's woman.

"Sir," she began, "if you can find it in your heart to allow me this one favor, I swear I'll--"

"Save your swearing for what is important," Andrew said. "Go to your room."

"You cannot know how I appreciate this kindness that you've--"

"Go to your room," he bellowed, "and cease this infernal talk."

She was anxious to get away, but his voice stopped her in the doorway.

"And, girl?"

She paused, heart pounding. She had pushed him too far; she knew it.

To her intense surprise, the hint of a smile played across his countenance. "Get some sleep. I cannot have a model with circles beneath her eyes."

"I shall make it up to you, Mr. Lowell. You can withhold pay or--"

"Go!" he roared. "Go before I change my mind and put you on the next train out of town!"

Table of Contents