Miranda's Revenge (9 page)

“I'm all ears.”

She sucked in a gulping measure of air. “I had to breathe.”

“I understand.”

“I wasn't able to talk with Renate Franz. They said she's out of town, so we'll have to reach her later, but I did talk to some other people I know, some gallery owners and members of the art community in New York, and it was kind of interesting.” A soft breeze blew strands of hair over her face, and Miranda caught it back with one hand. “It seems Claude was somewhat known around Renate's gallery, that they've been hanging out together for a long, long time.”

“She's represented him for a long time, right?”

“No, he didn't start painting until he and Desi moved here to Mariposa.”

His eyes narrowed. “Really.”

“That it's only been a few years, and suddenly he's that brilliant? I mean, it happens sometimes, but not that often.”

“So what's the feeling among the people in your world? That he's a fake?”

Miranda's mouth dropped. “No, actually, but that's brilliant, James. What if he was just being a front man, an ethnic front man, for another painter?”

“And maybe that painter got tired of it.”

Miranda grinned. “Painted himself into a corner, though, huh?”

He laughed. “That was terrible.”

“Yeah, I know. And we didn't really need another motive for someone to kill Claude. It's like the
Orient Express,
where everyone had reason to kill him.”

“Maybe it is something like that, a bunch of people who got together and decided to get rid of him once and for all—ex-lovers, cuckolded husbands, business partners he double-crossed. Everybody.”

“Did you just say cuckolded?”

“I did.”

“Wow.” She fanned herself with exaggerated movements. “I can't resist a man with a great vocabulary!”

The sun made a sudden slip, and the entire world blazed, as if someone in the heavens switched a floodlight marked Pink. Miranda snapped to attention, captured by scarves of pink clouds drifting over the pointed breasts of the mountains, by the trailers of pale gold necklaces draped over the swells and curves.

“Ta da!” James said, spreading his palms. “The artist's palette, spread out just for you.”

Dazzled nearly to tears, Miranda opened her eyes wider, as if to take in more of the show. Pale gold and pink melded and the colors of the mountains turned dark blue, and then, as if the heavens were igniting, red flickered from cloud to peak to cloud. Miranda put her hands to her face. Tears leaked from the corner of her eyes, and she blinked them away, embarrassed. “It's amazing!”

He, too, gazed at the sky, his profile almost Mayan. For a moment, Miranda was snared as much by the beauty in his face as by the sky bowled over their heads. His hands rested loosely on his knees, and there was a depth of utter peace and calm about him that drew her like a hearth. It seemed a weary person could rest there, in the pool of quiet, let go of the tangles of tension and spiky drama in her chest.

A small voice in her head murmured,
uh, oh—better be careful with this one.

She ignored it, leaned into him, her arm touching his arm, her cheek against the red cotton of his shirt. “Thank you, again.”

“My pleasure.” He touched her nose, brushed her chin with one finger, as if surprised by the shape, as if he'd never seen nose or chin before. For a single moment, he looked down at her, and their eyes met, a single moment that felt to Miranda as if the rest of everything hung in the balance.

Here, now.

“There is a Navajo chant that says,
You see I stand
in good relation to you…I am alive, I am alive,
” he said quietly, his finger now brushing the angle of her cheekbone. “In this moment, I am alive.”

The vivid pink light edged his hair, cast his tawny skin in a new light. She could see what he'd looked like as a boy, and conversely, what he would look like as an old man, and her heart squeezed so hard she put a hand to her chest.

Then he bent to kiss her, and they tumbled backward, gently rolling together on the wide flat rock, laughing as they squashed the remainder of the bread.

He settled nearly on top of her. Miranda welcomed it, feeling dizzily suspended, as if they were part of the sunset. He stroked her hair, her cheek, kissed her lightly and then more deeply. She raised her hands to his hair, thick and cool and slippery, and touched his ears, his neck.

And there they were, drifting, melding, alive in the light, in the airy softness of dusk, lips and hands and bodies doing the communicating.

“Sorry to break things up, folks,” said a voice above them, “but it's going to be dark as sin in a few minutes and you need to get on up here.”

They broke apart to grin at the man standing on the road. A man of fifty or so, with a ski patrol jacket and bushy eyebrows, clapped his hands. “C'mon. Move it.”

“No problem,” James said, leaping to his feet. He held out a hand for Miranda, who brushed her hair down, smoothed her blouse, color burning in her cheeks.

T
hey walked back down to the tram station, holding hands in the lavender gloaming and stood in the building waiting for a car. The unfinished kiss was a siren that stretched between them wantonly, and James tried to shake it off. But he felt heat in the oval hollow between their clasped palms, and stroked the delicate skin of her wrist with his thumb. She looked up at him, her eyes both trusting and afraid. He raised her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles.

A faint smile turned the corners of her red mouth, and she looked away. Shook her head and he was sure it was at herself. “Hey,” he said. “It's not imaginary.”

For a moment she held his gaze, then looked toward the arriving car. “Here's our ride.”

They settled inside, side by side. James moved close, slid an arm around her shoulders. Her hair brushed his arm, light and soft as fur. Amused by the thought, he picked up a lock and rubbed it between his fingers, wondering what kind of animal she would be. Something rare and skittish. A red fox, shy and soft, given beauty by her pelt. He smiled to himself, and at that moment, she looked up again.

Their eyes caught. The only sound was their breath and the machinery moving the car down the mountain in a smooth, easy ride. James admired her mouth, her long eyelashes, her body next to his. Everything about her was soft, so inviting. He bent to kiss her lightly.

She raised her head infinitesimally and pressed her mouth to his, and raised a hand to his jaw, a light, exploratory touch that traced his cheekbone, jawline, the edge of his eye.

He closed his eyes and drank of her mouth, taking his time, easily and without urgency kissing and kissing her, sliding his lips one way, then the other, taking a moment to gauge the lower lip, then lightly touching her upper with his tongue. They kissed all the way down, making out like teenagers, and it felt like each kiss shifted the universe, that each binding moment meant something finer was coming into the world. He felt lost in her, delighted and lost and bemused and breathless.

About halfway down, the car stopped dead, and they broke apart to look at the soft lavender world around them, the scattering of the town below, pristine and perfect. “Wow,” Miranda said. “I've had some pretty great dinner dates in my time, but this takes the cake.”

“Yeah?” He cupped her cheek, his heart pounding as if he were already in love. “I don't want to seem like a weirdo, but this feels like something rare.”

“If you're weird, I am, too.” She swallowed.

He kissed her again, drinking deep. They were both dizzy and flushed as they jumped off the tram, and holding hands, dashed like children into the street. “I'll buy you a drink,” he said, reluctant to leave her.

“You won't have even one?”

“Not with a race coming up.”

“I can respect that,” she said. “Sure, I'd love a drink. Let's not go to The Black Crown, though—I'd rather not run into my family or Tam. I doubt any of them are there, but just in case.”

“Ashamed of me?” he said lightly.

Her head jerked up. “No! Why would I be?”

Which was more vehement a reaction than he'd expected. “I was only teasing you a little,” he said. Slightly troubling, but he brushed it away.
Don't be too sensitive.
Sometimes, pride got in his way. Too much pride.

“Sorry,” she said, and pursed her lips. “I know where we'll go. It's only a block or two. I haven't been there before, but I've heard about it. Now I have the perfect reason to try it out.”

“Lead on, my lady,” he said, and she laughed. They held hands in the mild summer night, joined for a few minutes by a pair of dogs, a blue heeler mix and some sort of spaniel. He was about to worry about them crossing the busy main street, but as if they, too, knew to avoid it, they turned off before they got there. “I worry about dogs too much,” he said. “I want them to stay home in their yards, safe and happy.”

“Me, too. It makes me crazy that so many of them wander around here. They must get hurt.”

“Do you have one?”

“No, I live in a tiny apartment. There's no room for a dog. I thought about getting a cat recently, but honestly, I'm on the road so much that it's just too hard.” She stopped in front of a tiny bar with a window painted in blue and red paisleys. Written in sixties rock poster script was The Poppy Seed. “Here we are. Put on your sunglasses, man, and let's go inside.”

Inside he chuckled. India cotton tapestries hung on the old walls, probably hiding cracked plaster, and there were soft purple lights glowing at intervals through the room, making square velvet and fluorescent posters glow. “Are those black lights?”

Miranda grinned. “Isn't this the coolest little spot? The jukebox has nothing but a bunch of baby boomer oldies, too—Rolling Stones and The Who and stuff like that.”

Customers were a mix of twenty-something backpacker types, tanned and a little grimy, or real exhippies and bikers, men and women. The bartender, a man of about sixty with a round tummy like Santa Claus and a beard to match, nodded at them. “I'll have a margarita, please,” Miranda said.

The old guy shook his head. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said in a voice like five miles of mountain road, “we don't do anything that fancy here. Beer and wine, or a whiskey and Coke. I can set up a shot of tequila for you if you want.”

Miranda laughed. “No, thanks. How about beer, then?”

“Coke for me,” James said.

“Jack and Coke?” He narrowed his eyes. “No, I reckon not. You're a runner, aren't you?”

“I am.”

“I used to be,” the bartender said, his voice gravelly. “You know Peter Bok lives here.”

“I met him! My first day here,” James said. “What a guy.”

“He comes in here, now and then. His wife likes my French fries, and as long as I've been here, he has a beer a day, at suppertime.”

“No kidding.” James settled on the stool, pulling out money as the man fixed their drinks. “You ever run the Mariposa?”

“Nah. Too far and crazy for me, man. I was always a rambler.” He put the drinks down in front of them. “That'll be $6.50.”

James paid and picked up his drink. “Thanks.” He pointed to a booth in a dark corner, and they headed over there, slid into the anonymous gloom. The room smelled of a hundred years of tobacco soaked into old wood and beer spilled a thousand times on the floor, of bar cleaner and patchouli incense, which was oddly appealing. “Do you want to play some music?” he asked Miranda.

“Sure. Let's choose together.”

He grinned. “Okay.”

They walked over to the jukebox and flipped through the tunes, laughing at the possibilities. “I don't even know half this stuff,” Miranda admitted. “But I like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.”

“Everybody knows the Beatles and the Stones,” he said. “Let's be more adventurous.” Raising his head, he called out to the bartender, “What should we play for you, man?”

“Procol Harum, ‘Whiter Shade of Pale', if you don't mind,” he said, wiping down the bar. “I fell in love to that song, once upon a time.”

“Got it.” Miranda wanted Janis Joplin, a song he didn't know called “Turtle Blues” and he chose a couple of Santana tunes his dad always loved. Then he said, “Pick something for no reason except it sounds cool.”

Miranda chewed her lower lip, and her hair fell down beside her face, lit from beneath. “Velvet Underground is a cool name.”

He punched the numbers. As the music came on—not too loud, which he appreciated—he grinned at Miranda. “This place is great. Thanks.”

“My pleasure. I found out about it one night right after I got here. I've been meaning to come here ever since. It's like a time warp.”

He looked around. “No, I could take you some places that are time warps. This one is just retro, nostalgic.”

She nodded. “I'd agree with that.” She faced him, arms crossed on the table. “So where would we go in Albuquerque? Tell me about your town.”

Her eyes shone in the dim light, and her mouth framed an invitation with every word she spoke, and he wanted to see her laugh, so he said, “Well, if you want to go back in time, we could head on over to Joe's White Horse, which was probably sitting right on that corner when Pancho Villa was riding, and I'm pretty sure nobody has ever mopped the floor since.” He sipped his soda. “Of course, you would need to bring a pistol.”

He was rewarded with her low, earthy chuckle, a sound that vibrated all the way down his spine. “It sounds like something out of that movie
Desperado.
”

It startled him. “You know that movie?”

“I
love
that movie!”

“No kidding! Me, too.” The idea he'd been forming of her—a bit of an intellectual, a cosmopolitan, maybe a tiny bit of a snob—shuffled around to fit this new bit of information. “I'm surprised you do, though—it's really bloody.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “But it's cartoony. It's so campy.” She raised an eyebrow, acquiescing to the obvious with a one-shouldered shrug. “And it doesn't hurt that Antonio Banderas wears pants with silver buttons.”

“Ah,” he said, “the mariachi look can be done,
señorita.
”

The smile that edged across her mouth then, slow and knowing, just about knocked him out. “I might take you up on that,
señor.
”

A Rolling Stones song came on and the bartender whooped and clapped his hands. “Time to dance, folks!” He rolled out to a postage-stamp-size square of floor toward the back of the room, and started dancing beneath a ball that flashed yellow, orange and blue in slow, globby flower patterns.

Miranda laughed. “Far out, man.” She stood up and held out her hand for James. “We can't leave him out there dancing all alone.”

“I'm a terrible dancer.”

“Men always say that. I don't care. No one else will, either.”

They were not the only ones drawn by the exuberance of the bartender, who was obviously the owner. Some of the backpackers and a couple of the biker couples joined him, too. James, feeling awkward, joined in as well as he could, if only for the sheer pleasure of watching Miranda dance.

She had graceful arms she used like a hula dancer's, and a naturally sinuous swaying form that drew the eye down her long, slim form. Beneath the shifting lights, her skin took on one color after another, as if she were a painting, and her hair swayed and flowed, her eyes glittering in great fun as she looked up at him.

Then the bartender's song came on, and Miranda slowed to a twirling flower, drawing him in and around her. He did his best to follow, smiling at her encouragements, knowing he probably looked like an idiot, but it didn't matter, because no one—male or female—could possibly look at him while Miranda was there, burning, a flame, a painting, a scarf floating on currents of music.

He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

And he knew that her dance was for him, to coax him, capture him. Hypnotize him. Make him her slave.

He might once have believed in love, or seen a woman he thought was beautiful. He had not. As long as he lived, he would remember these moments when Miranda danced to Procol Harum and then “White Bird,” washed in color, in sound.

They were sweating. The swell of her breasts was washed with perspiration that glistened yellow, blue, white, and he lifted a finger to trace a line through it, just one finger. Her eyes turned dark as he lifted her sweat to his lips and tasted it. Her nostrils flared, and her lips parted—consciously or unconsciously?—and she ran a hand down the length of her hip.

And then, the song was over, and something loud and raucous came on, something a lot of others must have approved of, because customers crowded the floor. Miranda and James were shunted off to a dark corner, and there, against a velvet curtain that must have come from an old-fashioned movie theater, he pressed into her, taking her mouth with all the passion he wanted to expend between her legs. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him—hard, so much strength!—into her body, arching so her breasts crushed into his chest. Their legs slid together, scissor-style, so the yearning, over-heated, throbbing parts of them were pressed together in promise of the relief they could offer, one to the other.

She tasted of sweat and beer and something hot he thought must be her own flavor, because it heated and intensified as they kissed, her tongue and his sliding together, and around, along each side, front to front and back and away to corners of a lip, to the bow.

He was madly, painfully, intensely aroused, and it took everything in him to shove his hands in her heavy weight of silky red hair, next to her damp skull, and pull himself away. Hold her away so he could look down at her eyes.

She stared up at him, her chest rising and falling against his, arousal and exhaustion. “Holy…damn,” she said, and swallowed. “I'm not—” she floundered for words “—you are…this is…”