by JoAnn Ross
"Tara." He could practically see the wheels turning in that gorgeous head. "I was kidding."
"Really, Gavin, it could work. You could call Mac and tell him exactly what happened. I know Trace would corroborate your story. Then Mac could run the truth in the Rim Rock Record and stop all the gossip."
Having had every aspect of his life appear on the front page of all the Texas papers for months, Gavin had come to value his privacy. Enough that he didn't want to reopen old wounds. "The gossip doesn't bother me."
"Well, it bothers me."
He couldn't resist a smile at her indignation. "Why?"
"Why do you think?" she retorted. "Because I care for you, dammit! More than I expected to. More than I should."
Her words mirrored his own thoughts. Gavin held out his arms. "Why don't you come down here and show me how much?" he invited.
Annoyed that he wasn't taking her concerns seriously, that he was using sex to change the subject, Tara muttered a short, unladylike oath. Then she looked down at him. Sprawled on his back, not even attempting to conceal his blatant arousal, surrounded by the lacy pillows and floral embroidered sheets, he looked outrageously masculine and she felt an answering stir of the desire that always seemed so close to the surface whenever he was around.
Laughing in surrender, she fell on top of him and covered his face with a blizzard of kisses, effectively ending the discussion. For now.
14
There were no more indications of any attempted break-ins after Gavin moved into her grandmother's house. And although Trace, who still wasn't comfortable with the simple vandalism theory, hadn't closed the case, Tara was relieved enough to put it out of her mind.
She was also surprised when she realized that she was actually enjoying her days in Whiskey River. Mornings were spent revamping her grandmother's business accounts, and although she tried telling herself that she was only doing the work to keep from getting bored, she secretly admitted it had become more than something to keep occupied.
Although she still intended to return to San Francisco when the month was over, the idea of keeping Brigid's mail-order herb business running seemed more and more attractive, and feasible, with each passing day. Laverne, Vivien and Chloe obviously relished their work; they'd already assured her that they would love to stay on.
She located a gardener who seemed to know almost as much as her grandmother had about herbs, and Thatcher Reardon, bless his heart, had come up with a bookkeeper who promised to take on the daily finances of the business, once Tara got the new system up and running.
Unfortunately, the personal letters to customers would not survive. But this plan, Tara had explained to Noel, over coffee and buttery scones at the Road to Ruin gallery, was better than nothing.
Her personal relationship with Gavin was flourishing, as well. It was as if their physical intimacy moved their relationship to a higher plane and Tara felt as if a dam had burst, freeing a torrent of emotions she'd held back for too many years. She told him everything, about her childhood growing up on the commune, about her eccentric, brilliant father, her serene, yet all-seeing mother, her sense of not fitting in.
"I can understand that," Gavin said. It was two weeks after they'd first made love, and they were in her bed again, lying together beneath the old hand-stitched quilt.
"I think the difference between you and me," he said thoughtfully, "is that when you were trying to find your own place in the world, you turned away from the life your parents had created. While I tried to follow in my pop's not so illustrious footsteps."
Tara stopped admiring the play of muscles across his rib cage and looked up at him. "You wanted to be a bank robber?"
He shrugged, feeling foolish. The only person who knew the story was Trace. And since he suspected Trace shared everything with his wife, Mariah undoubtedly knew, as well.
"Some people might think it's good for a kid to have a goal."
Although his dry tone assured her he was only joking, Tara considered his words seriously for a long, silent moment. "I suppose I can see some logic to that," she decided. "Don't tell me you actually tried to pull off a heist?"
He chuckled at her terminology. "You've been watching too much television."
She laughed and snuggled closer. "Before I met you, I didn't have anything better to do with my nights than work or watch old movies." She lifted her smiling lips to his. "Is this where you tell me I've been making love to Public Enemy Number One?"
"Trying to break into a liquor store doesn't get you on the FBI's most-wanted list."
"A liquor store?" She stared up at him. "You're kidding."
"I wish I were." He went on to tell her about that fateful night, when he'd had the misfortune to choose a store owned by a couple of cops who'd set up a failsafe security system.
"I know you probably didn't feel that way at the time," Tara said quietly, "but I think you were lucky."
"You're probably right," he said on a long weary breath. It still pained him, even after all these years. "It definitely put a quick stop to my life of crime. I ended up in juvie jail, just like my dad before he moved on to adult crimes. And adult prison."
"The kicker was that I was locked up when he came home on parole before his last arrest. That time he was on the outside and I was the one behind the glass window during visiting hours. Let me tell you, it really felt weird."
"It must have been hard on you," she murmured, "growing up that way." Her own life, which had caused her so much distress, had always been filled with love. And protection.
"Life doesn't come with guarantees." Gavin figured they'd strolled down his rocky memory lane enough for one night. "Enough talking," he said as he rolled over and pressed his body against hers. "I want you again."
She gave him a slow, warm smile, then framed his face between her palms and drew his mouth to hers. "Yes."
As Gavin had feared, once was definitely not enough where Tara was concerned. They came together every afternoon like lightning. The hours spent apart—while he worked on his new book in the kitchen and she toiled away on Brigid's business in the study—were an eternity that had to be overcome before they could be together again.
Tara had never known, never imagined, that such passion existed. Occasionally she wondered what she was going to do when the time came to leave the magic of Whiskey River, when she had to give up the sensual pleasures she'd discovered with Gavin. But whenever that depressing thought crept into her thoughts, she stubbornly closed her mind to it.
She had a plan for her life, carefully conceived, thoughtfully mapped out. And as much as she was enjoying this magical time, she tried to convince herself that part of what made it so wonderful was that it wasn't her real life. What she and Gavin had was merely the equivalent to a vacation fling. Their passion, as glorious as it was, could never survive the nitty-gritty of day-to-day routine.
That's what she kept telling herself. The problem was, it was getting harder and harder to believe.
Tara didn't really want to attend Whiskey River's Halloween celebration. However, urged on first by Gavin, then Noel, Laverne, Vivien and Chloe, she surrendered to the inevitable.
"I don't have a costume," she complained to Noel the day of the party.
"Nonsense." Noel waved her words away with a careless flick of the wrist. "Brigid was such a hoarder, I'll bet she has a treasure trove of stuff in her attic. I know we can find something that'll do."
"If I'm going to go through with this, I want something special, like your dress."
Noel had modeled the red satin dance hall girl's dress yesterday. Whether it struck a chord in Mac's memory remained to be seen. In spite of her pregnancy, she'd looked remarkably seductive.
"We'll find something," Noel promised. "In fact—" her gaze became distant "—now that I concentrate, I can see just the thing. It's in a black steamer trunk. Beneath some posters advertising Moira's appearance on the stage of Dublin's Abbey Theatre."
Tara leaned forward, unabashed
ly intrigued. "What is it?"
Noel's grin was quick and brimming with self-satisfaction and secrets. "You'll see. It'll take your breath away. As for Gavin…" She laughed richly with feminine delight. "The poor guy's a goner."
Gavin, who prided himself on his ability to read people, had thought he'd witnessed most aspects of Tara's complex personality. He admired the calculator-slick mind of the accountant, was challenged by her quick wit and frustrated by her tenacity and tendency to argue about what he considered inconsequential things. And he became more enthralled with each passing day with the innate sensuality that was as much a part of her as her breathing. But never had he realized that she truly had the power to bewitch until she came downstairs on Halloween night.
She was dressed in layers of colored silk that at first glance seemed to be transparent, but upon closer observation, only hinted at nudity, while inviting the male mind to create erotic visions that were anything but soothing. Another veil covered the bottom of her face, drawing attention to her eyes, which had been lined with a kohl pencil to accentuate their slanted, feline shape.
She'd smudged more of the smoky shadow at the outer corners of her lids, giving her a foreign, mysterious appearance. Although she wore Brigid's necklace every day beneath her sweaters, tonight she was wearing it on the outside of her costume.
"Well?" With her mouth hidden by that filmy silk, he couldn't see her smile, but he could hear it in her sultry, seductive tone. "Will I do?"
"Do?" The word sounded like the croak of an adolescent boy whose voice was changing. He cleared his throat. "Salome, I presume?"
She held out her arms, which were bedecked in silver slave bracelets, and twirled, making the silk flare out, allowing a glimpse of long, bare leg. "That's a very good guess."
She couldn't have bought anything like that in Whiskey River, Gavin knew. He slammed his mouth shut hard to keep his tongue from hanging out.
"Noel and I found it in an old trunk," she said, confirming his thoughts. "Moira wore it on the stage in a theater where Yeats performed. She was, if the posters were any indication, a hit."
Gavin figured there couldn't have been a man in the audience who wouldn't have spent the entire performance mentally stripping those seven veils off the actress, one at a time, until…
"One at a time," she agreed. "Which could make for a very long and interesting night."
"No fair spelunking around in my mind," he complained. He'd almost gotten accustomed to her uncanny ability to read his mind. She'd obviously inherited some psychic ability from her mother, and although she chose not to use her talent, there were times—when she was either nervous or in the throes of passion—when she lost control and did so unconsciously.
"I wasn't." She ran a beringed finger along his jaw before outlining his mouth with a vermilion fingernail . The fact that she never painted those smooth neat nails made tonight's bloodred even more seductive. "Your thoughts are out in the open, Gavin, shimmering around you like a force field."
Like the eroticism surrounding you, he thought.
"I'm so pleased you approve." Her honeyed, satisfied laugh sent heat skimming down his spine, where it wrapped around his body and settled thickly in his groin.
"What man wouldn't?" He drank in the sight of her again and wondered about his chances of convincing her they could have a lot more fun staying home this evening.
"Not on a bet," she answered his unspoken thought. "Everyone, including you, has insisted I show up for this party, so there's no way I'm going to miss it."
"Fine. But we're leaving early."
Tara didn't answer immediately. Her shadowed eyes were making thorough appraisal of his own costume. Although he hadn't gone all out, as she had, the black Western vest, black boots and Stetson, along with the pair of replica pearl-handled Colt .45 Peacemakers in holsters slung low on his hips, gave him the appearance of a very male, very sexy, nineteenth-century gunfighter. She couldn't wait to get her fingers on the snaps of his black Western-cut shirt.
"I think," she said finally, "that's an excellent idea." She reached over and plucked a gold lipstick tube from the table beside the door. "Would you mind keeping this for me?" She held her arms out again. "I don't seem to have any pockets."
"No problem." He gave the shifting layers of silk another longer look. "Am I allowed to ask what, exactly, you're wearing under all those layers?"
"You can ask." Her eyes tantalized, her laugh teased. "But you'll have to wait to find out."
"If I remember my Sunday school lessons, John the Baptist lost his head because of Salome's little dance."
"Don't worry, darling," she drawled, "your head's perfectly safe. I'm interested in an entirely different part of your anatomy."
Gavin opened the door, and with that enticement hanging in the frosty night air, Tara plucked her grandmother's black velvet cape from the coat tree and left the house accompanied by the sound of music.
"I don't recall reading that Salome wore ankle bells."
Tara's answering laugh was as silvery as the bells. "Creative license."
Whiskey River's annual Halloween party looked as if it was going to be a grand success. "I hadn't expected so many people to show up," Tara murmured as she looked at all the cars in the Denim and Diamonds parking lot. "And it's still early." Children were still out trick-or-treating; they'd passed several groups of miniature ghosts, goblins and, of course, witches as they'd driven through town.
"Once the parents get the kids settled down with their loot and a baby-sitter, the place'll probably be packed."
"Tara, Gavin. Glad you guys could make it," Nick McGraw greeted them. He, like most of the men, had opted for cowboy gear. "Let me introduce my wife, Laurel."
"It's nice to meet you," Tara said to the attractive woman who was, amazingly, dressed just like Morganna, Mistress of the Night. "I've heard wonderful things about you. From Noel Giraudeau."
"Noel's one of my favorite patients. With a very intriguing case. Not that all my patients aren't interesting," she added quickly. So quickly that Tara, who knew Noel had shared her time travel adventure with her doctor, suspected Laurel was afraid her remark might have been indiscreet. "I've had so much fun since switching specialties and moving to Whiskey River from Phoenix. As much as I enjoyed sports medicine, after a while sprained ankles and blown knees get a bit routine."
Laurel turned to Gavin, her dark eyes bright with feminine approval. "You are probably the hunkiest gunfighter here. After my husband, of course," she said, flashing a grin up at Nick.
"And you're drop-dead fabulous." Gavin gave her a hug. "If you ever decide to hang up the stethoscope, you could make a living modeling."
"My wife, comic-book model," Nick drawled.
"Graphic novels," Gavin, Tara and Laurel all said in unison.
They shared a laugh, then Tara and Gavin moved on, deeper into the crowd. When she caught a glimpse of Noel, clad in the blatantly sexy, off-the-shoulder red dance hall dress, she started to wave hello. But then she noticed the princess was deep in conversation with Mac Reardon. The look on his face reminded Tara of a man who'd just been struck by lightning.
He's remembered, she thought.
So intent was Tara on watching the couple, she didn't notice the man in the costume of a sixteenth-century courtier move in front of her. "Good evening, Tara," Reginald McVey greeted her. "Don't you look lovely tonight."
"Thank you." She smiled up at him. "This costume belonged to my great-grandmother."
"So I suspected. It would have been quite daring for her time."
"I think it's daring for any time," Tara said, her smile widening to a full-fledged grin. "You've no idea how much nerve it took for me to wear it out in public."
"That's quite a striking necklace, as well."
"Isn't it?" Tara fingered the obsidian chip. "I found it in Brigid's study while I was cleaning. It makes me feel closer to her somehow."
"I can imagine. I keep her letters for the same reason."
&n
bsp; "I've been hoping you'd come visit," she reminded him of his promise to bring Brigid's bowl by the house. "I was thinking you probably know stories about my grandmother I've never heard."
"I'm sorry, my dear, I've definitely been remiss. My travel arrangements have gotten all mixed up and I've spent what seems to be an eternity on the phone with cruise lines and booking agents. But I promise to stop by before I leave."
"Perhaps you can come to dinner," Tara suggested, conveniently forgetting that it was Gavin who did all the cooking.
"I'd be honored," he said.
Thinking what a sweet man he was, Tara smiled at her grandmother's former suitor, then introduced him to Gavin.
"That's quite a costume you've chosen yourself," Tara said. "Surely you didn't find it here in town."
"Oh, no." He ran his hands down the front of his satin coat. "I've had it for some time. It's based on a description of the clothing John Dee wore at court."
He'd said the name as if Tara should have recognized it. She didn't. "John Dee?"
"Astrologer to Queen Elizabeth I. He served her in much the same way Merlin served King Arthur. In fact, he's often referred to as the last royal magician."
"Isn't that interesting," Gavin said. As the band segued into a slow romantic ballad, he turned to Tara. "I believe you promised me the first dance?"
"I seem to recall something about that," Tara said with a smile. She turned back toward Reginald. "It was nice seeing you again. Why don't you call me tomorrow and we'll set a date for dinner."
"I'll do that," he agreed immediately. He turned to Gavin. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Thomas."
"Yeah," Gavin said. "Nice meeting you, too, McVey."
He led Tara out onto the dance floor, then drew her into his arms. "Weird guy," he muttered.
"I think he's nice. He reminds me of Santa Claus."
"You're kidding."
"Not at all."
Gavin shrugged. "So how come he seemed so nervous around you?"
Surprised by that comment, she tilted her head back and looked up at him. "Did you think so?"
