Lady Moonlight

by Rita Rainville

  Dane's eyes had a quizzical gleam. "Who do you like?"

  "Banjo Eyes," she said firmly.

  "You've got to be kidding," he said in astonishment. "That's a dog, not a horse. She hasn't been among the first five in her last ten races."

  "I don't care if she's tottering out of her stall with an impacted wisdom tooth. She's the one."

  Dane stood up to go place the bets. "To show?" he asked hopefully as he took her five dollars.

  "No, she's not coming in third. Bet her to win."

  Kara could see by the set of his shoulders that Dane thought she was crazy. He was probably also wondering how on earth the children had a roof over their heads if they were dependent upon her winnings.

  Ten minutes later, she was vindicated. Dane had all but pulled his horse around the track with body language and hoarse shouts, and still it had come in fourth.

  "I don't believe it." He looked at her accusingly, as if she had used black magic. "That horse of yours ran the fastest race of her career. How do you account for that?"

  "I can't," she said simply. "I don't even try. I just tell people how to bet and watch them collect their money."

  "Do you know what the odds were?"

  Kara sighed. "No. But I'm sure that you do."

  "Twenty to one."

  Her brows knit as she thought about that, and Dane's exasperation grew. "I won a hundred dollars," she announced in a pleased tone.

  "And I lost two."

  "Dollars?"

  "Hundred."

  "Dane! You shouldn't bet that kind of money! Especially when you're going to lo.." Swallowing her impetuous words, she bent over and looked intently at the program. Her head immediately bobbed up. "Oh, gosh, I suppose I should pick up my money."

  "I'll do that when I place your next bet." He eyed her curiously. "What's your choice for the second race?"

  "Bojo's Boy. Put my hundred on him to win."

  He looked appalled. "No! Damn it, Kara, he's a mudder. He likes a wet track, and it hasn't rained in months."

  "Well, he's just going to have to learn not to be so picky. He'll run on a dry track and like it."

  "You're really serious, aren't you?" Frustration had deepened the green of his eyes.

  She couldn't help it; she laughed up at him. "Put your money on him, Dane. He's going to win."

  "No way. Your method is as haphazard as drawing a name out of a hat. You were lucky the first time, but this one's not coming through for you. I'll bet on one that at least has a chance."

  Fifteen minutes later, Dane stoically tore up his tickets. He scowled at Kara. "You now have seven hundred dollars."

  "How much did you lose?"

  "Never mind."

  "This time," she said, "I want you to keep six hundred for me and bet the rest on Harpsichord."

  "If you're so sure of yourself, why not bet the whole thing?"

  "I try to keep a low profile, not to make any bets big enough to attract a lot of attention."

  "Too bad you didn't think of that the last time you were in Tijuana. You wouldn't have--did you say Harpsichord?" His voice rose in disbelief.

  She nodded.

  "Kara," he lowered his voice to somewhere near its normal tone, "this time you're dead wrong. I'm telling you, don't waste your money. This is a high-strung horse, and only one jockey has ever ridden him. The jockey broke his arm last week. I don't know why they didn't withdraw him."

  "The jockey?" she asked in bewilderment.

  "The horse." His tone was that of a man pushed beyond his limits but still trying to be reasonable.

  "He'll fight this new jockey every step of the way. Pick another one," he urged.

  Kara looked at the program again. "No," she said definitely. "It's Harpsichord."

  Dane turned to face her. His hand was warm on her arm, his voice filled with utter exasperation. "Why the hell can't you listen to reason? I'm only trying to help you."

  She patted his hand. "I know you are, and I appreciate it. But don't you understand? This has nothing to do with logic or common sense."

  Her expressive face was pleading for understanding. "I'm sure that everything you're telling me is true. But it simply doesn't matter. I look at this program and I know which horse is going to win. There's nothing rational about it. It has nothing to do with dry tracks, nervous horses, or any other calculable condition."

  She stared over his shoulder for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Her eyes were as level as her voice as she continued. "What it has to do with is Aunt Tillie and a special sensitivity, which I've apparently inherited. I know you're still skeptical," she said quickly as he opened his mouth. "Apparently we'll just have to agree to disagree. I can't follow your advice when all my instincts tell me to do otherwise."

  Tactfully, she didn't remind him that so far her track record was better than his. "And, just to be fair, I won't expect you to change your lifelong pattern of gathering all the evidence, sifting through it and reaching a conclusion." Ignoring his dissatisfied expression, she asked, "Now will you place my bet on Harpsichord?"

  "Under protest," he told her, reaching for her tickets.

  "I'll walk along with you," she said. "It'll be a while before the next race."

  "You really don't enjoy this, do you?" he asked, sharply aware of her fleeting expressions.

  "No." She shook her head. "I think a lot of the fun is the anticipation and excitement. The unknown. Screaming and shouting to encourage your horse, then feeling clever because you guessed right. But there's no anticipation for me. It's a bit like reading a mystery after someone told me that the butler did it. "

  He laced his fingers through hers, his voice quiet with conviction. "It's luck, Kara. Phenomenal, admittedly, but just luck."

  Obviously she hadn't made a believer of him. Yet.

  "Ah, Logan, you're a hard man to convince," she said breezily. "Are you always this stubborn?"

  His voice was level. "Always. And I'm even worse when I want something."

  "Well," she said briskly, "if it's a winner you're after, you'd better bet on Harpsichord." She tugged at his hand. "Come on, the one part I do enjoy is collecting my money."

  ❧

  Twenty minutes later, she bit back a smile as Harpsichord crossed the finish line a neck ahead of Dane's choice.

  In the next race, they actually selected the same horse. "Surprise, surprise," Kara said. "Why did you choose her?"

  "Because everything indicates that she should win. Why did you?"

  "Because I know she's going to win," Kara said, trying not to sound smug.

  "You're just learning to figure the odds, and you're too ornery to admit it."

  "Me? Ornery? It must be the company I'm keeping. I've always been compliant, agreeable, oozing the spirit of goodwill from every pore, a veritable vessel of ungrudging ..."

  Dane halted, turned her to face him and met her smiling lips with his own. "And you talk a lot, too," he murmured, when he finally lifted his head. Ignoring the people rushing by to place their bets, he held Kara close, watching as her expression of dazed pleasure turned to one of wrath.

  "Dane Logan! If you think ..."

  He steered her back to their seats, his deep voice overriding hers. "I don't think; I know. You can't hide your response to me. You shiver when I touch you, and I can feel the explosion when we kiss. You're too damn stubborn to admit it, but it's there. As usual, though, it's neither the time nor the place to settle the issue. But soon, damn soon, we'll find a place where your walls aren't falling in on us, where your aunt and dead uncle aren't sending cryptic messages, and where we aren't surrounded by a crowd like this. Then we'll do something about it."

  Kara sat down, moodily reflecting that he was right.

  Why couldn't the good-natured Terry have caused even a mild stir of excitement in her? Or any of the other men she had dated over the years? Why did it have to be this one? Why a man who was driven crazy by her impulsive nature and was quietly determined to change her?

/>   She stared at the track, absently noting that their horse was two lengths ahead. And just what did he mean, "'We'll do something about it"? She shook her head. No way, Mr. Logan. That would lead to nothing but a lot of trouble.

  What had ever happened to her vow to avoid him? she wondered. Then she remembered. He had happened to it. He had taken over, telling her when he would pick her up and where they would go. Soon, she promised herself, she would learn how to get one step ahead of him and stay there.

  His voice interrupted her silent declaration.

  "Should we go get our money?"

  Dane's brows rose questioningly as she nodded, flashed him a sunny smile and walked lightly beside him. He looked down at her, wondering what dire plots were running through her head. She was far too agreeable for his peace of mind.

  ❧

  Two hours later, Dane drove the Porsche out of the parking lot. Kara upended her bag and filled her lap with bills of various denominations.

  "Where do you want to stash your loot?" he inquired.

  "Would you mind driving to the shop? I can put it in the safe. Besides, there are a couple of things I want to take care of," she said absently.

  "I thought it was your day off?"

  "It is, but I was kept busy out in front this week, and I have to finish some things in my workroom. My gosh! I've got twenty-seven hundred dollars!"

  "I know," he said dryly.

  "Now I don't have to go to Caliente next week. I'll just take the money down instead."

  "Then the day wasn't a total loss. I can't think of anything more frustrating than watching your method of picking one winner after another, but it was worth it to keep you away from Caliente."

  "Not a method," she corrected, ignoring the rest of his statement. "Intuition."

  He muttered something that sounded like "Arrgh!"

  "Still not convinced?"

  "No."

  It's a good thing he's a good loser, Kara thought. Because he'd lost a bundle. They had spent the rest of the afternoon disagreeing over which horses would win. She had never realized that there were so many variables involved in betting. He had concisely explained each one, bet his money and promptly lost it.

  He was persistent, she had to give him that. He never lost confidence in either his knowledge or his evaluations. Too bad they didn't work.

  By some miracle Dane found a parking place within walking distance. He would have known it was her shop even without the six massive ferns doing sentry duty by the outside windows. The half-round, scalloped awnings were sparkling white, flanked by lacy, white wrought-iron railings. Hanging baskets of fuchsias supplied brilliant splashes of color. It was feminine and very classy. A distinctive sign above the door read Cachet.

  Next door was a large, outdoor flower shop, over-flowing with luxuriant shade plants of all varieties.

  Kara exchanged waves with Gary, the owner. Dane recognized the man from the Business Association charity dinner. If he remembered correctly, Kara had offered him another home-cooked meal. He idly wondered how long it would take to edge all those hungry men out of her life.

  "Come on, I want you to meet Judy and Beth."

  Kara slipped her arm impulsively through his as they stepped through the door.

  Beth's eyes widened as she took in Dane's lean, masculine grace as he towered over Kara. "Judy's in the office," she informed them, blinking as Dane acknowledged the introduction. Her lips pursed in a silent whistle as she turned and watched them walk away.

  Judy looked up as the door opened. Her blue eyes were bright with interest as Dane nodded politely, for all the world as if she were someone's maiden aunt, she thought, then returned his shimmering gaze to Kara's animated face.

  Judy looked absolutely gorgeous, Kara decided.

  Her black hair was pulled back in a glistening knot, the severe style enhancing her high cheekbones and expressive eyes. Just the sophisticated type to attract Dane. It was only fair to give Judy a chance with him, she thought virtuously.

  After they had chatted idly for a few minutes Kara made her move. "I have to do some things in the workroom. It'll take me about an hour." Reaching for the doorknob, she turned back casually. "Judy, how about offering Dane some coffee and entertaining him for a while?"

  Dane was on his feet before Judy could open her mouth. "I noticed that you were doing your book-keeping when we interrupted you," he said, looking down at her. "I won't take up any more of your time. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon."

  They exchanged amused smiles and two sets of expectant eyes returned to Kara.

  "I'll just follow along with you," he said evenly. "I'm interested in seeing your workroom."

  Kara cast a fuming glance at her partner and led Dane into the narrow hall. She ignored the sound of muffled laughter coming from behind the closed door.

  Swinging open the next door, she turned on the lights and waved Dane in. His astonished gaze swept the room, then settled on her face. "This is your workroom?"

  "I kept trying to tell you that I wasn't completely helpless, but you wouldn't listen. Who do you think does all the display work around here? How do you suppose I manage to work with glass and other mediums without some knowledge of tools?"

  Dane wandered over to a pegboard-lined wall. A businesslike array of tools, clamps and brushes was neatly held in place by hooks.

  "What's this?" He flexed an unusual pair of grips.

  "Grozing pliers. You're in my stained-glass section. They're used to trim away jagged edges and to shape pieces of glass for better fitting." She moved to his side and pointed to various items; "Circle cutter, spring clamps, glass cutters, glazing hammer and double-bladed shears. I'm sure you're familiar with the rest of the stuff."

  He examined various types of pliers, then moved a few feet away to look at hammers and saws and a case containing a supply of nails, screws and hooks, all organized by size. He raised his brows at the sight of an acetylene torch.

  A cabinet for paper covered most of the next wall.

  He opened drawers and found that the supply ranged from mat board to rainbow-hued tissue. He glanced at boxes of paint, brushes, a couple of easels and a large workbench along the remaining walls. A drawing board and stool stood in the center of the room.

  "So this is your domain." His voice was thoughtful.

  She was perched on the stool, and he stood beside her, looking down at a design that was taking shape.

  "This is it," she said matter-of-factly. "I think I mentioned that Judy runs the business side. I hold up the artistic end. The only problem is our business is doing so well that I spend less time making ..." she pointed to the workbench " ... and more here at the board. Without intending to, I seem to have moved into designing."

  He watched as her hand moved swiftly over the paper. "How did that come about?"

  "When we opened I made most of the handcrafted items. And I'm not talking about crocheted booties," she explained dryly. "Most were individualized art objects: stained-glass windows, skylights, hanging lamps, woven wall hangings, things like that. Soon I couldn't keep up with the demand. People around here want original accessories for their homes. I don't just mean different; they want the one-of-a-kind sort of thing. They're willing to pay well, but I couldn't keep up with the orders."

  His eyes followed her slim fingers as she brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over one eye.

  "Soon I was haunting the art department at the university looking for talent. God knows, there's enough of it around. So now," she grinned suddenly, "I guess you could say that I'm a contractor, too."

  Dane pulled up a stool beside her and straddled it.

  Apparently there was no end to the surprises she had in store for him. At their first meeting, he remembered, he had dismissed her as a youngster. A sassy, annoying, provocative bit of jailbait. The next time he saw her he had all but fallen out of the window as she walked through the door in that cotton-candy dress.

  When he took her home and all he
ll broke loose at the front door, he had decided that, although she needed a keeper, he wanted and intended to have her.

  Of course, there were extenuating circumstances.

  Anyone who coped with a charmingly spacy aunt and a chatty, defunct uncle could be allowed a few eccentricities. But it was not a fetching bit of fluff who had assumed responsibility for a rapidly growing orphanage and who worked so efficiently in this room. No, this was a many-faceted lady. And she was his. She hadn't realized it yet, and probably wouldn't admit it when she did, but,she was his. And he couldn't wait to learn what other surprises were waiting for him.

  Dane leaned over and kissed a tempting spot on her nape that he had been eyeing for the last five minutes.

  "I'm going to browse around your shop," he decided. "Don't rush on my account, honey. Take as long as you need."

  Kara looked at the closing door in bemusement. Honey? He seemed to be saying that a lot lately, and she didn't think he used endearments lightly. It also seemed that he was taking a lot for granted. Absently rubbing a tingling spot on her nape, she returned to her drawing.

  ❧

  An hour later, she locked the door and walked to the front of the shop. Dane was leaning on the counter, returning his wallet to his hip pocket, talking to Beth. They both looked pleased with themselves.

  Very pleased.

  Kara drew to a halt before Dane. Before she could utter a word, he asked, "Ready to go?" At her nod, he smiled at the younger girl behind the counter. "It was nice meeting you, Beth. Thanks again."

  She nodded and murmured, "My pleasure."

  Once Kara was in the car, seat belt buckled, she frowned in suspicion. "Thanks for what?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "Don't try to look so innocent. You can't carry it off. You and Beth. What are you up to?"

  He drove the short distance to her house in silence.

  It wasn't until he opened her front door that he answered her.