Illusions

by Janet Dailey

  Riley mocked, “Does a pine tree have needles?”

  “That depends on what kind of needles you mean,” Delaney countered. “It doesn’t have sewing needles.”

  The conversation dissolved into a good-natured argument over semantics that lasted until the road made its swing toward town. They walked the final mile to the house on Red Mountain, cooling down hot muscles.

  The telephone was ringing when they walked into the house. Lucas went to answer, but Riley was a step quicker. “Yes, hello?”

  “You should always let Riley answer the phone, Lucas,” Delaney said in a gentle reminder.

  “I know—it’s good policy.”

  “Right. How about some juice?” She headed for the kitchen.

  “Sounds good.”

  “It’s for you, Lucas.” Riley held out the receiver, one hand covering the mouthpiece. “Susan St. Jacque.”

  Lucas altered his course to take the phone from Riley. “Pour me a glass, Delaney. I won’t be long.”

  “A glass of what?” Riley fell in step behind her.

  “Orange juice.” She peeled off her sweatband and blotted the lingering beads of sweat from her neck, then shoved the band in her jacket pocket.

  “No thanks.” He opened the refrigerator door, set out the carafe of orange juice, then reached back inside. “I’ll have apple juice instead.” He pulled out a bottle, uncapped it, and took a quick swig, then leaned against the counter near the carafe of orange juice. “So how did your date with Jared go? You never did say.”

  “Fine.” Delaney took two large glasses from the cupboard.

  “You obviously didn’t spend much time with him. Vance said that you were back before midnight.”

  “What were you doing? Checking up on me?” She threw an accusing look at him, half-irritated as she carried the glasses over to the juice carafe. Riley answered with a slow, lazy smile.

  “You’re as bad as my father. I’m surprised you didn’t have Vance turn the porch light on for me.”

  “Condo apartments don’t have porch lights.”

  “Or it would have been on, right?” Delaney filled both glasses with juice.

  “You’ve got it.” His smile widened to an even lazier grin. “So—did Jared kiss you good night at the door?”

  “I came home by myself.” She felt a slow heat rising in her cheeks, which didn’t come from her morning jog. It was painfully clear that Riley was back to his old teasing self. Instead of being relieved by that, Delaney discovered that she much preferred the cryptic comments he’d been making the last few days.

  “An artful dodge of my question. Which means—he did kiss you.” His gaze made a slow and much too thorough study of her.

  “I never said that.” She took a long drink of her juice.

  “No, you didn’t. But you’ve never been the kind to kiss and tell,” Riley said. “Was the old spark there? Or only the memory of it?”

  Delaney hesitated, suddenly realizing that she wasn’t certain of the answer. “Keep up the questions, Riley, and I’ll start asking some of my own about your love life.”

  He chuckled. “You won’t ask.”

  “What makes you so sure of that?”

  “Because you know if I started talking about making love to another woman, you would turn fifty shades of red. More than that, you’d never be able to look me in the eye again. Would you?” he challenged softly.

  “It wouldn’t be easy,” she admitted with forced nonchalance, then looked him straight in the eye, surprised at how much resistance she felt about visualizing Riley in the arms of some woman.

  “That’s what I thought.” A glint of satisfaction showed in the deep blue of his eyes before he lifted the juice bottle and took a quick swig from it, then released a gusty sigh of relish. “There’s nothing better than cold apple juice after a run—except a hot shower. Which is where I’m headed now.”

  “Don’t use all the hot water,” Delaney called after him, relieved this conversation was ending.

  “I’ll try not to.” He nodded his head in dubious promise as he walked out of the kitchen. “I’ll honestly try.”

  Alone, Delaney drank down half the orange juice in her glass, conscious of the vague ache in her leg muscles and that peculiarly invigorating tiredness she always felt after a long run. She picked up the carafe and poured more juice into her glass, filling it to the top again.

  “Not fair,” Lucas said from the doorway. “You have a head start on me.”

  “You’ll catch up soon enough.” She picked up both glasses and gave him the first.

  “Before I forget, Susan will be here around ten so we can go look at some painting she’s been wanting me to see.”

  “Okay.” Delaney glanced at the wall clock. It was seven-thirty; she had ample time to shower and change.

  “Have dinner with me tonight, Delaney.”

  His invitation momentarily threw her, but she covered it well. As usual.

  “Another time, maybe,” she said. “I’m going to be tied up.”

  “With Jared, I suppose.” His terseness was almost sarcastic.

  “No.” She picked up her glass and studied him over the rim of it. “It so happens I’m meeting with the man in charge of security for Friday night’s reception.”

  His mouth lifted in a rueful and faintly boyish smile. “I don’t suppose you’d help me get my foot out of my mouth, would you?”

  “I think you can handle it,” Delaney replied with more than a little amusement.

  He strolled over to the counter and leaned a hip against the edge of it and an elbow on its hard surface. He filled her side vision, making it impossible for Delaney not to notice the amount of muscled flesh the skimpy top left exposed. Without question, Lucas Wayne had a physique any woman would admire—and most men would envy. That body, that face, and that sexy smile made a potent combination, on-screen or off.

  “Can you blame me, Delaney, for being upset at the thought of someone beating my time?”

  She wrapped both hands around her juice glass. “Inherent in that question is the assumption you have time for someone to beat. I don’t think that’s been established.”

  “Not for lack of trying on my part.” His voice was low, deliberately caressing. “But you have this mental block that refuses to accept that I might be attracted to you. Why? And don’t give me that worn-out excuse about mixing business with pleasure. Don’t you realize you’re a unique and intriguing woman?”

  “And don’t you realize, Lucas, that I’ve watched you come on to every woman you meet?”

  “I come on to them because that’s what they expect from me.” His mouth twisted in a cynical line. “And, as P. T. Barnum once said: ‘Always give the people what they want.’” Quietly he added, “It’s different with you, Delaney.”

  For the first time, she believed he meant that. She was still trying to contemplate that when he leaned toward her. She felt his breath feather over her lips an instant before he claimed them, his mouth soft and warm, lightly nipping to coax a response.

  Instinctively she pushed him back. “You’re moving too fast, Lucas.”

  “You’re too methodical.”

  “It’s safer than being too rash.” She’d learned that with Jared. “Why don’t you go take a shower?”

  “Why don’t you come take one, too?”

  “I will—as soon as Riley gets out.”

  He shook his head in mild exasperation. “You always have an answer ready that turns aside unwanted suggestions, don’t you?”

  “Most of the time,” Delaney said with a faint smile.

  “I guess I’ll have to wait for a time when you don’t.”

  “I guess you will.”

  “See? You did it to me again.” Resigned and amused, Lucas pushed away from the counter bar. “I give up—this time.” He gave her ponytail a playful tug and sauntered out of the kitchen.

  After a short interval of absorbed reflection, Delaney took another sip of orange juice, then st
epped down from the stool and unfastened the button at the gathered band of her windbreaker. As she reached to unbuckle the webbed belt that held the gun and its holster, she heard the front door close. The sound was followed by the heavy and quick clump of feet crossing the foyer, a sound made by Toby’s peculiar tiptoeing run.

  “Luke?” His voice came from the hall.

  Delaney struggled a moment to free the buckle’s hook from the belt hole. The tightly woven cloth—made damp by her body’s perspiration—stuck to her skin, initially refusing to give. Finally she worked it free and felt instant relief from its chafing tightness as Toby charged into the kitchen, his face alight with eagerness.

  “Luke’s back, isn’t he? Where is he? Have you seen him?”

  “He went to take a shower.” She removed the belt and its attached holster from her waist and started to lay it on the counter, then something—the silence, the lack of any movement—caused her to look up. Toby stood in the same place, transfixed by the sight of the revolver butt poking out from the leather holster.

  “That’s a gun, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She saw his glance leap to her face, his eyes dark with mistrust and a hint of fear.

  “Guns are bad.” He backed away from her a step. “You shouldn’t have that. Guns kill people.”

  “Toby—” she began.

  “I’m gonna tell Luke.” He turned and fled from the kitchen at a lumbering run.

  Delaney started to go after him, then hesitated, reluctant to take the .38 revolver with her, and unwilling to leave it lying on the counter. She heard Toby pounding on the door to the master suite. Then there was a break—a short one before Toby started talking, his words lost to her, but not his anxious and agitated tone.

  She debated an instant longer, then detached the gun and holster from the belt and slipped the pair into her right jacket pocket. The belt she rolled into a tight coil and stuffed in her other pocket before she made her way from the kitchen to the hall that led to the master suite. Toby hurried out of the room, his head down, his expression long and uncertain.

  He passed her, hugging the other side of the wall and not saying a word. Delaney held her silence as well, then noticed Lucas standing in the suite’s doorway, a towel wrapped around his middle. From somewhere beyond him, she could hear the shower running, although his skin was dry.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset him, Lucas.”

  “You didn’t…not really. Toby is uneasy around guns, and I hope he stays that way. They’re not toys; they’re not something to play with—” He stopped and rubbed a hand across his forehead. Delaney considered again his amazing patience with his retarded brother, aware that at times Toby must be a trial. Lucas smiled a little tiredly. “It’s all right, though. I told him you were a kind of policeman—even if you didn’t wear a uniform. He knows policemen carry guns to protect people…and shoot the bad guys,” he added, as if trying to joke his way out of an awkward situation.

  “Right,” Delaney knew her smile was as forced as his joke.

  “He’ll probably be a little nervous around you, but he’ll forget about it after a while.”

  “I hope so.” She didn’t want Toby to be afraid of her.

  “You have your job to do, Delaney. Toby has to accept that.” A muscle worked along his jaw, flexing and relaxing, then flexing tautly again. “I can’t make his world perfect. I can’t make all the bad things go away. I just can’t.”

  “I don’t think Toby expects you to.”

  He looked at her with almost brooding intensity, then sighed. “Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s something I expect from myself.”

  Delaney thought that was probably closer to the truth, but she said instead, “Your shower’s running.”

  He glanced behind him as if realizing only at that moment what the rushing sound was. “Right.” He turned away.

  As she started to leave, Riley emerged from the guest room located diagonally across the hall. “Your turn,” he said. “I even left some hot water for you.”

  “That’s big of you, Riley,” she replied, aware her response wasn’t as lighthearted as she’d intended it to be.

  “I thought so.” He glanced at the closed door to the master suite. “I take it Toby finally got Lucas to open the door.”

  “Finally.” Delaney nodded.

  Catching something in her voice, Riley examined her a little more closely. “Is there a problem? Was he upset about something?”

  “Toby saw I was carrying a gun—and thought I shouldn’t, so he went to tell Lucas.”

  “Tattletale, eh?”

  “Something like that. Anyway, everything is okay now.”

  “Good. Enjoy the shower.” He moved past her and started up the hall.

  Belatedly Delaney remembered, “Susan St. Jacque will be over at ten and we’ll be going out again.”

  Riley stopped. “Where?”

  “I assume to her gallery.”

  In the heart of Aspen’s chic business district, Gallerie St. Jacque was discreetly grand and lofty, soaring two stories tall. Its elegant glass doors opened into a collection of rooms, some large and some small, interconnected by stately archways. It was to one of the more intimate rooms that Susan St. Jacque took Lucas Wayne to view the painting under consideration.

  Delaney waited beyond the room’s archway, keeping watch along with Riley. There were no other customers in the gallery. Shortly after they arrived, Susan St. Jacque had locked the doors and hung a sign that read CLOSED FOR PRIVATE SHOWING.

  Riley idly inspected an Etruscan vase displayed on a marble pedestal, then strolled over to Delaney and stole a look into the room.

  “Did you see the size of that painting?” he asked in a low undertone. “The canvas alone must be five feet tall. Add the matting and the frame to that and it has to be close to six feet.”

  “I don’t think it will fit on your boat.” She gave him a quick, mocking glance.

  “No kidding.”

  Her gaze strayed to the blonde gallery owner standing some fifteen feet away with Lucas Wayne. Silver bracelets jingled on Susan’s wrist as she gestured to the sensuous swirl of colors on the canvas, shades bleeding into shades to create twisting, sinuous shapes.

  Following the direction of her gaze, Riley studied the pair. “She is determined to talk Lucas into buying it, isn’t she?”

  “It seems that way.”

  He lifted back the cuff of his shirt to look at his watch. “We’ve already been here thirty minutes. Maybe I should have told Arthur Golden to take a cab from the airport instead of agreeing to pick him up.”

  “His flight isn’t scheduled to arrive for another hour and a half. You should be able to make it without a problem.”

  “I should, but will I?” Riley countered dryly.

  “I guess we’ll see.” In either case, they were there for the duration—however long or short that was.

  Riley sent another thought-filled glance at the pair. “I have the feeling that St. Jacque woman could turn into a piranha when she smells a sale.”

  “Most people in sales have a killer instinct—at least, the successful ones. That’s how they earn the big commissions.” And it was obvious to Delaney that Susan was eager for Lucas to buy the painting. But was Lucas eager? Susan talked and Lucas nodded. She pointed and he looked. Yet there was something perfunctory about all of his responses, as if he was going through the motions of showing an interest in the painting when he had no intention of buying it.

  As Susan turned and waved a hand toward the painting, her voice drifted across the room. “Think how stunning this will look above your fireplace, Lucas.”

  Lucas obviously made some suitable and noncommittal reply that Delaney didn’t catch. Unfazed by his lukewarm reaction, Susan went on, “As I mentioned earlier, the current owner has found himself in an unfortunate financial situation that he would prefer to keep quiet. That’s why he’s reluctant to put the painting up for auction—for fear the wrong people would rea
lize he was short of funds. I persuaded him to let me handle the sale of the painting for him. At auction, it would probably bring in the neighborhood of five million—”

  Riley released a whistling breath. “Some neighborhood.”

  Judging by Lucas Wayne’s expression, Delaney suspected his reaction to the price was an echo of Riley’s.

  “That’s what it could bring,” Susan stressed. “But the owner will take three and a half.”

  “Three and a half or five million, it doesn’t make any difference,” Lucas replied, his voice lifting with a note of finality. “I still don’t have that kind of money lying around.”

  “But you can get it, darling.”

  “How?” he challenged lightly, amused—almost cynically so.

  “Luke.” She said his name with the indulgent patience one would show a child. “It’s common knowledge that Paramount has offered you twenty million dollars to do a sequel to your last release. And if they offered you twenty, Arthur Golden should be able to get you thirty.”

  “An offer, Susan, that’s all it is.” He sounded angry, exasperated. “There is no money in the bank. Even if Arthur came to terms with them on a deal, it would all be predicated on an acceptable script. I’m not going to jeopardize my career by making a dog of a film just to have money to buy this painting. It would be a stupid thing to do.”

  “I agree—it would be very stupid of you to jeopardize your career.”

  Lucas stiffened, his expression turning cool. “I’m glad you agree—”

  “I do. But I’m also convinced you and this painting are made for each other. While you may not have the cash on hand to purchase it, you can get it. With the royalties that will roll in from your album sales, the equity you have in your home on Red Mountain, your place in Bel Air, and your potential movie contracts, a loan won’t be difficult to arrange.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t.” He was hesitating, as if finally tempted to buy.

  “Believe me, they would. I can even arrange the loan for you. You’ll have the money in less than a week.”

  “A week?” Lucas echoed skeptically. “You can’t promise that.”

  “Can’t I?” Her low laugh was throaty and purring. “Luke, darling, do I have to remind you that it’s not who you know that counts, but what you know about whom? It will be approved.”