by Gerry O'Hara
“I confided that I’ve always wanted to paint. Margo encouraged me to give it a try.”
“Interesting. By the way, Hal is going to bankroll us to dinner this evening.”
“How generous.”
“Consider it payment for services rendered. Hal knows my bill won’t cover my costs.”
“Sounds like the generosity works both ways.”
At seven o’clock that evening, they drove up a steeply curving driveway leading to a popular local restaurant. Edging the driveway, ground-level lanterns sparkled like candles on a birthday cake. Inside the dining room, walls of glass revealed a breathtaking view. When they were seated, Christie scanned her surroundings. The white damask–covered table was set with formal silverware and a nosegay of pale-pink roses. A miniature hurricane lamp cast a soft glow across their faces.
Cash’s gaze was intent. Shivers cartwheeled along Christie’s spine, and she nervously fidgeted with her napkin. This dinner did not resemble the casual Fisherman’s Wharf lunch, or coffee on his patio. This was an intimate, romantic setting. She was vitally aware of Cash’s charisma, and her reaction to it. In an attempt to distract herself from concentrating on him, she turned her attention to the view outside the window. Dusk had not yet fallen, and there was an almost mystic aura to the patterns of light and shadow that dotted the desert. The sky was streaked with vermilion, and reflected the heat that feathered her. In a not-too-distant corral, a red-shirted cowboy unsaddled a black-and-white horse and hefted the gear over the top rail of a whitewashed fence.
“Christie?”
Cash’s voice was deep and soft, like a caress. She turned to answer him, but was afraid to speak, knowing that her voice would betray the emotions that were spiraling out of control. Too soon, too soon, her sensible side insisted. Enjoy the moment, take what you can, her heart intoned. Which path should she follow, she wondered. Wrapped in the warmth of Cash’s smile, the torrid magnetism of his gaze, she realized that she probably did not have a choice.
CHAPTER FIVE
“What deep thoughts are churning around inside your head?” Cash asked, while they lingered over coffee. “Must be important to keep you so quiet.”
His eyes grazed her face in an appraising manner, and a muscle twitched at the side of his mouth. “Christie? Where are you?”
He leaned forward and picked up her hand. His strong, rough hands seemed to contain electricity. She pulled away as though shocked, then felt foolish.
“I was concentrating on that cowboy.” She tipped her head toward the window. The cowboy was hopping into an old yellow truck. She realized her statement was empty; there was nothing interesting about a person climbing into a beat-up vehicle.
Cash raised his eyebrows, challenging her. “You were concentrating on what?”
“On who. The cowboy. When I was a child, I wanted to be one.” At least that was true. Not interesting, but truthful.
“Am I making you nervous?” he said.
“Of course not. Why would you ask such a ridiculous question?” Nervous was a mild description, she thought, for the reaction she was having to him.
“Okay. So you wanted to be a cowboy. Don’t you mean cowgirl?”
“No, I didn’t want to be a cowgirl. They wore those silly fringed leather skirts. I wanted the real thing, a Stetson, and chaps over my jeans.” If she kept the conversation light, she thought, the swarm of swallows beating their wings against her stomach might fly away.
She was so aware of him, it was as if they were in a completely empty restaurant. She gazed at his face. His eyes seemed to burn into hers, and her mouth went dry. Her equilibrium tilted. She reached for her coffee and fumbled with the cup. Coffee sloshed over the rim and stained the tablecloth. Mortified, she tried to mop up the mess with her napkin. The waiter rushed over and tried to pull the napkin from her hand. A tug-of-war ensued. She was not willing to give up the napkin; she had made the mess and she felt responsible for cleaning it up. The waiter’s stage-whispered assurance that she was not to concern herself with “the little accident” frazzled her nerves even more, but she finally gave in.
Cash had covered his mouth with his hand, but the crinkles around his eyes told the story: he was amused. She did not appreciate being the leading lady in a comedy. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep quiet. Any comment would make the situation more embarrassing. She had to admit that her reaction was a bit overblown, and what had started as a romantic interlude had deteriorated into a farce.
“Christie, mellow out.”
His voice was soft and she detected concern. She laughed, tentatively at first, then heartily. Cash joined in, and her tension eased.
“I thought that waiter was going to haul off and bop you if you didn’t relinquish the napkin. He was one determined guy.”
“We both were. Determined.”
Laugh lines erupted around Cash’s eyes again as he smiled at Christie. Relaxed now, she smiled back. She was thankful that the rest of dinner returned to a comfortable level. She did not want to wrestle with similar dynamics again.
When they left the restaurant, the night sky was dark, but the desert heat had barely dissipated. As they walked through the parking lot, their shoulders bumped, and her steps faltered. Cash gripped her elbow to keep her from stumbling. She glanced up at him in gratitude. And was lost. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m all right.” But was she? His hand was on the back of her neck, his fingers reaching into her hair. Her skin prickled in response and she watched, mesmerized, as his face came closer to hers. Without her thinking about it, her lips parted slightly, and she waited for his kiss.
“Christie,” he murmured before his mouth came down on hers.
The night became ablaze with stars, and a flash of comets that had not lighted the sky before his kiss woke her spirit. She couldn’t breathe, her heart was pounding so hard the rest of her organs seemed to constrict. She had fought the infatuation, done everything to resist. But she had fallen into an abyss, and there was no escape.
Sanity returned and she gently pushed against his chest, severing their embrace. She read his expression. It was obvious that he was surprised by her retreat. She wanted him to hold her again, but that was folly. Things were happening too fast, and she had to slow the pace.
On the way back to the hacienda, Cash handled the wheel of the SUV like a stock-car driver in a demolition derby. Aware of the insistent nervous energy pushing him, Christie choked back a protest.
The towering rimrock, deeply painted by shadows, reached skyward, announcing the approach to Sedona. A short time later, they reached his home. The hacienda was silhouetted against a sparsely illuminated landscape. Cash pushed open the wrought-iron gate and they entered the courtyard. Stripped of lights, the angular house appeared unwelcoming.
He unlocked the door and poked the light switch. The instant-on electricity transformed the interior into a warm, bright, and familiar home once more.
“Coffee?” he asked.
She followed him into the kitchen and watched as he pulled out a canister, measured coffee into the drip basket, and shoved the plug into a wall outlet.
He was still racing, she thought, even though they had reached their destination. They had barely spoken on the way home, each caught up in their own thoughts.
When the coffee was ready, he poured a cup and pushed it toward her.
“Aren’t you having any?” she asked.
“I’m going to swim laps.”
He didn’t invite her to join him in the pool, and she did not question his need to be alone.
“I’ll say good night now. See you in the morning, Christie.”
Her glance questioned him, but he averted his eyes and almost imperceptibly shook his head, as if he did not understand why he had dismissed her so abruptly. She wondered if he was getting back at her for thwarting a second kiss outside the restaurant, but that
would have been petty. She did not suspect him of that trait.
He turned and walked away. The sharp cracking sound of his footsteps on the polished tiles echoed through the house. Christie thought about her impression of the hacienda when they arrived: without lights it had appeared unfriendly. Now the room was ablaze, yet she no longer felt welcome.
She picked up the book she had been reading earlier. Perhaps a few chapters would take her mind off the evening’s events and ready her for sleep. In bed she punched the pillows and propped them up behind her back. She was comfortable, but she couldn’t keep her mind on the book, reading the same page over and over and not comprehending a word.
She wished she had Tosha to cuddle. Her beloved cat would soothe her. But she was alone and had to deal with her churning feelings. Putting the book aside, she crept out of bed and stepped to the French doors. She parted the drape with her fingertips and peered outside. Even from this distance, she could see Cash’s arms windmilling through the water, muscles rippling. Her heart lurched at his strength. She had never been attracted to a man so quickly. In truth she had hardly been attracted to anyone in a long time. She had built a protective wall around herself—protection for her heart as well as for her career. But now the armor was cracking, and while it was exciting, it was also frightening.
She tiptoed back to bed, tossed the book onto the night table, and scrunched under the lightweight quilt. Sleep would be elusive, but she was determined to try. If ever there was a time to count sheep, it was now. Anything to take her mind off Cash.
In the morning, after getting dressed in shorts and a pullover, she met Cash in the kitchen. He was at the stove, stirring scrambled eggs in a cast-iron pan.
“Good morning. I hope the sound of my swimming didn’t bother you last night,” he said.
“Not at all. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow,” she lied.
“I peeked in on you later, hoping you’d be awake.”
“You did?” Christie silently chided herself. She sounded ridiculous, like an eager teenager who had missed acquiring a rock star’s autograph.
“No.” A smile was evident in the crinkles around Cash’s eyes. “I didn’t want to disturb you. But I stood outside your door for a few minutes, hoping to hear some sign that you were awake.”
“You shouldn’t have walked so quietly,” she suggested. He would have found her awake. She hadn’t slept a moment until long after his final splash.
Cash pulled two slices of toast from the toaster, buttered them, and scooped the eggs out of the pan and onto two plates. He carried the plates and silverware to the table and beckoned Christie to sit down.
Breakfast was companionable. When they finished Christie asked, “Do you have anything planned for today, or are we going to fly back to the Bay Area early?”
“I told my insurance agent I would stop by this morning to review a policy. To save you from boredom, I’ll drop you off at Tlockapocke and you can browse through the shops. If you’re interested, you might find a bargain on some fine Indian jewelry. When I’m finished with business, I’ll swing by and we can have a late lunch before heading to the airport.”
At the southwestern-style enclave, Christie sought out the Indian crafts store Cash had recommended. Before she located it, she came upon an art gallery and an outdoor exhibit of oil paintings caught her attention. A small rendering of a red-tailed hawk soaring high above a singular cactus caught her fancy. She checked the price tag and was surprised to see that it was not out of her range.
A sun-bronzed man dressed in a gingham cowboy shirt, a paisley scarf tied loosely at his neck, lounged on a beat-up wooden bench. His faded jeans, fastened by wide red suspenders, were slung low over a rounded belly. He stroked a thick, graying beard as he observed Christie’s interest in the painting. His hands were gnarled by age or work, and deep, weathered grooves ran across his forehead.
“These are very nice,” she said.
“Local artist,” he replied. “Teaches classes at the Art League. Ran into him painting on location in Carefree. He was working on that.” He hitched his thumb in the direction of the painting.
Christie tried to read the signature at the bottom of the painting, but the letters were cramped. She wondered if it was the artist she and Margo had met in the plaza. It was a sweet painting, small but captivating. Maybe she would forgo an Indian bracelet.
She considered the price, her savings account, and the bill she would be presenting to Cash. The painting would be a splurge, but only a minor one. Impulse buying wasn’t her style—perhaps she should walk some more, think about it. As though reading her thoughts, and not wanting her out of his reach, the art dealer spoke.
“You look like you really want this picture. I could probably shave twenty dollars off the price without upsetting the artist; he’s a real nice sort. I’ll just cut my commission a bit to make him happy.”
Christie couldn’t resist; she lifted the painting from its easel. “I’ll take it. It may be a bit extravagant, but I know it will bring me more pleasure than a fancy bracelet.”
She went inside the store, paid for the painting, and waited for it to be wrapped. She recognized that she had acted impulsively after all, but the painting hadn’t cost any more than a fine Navajo or Zuni bracelet. She laughed; by the time she met up with Cash, she would have talked herself into believing the picture was a steal.
She carried the package under her arm and continued a few doors down to look in the Indian store’s window. Brightly inlaid bracelets, stones set in silver, beaded necklaces, squash blossoms with turquoise flowers, sand paintings, and leather goods were displayed. Inside, three showcases of jewelry spotlighted local artisans. Christie was amazed at the intricate designs, but she held her painting close and felt no regret about her purchase.
She glanced at her watch; Cash would be meeting her soon. She hurried to the restaurant and was relieved that he hadn’t arrived yet. He undoubtedly counted on punctuality. She was sipping a glass of iced tea when Cash joined her.
He eyed her package. “Looks too big to be a bracelet. What did you buy?”
“A painting. I’ll show it to you when we get back to the city. I don’t want to remove the wrappings now.”
“You’ll need bolt cutters to get through that.” He poked with his thumb.
“The shopkeeper went a bit overboard when I told him I was transporting it in a private plane. I think he visualized something out of an old war movie. You know, the one where you pull the cockpit hatch over your head. I’m surprised he didn’t insist on insuring it. It will be a nice reminder of my visit here,” she added.
“You sound as though you will never be back. I’m hoping this will get to be a habit.”
Her gaze locked with his. The golden glints in his eyes seemed to sparkle as he stared at her, his entire attention riveted on her face.
“Christie?” His voice was low and provocative. “You will be back…”
The waitress appeared, and Christie was relieved for the break in conversation. They gave their orders and soon the plates were set in front of them. Christie toyed with her food. Once again she found herself at a loss for words.
Looking for common ground, she said, “I don’t understand how you can resist the laid-back attitude that pervades this town. If I had a hideaway like yours, I would be completely relaxed by the time the weekend was over. Yet you look like you’re poised for flight. I’m sure that you’re already ticking away a list of appointments for tomorrow.”
“Today.”
“What?”
“I was correcting you. I have an appointment with a new client late this afternoon. He’s being held on an old, unpaid traffic warrant, but he’s actually a suspect in an arson investigation. Will you go with me? Take notes or something?”
“What drives you so hard, Cash? Surely you aren’t trying to live up to your name.”
He laughed. “Grandmother Cash would wag a finger and warn you not to make light of the family name.�
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“I was worried that it had been hung on you because you pursued wealth.”
“I work hard for my fees, but the money is secondary.” His expression turned serious. She hoped she hadn’t overstepped with her remark. “I’m sorry. I was teasing.”
“I know you were. Can I count on your help this afternoon?”
“Of course.”
“Then let’s be on our way. Here, let me carry your package.” He dropped some bills on the table and picked up her painting.
Ninety minutes later, they arrived at the airport. Buckling herself into the cockpit seat, Christie realized how perfectly the aircraft suited Cash. He packed so much activity into each day, it was necessary to be able to go where he wanted when he wanted. That way a weekend getaway could be transformed into a workday on demand.
The flight back to San Francisco was smooth, and the landing uneventful compared to the hair-raising drop onto the Sedona runway.
San Francisco Airport was busy as always, and Cash impatiently waited his turn out of the parking lot. When there was a break in traffic, he swung the SUV onto the freeway, his foot heavy on the gas pedal.
When they reached the county jail, it was obvious by the number of police cars in the parking lot that crime did not take weekends off. Inside they were put through a security check and then ushered into a consultation room.
Cash’s new client was brought into the room in handcuffs. Twenty-year-old Bobby Moreno wore tight jeans and a black T-shirt that molded to his lean but muscled chest. His appearance suggested that a public defender would be more appropriate than an attorney of Cash’s caliber.
Cash appeared impervious to the disparity, treating Moreno with the same deference he would any other client. His attitude encouraged confidence and the youth opened up, spilling anger, frustration, and fear.
When the interview was completed, Christie was confused about Cash’s motivation in agreeing to represent the young man. Moreno did not fit the profile of high-powered cases that Cash had a reputation for defending. There would be no promise of publicity or a fat fee.
