Heart Of Gold (6 page)

As she
took in the vista, Carter let out a low whistle.

What she
was looking at mirrored a description General Farnsworth, the Brit who had been
escorted by the colonialists, had scribed in his journal. He'd detailed a
clearing exactly like the one she was now standing in, including the landscape
down to his fort and the flat-topped mountain across the lake. It had been,
he'd noted, close to where the slaughter occurred.

Her heart
rate shot up.

“Some
kind of pretty, isn't it?” Cort asked. “The guy was digging back
here.”

They
walked a couple hundred yards farther up the mountain until they were
confronted with an uneven circle of huge boulders. The bulky sentries guarded
an inner sanctum that was about a square acre in size. Carter was astounded as
she stepped inside.

This was
it, she thought. This had to be where the slaughter occurred.

She began
to pace over the coarse grass and the pine needles, trying to imagine what
secrets might be hidden in the earth. Farnsworth had described the spot where
the party had set up camp as a Stonehenge in the Adirondacks. With handy access
to a nearby stream and the boulders offering protection from, the wind and
potential enemies, it was the perfect place for a party of weary travelers to
rest their heads.

Carter
caught sight of a bottle and went over to pick it up. Aside from the empty Bud
Light, there was other evidence of modern visitations. The fire pit in the
middle, created by a cloister of stones, had relatively fresh ashes in it. More
significantly, she saw ragged gashes dug carelessly here and there in the
ground all over the place.

It was
typical Lyst, she thought. Raping and pillaging his way through the site.

Carter
bent down and plied the earth with her hand, letting the dirt fall through her
fingers.

Damn you,
Farrell.

She
stayed on her haunches a moment Longer, wishing for a chance she wasn't going
to get.

“Well,
thanks for bringing me up here,” she said as she got to her feet.

Cort
beamed. “If you want, I can show you a place no one knows about.”

“Where—”

“What
are you doing there, boy?” Out of nowhere, a man appeared in the circle. He
was small, built like a bulldog, and had dark eyes crowned by a disapproving
brow. More significantly, he had a shotgun cradled in his arms and the look of
someone itching to use it.

“Hi,
Ivan,” Cort mumbled.

“You
know you're not s'posed to bring anyone up here.” The man moved with the
quiet grace of an expert woodsman, his footsteps silent over the ground.

“I
know.”

“So
what're you doing up here?”

“He
was just showing me the view,” Carter said, hoping to deflect the
criticism.

The man
looked at her and shifted the gun up to his shoulder. Closer to firing
position.

“And
I think I've seen enough,” she added quickly.

“So
do I,” came his dark answer.

The march
back down the mountain was grim. The woodsman followed behind them like a
prison guard, and Carter was thinking it had been a mistake to go up to the
site. Farrell wasn't going to change his mind and all she'd done was torture
herself with impossibilities.

As well
as volunteer for a brush with death.

When they
cleared the forest, Carter thanked Cort and got in her car. As she drove off,
she saw in her rearview mirror that the woodsman was watching her go.

It was
obvious who almost shot Lyst, she thought.

Heading
to the ferry that would take her home, she burned with frustration. It was a
hell of an opportunity, and she wished her meeting with Farrell hadn't gone so
badly. But how could she have expected anything different? Her reception had
been no better than others of her ilk had gotten and at least she hadn't faced
down the business end of that shotgun.

The side
view had been more than enough to get her attention.

When she
got home, she called Grace with the disappointing news.

“It's
a no go,” Carter said while going out to the back porch. She looked over
her meadow as the sun set. “I guess my negotiating skills aren't what they
used to be.”

Although
she seemed to have acrimonious arguing down pat, she reflected, remembering the
sparks that had flown in Farrell's study.

“Well,
maybe it's for the best. Lyst's cross is a fake,” Grace muttered. “We
gave it a thorough examination this morning. It's no older than the chicken
salad I had for lunch at the club.”

“Somehow
that doesn't surprise me. Still, I feel like there's something up there.”

“Is
that optimism I hear?” Her friend teased. “From the woman who
announced that finding anything on that mountain would be like winning the
lottery?”

“Grace,
I saw the site. It's amazing, just as Farnsworth described it.”

Her
friend laughed with admiration. “How'd you pull that off?”

“I
had a tour guide.”

“Farrell?”

“Not
bloody likely. His nephew sneaked me up.” Carter paused. “I'm telling
you, there's something at that site. I could feel it in the dirt.”

Grace
sighed. “Too bad Farrell's so difficult.”

“Difficult
is too nice a word for that man.”

Their
conversation drifted in other directions, but when Carter hung up later, Farrell Mountain was all she could think about. When the phone rang again, she figured it
was Grace calling back, still on the fence over whether or not to buy a
painting she loved.

Carter picked
up with a laugh. “Look, I told you to accept your fate. If you're going to
buy the Thomas Cole, you need to belly up to the fact that you're a Hudson River School junkie. Just because everyone else is buying modern, doesn't mean you
have to.”

“Thanks
for the advice but I collect Old Masters.” Nick Farrell's deep voice
burned in her ear. “Even the turn-of-the-nineteenth-century's too new for
my taste.”

“How
did you get this number?” Carter blurted, jerking to attention.

“802-555-1212.
James Earl Jones said I could be connected for an extra charge but I dialed it
myself.” .

“What
do you want?”

In the
background, she could hear voices and the clinking of crystal.

“I've
been thinking about our conversation,” he drawled.

His
arrogance made her prickle. “Funny, I've been trying to forget it.”

“I
understand you went up the mountain.”

She
hesitated. “Don't blame Cort.”

“Tell
me again why you want to dig.”

Frustration
swelled in her chest.

“What
for? You've already turned me down. And you should know that Lyst's find wasn't
legit. That cross was a fake.”

“I
know.”

“So
why are you calling me? If you don't want anyone on that mountain—” Carter
paused. ”How did you know it wasn't authentic?"

“Because
I have the real one.”

She fell
silent as his words sank in.

“And
I'm rethinking my earlier decision. How would you like to come back tomorrow
and take a look at my little slice of history?”

She
stayed quiet while ambition warred with her instinct for self-preservation.
“I don't trust you.”

He
laughed. “That's smart, but I have something you want, don't I? Shall we
say noon?”

Even
though his lure was bordering on irresistible, she shook her head. “I
don't think so.”

“Don't
tell me you're busy.”

“What
am I coming for? So you can dangle an artifact in front of my face and turn me
down again? As you so aptly put it, that would be a waste of our time.”

“Aren't
you just a little curious about my cross?”

Curious
didn't go far enough. Try desperate, she thought ruefully. Still, she'd be
damned if she was going to present herself as some kind of amusement for him
again.

“Farrell,
I don't believe in conversions, at least not with people like you. There's no
way in hell I'm driving back into New York State again just so you can shut me
down. I did that earlier today. I don't need to reprise the rejection or put
additional miles on my car.”

“Fine,
I'll come to you. We don't need to be near the damn thing to discuss your
coming to work on my mountain.”

Carter
hesitated, wondering what kind of game he was playing.

The feel
of the dirt in her hands came back and temptation rose. It would be the chance
of a lifetime to get to do a real study of that site, to find out what had
happened. But she had to wonder if he was setting her up somehow. Why would a
man who had turned away so many, including herself earlier that very day,
suddenly call up and ask her to come dig? It just didn't make sense.

“Farrell,
if you're toying with me, I'm going to have a lot to say about it.”

“It
couldn't be anything I haven't heard before.”

“Don't
knock innovation,” she muttered.

There was
a long pause.

“So
do we have a date?”

Reluctantly,
feeling as if she'd tripped and was falling into thin air, she gave him
directions to her house.

“I'll
see you at noon,” he said and hung up.

How
appropriate for a standoff, she thought.

The next
morning, she couldn't settle down to accomplish anything. She had a paper she
wanted to finish and she should have gone into her office at UVM, but she did
neither. Instead, she ended up in her garden, weeding as if possessed.
Surrounded by blooming iris and lilacs, hands deep in top soil, she lost track
of time, and when she heard a car approach, she looked up in surprise. A black
Porsche was coming up her driveway. The man behind the wheel looked as though
the car had been made with him in mind.

Carter
got to her feet, pushed her hair out of her face and tried to brush the grass
off her bare knees. Mud was caked on her shorts and her T-shirt and she flicked
some of it off.

Not much
of an improvement from yesterday's outfit, she noted. At least the other pair
of cutoffs had been clean.

She
watched with trepidation as Nicholas Farrell unfolded his long legs from the
car and got out with a stretch. She was surprised to see he was wearing a dark
suit and wished she didn't notice how the pale blue shirt under the jacket
emphasized his tan. He looked her way and smiled but she couldn't see his eyes
through his sunglasses.

With an
economical movement, he bent down and picked up something from the front seat.
As he strode across her small lawn, a black leather briefcase in one of his
hands, he exuded masculine power.

Unlike
myself, she thought; I'm just exuding the need to take a shower.

“You
like dirt, don't you,” he said in a husky voice when he was standing in
front of her.

She caught
a whiff of cologne, something sophisticated and fitting for a man like him.
Expensive but elemental.

Dammit,
did she have to like the way he smelled?

She could
feel him looking at her, even through the sunglasses, and was disturbed by the
way her body flared in response. Resenting the reaction, because it was strong
and unconscious, she couldn't prevent the sharpness in her voice. “Let's
get down to business.”

She
started to turn away and walk toward her house, but he didn't move.

“You've
got a beautiful garden.”

Carter
wheeled around impatiently and he flashed her a smile that took her breath
away. The sun was high overhead and the angle of the light emphasized the hard
lines of his face and highlighted that stupid dimple.

Was he
flirting with her?

She shot
him a prim look. “I'd like to see the cross now, if you don't mind.”

“Don't
I get a grand tour first?” He nodded at her house.

“There's
nothing to see.”

“That's
a matter of opinion.”

Carter
blew a piece of hair out of her face with frustration. Things were not going
well. Farrell seemed to have the upper hand even though he was on her turf. Her
plan had been to take a look at the cross, figure out whether he was serious
about the offer to dig, and then shoot him down the road. All of this was
supposed to be accomplished without her losing her temper or doing something
really dense. Like becoming attracted to him.

Unfortunately,
the reality of him standing in front of her was more of a challenge than she'd
bargained for. As far as she was concerned, the sooner he packed off in his
ridiculously overpriced car, the better. She hadn't been in his company for
long at all and already she was feeling distracted and woozy.

Maybe it
was just heat stroke, she thought hopefully.

“Look,
Mr. Farrell—”

“Nick.”

“Mr.
Farrell—”

His smile
got bigger. “Are you always this stubborn?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”
'

Carter
cocked her head and stared at him. “You are so odd.”

“That's
kind. Considering what you were tempted to say, I'm sure.”

She
huffed at him. “Just trying to be polite. Not that I'm returning the
favor.”

“I
did say please once or twice yesterday.”

“When
you were kicking me out.”

“Asking
you to leave,” he amended smoothly, seeming to eat up her antagonism.

With a
casual movement, he took off his glasses. His true intent was no clearer now
that she could see his eyes but she was intimidated by how closely he was
looking at her. She was tempted to ask him to put them back on.

“Most
women like to show off their nests,” he pointed out in a voice that was
just on the polite side of condescension.

She
planted her hands on her hips. “Birds have nests, Mr. Farrell. People live
in houses. And I'm not most women.”

“At
least we can agree on that,” he countered softly, some of his smile lost.
“If nothing more.”

Warning
bells started to go off in Carter's head. It wasn't that his expression had
changed. His riveting face was still all sardonic amusement. His eyes still
gave away nothing of his inner thoughts.