Authors: Jennifer Greene
“In for a dime, in for a dollar,” Kay muttered darkly as she felt Mitch’s palm at the small of her back, leading her inexorably toward room 114. Even the number had a sinister sound.
“Same room as last time,” Stan mentioned, as if that thoroughly satisfied him.
Kay smiled happily.
She continued to smile happily as Mitch opened the door to a bedroom, done tastefully in blues and greens. When the three of them were inside, Stan closed the drapes while Mitch locked the dead bolt. Kay couldn’t think of anything equally clever to do. She set down her purse. That took less than half a second. Not that she felt uncomfortable because the double bed took up eighty percent of the available space, but she just wasn’t used to business meetings in these particular surroundings. Now, with just Mitch alone, she might not have minded.
By the time she turned around, the standard motel desk was covered with a white velvet cloth. Mitch was unplugging a lamp and carting it over to double the lighting. Fumbling with the key to his case, Stan produced a small, collapsible ultraviolet light. A microscope appeared from nowhere.
Kay sat on the edge of the bed, not wanting to get in anyone’s way. Lascivious ideas obviously had no future here. The two men were rattling off terms like “cabochons” and “crystallized fossils” and “floaters,” and suddenly nobody was smiling. Stan’s face closed up tighter than a vain woman’s girdle. “I’ve got the best stuff you’ve ever seen,” he told Mitch gruffly. “But I never told you it’d be cheap.”
“I knew you didn’t come all this way to sell tiddlywinks.” Mitch took the desk chair and removed a small cylindrical magnifying glass from his jacket pocket, fitting it to his eye. “Kay?”
She sidled up behind him, still worried about being in the way. The bag came out of the zippered inside pocket of Stan’s case, and when he carefully emptied its contents onto the white velvet cloth, she no longer had time to worry about being in the way because she was too busy having heart failure.
Mitch started talking in low quiet tones, his words obviously meant just for her. “None of that jargon you heard during dinner could have made any sense to you, but now you’ll see what we were talking about, sweet. Opals are valued in terms of their fire—that is, the brilliance of the stone. A ‘potch’ is an opal too bland in color to be worth anything. A feather is a crack in the stone, a flaw. Cabochon is the facetless cut you use on stones when you want a smooth convex surface. Diamonds are never cut that way. Opals almost always…”
Kay certainly hoped Mitch wasn’t expecting her to hear a word he was saying.
There was only a handful of “stones” spread out on the table. Seven in all. Two of the opals were as big as a baby’s fist and had a milky, translucent background. The others were black opals, and prisms of color burst from their base of dark smoke.
The whole table seemed aglow. Rainbow crystals danced under the special light; the stone Mitch picked up to show her radiated a mesmerizing vibrancy from its center, as if light and brilliance were darting around within it.
Stan said something. Mitch didn’t answer him; he was staring at Kay, studying her response to the jewels with the most enigmatic expression. His features were statue-still, watchful. Worried?
Completely bemused, Kay opened her mouth to say something, but instantly forgot it. Shock was setting in, and for the next hour total silence reigned in the room. A fortune was clearly displayed on the white velvet cloth. Mitch appeared used to evaluating fortunes. And he turned to Stan only once, to hand him a stone.
Stan abruptly flushed. “I saw the flaw,” he said gruffly. “The stone will be good, though, if it’s cut right. You know that as well as I do.”
Mitch said absolutely nothing, but Kay could have made Popsicles in the coolness of his stare. Was this her big, gentle man, with his so-well-hidden shy side? The one who defined tenderness every time he touched her? She had expected to get to know him better tonight; instead, he was now more a mystery to her than ever.
By ten thirty, Stan was aboard his plane, his bag five stones lighter. Walking a half step ahead of Mitch, her arms wrapped around her chest against the freezing cold, Kay stared straight ahead as they made their way through the silent parking lot to Mitch’s car.
She hadn’t said a word since Stan had left, and didn’t intend to.
“Hemerling shows up about twice a year,” Mitch said from behind her, breaking the silence. “I don’t want you to think he’s typical of my business associates, Kay. Australian opals are the best, and if he’s half crook, he’s also one of the best stone peddlers around.”
Still she said nothing, waiting while he opened the car door so she could slide inside. Moments later, he stuck the key in the ignition, started the engine and sent her a sidelong glance. “You’re emitting a few frigid vibrations, honey,” he remarked.
“You’re one smart man,” Kay acknowledged.
Mitch paused, giving her an inscrutable look. “You’re not impressed with my line of work?”
“I wouldn’t care if you were a ditch digger,” she said, flatly.
“Then…?”
His car was already swallowing up the miles. When she made no response, Mitch started talking again, his voice quiet and low, almost coaxing. “They’re fascinating, you know, some of the legends and superstitions about gems. In the old times, a man would wear a sapphire for wisdom, but he’d never give one to his lady for fear she’d turn into a jealous witch. And he’d wear a ruby himself, as a sign of nobility and authority, but for his woman he’d always choose a garnet. On her, the ruby symbolized stubbornness, whereas the garnet would guarantee her loyalty.”
He glanced at Kay, and when she still said nothing, he kept on talking. “The opal’s acquired a bad name in the last few centuries, but for thousands of years people believed it increased the powers of the mind. No other ‘lucky stone’ has more powers than the black opal—or so the stories say. Probably more men have been killed for that luck than for any of the more famous diamonds.
Kay.
”
She jammed her hands in her pockets, staring straight ahead.
“Talk to me,” he said quietly.
“Did you think I would care? About what you did?” she asked in a low voice. “Is that why you didn’t tell me ahead of time about your work?”
A perplexed frown creased his forehead. “It wasn’t anything like that. Hemerling’s such a character that I thought you would enjoy him…”
“I did. And you can get off it, Mitch. You and I just aren’t going to play games with each other. Collecting stones, was it? Why didn’t you simply tell me what you did for a living?”
His right eyebrow arched. “Kay, that’s not what…” He hesitated, and then continued in flat tones, “Honey, if you want to know what I do, I deal—in garnets and opals, and occasionally other stones. I don’t work with jewelry—my interest is in investment, and since the recession, investing in precious and semiprecious stones has become an increasingly viable enterprise. It started as a…quiet hobby, but it became a way to earn a decent living. Also, six months ago, I took an additional job with the university.”
“Doing…?”
“Working to protect the mineral resources we have in this state. Opals, for instance, are often found in the same area as gold and silver, yet the mining process destroys the more fragile opal…”
Very gradually, the words stopped rushing out in a flood and started to flow in an endless stream. Kay’s lips curved in a secret smile. He cared, very much, about his work. He was clearly an expert in his field; he clearly loved what he did; and she loved watching him when that wall of reserve was down.
“I’m talking too much,” he said abruptly, as if stunned at the thought.
She chuckled. “No, you’re not, you foolish man. I could listen to you all night—though I have yet to understand why you didn’t tell me all this before.”
“It was hardly a secret,” he said wryly. “The subject just never came up before.”
Kay shook her head, and Mitch shot her a glance laced with both exasperation and humor before his jaw clamped shut for a minute. How could he explain that he was carefully trying to feel his way into a kind of relationship he’d never had before, that her respect mattered to him, that exposing each new layer of his life to her left him with a raw feeling of vulnerability that he had a hard time coping with?
Finally, he admitted roughly, “Maybe I deliberately didn’t talk about it. The people in your life do
normal
things, Kay. They work at normal jobs, live normal lives. Maybe I just wasn’t sure how you’d react if I suddenly proved…”
“Weird?” she supplied smoothly.
He cast her a quick look before turning his eyes to the road. After a time, he mumbled, “Why is it that I find you so comforting to have around?”
She laughed, and then so did he. In less than an hour, he pulled up to her house, but she shook her head when he reached for the key. “We’re heading for your house, not mine,” she informed him. “And don’t get any happy ideas that you’re about to be vamped. I just want to see your place—before you spring any more surprises on me.”
***
Mitch’s house was itself another surprise. The outside was intriguing by lamplight, all gray stone and mullioned windows, with a castlelike octagonal turret on the west side. Inside, the foyer was flanked by narrow stained-glass windows.
As Mitch took her coat, he asked, “Do you want some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Kay kicked off her shoes at the door, and on stockinged feet started exploring. To the left of the foyer was a living room with a beamed cathedral ceiling that took her breath away. Hardwood floors led to French doors at the far end; a stone fireplace climbed one entire wall. There was wood piled on the hearth, and a huge pillow on the bare floor told her that Mitch enjoyed a fire…even if he didn’t have a stick of furniture in the place yet.
“You must want some coffee. Or brandy,” Mitch suggested, trailing behind her.
“No, honestly, Mitch,” she told him absently. The living room, which smelled of fresh paint, was absolutely magnificent and really didn’t need a stick of furniture. Reluctantly, she left it to start roaming again. The dining room must have been an afterthought; its three glass walls protruded into the backyard. On the other side of the house was a sort of family room, with wild cherry wainscoting. Then there was the smell of fresh paint again. Cream-colored paint.
“I should have warned you,” Mitch rumbled wryly from behind her. “I only bought the house a few months ago, and it needed renovating from the bottom up. I’m afraid plumbing took precedence over lamps and chairs.”
She glanced back. He removed his suit jacket, tossed his tie aside and unbuttoned his shirt. In spite of the change to informality, he still exuded an aura of self-possessed control…and her most protective instincts still surged up at the sight of him, which was ridiculous. There wasn’t any reason to think he was either uncomfortable or unsure—beyond the very tiny hint of winsome appeal in his eyes.
“Admit it,” she said gravely. “You’re just petrified at the thought of shopping for furniture.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly. “I’d rather go to the dentist,” he admitted.
“The bigger the man, the harder he shakes in a department store,” she murmured teasingly. “I think it’s a deficiency in the genes.”
“I’ll
deficiency
you, woman!”
But Kay darted out of reach, opening the door to a library—or an empty room with the potential of becoming a library. The gleaming teak shelves were all empty. Bay windows were begging for curtains. It took a moment before she noticed another door set into the paneling.
When she opened it, she found an octagonal turret room, its surrounding windows covered with sheets instead of curtains, making her smile again.
“If you don’t wipe that grin off your face, Sanders…”
But for a moment she was too busy looking at the room to tease him back. One long table was covered in white leather. Another held scales and a microscope, an assortment of special lamps and the kind of magnifying glasses she’d seen him use earlier in the evening. “Your workroom?”
He nodded.
She fingered the smooth white leather. “You’ve worked with stones for a long time, haven’t you?”
“When I was five, my grandfather figured I’d want a two-wheeler, but I didn’t. Instead, I wanted the deed to his abandoned gold mine. The family all thought it was pretty funny, but I got my deed. Luckily, the mine had no gold—if it had, I would never have found the opals. As I said before, they’re usually destroyed in the process of mining. Gold dust might be worth a ton, but opal dust is worth zilch. I don’t know why my grandfather even bought the mine—timber’s the family business. No one ever really cared about anything else.”
“How old were you when you got seriously interested?” She wandered out of his special room, down a hall toward the kitchen. That room was complete, delightfully so. A skylight hung over the eating area; oak cabinets blended with an old-fashioned pegged oak floor; a small corner fireplace stood near the eating nook.
“About…sixteen.”
“You started buying and selling opals at sixteen? Or mining them?”
He shook his head. “I started reading about the subject then. My father was the one who explored the old mine for me and revved up my interest. One day he plopped a four-carat star garnet in my lap and told me there was a slim chance I could make a fortune—if I had the guts. He brought people to the house. Miners, prospectors, collectors. To talk to me. And then he dropped it.”
“You mean he tried to discourage you all of a sudden?” Kay wandered back into the hall. Mitch gave her a wry glance as he hit the light switch, illuminating the stairs.
“I take it you’re not going to be content just checking out the ground floor, nosy.”
“Oh, hush. So
then
what happened?” she demanded, as she mounted the stairs, her palm on the hand-carved banister.
“
Then,
nothing. I had to learn. A lot. My father gave me an initial stake in garnets…and then watched me make a fool of myself.” He didn’t add that the challenge of making a fortune had affirmed his will to survive just when he’d decided he’d rather be dead than exist as a semi-invalid. His father had simply dropped the challenge in his lap—here was something he
could
do, something that took more mental than physical prowess, something he could master with endless study and a telephone and the right kind of teachers. And time.
“What are you leaving out, Mitch?” Kay asked softly. She’d turned in the upstairs hallway, mystified by the intensely brooding look on Mitch’s face.
As an answer, he moved toward her, tilted her chin up with his hand and lowered his soft, cool lips to hers. His eyes met hers only for a moment, long enough for Kay to remember that this was a man who could only be pushed so far.
And then he was walking past her, flicking on light switches so she could view the two bedrooms and adjoining baths, none of which interested her any longer. The house told her only so much about him; none of it explained the long, smooth scar on his chest or that streak of white in his dark hair.
“Mitch…”
“As you must have figured out, I had to have someplace to crash beyond the bare floors downstairs. This has served well enough.” Mitch turned with a wry smile as they entered his bedroom. “Though I have to admit, one’s bedroom isn’t the standard place to entertain visitors.”
The room looked like an excellent place to entertain visitors, Kay thought with a rare jealous streak. A couch and easy chair sat in their own private alcove; a luxuriously huge bed in another. The motif was Chinese, austere prints with a perfection of line, a richly lacquered chest, a pair of oriental carpets that felt like sponge beneath her feet. Mitch flipped on two lamps, and their muted glow shone softly on the richness of comfort and privacy he so clearly valued. A frantic thought occurred to her, and she raised startled eyes to his.
“Mitch—”
“You like the house?”
“I love the house. Listen. About that fig tree you gave me…?”
“I knew you’d love it, you know.” His forefinger swept back a strand of hair that had curled around her cheek. In contrast to that most tender gesture, every muscle in his body was totally rigid. He knew he shouldn’t have brought her here. She’d used some kind of perfume that had continually drifted toward him all evening. He’d watched her laughing with Hemerling; he’d watched the way she cupped a fist under her chin when she was listening intently; he’d watched her eyes come alive with humor and the way she tossed her head when she was irritated. And he’d so carefully not touched her.
“I thought it was glass,” she said hesitantly. “Mitch, it never occurred to me…”
The scent of her was such a drug. The more he tried to shake it, the stronger his addiction grew. He bent down, nuzzling his cheek into her hair, pressing his lips just behind the small shell of her ear.
“Are you listening to me?” Kay asked wryly. “Mitch…”
“I haven’t been this hungry for neck since I can remember,” he murmured.
Her stiffness dissolved in instant laughter. She swung her arms around his neck but leaned deliberately back from his marauding lips, trying to fix him with a quelling glance. “I want to talk about fig trees. Five-inch-high fig trees.”
“Okay,” he agreed. He sank down on the couch, taking her with him, swinging her legs over his thighs, leaning her back against the couch cushions. She had a terrible frown on her forehead; he leaned over her to kiss it away. Then
he
had a terrible frown. With that crazy knot she’d put in her hair, there had to be a dozen hairpins sticking into her.
“You’re not listening. Mitch, what do you think you’re doing?” She shoved away his busy hand, the one so full of hairpins. “It isn’t…valuable?”
“The fig tree?” He found the last pin, dropped them all next to the couch and combed his fingers through her hair until the strands lay smooth and silky around her face. Finally, after far too many hours, she was Kay again. Like a soft, insistent whisper, his mouth brushed hers.
And a long, low drum roll sounded at the back of his head, like a warning. He tried to banish it. When you sign up for the big leagues, you’re expected to play ball. There was nothing strictly wrong with that; he definitely wanted to play ball. And he knew damn well he was overly worried about high standards of performance, but if he got enough practice in, there was just a slim chance she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a seasoned player and the greenest rookie.