by Brant, Kylie
In the large kitchen he found a pretty blond woman sitting on the counter, swinging her feet while she talked on the telephone. She raised her eyebrows at him and smiled, her look full of appreciation as it trailed over his dark green shirt and jeans-clad thighs. But when he asked, “Raine Michaels?” she merely shook her head at him and continued her conversation on the phone.
The dining room was empty, but he found seven more people in what had probably at one time been a living room. It had obviously been converted to a studio, with bare floors and a wall of windows. Several easels were set up, with four men and three women sitting before them, all immersed in their work. “Where can I find Raine Michaels?” he asked. Only one person in the room looked up at his words, and she merely shrugged. In growing irritation, Mac exited the room and started up the open stairway. He wandered freely through each of the four bedrooms and three baths upstairs, finding all of them empty. He passed a young couple in the hallway, but as had happened downstairs, neither person questioned his presence.
The remaining door was closed, so he banged on it with one knuckle before pushing it open. The room appeared to be yet another studio, with an easel set up in front of a window. The young man standing before it had his back to the door and didn’t look up, although the squeak of the old hinges made no secret of Mac’s entrance. Tiring of the search, Mac determined to end it. “Hey, kid,” he drawled. “Where can I find Raine Michaels?”
Stiffening at the sound of his voice, the person didn’t immediately answer.
Mac’s patience snapped. “Look, sonny, I’m not asking for the secret of life here. Just one quick answer. You do know the woman whose house you’re in, don’t you?”
“Intimately,” came the wry response, as the person turned around.
When they were face to face, Mac was immediately aware of his mistake. This was no boy, although with the slight build beneath the oversize man’s shirt she wore, he could be forgiven his assumption. And she was no kid. At first glance Mac would have pegged her age at eighteen or twenty, but after a closer look he revised his estimation.
Although her face was smooth of wrinkles, her eyes belied her apparent youth. Large and thickly fringed with long, thick lashes, they were the color of antique gold coins. But more surprising than their color was the incongruous look of age in them. He’d seen that look before, in the eyes of the people left alive mourning their bombed village and dead families. Then the woman blinked, and Mac was left wondering if what he’d thought he’d seen in them was a trick of the light.
His intense perusal was interrupted by her next words. “I’m Raine Michaels. How can I help you?” Her tone was polite, slightly interested, and ignited what was left of his temper.
“Are you always this polite to people you don’t know?” He kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of one boot, and leaned against it, arms folded.
Her eyes flickered, but when she answered her voice was even. “I try to be. Why? Is there some reason I should be rude to you?”
He noted that the calm in her voice was at odds with the slight trembling in the hand still holding her paintbrush. “I’d think there’s plenty of reason to at least be careful, yeah. From what I’ve noticed of this place so far, you’re lucky all you’ve had to contend with are some notes and phone calls. Because there’s absolutely nothing stopping some nut from walking right into your house.”
“Apparently not,” she murmured, turning slightly from him to lay her brush down. She picked up a rag and wiped off her hands. “Why don’t we quit talking in riddles and get to the point? Who are you and why are you here?”
“The name is Mac O’Neill.”
Mac O’Neill. The security expert her father had sent over. Raine let out a breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. Tremors of adrenaline still vibrated through her veins, warring with relief at his introduction. The suddenness with which a stranger had appeared behind her had left her undeniably shaken. She turned around, studying him warily. Rather than relief at his presence here, she found herself less than reassured. His pose against the door should have seemed indolent, but gave the impression of barely leashed power. He didn’t offer his hand, and she was fervently grateful. She was oddly reluctant to touch this man, even in greeting.
“I didn’t bother to call first because your father told me you’d be expecting me,” Mac said. “He’s pretty concerned about your safety, and well he should be. Your home is about as secure as a goldfish bowl in a room full of cats.”
She put the rag down. “Yes, I have been expecting you. But when Dad called he didn’t mention when you’d be coming.” And he’d also neglected to mention that the security expert he’d hired for her would look right at home on the front line of the Oakland Raiders. Her eyes wandered over him furtively. He had to be all of six feet, and he looked as solid as steel. His shoulders seemed to fill his shirt, to stretch it. His chest was broad, tapering to a narrow waist and hips.
Realizing her eyes were lingering on those hips, she jerked her gaze to his face. His hair was a thick, glossy brown and shone with occasional highlights from the sunlight that was still streaming into the room. It appeared as if he had forgotten to keep his last couple appointments with his barber. He wore it a little shaggy, but the style seemed to suit him. This wasn’t a man who would ever sport a preppy haircut. He hadn’t had a close encounter with a razor recently, and the masculine stubble on his face did nothing to detract from his tough appearance. His nose had been broken at least once, and judging from the set of that stubborn chin, he’d had it coming.
The thought put a tilt to her lips, one that quickly faded when she looked into his eyes. Unconsciously she drew in a breath and took an involuntary step forward, angling her head for a better look. Narrowed at her now in annoyance, they were a startling shade of blue. Ice blue, the artist in her decided. The exact hue of the ice below the surface of the thick Alaskan glaciers.
Mac stared at the woman before him. From behind, clad only in that oversize shirt, tight-fitting jeans and barefoot, she’d looked every inch the urchin. But he never would have made the mistake of thinking her a boy if she’d been facing him when he first saw her. The portrait in her father’s office hadn’t shown her in detail, but Mac recognized the delicate features, the straight, dainty nose and pouty mouth from the picture. The long hair was gone, though, and worn nearly as short as his. A very light brown, it was cut in wisps that invited a man’s touch. If it weren’t for those huge, haunted eyes, she’d never draw a second glance.
“So, Mr. O’Neill,” she interrupted the silence. “I’m sure you’ll want to take a look around and write up some suggestions. I’ll give you time to do that, and we can talk when you’re finished.”
He would have told her that he’d already started that process if he hadn’t observed the way her gaze flicked to her painting. Irritation filled him anew. He was accustomed to his clients at least hearing him out, but it looked as though he would need to vie for her attention, and damned if he was going to do that.
“How much time will you need?” she asked, and though she was again looking at him, he could tell her mind was on her work.
“A couple of hours should do it.”
“Great.” There was no mistaking the satisfaction in her voice. “While you’re looking around, I’ll take advantage of this light. Oh, and if anyone should stop you, tell them to speak to me.”
He could have told her that the odds of anyone in this house paying any attention to him were singularly improbable, but she’d already half-turned away, picked up her brush and dabbed it onto her palette. He stared hard at those narrow shoulders, not certain whether to be amused or irritated at his obvious dismissal. After another moment he shook his head wryly and left the room. He’d take the time she’d mentioned, and he’d make those notes. And then he and Miss Raine Michaels were definitely going to have that talk.
Oh, yeah, they’d talk. And he had a feeling that she wasn’t going to like what he had to say to he
r. Not one damn bit.
Mac’s solitary investigation of Raine’s property didn’t do much to improve his mood. Although there was evidence that some security efforts had been taken, none of the work seemed recent. There were plenty of outdoor lights installed on the garage. But any third-rate burglar could open her door locks with little effort. As it was, it took Mac less than twenty seconds to pick the dead bolt on her front door, but he credited himself with better than average skills in that area. The back door wouldn’t be a problem, either, although one probably wouldn’t bother to pick the lock. A well-placed kick would splinter it. He studied the antiquated alarm system. He guessed it had been put in at the time the house was built. It had been one of the best systems available when it was installed, but technology changed, and so did the skills of thieves. It would need to be replaced with one much more sensitive.
Of course, he thought dourly, the best system in the world wasn’t going to do much good if she continued to leave her doors wide open.
He kept busy jotting down notes for the next couple hours, wandering about the property at will. It wasn’t until late afternoon that someone actually questioned his presence. And the question wasn’t suspicious in nature, but rather interested.
He’d come into the house after a thorough look at the grounds. In the hallway he came face to face with the blond woman he’d noticed on the phone earlier.
“Well, hi, you’re back.” Her words were accompanied by the same slightly flirtatious smile she’d thrown him in the kitchen earlier. “Did you ever find Raine?”
He gave a short nod. “I found her. Who are you?”
The woman didn’t seem put off by his curt manner. “Sarah Jennings. I’m a friend of Raine’s. And you are?”
Mac looked past her through the doorway into the study. The same two men he’d seen there earlier were still in conversation, this time at normal volume. “Mac O’Neill. I’m doing some work for Miss Michaels.” He turned to her and noted the avid curiosity in her blue eyes. She was pretty, he noted detachedly, tall and slender and much closer to the image he’d had of what Simon’s daughter would look like. “Tell me. Are all these people here today friends of Miss Michaels?”
She shrugged. “Friends, acquaintances, employees. Raine usually has a full house.”
“So I’ve noticed,” he murmured. He gestured to the men in the next room. “Who are they?”
Sarah stepped around him and peeked into the room. “Oh, that’s André Klassen and Greg Winters, Raine’s agent and accountant. Both of them are here a lot, and they absolutely detest each other. They come to talk to Raine and stay to disrupt the tranquility the rest of us seek here.” She turned to him and rolled her eyes. “They rarely agree on anything.”
“And all the others I’ve seen wandering about?”
“They’re probably art students from the university. Raine volunteers there occasionally, and she’s sometimes a guest speaker for art classes. She’s kind of befriended a few of the students and lets them come here to take advantage of the peace and the view to work. Sometimes the sessions turn into impromptu lessons.”
Mac studied her for a moment. “And where do you fit in, Sarah Jennings?”
She dimpled at him. “Anywhere I want, usually. Raine and I met in college, and we’ve been friends ever since. We’re both artists, so we have a lot in common. And now that I’ve answered your questions, answer one of mine. What kind of work are you going to be doing for Raine?”
A voice interrupted them before Mac’s silence could be interpreted as rude.
“Mr. O’Neill is the man Dad called about, Sarah,” Raine replied as she came down the stairway. She’d gotten rid of the oversize man’s shirt, instead wore a snug red cotton T-shirt with the same jeans she’d had on earlier. Her feet were still bare. “He has a security company and will be giving me some suggestions.” She cocked her head at Mac. “Sorry I took so long, I kind of lost track of time. I’ll make dinner and we can talk while we eat, if that’s okay with you.”
Sarah’s eyes widened comically. “You’re going to cook?”
Raine noted the flicker of unease her friend’s disbelieving tone brought to Mac’s face and shot Sarah a reproving look. “I can cook. You’ll stay, too, won’t you?”
Sarah shook her head. “I’ve got a date, so I should be heading home to get ready. I might be back tomorrow, though.”
Her departure seemed to herald some sort of mass exodus for the rest of the visitors in the house, or so it seemed to Mac. He was seated at the kitchen table, his notebook in front of him, and Raine was moving about the room with lithe, sure motions, setting out ingredients for supper. Each time Mac started to speak he was interrupted by yet another person stopping in to bid Raine goodbye. To each she issued a dinner invitation. The ones who seemed about to accept quickly reconsidered after a pointed look from Mac. In the end, it was just him and Raine in the kitchen.
Intercepting some of the glares Mac shot at her friends did nothing to settle Raine’s nerves. She wasn’t used to dining with strange men, and she’d counted on Sarah’s presence at dinner to help her cope with that anxiety. She didn’t relish the thought of being alone in the house with Mac, no matter what his occupation was. But after ignoring him all afternoon, she owed him the civility of listening to his security suggestions. She couldn’t honestly even say she’d been immersed in her work. Once he’d left her studio upstairs, she’d been unable to concentrate on the painting that had seemed so important only minutes before his arrival. She’d found herself mixing paints for the next few hours, attempting, without much success, to duplicate the pale turquoise hue of his eyes.
That distraction from her work was uncommon enough. Her response to this stranger, as a man, was even more rare. He made her nervous. That in itself wasn’t unusual. It had been more than a decade since she’d been able to face being alone with a stranger without anxiety. But, as with her fear of the darkness, she’d long ago found ways to deal with that phobia. This man was different, though. He caused more than nerves, he forced . . . an awareness of him. She didn’t recognize it, couldn’t identify it, but it was there, nonetheless. And the unfamiliarity of that feeling heightened her confusion.
You are certainly in a state today, she scolded herself. Without a second thought, she took two large steaks from the freezer and set them in the microwave to thaw. It was easy to see that her customary light dinner of a salad or soup wouldn’t go far in filling Mac up. She snuck a glance at him. He’d helped himself to one of the beers languishing in the back of her refrigerator, and he was watching her over the top of the bottle. Those cool, pale eyes seemed to look right through her, as if he could read her apprehension and divine his part in its origin.
That steady gaze of his was positively unnerving. “So, what’s your real name?” she blurted, trying to distract him. Waiting for his answer, she took out the steaks, seasoned them and set them under the broiler before readying some potatoes to bake.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You think I’m using an alias?”
With a quick smile, she shook her head. “No, I mean, what’s Mac short for?”
“What makes you think it’s short for anything?”
She put the potatoes in the microwave, set the timer and began to fix a salad. “Because I can’t imagine any mother in her right mind holding a newborn baby in her arms, looking down at him lovingly and calling him Mac.”
At his silence she glanced at him. “Is it a secret?”
Her light tone belied her interest. He surprised her and himself by answering reluctantly. “My full name is Macauley. I go by Mac.”
“Macauley,” she repeated softly, pausing in her preparations for a moment. “Macauley O’Neill. Sounds like a poet.”
His lips twisted with something that could not pass for humor. “Hardly.”
She had the food on the table a short time later, and Mac tasted the steak cautiously. She was watching him with amusement in her odd-colored eyes, and he knew she recog
nized his wariness. Finding the steak edible, he dug in. Actually, despite Sarah’s remark, the meal wasn’t bad. Of course, it was hard to ruin a steak or potato, and his appetite hardly ran to the finicky. He’d had to exist too long on field rations to be difficult to please, even after four years out of the military.
Mac made no attempt at conversation during the meal, and after a few stilted efforts, Raine, too, fell silent. She watched as he ate with swift, economical movements. Something told her that he wasn’t used to sharing a meal with another person. That much, at least, they had in common.
When he’d finished eating and had declined the rest of her steak, she carried her dishes off the table. He surprised her by doing the same, setting his plate down on the counter. She shot him a surprised smile. “Thanks. You’re handy to have around.”
“I intend to be,” he informed her. “And I may as well get started. I’d like to get my things unloaded before dark.”
She blinked. “You mean to leave some equipment here?” Then she shrugged. “Sure, I guess so. You can put everything in the garage. It can be locked.”
“It can also be unlocked pretty easily,” he said. “Along with just about every other door and window on your property. As a matter of fact, Miss Michaels, I’d say you’re in desperate need of my services. This house isn’t the least bit secure.”
Setting the dishes in the dishwasher and wiping off the counter, she agreed evenly, “Obviously I’ve reached a similar conclusion myself, or you wouldn’t be here. So tell me, Mr. O’Neill, just what are you going to recommend, how much is it going to cost me, and how long will it take to get done?”
He watched her move gracefully around the kitchen. Her words were very bottom-line, and completely at odds with the attack of nerves he’d observed earlier. “Oh, I think most of it will be pretty painless stuff. We’ll have to replace the doors completely, as well as all the locks, and set up a new alarm system. That will include new glass in all the windows,” he added, “because they’ll need to have alarm wires running through them, too.”
