"You need these locks. No strings attached this time. Compliments of the local handyman. Once I know you're safe, we'll settle the rest."
The silence stretched out. "At least tell me how much the locks cost."
He sighed in exasperation. "Fifteen dollars," he said, naming a fraction of the price.
Without a blink, she wrote a check and leaned over to lay it on the floor near the toolbox. Dane looked at the gleaming locks, the finest and most expensive on the market. Someday he'd have to visit her shop. It obviously wasn't a hardware store.
Two locks, more disconnected wiring and a hung picture later, they were in the big brown pickup, edging around Sunday tourists on La Jolla Boulevard.
Kara gave directions automatically, her mind flying ahead to the small frame house that faced the ocean.
Maybe her aunt would be wearing one of her less wildly exotic outfits, she thought optimistically. Acknowledging once again how fiercely protective she was, she leaned back and tried to relax.
Tillie was one of Kara's favorite people, but there was no doubt about it, she was different. She was small, wiry and spry. Her conversation, when it mattered most, was a disconnected series of starts, stops and unfinished sentences. What there was of it tended to be rambling and, to those who understood, filled with gentle warnings. The warnings resulted from what Kara's father irreverently referred to as "Tillie's trances."
Kara pressed her finger to a bell beside the freshly painted door. It was fire-engine red.
"Your aunt likes color," Dane observed, glancing around at hanging baskets of fuchsias and large pots of impatiens.
Kara nodded. "She changes the door to suit her mood. Give that thing a couple of whacks," she suggested, nodding at an imposing door knocker. It was a brass lion's head with a large ring in its open mouth.
Dane obligingly whacked and watched with resignation as a screw dropped to the ground and the ring stayed in his hand. The door flew open, and he looked down into the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen.
Above them were peaked, silvery-gray brows and a mop of curly hair the same color, cut short in an optimistic attempt to subdue it. Below were firm, flushed cheeks that denied the years and a full mouth quirked with humor.
Kara performed introductions as he tried not to stare at the small woman's garb. She was swathed in something crocheted-possibly a tablecloth-that was secured at her tiny waist by means of a hot-pink cummerbund. Bright orange canvas espadrilles completed the outfit.
"You can call her 'Aunt' or 'Tillie,"' Kara concluded.
"Tillie," he decided, entranced, stretching out his hand to meet hers. "And I'm Dane."
"Of course you are," she assured him. As if, he thought, he had doubted the matter. "You're late," she continued cheerfully. "I expected you last week. No matter. Just close the door and we'll go out on the patio. Oh, dear," she said, noting that the door knob had now detached itself and was resting in Dane's palm. "Annoying, but not entirely unexpected. Just drop it over there."
Dane walked over to a large wicker basket festooned with a plaid ribbon. Gazing down, he realized that his booty would be joining a basketful of household items that, apparently, had already fallen off something else.
"It's all right," Tillie assured him. "That's what it's for. I just collect all the bits and pieces that come loose, and every few weeks Kara, or one of her friends comes by to reattach them."
Kara interpreted his raised-brow look correctly.
"I'm not totally incompetent, you know."
"Then why is there always a full basket? You go ahead to the patio," he directed, "I'll take care of this." Turning, he fiddled with the knockerless door, opened it, and reappeared with his toolbox.
Ignoring the two women, who had dropped down into nearby chairs to watch, he replaced the knocker and knob on the door. "You'll have to show me where the rest of this stuff goes."
Tillie led the way at a trot. The dining room was the first stop. "The sconce goes there." She pointed to the wall, where a faint outline of the fixture could be seen against the painted surface. Patting Dane's arm in approval, she turned to Kara. "He's much nicer than the one with webbed feet."
Kara bit back a grin as he stiffened. He could think about that one for a while.
"I had a chat with Walter last night," Tillie said.
"Oh?"
"Have you had lunch?"
"Yes. What about Walter?"
"Would you like to stay for dinner?"
"Thanks, but no. What'd Walter have to say?"
"He said would you like to spend the night?"
"Uncle Walter asked if I wanted to stay with him?"
"Of course not. I asked that. He just ....is the traffic heavy today?"
"Not too bad for a Sunday," Kara answered patiently. "Is Walter worried about anything?"
"Which bathroom does this go in?" Dane held up a shiny faucet handle.
"This way." Tillie whisked down the hall, but before Kara could follow, Dane's arm barred the way.
"Webbed feet? Who were you dating, a duck?"
"I'll explain later. I promise. Right now, I have to pin Aunt Tillie down. Come on."
Dane bent over the sink, trying to make sense of the conversation. Interrogation was more appropriate, he decided after a moment.
The two women were perched on the edge of the bathtub. "Now," Kara said firmly. "Uncle Walter."
Tillie looked out the door and down the hall. "He just said it would be a shame to dent that nice brown truck. ."
Kara frowned at Dane as he jerked to attention.
"Exactly what is he upset about?" she prompted.
"There are always so many cars on Torrey Pines Road," she murmured. "There must be another way you could . . . If not, it won't be . . . There's no real . . . He said at the most it'll just be inconvenient. "
At the end of two hours they had visited almost every room in the house as Dane nailed on something here and screwed back something there. Kara had given up all hope of eliciting a rational statement from her aunt. When they circled back to the front door, Tillie rested her hand on Dane's arm.
"Thank you. That basket's been full ever since I moved here. No, let's not say good-bye," she said, as Dane opened his mouth. "I'll see you again soon. Very soon. Don't wait for Kara to bring you back. You're welcome any time."
"This one is nice, but stubborn," she said, turning to her niece. "He won't be as easy to lose as the others."
Kara rolled her eyes imploringly to heaven, kissed her aunt on the cheek and waved as the truck moved slowly away from the curb.
"Now, about the duck." Dane's tone was uncompromising.
"A perfectly ordinary man," Kara protested with a gurgle of amusement. "No, not ordinary," she corrected herself. "Brilliant. A marine biologist from Scripps." She nodded in the direction of the famous institute of oceanography. "But Aunt Tillie took an instant dislike to him. We were going snorkeling one day; for some reason he tried on his flippers at her house, she saw him waddling down the walk and that was it. If, after your baptism today, you ever go back, you'll learn that she says exactly what appears in her mind. There's no winnowing process. I never took him back to see her."
"Good for Aunt Tillie! What about Walter? Who's he?"
"Aunt Tillie's husband."
"Where is he?"
"Dead. For the last ten years."
"I'm going to hate myself for asking," Dane said, "but how does she talk to him?"
"God only knows," Kara said literally.
"She really thinks she does?"
"So she says." If his brows lifted any higher, Kara noted, they'd slide into his hairline. "Do we have to go this way?" she asked as he turned onto Torrey Pines Road.
"It's the only way to get where we're going."
"Exactly where are we going?" she asked, momentarily distracted.
"My house. If you don't mind. A weekend picnic around here is like being in the middle of the zoo. I thought a barbecue would give us more privacy."
"I don't know if you made any sense of what Aunt Tillie was saying, if you were even listening, but Walter's warnings are not to be taken lightly."
"Were we being warned?" She wasn't surprised at the amusement in his voice.
"We were. And now we're on the street he said to avoid, in the nice brown truck that is, unfortunately, going to get dent ..."
"Watch out!"
Dane's warning stopped her flow of words. The big truck barely moved under the assault of the red convertible. The thud and the grinding crunch sounded much worse than they actually were, she assured herself.
Dane was no longer amused. If his language was any indication, he was about to throttle a joy-riding teenager who had just lost control of his car.
"The damned idiot didn't even stop! He swung out of that side street without even looking! You okay?"
At her nod, he ordered, "Stay here. I'll take care of it. "
Ten minutes later he slammed the door and turned the key in the ignition. "Could be worse. At least he had insurance. Most of the damage was to his car. My fender's dent.."
He almost choked on the word. "No," he said firmly. "It's a coincidence. That's all it could be."
Kara preserved a noncommittal silence.
"Damn it, I don't believe in psychics, clairvoyants or any other kind of so-called spiritualists. It's just not logical."
And that, thought Kara, was apparently that.
"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"
"What can I say? All my life Aunt Tillie has known when things were going to happen. She hated to talk about it, but she'd practically lock me in the house when the forecast was gloom and doom. That it would happen was never debatable. The only real question was, would the occurrence be major or minor? Now she's got even that part down to a science."
He winced. "Please. Dont use that expression. Nothing could be less scientific. How did Walter get into the act?"
"When he died, he became a convenient scapegoat. Aunt Tillie no longer had the unpleasant task of convincing people that she had heard or seen something. She shifted all the blame to Walter. Now he's the bearer of all the bad news."
Dane snorted. There was no other word for it, Kara decided in amusement. It was definitely a snort.
"I suppose you'll tell me next that she consults a Ouija board when she's troubled."
"Never would I say such a thing." Her eyes darkened with humor. "There's no need. You see, when Uncle Walter isn't warning, he's advising."
"Oh, my God," he said in utter disgust as he turned into a long driveway.
"What are we doing here?" They had stopped at one of the magnificent homes dotting the shoreline or rather, the bluffs above it. "I'm not dressed to visit anyone."
"Who's visiting? I live here."
Who on earth was this man? Kara wondered. Dane Logan, he said. But who and what was Dane Logan?
No ordinary contractor could afford this house. Not even an extraordinary one. In this area seaside property cost a fortune, and that was before an architect even came out to look at the site.
"Hey, wake up." He was at her side, opening the door and half lifting her out. "I'm ready for a swim. How about you?"
He swung open the ornamental wrought-iron gate, turned to the right and ushered her onto the patio.
She barely took in the outsize pool, tables shielded by tilted umbrellas, brightly cushioned chairs and lounges, and a beautifully tiled deck, as he hustled her to a dressing room.
"You'll find something in here to fit. Help yourself. And don't take all day."
She looked around curiously as he disappeared. If he intended to keep her off balance, he was doing a terrific job. Though obviously, for him, it was normal procedure to toss out orders and walk away. Frowning, she reached for a white maillot that looked small enough. It was. It had the additional advantage of looking terrific, she decided, turning to glimpse her backside in the mirror. But he was going to have to find someone else to order about, she thought, turning to the door. A little of that went a long way.
He met her as she closed the door. "Good. You're ready."
He held out a hand, and she automatically placed hers in it. The top of her head just hit his collarbone,
Kara noted. His skin was burnished to a deep tan, an all-over tan, she wagered mentally. She had the feeling that he spent a lot of time by the pool sans swim wear, that his brief, black suit was in deference to her presence. The dark, prickly hair that covered his arms was a furry mat on his chest. It tapered at his rib cage and stomach, and disappeared into the dark trunks. His long, muscular legs were liberally sprinkled with the same dark hair.
Enough, she told herself. He came on strong enough without any encouragement from her. It wasn't helping her cause to stand there goggling at him.
Tugging her closer, he draped an arm around her shoulders and steered her to the deep end. "You really are tiny, aren't you?" He hugged her lightly.
She shrugged. "Big enough for the important things in life. Besides, it's all relative. I don't feel small until someone like you towers over me."
He grinned and changed the subject. "How do you take your water? In inches, or one quick dive?"
Laughing, she admitted, "I've never done anything by inches. It's all or nothing."
They hit the water at the same time. Moving lazily at first, they broke into strong strokes, swimming laps.
Heading for the side, Dane lifted himself effortlessly and leaned over to pull Kara up. She tumbled against his chest with a yelp, and he held her close until she wiggled in protest.
Dane slowly lowered Kara until her feet touched the deck; then, with an ann around her shoulders, he led her to a wide, cushioned lounge. Settling her on one side, he walked around and eased down on the other with a satisfied sigh.
"Let's soak up some sun, and then I'll feed you."
Kara stiffened when he stretched his brawny length next to her. Their water-cooled bodies warmed as they lay, touching from shoulders to toes.
"Relax," he advised blandly. "I don't ordinarily warn before I pounce, but I might make an exception in your case. Right now, sun's on the schedule. Next, food. Later, we'll see."
Closing her eyes on the thought that they would, indeed, see, Kara slept.
Later, after a shower and the promised steak dinner, Dane gave her a tour of the front part of the house. It had a comfortable elegance, she decided, enjoying the panoramic view of the Pacific from the living room. Wondering if he had designed, built and/or decorated it himself, she opened her mouth to ask.
"Sit down and tell me about your orphans," Dane suggested before she could draw a breath.
She dropped down on an ivory sofa, nodding as he offered her a cup of coffee. "Tell you what about them?"
"Everything. How you found them. What they're like. How your friends manage the whole thing."
"You've already made it clear that you don't sympathize with my project. Why do you want to know?"
"I told you. Last week I thought you were a kid telling me a crazy story. I want to see if it sounds any different now."
"Okay. But no nasty comments." She put down her cup and turned to face him. "About eight months ago I went to Tijuana because I'd heard of a man who was an artist with wrought iron. I'm always on the lookout for things like that for the shop. Judy handles most of the business, and I do the scouting for artwork. You should see some of the artisans I've found. They're unbelievable. Metalwork, stained glass, pottery ...."
"The orphans," he reminded her.
"Oh. Well, anyway, I went down because Aunt Tillie wanted a wrought-iron stand for her plants. We couldn't find one the exact size, so we decided to have one custom-made. You might have noticed it on her patio. Up against the fence?"
"The orphans."
"So I decided if he did a good job on the plant stand, he just might be the answer to a little problem I was having at th
e shop. People were asking for customized ornamental wrought iron--everything from gates to bird cages-and I couldn't find anyone to ..."
"The ...."
"I know, orphans. Who's telling this, anyway? I'm getting to them. Juanito ... he's called that because he's so big; actually, it means little John-works in the iron shop. He speaks English, and the old man, the artist, doesn't. I don't have an ear for languages and, all told, I know about thirteen words of Spanish. None of them were helping. He came over to untangle the verbal mess the old man and I were in."
She eyed Dane's bland face suspiciously. "Are you laughing at me? I know I take a long time to get to the point, but the background is important. Anyway, while I was telling Serefino, the old man, what I wanted, and Juanito was interpreting, and Serefino was saying he could do it, a toddler wandered in from the back room and started crying. I picked her up, asked who she belonged to, and Serefino started waving his arms and talking."
She fell silent, and Dane watched her expressive face as she seemed lost in the memory.
Shaking her head, Kara continued. "Juanito seemed reluctant to translate, but I eventually learned that he and his wife had taken in several abandoned children. The word had spread through town, and it wasn't uncommon to find a child left for him at the door of the shop. The little girl had been there when they arrived that morning.
"I asked Juanito how many they had, and he said eight. Naturally, I wondered how he managed to take care of them, because the money situation down there is so tight. We talked for a while, and when he saw that I was really interested, he invited me home to meet his wife. I went, I saw and I was conquered."
"Naturally," Dane said dryly.
"The walls of their little two-room shack were bulging. They said that their dream was to buy an abandoned farm several miles out of town. They could have a large garden, and room for all the children. It was going for five hundred dollars, but to them, it might as well have been five thousand. I thought about it for a while; then I remembered the day at Del Mar when I picked all the winners. I told them what had happened, and we decided to try our luck."
"Naturally."
"The following Saturday I met them at Caliente. It worked, and we left with enough cash to buy the farm and get things started. I go down as often as I can with clothes and things. Juanito and Carmella are hard-working and proud. They don't ask for help unless it's an emergency. So when they ask, I help."
Lady Moonlight Page 4
