by Nina Bangs
"I bet you're getting ready to ask if anything's new with me. Not much. I still have the rose tattoo. No wife and kids. And I own a condo about a block away." His smile widened, immediately taking her back to her teen years. "Do you still have the little blue butterfly on your behind?"
"My behind is none of your business, Maguire. It hasn't been for a long time." She stared at a point somewhere beyond his left shoulder. Did he remember the body decorations of all the women he'd had sex with? Nah. No human had that kind of memory storage capacity.
He lowered his gaze to her general butterfly area. "That butterfly brings back great memories."
He was smoke, fire, and unresolved dreams. Always had been. She needed a firewall. Breaking eye contact, she rooted through the items thrown pell-mell into her Gucci purse. A purse with that brand name deserved better, but her purse was the one part of her life she'd never managed to organize.
"Hey, I'm glad you and your rose are still together. Personally, I don't remember it." She didn't look up as she continued to root.
All right, so she also had problems stuffing memories of Con and his tattoo into a neat compartment, but at least while she was in New York she didn't have to face him in the flesh. In the flesh? Nope, wouldn't go there. Ah, her sunglasses. She pulled them from the rubble and put them on. There. No windows to the soul showing. Now she could safely present her cool and in-control face.
He shook his head and offered her a fake frown. "Ouch. That hurt, sweet-heat. All these years I imagined you lusting after my tattoo."
"I don't lust, Con. Not now, not ever." Well, maybe the not ever part wasn't the absolute truth, but Amanda felt the moment called for sweeping statements of denial. "And don't call me sweet-heat. I'm not that person anymore, haven't been for ten years." She wasn't thrilled with being Mandy or wicked woman again either, but she'd choose her battles.
He nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. Reaching back to the ladder, he picked up a cloth and wiped a few spots of paint from his hands.
Amanda forced away thoughts of what wonders those strong hands could work. "Let's get back to the castle. I think—"
"Whoa." He held up his hand to stop her. "I want to discuss this not remembering the black rose thing. Your relation to my tattoo was a cornerstone of my youthful fantasies."
His smile returned warmer, more intimate. Reminding her of exactly where she'd been and what they'd been doing when she'd seen the tattoo for the first and only time.
Okay, time to take a stand. "I'm here for only one thing, to decorate this castle. I don't want to talk about your tattoo or your fantasies."
"Or your part in them?" He shoved the paint cloth into the back pocket of his jeans as he moved closer to her. "Amazing what we choose not to remember about another person's body."
What do you remember about my body? No, not a safe question. She was safer sticking to his body. Amanda had always appreciated fine artwork, in any form. And Con's black rose was a great visual. Not the biggest or the best to be seen on the Body-Maguire, but still great.
Amanda sighed. He wasn't going to leave the rose alone. The best she could do was to steer the discussion away from the personal. "Why a rose? Men don't usually tattoo flowers on their bodies. Guess it threatens their masculinity." He could've covered his body with flowers and never put a dent in his virility. It oozed from his pores.
He moved even closer, invading her personal space. "I never told you the story behind the rose, did I? But then we weren't into lengthy explanations that night, were we, Mandy?" Reaching out, he calmly removed her sunglasses. His gaze moved leisurely over her body and then lifted to lock with her eyes. "If I concentrate, I can still feel the slide of your tongue as you traced the rose." He lowered his gaze, his lashes hiding his expression. "Lots of heat and tactile sensations. A man doesn't forget that kind of experience." He handed the sunglasses to her.
Amanda sucked in her breath. Whoa, losing control of the conversation here. What should she say . . . ?
He laughed. Low, husky, and with the sensual warmth that had always been part of Conleth Maguire. "Relax. We won't share any more tongue memories. I just wanted to see if you could still blush, or if New York had taken all of Galveston out of you. The blush is still there, but the big city sure changed a lot of other things." He reached out and slid his fingers through her hair.
Her blond hair. She loved her hair. And she hated how effortlessly he could bring the heat to her face. But then, he'd always been able to bring heat to any part of her body he chose.
"Too bad if you don't like it." She visualized the blush fading from her face leaving her cooly elegant and impervious to anything Conleth Maguire might do or say. Amanda hadn't come home to be haunted by a ghost-of-lover-past.
He widened his eyes, a weak attempt to look innocent. Con didn't do innocent well. "Did I say I didn't like your hair? I love your hair."
Ha! He hated her hair. Con lied with eyes wide open. Always had, and she didn't think ten years had changed him. "Are you going to tell me why you chose this rose tattoo that I definitely don't remember?" Once he got the rose explanation out of his system, she'd try to segue into talking about the job.
He nodded and motioned her into the shade of the castle's wall. "Roisin Dubh means dark rose in Irish. Legend says that it was a Druid symbol. The Council of the Roisin Dubh wore the black rose on their robes."
She nodded as she leaned one shoulder against the castle wall and blessed the small relief the shade gave her. "Got it. A bunch of Druids took the rose as their symbol. I never realized you were into mystic stuff." Where was the attorney? She needed to extricate herself from this conversation before it dove deeper into the personal.
"There're lots of things you never realized, sweet-heat." Beneath the seemingly sensual suggestion, anger lurked. "Too bad you didn't stick around long enough to find out."
He'd thrown down the gauntlet. This was not what she'd planned for her first day on the new job. She could turn and walk away from the confrontation, but experience had taught her that she who turns and leaves the room is often booted in the behind on the way out. Uh-uh. He wanted reaction, and he'd get it. She moved away from the wall's support.
"Fine. Let's deal with this now and get it out of the way. We went out during my senior year. We planned to go to New York together. You'd go to art school, and I'd learn interior design. We had sex for the first time a week before I graduated. The next day you told me you'd changed your mind. You were staying in Galveston and going to work for your father. No other explanation. Did I miss anything?" She offered him a careless shrug that said it was a non-event to her now. "So what's a girl to think?" She'd thought a lot. Maybe after making love with her, he'd lost interest. Had he found someone else? The list went on and on. The bottom line? He hadn't cared.
It amazed Con that at five feet, four inches, Mandy could stand so tall. Those wide blue eyes might say vulnerable, but they were dead wrong. They were a holdover from the girl she'd been when she left Galveston. The woman who faced him now would give as good as she got. He liked that. Con wondered what she'd do if he reached down and ruffled that smooth short hair. Probably haul off and sock him.
But hair-ruffling could wait. He needed to give her the explanation he hadn't given her ten years ago. If they had to work together, he didn't want the past getting in the way.
"I didn't have the money to go to New York with you." He winced. Even after all the years, it hurt to admit the truth. "What?"
He'd shocked her. Good. Con didn't know why, but he enjoyed taking her out of her comfort zone, her perception of the world according to Amanda Harcourt. "Dad had said he'd help with my tuition. When he found out I wanted to go to New York, he took hack his offer. Said I didn't have to go all the way to New York to learn how to scribble pictures."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Her eyes darkened. With hurt, anger? He wasn't sure.
"What would you have done if I'd told you?" He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say
it.
"I could've lent you the money. My parents . . ." She trailed off. "That's why you didn't tell me."
Con nodded. She knew too well the eighteen-year-old he'd been. But she didn't know the man he'd become. "I always had too much pride." He smiled "Still do. Back then, I thought your anger was preferable to your pity."
"Would you still do the same thing today?" She sounded casual, but Con sensed his answer was a little more important than she wanted it to be.
"Probably." He paused to give her time to think about it. "I'd tell a different lie this time around, though."
She nodded as though it all made perfect sense. "Thanks for telling me. I was just a kid back then, and with hormone levels spiking, I spent a whole week either crying or thinking up painful ways to end your life."
A week. And then she'd gone on with her life. But he'd gone on with his life, too. They were even. Then why did he still feel that unreasonable stab of anger when he thought about her ten years in New York?
"I'm glad we got that out of the way. Gee, I'm probably late for my meeting." Her expression said she hoped he'd disappear in a puff of smoke.
He wouldn't make it that easy for her. "I didn't finish telling you about the family Druids. Dad's always been obsessed with his Irish roots. There's no real proof, but he's convinced our family has a few Druid connections." Con could feel her need to escape him, but a part of him that stubbornly resisted maturity wanted to see her squirm. He'd make her wait out his explanation. "Back then, I thought it was pretty cool that I might be related to an ancient society with a dark and mysterious reputation."
Con thought she'd offer him a polite smile. Instead, she gripped her bottom lip between small white teeth and studied him. His primitive part in charge of sexual awareness growled its pleasure. And when she released that lip . . . just the sight of the full damp sheen of it upped the growl to a roar. His reactions were right on schedule. If he remembered the spectacular event they'd shared on a moonlit Galveston beach correctly, and he thought he did, every breath Amanda Harcourt took had been a turn-on to his testosterone-driven younger self. The scary part was that she was having the same effect now on his older experienced self.
"You never needed any Druid relatives, Con. Every girl at Ball High not only thought you were dark and mysterious, but the hottest hottie of them all." She firmed her lips, a sure indication of a serious pronouncement, and proof positive that her lips were sexy in whatever shape she chose to bend them. "But that's past history. We're two different people now. Once I've made a final decision on the colors, I'll consult with you about your painting schedule for the interior of the castle. We'll consult about the castle, nothing else."
Strange. Why hire a New York designer when Houston had plenty of great ones? He nodded. "Sure. And wicked woman, maybe you consult in New York, but down here in Galveston we talk." Why was he so steamed? She'd walked away from here ten years ago and never looked back. Amanda Harcourt didn't matter anymore. Other than mutual lust, they'd never had anything in common.
"Can we lose the wicked woman?" Her semi-smile said she was a little conflicted about him and searching for something neutral to say. From her smooth cap of blond hair down to her cream dress and sandals, it looked like she'd cornered the market on neutral.
"I guess your dad's happy you became a painter. I mean, he always wanted his children to be part of the construction business." Translation: you caved and did what Daddy wanted you to do.
He thought about telling her he'd taken art courses in Houston but decided to keep quiet. She didn't care what he'd done with his life.
Her gaze slid away from him. "Maybe I'll look inside just in case the attorney slipped into the castle through another entrance."
Mandy started to walk past him and then froze. She stared at the trim he'd been painting. "Red?"
Con imagined the word plague would drip off her tongue with exactly the same tone. "It's a little more than just red, but yeah, it's red." Something evil in him sensed the color was an abomination to her and it reveled in her disgust. "I like red. I'm pretty sure I'll paint almost everything in the castle red."
"Inside?" She vibrated with outrage.
Obviously, she thought the park's owner had just hired him to slap paint on the castle. Obviously, she thought she'd get to choose all the colors. Surprise, surprise. The evil in him rubbed its hands together and gleefully plunged onward. "Uh-huh. I like lime green and neon orange, too. So don't worry, I won't paint everything red."
"No." The word was a breathy exhalation of defiance. "You will not use those colors. I'm the designer—"
She got no further. At that moment the cat must've decided to take a closer look at this paint that was causing such a brouhaha, and leaped for the ladder where the small can rested.
Con's last coherent thought as he watched the cat scrabble for purchase with its front paws on the shelf holding the paint, was that he'd never seen such an uncoordinated animal in his life. Reflexively, he reached for the paint. Too late. Frantic to keep from falling to the ground, the cat hooked the can with one paw and brought it down on top him as he lost the battle with gravity.
"Ohmigod!" Mandy's wail of disbelief was echoed by the cat's yowl of surprise.
Red paint coated the cat from whiskers to tail. He was Dynamic-Red highlighted by gleaming yellow eyes. The cat expressed his general feelings with furious hisses and growls. He was one pissed kitty.
"Get this crap off me now! I don't have a freakin' public humiliation clause in my contract."
Startled, Con glanced around. Someone talking in his head? Nah. He shrugged away the momentary weirdness and leaped into action.
Before the cat had a chance to race away, he scooped it up like a fumble recovery and ran with it. The cat fought him as Mandy shouted advice, but he kept running until he reached the edge of the moat. Maintaining a secure grip on the cat, he knelt and then dipped it into the water.
The cat screeched and clawed. Con was aware that Mandy had scrambled down beside him. He glanced at her. "I'll hold him while you wash the paint off."
"Me?" She sounded horrified.
Probably thought red hands didn't make the right color statement for her. "Look, do you want to be the one to return him to Sparkle looking like a Texas Chain Saw Massacre survivor?"
Mandy widened those big blue eyes, and for just a moment he was back on the beach all those years ago. There'd been a full moon reflecting off the Gulf that night. He'd parked his pickup high on the beach, and then they'd walked hand in hand down to the water. They'd knelt on the sand facing each other, and she'd looked at him out of those same eyes. But back then her eyes had shone with sensual hunger, and he'd been generating enough lust to power all of Texas.
She broke the brief spell by glancing down at the struggling cat. "You're right. I'll rinse off the paint. Don't let him go."
Easier said than done. Hanging on to the damned cat was like holding onto a greased pig with claws. The cat was still twisting and yowling. Someone had probably already called 911 to report a murder in progress.
"Help! Cat drowner! Don't even think about dunking my head. I can't feel the bottom. I have to feel the bottom! I can't swim, you jerk. Land. Put me on land before I turn you into a small ugly parasite."
It had to be the heat. He'd been painting in the sun for too long today. Once the cat was taken care of, he'd go into the castle, cool off, and eat lunch. So why hadn't he heard voices on other days when he worked in the heat? He didn't want to think about it. He had to believe it was the heat, or accept that the cat was talking to him. And that would spell certifiable with a capital C.
Finally, between the two of them, the cat was clean. Con set it on the hank expecting it to race for home. Instead, it carefully shook each paw free of water and then glowered at them.
Con frowned as he pulled a clean rag from his back pocket and handed it to her. "Dad's a dog man, so we never had any cats at home, but I'd swear what we're seeing here isn't normal cat behavior.
Look, it's not running away. It's just glaring at us." He glanced at Mandy. Uh-oh. She was dabbing at red paint spots on her dress.
"It's not glaring at us. It's glaring at that red trim. Cats have more sophisticated tastes than dogs. A dog would like red trim. A cat knows better."
Con didn't try to hide his grin. She sounded ticked off, and ticked off could be a prelude to other emotions. Anything that got Mandy all passionate about something had to be an improvement over her Princess of Perfect persona. "I don't know. Seems strange to me that he doesn't act more frightened." Absently, Con rubbed some paint splatters from his arms and chest.
Mandy didn't look any less furious, but her gaze never left his hand. He accommodated her by sliding the cloth over his skin more slowly, finding spots to touch low on his stomach. He would've found even more interesting places to rub if he felt she'd believe paint could've reached there.
"My family did have cats, so I'll clue you in on a cat fact. Cats get even. Deimos won't forget that you dunked him in the water, and when you least expect it he'll . . . well, just watch your back, Maguire." There was a hint of gleeful satisfaction in her voice.
"Deimos?" He laughed as he turned toward her. "What kind of cat name is Deimos?"
The cat hissed at him, but he ignored Deimos as he looked at Mandy's shoes. Great. Just great. Her shoes were spattered with Dynamic-Red, too. At least the color matched the temper he saw simmering in her eyes.
"I'm sorry about your dress. Make sure I get the cleaning bill." He sensed she felt he hadn't offered nearly enough compensation. Maybe he should offer his head. Not a good idea. She might take him up on it. "Let's go into the castle. I can at least clean up your shoes."
Her narrowed gaze said that Deimos wasn't the only one who wouldn't forget this. "Fine. But I don't have time to change.
How will I explain this to Mr. Holgarth?" She gestured at her paint-spattered dress.
