Midnight Jewels (8 page)

A glass of milk might give her senses the distraction they needed.

She got out of bed, wandered into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Light spilled out into the dark room. She
peered inside and realized she had forgotten to buy a fresh carton of milk. Scratch that idea.

As she started to close the refrigerator door, the shaft of light swept over the kitchen closet door and she remembered
Valley
. Mercy recalled Croft holding the book in his powerful, sensitive hands, turning the old pages with great care.

Before she could give herself time to think about it, Mercy closed the refrigerator door, switched on the overhead light and went to me closet.

Valley of Secret Jewels
was where she had left it, snuggled innocently into its protective box. The worn leather binding gleamed dully in the kitchen light. It wasn't just age that had given the leather that burnished patina, she knew.
Valley
had been through a number of eager hands, and not all of those hands had belonged to respectable book collectors of the twentieth century. In the late seventeen hundreds and well into the eighteen hundreds,
Valley
had undoubtedly been frequently read for its original intended purpose, which was, of course, outright titillation. Such usage could prove extremely wearing on a book.

But, Mercy reminded herself, she was a book dealer with a legitimate interest in antiquarian treasures. She wasn't the type to mar me cover of
Valley
with sweaty hands. Her interest in the volume was purely professional.. After all, the book was worm a couple of thousand dollars and represented the start of a new direction in her career.

She lifted it out of its box and carried it into the bedroom to study for a while before sleep claimed her.

Mercy rose early the next morning, padding into the shower with her eyes only half open. It was a luxury to be able to take her time waking up. Six days a week she made herself bounce out of bed and scurry through an efficient, organized routine of showering, dressing and eating breakfast. On the seventh day she wandered far more slowly through the same routine.

It was as she dawdled over her second cup of coffee that she allowed herself to think about Croft Falconer.

There was, of course, a very good possibility he had given up trying to get her to introduce him to Erasmus Gladstone and had left for Oregon.

On the other hand, he had said he would be going with her to Colorado, and while Mercy had no intention of letting him accompany her to the mountains she was convinced he wouldn't give up so easily.

He had said he wanted the time with her as much as he wanted to meet Gladstone.

Maybe he had lied.

Mercy was packed for the trip to Colorado by ten o'clock. She was considering a quick visit to Pennington's Second Chance to check that everything was ready for Dome to take charge on Monday when she glanced out her front window and realized what a perfect scene was captured within the confines of her small scrap of view.

The cove was filled with colorful sailboats skimming a glistening sea. The sky was a perfect blue and there was a sun-drenched perfection to the cliffs above the cove. The rooftops below her window
that tumbled down the hillside toward the water were awash with light. Her painting instructor would be thrilled by such an opportunity.

Mercy knew she was never going to get a better chance to capture the scene. Perhaps immersing herself in her water-colors would help take her mind off Croft Falconer. Quickly she set about dragging her paint box and easel outside onto the small deck.

Half an hour later, when she saw the black Porsche ease into the parking lot, Mercy acknowledged that she had been half right. This was, indeed, the perfect chance to capture the view with watercolors, but the project hadn't done much
to take her mind off Croft. She realized as she stared down, watching eagerly as he climbed out of the car, that on some level she had been waiting for him.

He looked up with that riveting gaze as he closed the Porsche door. "Good morning, Mercy."

"Hello, Croft." She had to stop herself from adding that she thought he would never get there. Ridiculous to be so excited. Deliberately she made herself put down her paintbrush, get to her feet and walk over to the railing. She leaned against it, watching him climb the steps to her apartment. He was a fascinating foil for the warm summer light, a creature of the night roaming at ease during the day. Croft was wearing jeans and a dark, short-sleeved shirt that left his sinewy arms bare. The jeans were close fitting, riding low on his lean hips. The open collar of the shirt emphasized the strong column of his neck. The darkness of his hair caught the sunlight and absorbed it.

When he reached the deck he paused, his eyes going from her to the unfinished scene on the easel. "So I was right. You're the source of all the paintings on your walls."

"I'm taking lessons. As you can see, I've got a few things to learn."

He nodded, not denying it. "Yes, you have."

Mercy wrinkled her nose. "You could at least tell me I've caught a unique interpretation of the scene or that I've got obvious talent," she informed him.

He gave her a questioning look, as if to be certain she was teasing him. Then he apparently decided she was. "You've caught a unique interpretation of the scene."

"What about obvious talent?"

He hesitated and then said carefully, "If you've got any obvious talent, I'm afraid it's buried under all those layers of paint."

Mercy held up her hand, laughing ruefully. "Forget it.
You're not much good with the social compliment, are you?"

"I can produce one if that's what you want."

"Somehow it just wouldn't sound sincere now." She tilted her head, studying him curiously. "What are you doing here today, Croft? I thought you'd gone back to Oregon."

"Why would you think that? I told you, I'm going to Colorado with you."

"You've got a one-track mind," she said with a small groan.

He shook his head immediately. "No. Everything is interrelated. Understanding the whole makes it possible to understand the part. I try to focus my mind, but it's not the same as being single-tracked. There's a difference."

She threw up her hands in mock protest. "Enough. It's too nice a day to argue about your brains or lack thereof."

"How about driving into Seattle instead?" he suggested easily.

Her eyes widened. "Seattle?"

"We can have lunch there. Maybe walk through some of the galleries in Pioneer Square or take a ferry ride. How does that sound?"

"It sounds wonderful," Mercy said instantly. "Just give me a minute to put this stuff indoors." She turned and swooped down on the paints, easel and the unfinished water-color scene, gathering them up and hustling them into the living room. Five minutes later she brushed her hands on her jean clad thighs. "I'm ready."

"Just like that?" he asked.

"You want me to take another half hour to get ready?"

He grinned and there was an unexpectedly exciting, thoroughly wicked attraction in his rare laughter. "I'm not going to question my luck. Let's go."

They spent the afternoon as tourists, arguing over the merits of paintings in the galleries, eating a sidewalk picnic
lunch on the Seattle waterfront and browsing through some downtown bookstores that were open on Sundays. They skipped the ferry ride on the grounds that the afternoon was rapidly slipping away and they didn't want to spend a lot of time sitting and sampling the view through a window. Every minute seemed somehow very important. They ate dinner at a popular pier restaurant and drove back to Ignatius Cove as the late summer sun began to set.

The afternoon jaunt to Seattle represented the first time Mercy had actually relaxed around Croft. She savored the feeling, hugging it to her during the drive back. But by the time he had parked the Porsche in the lot below her apartment, a niggling sense of doubt had risen to ask if she hadn't been
meant
to relax.

In the morning she would be on her way to Colorado and Croft had told her more than once he intended to accompany her.

She climbed out of the Porsche with a return of the uncertain feeling that had been pleasantly absent for the past several hours. As she closed the door of the car she looked at Croft over the low roof of the Porsche. He stared back at her, waiting.

"I'm still not going to invite you to go with me to Colorado, you know," she said with what she hoped was a casual firmness.

"The evening's not over," he pointed out, not bothering to sound casual at all. "I thought I'd come in for brandy."

"Did you?" Her pulse throbbed in her throat.

He didn't say anything else. He simply took her hand as she walked around the car and started up the stairs. She probably ought to halt him at her door, Mercy thought.

But she knew she wasn't going to do that.

At the door he took the key from her without a word and turned it smoothly in the lock as if he had every right. Mercy took a deep breath and stepped inside her apartment, flipping the light switch on the wall. Across the room the unfinished watercolor scene confronted them. Croft's eyes went to it.

"I'll get the brandy," Mercy said softly. She hurried into the kitchen. Perhaps it wouldn't be totally impossible to take him with her to Colorado. She was only going to spend two nights with Gladstone. If her client objected too strongly to her bringing along a guest she and Croft could always stay at a motel. If she could convince Croft not to embarrass her by making his desire to own
Valley
too apparent, then maybe…just maybe…

A week in the Colorado mountains with Croft Falconer stretched out before her, tantalizing her unmercifully.

She shouldn't do it. It was a bad idea. She barely knew Croft and she didn't want to embarrass herself in front of her client. Besides, although she believed him when he said he wanted her, there was no doubt that he was equally interested in that damn book. Mercy didn't want to play second fiddle to a piece of eighteenth century pornography.

There were so many excellent reasons for not letting Croft accompany her.

He was still studying the watercolor scene when Mercy returned to the living room with the two glasses of brandy in her hand. He glanced at her assessingly as she moved to stand beside him. He looked as though he were choosing his words carefully.

"I should warn you, I don't take criticism well," Mercy told him, handing him his brandy.

"You're taking the wrong approach with your painting," he said very seriously.

"It's just practice for my art class." She glanced idly down at the scene on the easel. "Seemed like a nice day to catch the view. Do you paint?"

"I've studied watercolors."

She sipped her drink. "That surprises me."

"Does it? I found them very," he paused, "satisfying."

"Why?" she asked with sudden interest.

"Because on the surface the medium is very transparent. Very straightforward and obvious. There aren't multiple layers of paint to get in the way of the viewer, just a clean wash of color. Watercolor painting lets the artist create an impression with light. What could be clearer than light?"

Mercy shook her head. "You said watercolor painting is that way on the surface. But I don't think it would have held your interest if there had been nothing more to it."

"You're right. The transparent quality is fascinatingly complex when you study it. It reveals so much with so little. And that's where you're going wrong in your painting, Mercy. You're trying to put too much detail in your work. You're using a technique that depends on light as though it were pen and ink or oils."

"Oddly enough, I didn't let you in here tonight to give me a lesson in painting."

His mouth edged up at the corner. "No? Then why did you invite me in this evening?"

She shied away from the blunt question, not wanting to admit the answer to herself, let alone to him. "Perhaps as a polite thank you for the pleasant day you gave me?"

He considered that and then discarded it as an unacceptable reason. "Not good enough. There is a place for polite responses, but this isn't it."

"Croft—"

"Watch." He interrupted her to lean down and pick up a brush. He dampened the fine bristles in the little dish of water and stroked it across a pot of yellow. Then he combined the yellow with a touch of blue, creating a delicate green.

Mercy watched. She couldn't help herself. He was thinning the paint out far too much for her taste, she decided. But then he drew the brush across the paper in a swift, sure
stroke and she realized in amazement that he had just laid down the perfect shade of the sky at sunset over the cove. She would never have thought to use green to render that color and she would never have used such a restrained wash of paint to do the job. The result delighted her.

"Beautiful," she whispered, entranced.

He set down the brush. "I think," he said slowly, "that making love to you would be like painting with water-colors."

Mercy went very still.

Croft put his hand around the nape of her neck, using his thumb to lift her chin. His eyes were almost golden. "All color and light."

His mouth came down on hers before Mercy could even think of moving.