by Unknown
His head lowered. She licked her lips, frightened by the thundering of her own pulses. 'Jeremy,' she whispered. Beautiful, he had said, his voice shaken as if she were somehow more than all the beautiful women. 'He'll... You shouldn't... ' Her hands pushed against his chest as he brought her closer. She spread her fingers out, pressing against him even as her lips parted. 'I didn't... '
His lips cut off her words. Soft heat. He teased until she gave him entry, then he released her arms and traced the curve of her back with his fingers, drawing her closer. She wanted to free her hands to explore the black curls at the back of his neck. the hard muscles that led up from his shoulders. She needed her breasts crushed soft against his hard, broad chest.
He deepened the kiss with seductive slowness, taking the sweetness from her lips, the sultry taste from her mouth. When a wild, low sound escaped her throat, he caught her hands in his and guided them to their rightful place around his shoulders, his neck. She shuddered, feeling his body close against hers, holding her, sheltering and inflaming. Her flesh melted close in a surrender older than time. A promise. A commitment. Not choice, yet not pulled against her will either. Something beyond volition, beyond decision. Inevitable.
She tried to pull him closer when he dragged his lips away from hers. 'Molly,' he groaned. Her hands were inflaming him with small, convulsive caresses along the back of his neck. 'Oh, God, Molly, you- ' His eyes closed tightly, then opened. He caught her hands in his and drew them away. 'Later,' he said raggedly. 'Jeremy's going to- another minute of you in my arms and nothing could stop my taking you.'
She pulled back. Taking. Wasn't that what her wild blood wanted right now? To be possessed in the oldest way.
'No.' Her voice sounded hoarse. 'I don't... we can't... don't want...' His eyes reminded her that she had answered his kiss with wildness from somewhere inside. She had pressed her body so close that she was unsure whose heart had been thundering in her ears. His? Or hers? Theirs?
'Did you- ' She cleared her throat. 'Did you want to see the dinosaurs?'
'Your etchings? Yes, Molly. Please.' His voice was quiet, fulled with the knowledge of the promise her body had made to him.
She tried to walk across to the balcony as if he were not watching her. She could hear him behind, feel him close as if he emanated a radiation she was particularly sensitized too. Perhaps he did. What other explanation could there be?
Out on the balcony, her unwillingness to show Patrick her sketches dissolved as she realized that he was genuinely interested. Jeremy, of course, was a passionate fan of the Molly Alex books, but she hadn't expected Patrick to admire her work. She wasn't sure what she had expected. Perhaps the tolerant scorn Saul had shown when she proudly showed him the painting that had won her an award back at art college?
Patrick was no artist. He obviously had little knowledge of painting or sketching; but he was interested in the process, examining her pinned-up background pictures, the reference books with their detailed plates showing reconstructed creatures of the Mesozoic era.
'No wonder they always look so real,' he mused as he turned the pages.
She was amused. 'You've read the Molly Alex books?'
'Hmm.' He grinned. 'Jeremy and his sister have a copy of every known Molly Alex dinosaur book, and my sister Sarah is a great hand at roping dinner guests into reading bedtime stories.'
Jeremy declared quickly, 'I'm too old for bedtime stories. That was when I was a baby, when Uncle Pat read to me. Now I read for myself.' He rammed his hands into his jeans pockets and stared at Molly, willing her to believe in his maturity. 'Sally's the baby,' he added. 'I'll bring her tomorrow, if you like.'
Molly offered, 'I'll make cookies for you both- or are you too old for cookies?'
'Nobody's too old for cookies!' Jeremy's hands crawled out of his pockets, fingers curling as if he could feel the crumbling cookies in his grasp. 'Can we come right after school?'
Patrick frowned. 'Isn't tomorrow the day Sally's going to Ellie's birthday party?'
'Oh, yeah.' Jeremy's lips turned down until Molly invited, 'Just you, then, Jeremy. And I'll bake extra for you to take home to Sally.'
Patrick glanced at his watch. 'Suppertime for you right now, scamp.'
Jeremy turned to go and Molly's hands made a vague motion of protest. Jeremy would go, leaving her alone with Patrick. And then...
'Thanks for helping with the cat!' she called after the boy.
Patrick added, 'And don't let her out when you go!'
Molly asked, 'Aren't you going with him?'
'Do you want me to go?'
Molly swallowed and avoided Patrick's eyes. She moved restlessly, her hands collecting the pictures tacked up on the balcony rail and her mind in chaos.
'Can I help you clear up?'
She nodded. The pictures. The paints. The easel. She shook her head, but he held out his arms and she placed the small pile of papers in them. The she picked up the easel and he followed her into the loft. Inside. Alone.
The telephone was ringing as they came in. She set the easel down and ran downstairs, picking the receiver up and saying Hello? breathlessly.
'Molly, I want you do something for me.'
'Saul- ' She could hear Patrick moving around upstairs. Bringing in the rest of her things? 'What is it? Where are you?'
'Get my canvases together, would you? Be careful, for heavens sake! I don't want any damage- '
'What canvases?' Molly twisted as her eyes scanned the downstairs walls. 'The only painting I've seen is the one over the sofa upstairs. You know? Niagara Falls. The one- '
'No, no! Not that one. There's a cupboard in the eaves. I had a builder in to make some racks. You'll find them. Seventeen canvases. Babette will be there tomorrow to pick them up.'
'Babette?' Trust Saul, she thought with a wild giggle. 'Where are you?'
'Molly, I haven't got time for this nonsense. Just pack them up, girl, and stop putting me through the inquisition. Ten o'clock.'
'In the morning? Seventeen paintings? And pack them in what? Have you got anything to wrap them with here? If not, I'll have to go into Nanaimo.'
Saul gave an explosive sigh. 'Stop making difficulties. If I know Babette, she'll be late anyway. Enjoy yourself, Molly. I'll be in touch.'
Molly replaced the receiver slowly. 'Enjoy myself,' she muttered. 'Seventeen paintings hiding in the eaves, and I'm to get them ready instantly.'
'Everything okay?'
She jerked at the sound of Patrick's voice. He had warm amusement in his eyes, as if he knew that she had forgotten he was here, knew how her pulse had leapt at his voice.
'That was your father, wasn't it?' She nodded, but he was frowning. 'Does he always dump tasks on you at the last minute?'
She shrugged, saw the look in his eyes and stepped back.
'Are you afraid of me, Molly?'
She didn't answer.
'Come here, then,' he commanded gently.
She shook her head.
He considered her silently for a moment. 'Come outside for a walk, then. I'll show you my place.'
'Patrick, I- ' What did he expect of her? Passion? Making love? After that kiss upstairs, did he believe that she would tumble into a bed with him? 'I- ' She shivered, knowing that it was not saying no that bothered her. It was wanting to say yes, yet not even knowing how. She turned and moved restlessly away from him, then swung back suddenly. If he touched her, her mind would turn to jelly again. 'I'm not- '
He waited, one hand slid into his pocket, the fingers of the other curled, not exactly tense. Just waiting.
The lump in her throat was growing. 'I- Patrick, I think you've- well, you- maybe I- '
'Just say it, Molly.'
His chest was rising and falling in a slow, steady movement. Steady, like the man. Solid. Passionate underneath. There had never been anyone like this in her life. She could not understand what it was that made him believe he wanted her, could not let herself trust it. 'I- If you think- Well, what happe
ned up there... upstairs... I- '
'Just spit it out.'
'Well- ' She made a rough, uncertain motion with her hands. 'I'm... not in the habit of having casual affairs.'
'Casual, Molly?'
Her heart crashed against her ribs. 'I- You know what I mean.' She bit her lip and added weakly, 'Don't you?'
'You want me to slow down?' He brushed her cheek with the side of his thumb, then tucked a wild black curl behind her ear. 'You feel it, don't you, Molly? This pull between us?'
'Yes,' she whispered. Was she insane, believing this man to be her fate? Wanting it to be true.
A muscle worked at his temple. 'Do I have time to go slow, Molly? How long are you staying on Gabriola?'
Forever. Her lips parted to say the word, but Molly knew better than to believe in forever. She gulped and asked, 'What do you want from me?'
'I'm not sure.' His fingers threaded through her hair. 'How long are you staying, Molly? Long enough for us to find out what this is between us?'
A shudder crawled along the nerves of her scalp. Her fingers spread on his chest. 'Saul gave me this house,' she said unsteadily. 'A... birthday present. That's why I came. To... to live in it.'
He let out a slow breath and Molly moved away abruptly.
'Molly- '
'I- Where does the power come from? It's not magic, is it? The electricity, I mean. Getting to this house with no wires.'
He dropped his hand and she realized that he had decided not to come after her, not to touch and send her pulses racing. Not yet, anyway. He said, 'Not magic. The man who built this place laid all the services into an underground conduit. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow. At my place?'
'You're not... married or anything?'
'No. What about you?' She shook her head and he said, 'There's no one to object then, is there? Dinner tomorrow?'
'I- Could we- somewhere public?'
He was amused. 'You don't trust me to keep my hands off?'
She flushed. 'You've been living next door to Saul, watching his love life parade past. I know what he's like. I- But just because I'm his daughter I- It doesn't mean I'm willing to go to bed with you.' She looked away from the disturbing flash of emotion in his eyes. 'I just want you to understand that if- Well, if that's what you want, you- you're wasting your time.'
She kept hearing that lie. Her voice, her words, over and over again through the evening that followed. Patrick should have laughed. Instead he had made that strange comment about it being her eyes that haunted him, not just her body, then he had left her without repeating that kiss.
She was twenty-six years old, but she had never been tempted by a man before. It wasn't that she hadn't dated plenty of them. Dinner and dancing, friends like Alex who was fun to work with, like Thomas who was quiet and steady and comfortable. There had been male friends and casual dates in and out of her life from the time she was sixteen. Kisses, too, for heavens sake! Friendly kisses, warm, sometimes even the soft foreshadowing of desire.
She had not known that her blood could boil, had always assumed the passion and the wildness all belonged to Saul, that she had inherited none of it. When she had thought of making love with a man, it had been a shadowy future. A gentle possession. Maybe someday, if she found someone she felt safe with.
Although she loved her family and her friends, she had never had an intimate relationship with a man. A love affair was too much like an echo of Saul's chaotic life. As for marriage, she had turned down three proposals without a second thought. With Saul for her role model, what chance had she to make a marriage work? Her own mother was back before memory. Granted, there were Aunt Carla and Uncle Gordon, the parent-substitutes of Molly's teenaged years, but why take chances when she was happy enough living alone? All her life she had played it safe, keeping her world as stable as she could amid the chaos Saul had created around her.
The end of an era, she thought wryly, staring at a nude she'd just pulled out of the racks of paintings. Safety blown all to hell. The sensible thing would be to wrap up these pictures, give them to Babette tomorrow, then pack up her van and start driving east. Saul could keep his cabin. The price of this gift was too high for Molly to pay.
That would be the sensible plan, and Molly was a sensible girl. But...'
The next morning, she flipped idly through the telephone book as she waited for Babette. She found Gabriola's small section, located three listings under the name McNaughton. Patrick's second initial was D. David? Daniel? Douglas? She would ask him. She scanned the rest of the page. Medical clinic. Her heart skipped a beat. She was going to stay. And Patrick...
If she was going to lose her head, she would do it sensibly, take precautions first. After Babette had come, she would call for a doctor's appointment. Meanwhile, she would get some work done.
Babette came at eleven, an hour late. Molly heard the car wheels crunching on the drive and walked along the cat-walk to the balcony, her charcoal in one hand, the other hand pushing her hair back from her face. She had searched the boxes in the van, but hadn't yet found the combs she used to hold her hair back when she was working. Meanwhile, her hair was curling all over her face, messy and troublesome.
The blonde slammed the door of the large station wagon and Molly found herself staring straight down at the woman's deep, exposed cleavage.
'Babette? I'll be down in a second.'
'Hi, honey! Take your time.' Babette had a slight drawl that made her pleasant voice seem deeply suggestive. Trust Saul, thought Molly with amusement.
Once inside, Babette looked around critically. 'Not very big, is it? Have you got a Scotch?' She held out the car keys to Molly. 'I could use a long one while you load up those paintings.'
Molly eyed the high heels and decided that Babette wasn't the type to carry things without dropping them. Saul would never forgive her if any of his paintings were damaged. For that matter, Babette would probably break an ankle on the stairs to the loft, if she were persuaded to help. So Molly would load the paintings herself.
She said neutrally, 'No scotch, I'm afraid. There is some wine, though.'
The older woman sat on the sofa with the bottle and a glass, while Molly carried four bundles of paintings down the stairs and out to the station wagon. She had wrapped each painting with a layer of plastic bubbles, then tied the canvases together in bundles of four or five, the plastic protecting the delicate cargo from damage from the string or the neighbouring canvases. Saul must have bought a truck load of the bubbles. One end of the eaves had been full of the stuff, the other end occupied by canvases neatly stored in racks.
'Exciting, isn't it,' drawled Babette, following Molly outside with the last bundle. 'Just like being in a movie.'
Molly carefully placed the bundle of canvases. 'Is it?' she asked idly as she closed the tailgate. Babette had been talking from the moment she came, meaningless chatter every time Molly walked past. Molly had stopped listening. The woman had a brain the size of a pea.
Babette took the last drop of wine directly from the bottle, then handed the empty bottle and the glass to Molly, accepting her keys in return. 'I never thought I'd get to be a fugitive.'
Molly choked. 'You're a fugitive?'
'Not me, silly.' Babette's laughter rang out low and husky. The woman might not have any brains, but she certainly had a nice voice. 'Sauley's the fugitive. Why do you think I'm smuggling these paintings to him?'
Molly stared after the station wagon as it backed down the uneven driveway. Sauley? Saul? Her father a fugitive? Smuggling the paintings?
'I don't believe it,' she whispered. 'I don't. She's nuts.'
Something soft rubbed against Molly's ankles. She looked down and found the missing cat twisting between her legs. 'Hi, there,' she whispered, bending down to scratch Trouble's ear. The cat jerked back and hissed at her. She laughed and said, 'Make up your mind, kitty.' Surprisingly, when Molly turned and went back into the house, the cat followed at a distance.
Her father wasn't a
criminal. He was artistic and compulsive. Passionate. Some people would say he was crazy. But not criminal.
A fugitive.
It must be a joke. And the smuggling thing, that was just a loose way of speaking. Babette's conversation was mostly senseless babble. Paintings took up a lot of room. You couldn't smuggle seventeen canvases all that easily. Especially, a dim wit like Babette couldn't smuggle them.
You could take a canvas off the frame and roll it, thought Molly uneasily. No! The whole thing was stupid. Babette hadn't made a bit of sense until that last bit, but it wasn't the way it sounded.
Molly shrugged it away and went back upstairs. She had just started sketching the detailed outline for the first illustration when the telephone rang.
'Molly, it's Patrick.'
She had known the instant she heard his voice. She sank down, smiling. 'Are you at work? I hear bustle.'
'Hmm. A wild day. I'm tempted to pack up and work at home today.' Her heart skipped a beat, but his voice went on hurriedly, 'Look, I didn't give you any idea of what to wear, did I? I thought we'd have dinner at the White Hart. It's a neighbourhood pub on the island. Informal. Friendly. A good kitchen.'
'I know.' She coiled the telephone wire around her finger. 'I had dinner there the day I came to the island. I'll wear a skirt and blouse, something casual.'
'Whatever you like,' he agreed. 'Jeans, if you want. Anything short of a formal dress would be in place. I'll pick you up at seven.'
It was thoughtful of him to realize that she might be uncertain what would be appropriate dress. She added that to the little things she was learning about Patrick McNaughton. Day three, she thought, and she knew that he had a younger sister whose children he read bedtime stories to. An older brother who worked a neighbouring farm. He wasn't married, although he was certainly eligible. Had he ever been married? How old was he? Mid-thirties, she decided. And successful. Something to do with computers, although he wasn't like some computer people she had met, fanatical and unable to talk about anything else.
