Truth or Dare (12 page)

“That poor designer, whoever she was, had nothing to do with the fact that he was forced into bankruptcy.”

“I know, but I think in some weird way, Ethan associates all that expensive furniture she made him buy with the financial disaster that he went through. He told me that he only got pennies on the dollar at the auction.”

She swept out one hand in an exasperated arc. “Well, it certainly wasn't the designer's fault.”

“Apparently she told him that those high-end desks and the reception-lobby sofas and tables were good investments.”

She frowned. “I'm sure she meant that they were excellent investments in the sense that they projected the right image for his business.”

“Guess Ethan thought she meant they would appreciate in value.”

“Furniture rarely appreciates in value.”

“Yeah, well, maybe she didn't explain that clearly to Ethan.”

Zoe groaned. “All I know is that every design meeting with him turns into a skirmish.”

“Like I said, simple male fear.”

“Uh-huh.” She paused. “Speaking of fear.”

“Yeah?”

She pretended to examine the nineteenth-century diary displayed under the counter's glass top. “I know this is none of my business, but I was wondering if you plan to ask Bonnie out one of these days.”

Singleton did not move. “I'm thinking about it.”

“Oh.” She waited a beat but Singleton did not offer to enlighten her further. “I'm glad. I was worried that you might be hesitating because you thought she wouldn't be receptive to the idea and I am pretty sure she would be. Receptive, that is.”

“I'm sure as hell not going to ask her out until we're way past the anniversary of the day her husband was kidnapped and murdered.”

She was struck, not only by the comment but by the insight behind it. “You're right. I hadn't considered that aspect of the situation. This might not be the best time to make your move. But I'm happy to hear that you do plan to make one eventually.”

“You really think she'll be okay with the idea of going out with me? I'm not exactly what you'd call her type.”

“Who can predict when it comes to types?” she said very earnestly. “Take Ethan and me, for example. I'll bet that no one would have guessed that we'd wind up together.”

“Good point. Talk about opposites. You with your artsy, feng shui stuff and Ethan with his hard-boiled view of the world. Nope, I don't think any self-respecting matchmaker would have put the two of you together, that's for sure.”

The observation did nothing to improve her mood. She abruptly regretted using the opposites-attract argument.

But Singleton's spirits appeared to lift. He beamed at her. “Thanks, Zoe. You give me hope.”

“I'm glad,” she said, meaning it.

 

Ethan heard her footsteps on the creaky stairs. About time.

He had spotted her coming up the street a few minutes before and watched her enter the building, but she had gotten delayed by her conversation with Singleton. He wondered what the two of them had talked about down there.

He sat behind his desk, studying the mirror that was positioned on the wall in such a way that, when his office door was open, it provided a view of whoever entered the outer room. Zoe did not approve of the placement of the mirror. Something about the way it destabilized the harmonic energy flow in the office. She also did not like his client chairs, claiming that they were too large and overwhelming. But the energy flow felt fine to him and he liked his clients to feel a little overwhelmed. It gave him a subtle edge that he often found useful.

Zoe materialized in the mirror. Her dark, red-brown hair was drawn back into a sleek knot at the nape of her neck. She had been in her robe when he left her after breakfast. But now she had on a light turquoise pullover with sleeves that ended just below her elbows and a skirt in a darker shade of the same color. The gauzy fabric drifted gracefully around her calves. He felt his insides tighten with anticipation. She looked terrific. Then again, everything looked good on her. She looked even better when everything came off.

Memories of the previous night's lovemaking made him hungry all over again. He had come to crave those moments in her arms because their shared passion was a drug that gave him a blissful, if temporary, amnesia. When they were locked together in the damp sheets, he could forget the uncertainties of the future; he could also pretend that he did not have a past.

“Ethan?”

“In here.” He rose and walked around the corner of his desk.

She arrived in the doorway. “Ready for lunch?”

She was smiling but there were shadows in her eyes. It bothered him that the nightmare that had awakened her in the dark hours after midnight was still haunting her today. Anger heated his blood. He controlled it with an effort of will because there was not a damn thing he could do. He would give anything to be able to go back in time and save her from those months at Candle Lake Manor. But some things could not be changed. He knew that better than most.

“Yeah, I'm ready to eat,” he said. He went forward, took her into his arms and kissed her hard, trying to drive the ghosts out of her eyes. When he felt her start to melt against him and put her arms around his neck, he raised his head. “And I'm not feeling too particular at the moment.”

“I'm thinking Montoya's,” she said.

He drew his thumb along the line of her jaw, enjoying the feel of her soft skin. “I'm thinking you. On my desk.”

She stepped back quickly. “Forget it, Truax. We have to make a decision about the color in the master bedroom. We can't put it off any longer.”

“How can you think about paint when I've just suggested hot, sweaty sex on a desk?”

“I'm a professional. I know how to stay focused.”

 

Following lunch at Montoya's, they got back into the SUV and drove out to Nightwinds Canyon. A short time later he pulled into the drive of the old mansion.

Zoe tensed a little in the seat. She flashed him what he had come to recognize as her most dazzling professional smile. “We don't have to argue about this, you know. You could try trusting your interior designer.”

“Honey, I would trust you with my life.”

“But not with a can of paint?”

“Paint is dangerous stuff.”

The flamingo-pink front door of the big house stood wide open. There was a white van parked near the door. The sign on the side of the vehicle read H
ULL
P
AINTING
C
O
., E
RNEST
H
ULL
, P
ROP
.

Zoe brightened immediately.

“A painter,” she said. “At last. Treacher must have changed his mind about sending someone out here this week to work on the kitchen. Come on, let's go see what's happening. I want to make sure he's got the right instructions for the crown molding on the north wall.”

She shoved open the door and leaped out of the SUV before Ethan could get the key out of the ignition. He watched her fly up the steps and disappear inside the front door.

Your intrepid interior designer swings into action,
he thought. It
was amazing how fast she could move when there was a painter in the vicinity.

He climbed out of the SUV and went toward the door at a more leisurely pace. A painter on the premises meant that decisions had to be made, decisions that he was strangely reluctant to make.

But hell. The remodeling of Nightwinds had become some sort of crazy metaphor for the marriage. As long as no decision was made, he could pretend that nothing would change, that everything would stay just as it was. He would not have to confront the future.

When he passed the van, he glanced through the driver's-side window. The console held a can of some substance guaranteed to build muscle, improve energy levels and enhance physical performance. There were five more unopened cans of the stuff in a six-pack on the floor. A large paper bag emblazoned with the logo of a nutrition shop sat on the passenger seat.

You had to respect a painter who took care of his health and nutrition, Ethan figured. He wondered if he should feel guilty about the extra-large Montoya's Special Enchilada he had consumed a short time ago.

He took a closer look at the sign on the side of the van. It was one of the magnetic types that could be easily peeled off and stuck on another vehicle if the need arose.

He went up the front steps, past the pink stone pillars that framed the entrance. The interior of Nightwinds no longer looked quite so overwhelmingly pink these days because the pink marble floors and the pink carpets with their huge pink
orchids were covered with drop cloths. Ditto for the pink-and-gilt furnishings. Unfortunately, that still left a lot of pink walls and the high pink ceilings exposed to view.

He saw that Zoe had the hapless painter cornered near the coat closet. She no longer looked thrilled. She was pissed.

The painter appeared desperate. He wore pristine white overalls. Blond hair cut with military precision showed beneath the bottom edge of a brand-new peaked cap. The protein shakes appeared to have worked, Ethan noticed. The guy was big, well over six feet. The thick neck and broad chest indicated some serious bodybuilding. He loomed over Zoe, although she did not seem to notice. She was too busy berating him.

“What do you mean, you only came by to drop off some equipment?” she demanded, blocking the escape route to the front door. “Treacher must have sent you here to start work on the kitchen.”

“Sorry, ma'am.”

The painter looked at Ethan over the top of Zoe's head, silently pleading for some masculine understanding and a little assistance. Ethan folded his arms, propped one shoulder against a pink wall and shook his head slightly. He felt sorry for the guy but not sorry enough to step into the middle of this scene.

The painter's expression hardened when he realized that there was no help coming from Ethan's direction. He scowled at Zoe, who stood planted firmly in front of him.

“Look, ma'am, all I know is that my boss told me to swing past this house on my way back from lunch break and drop off the sprayer and the ladder.” He pointed toward the two pieces of
equipment on the floor in the great room. “That's it. I can't hang around to work today. I'm supposed to be at another job site this afternoon.”

“Which job site?” Zoe asked, suspicion sparkling in her eyes. “The house in Desert View or the one out on Arroyo Grande?”

“Uh, the one in Desert View.”

“Hah. I knew it. Treacher lied to me. He told me that the only reason he couldn't start work here this week was because he had to finish my other project out on Arroyo Grande. Instead, he's sneaking his crew off to the Desert View job site. That would be Lindsey Voyle's project, wouldn't it?”

“I wouldn't know, ma'am.” The painter made to slip around her.

Zoe stepped squarely back into his path, hands on her hips. “We'll see about this. I've got a contract.”

“I don't know anything about the job scheduling, ma'am. All I know is that I'm running late. Hull will fire my ass if I don't get out to that other site real quick.”

“Well, you can tell Hull to tell Treacher that I meant what I said on the phone. I swear, if he's giving me the runaround, I'll bring in painting contractors from Phoenix before I ever use his company on any of my projects in the future.”

“Sure, ma'am.” The painter finally managed to dodge past her. He strode swiftly toward the door. “I'll tell him.”

“Did Lindsey Voyle offer Treacher a bonus to finish her project early?” Zoe called after him. “I'll bet that's what's going on here. That's not legal. I'll get a lawyer if need be.”

The painter ignored her. He paused briefly in front of Ethan. “You the owner of this place?”

“I am,” Ethan said.

“I can see why you want to repaint. Lot of pink in here.”

“You noticed that?”

“Yeah. Maybe my boss will send me back here later on in the week.”

“Probably be a good idea. As you can see, my decorator is not happy.”

The painter reached up, grabbed the peak of his cap and tugged it down a little more securely over his blond hair. “Yes, sir, I can tell that much.”

“Never pays to piss off a professional,” Ethan said.

The painter went through the door, crossed the entryway, got into the white van and drove off very quickly.

Ethan looked at Zoe, trying to gauge her mood. She was seething. It occurred to him that she was getting a little obsessive about remodeling Nightwinds. He wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“So,” he said, going for neutral.

“Double-crossing, two-faced, conniving idiot.”