The Pride of Jared MacKade (7 page)

Savannah felt like a grubby Amazon who’d stumbled on a princess.

“I’ve been giving Savannah the tour,” Rafe explained.

“Great.” Regan pushed back the right curtain of her hair, and rings glittered on her fingers. “What do you think so far?”

“It’s wonderful.” Savannah remembered the beer in her hand and lifted to it her lips.

“Let’s not stop here.” With a friendly smile, Regan led the way out. “Jared called the shop this morning and said he’d like us to work on redoing his offices.”

“About damn time,” Rafe commented. “The place is as cheerful as a mausoleum. White and gray. Might as well work in a tomb.”

“We’ll fix that.” With boundless confidence and enthusiasm, Regan showed off the house.

Every room, whether it was complete or in progress and filled with nothing more than dust and cobwebs, scraped at Savannah’s confidence. She knew nothing of fine antiques, expensive rugs or window treatments.

She didn’t want to know.

“Jared’s really impressed with your art,” Regan went on as they wound their way down to the first floor. “Obviously it inspired him to do something about his work space. I’d love to see some of what you’ve done.”

“It’s no big deal. I don’t have any training.”

Savannah took one long scan of the front parlor, with its curvy settee and elegant side tables, and jammed her hands in the pockets of her jeans. A marble fireplace gleamed like glass, set off with polished brass tools and
andirons. And everything, down to the last candlestick, was picture-perfect.

“Nothing of mine would fit in here, that’s for sure. Or a lawyer’s office, either. Thanks for the tour. And the beer,” she added, handing Rafe the empty bottle. “I’ve got to go pick up my kid.”

“Oh.” Surprised by the abrupt exit, Regan followed her to the door. “If you’ve got some time over the weekend, I can fiddle with my schedule. We could work on color schemes and treatments.”

“I’ve got a lot of work.” Savannah pulled open the door, suddenly desperate to escape. “You’d better handle it on your own. See you around.”

“All right, but—” Regan broke off with a huff when the door closed in her face. She had definitely, and none too subtly, been brushed off. “And what,” she asked, turning to Rafe, “was that all about?”

“Don’t ask me.” Thoughtfully he ran a hand over his wife’s glossy hair. “That’s a spooky lady, darling. Let’s go sit down, and I’ll tell you about it.”

W
hen Jared pulled up in front of the cabin, he was puzzled, mildly annoyed, and quite intrigued. It hadn’t taken long for word to get to him that Savannah had all but raced out of his brother’s house, shrugging off the job Jared had offered her as she fled.

He intended to get an explanation.

Spotting Bryan and Connor in the side yard, he gave a wave. They responded with an answering shout before they went back to the important business of throwing a baseball.

His rap on the door went unanswered, so he walked in without invitation. He doubted he’d have heard one over the screaming rock and roll that shook the cabin. He followed a gut-bursting guitar riff through the kitchen and into an adjoining room.

She was bent over a worktable. The white of the oversize men’s undershirt she wore was streaked with paint. Her hair was twisted back in a braid, her jeans were riddled with holes, and her feet were bare.

His mouth watered.

“Hey.”

She didn’t look up. A look of fierce concentration remained on her face as she worked delicately with a slim brush dipped in brilliant red.

He glanced around the cluttered room. It had probably been intended as a mudroom, as there was a door leading to the outside. Obviously she didn’t need or have time for ambience in her work space, he mused.

The light was full and bright through the windows and showed every speck of dust. The floor was aging linoleum decorated with paint spills. Unframed canvases were propped carelessly against the unfinished log walls, steel utility shelves overflowed with bottles and jars, tubes and cans. He could smell turpentine.

And, with relief, he could see the dented portable stereo that was threatening to split his eardrums. He strode over, switched it off, and almost shuddered at the sudden, exquisite silence.

“Keep your hands off my music,” Savannah snapped.

“Obviously you didn’t hear me come in.”

“Obviously, I’m working.” She tossed her brush into a jar of solution, chose another. “Take off.”

His eyes lit, but he spoke with measured politeness. “Yes, I believe I will have a beer, thanks. Can I get you one?”

“I’m working,” she repeated.

“So I see.” Ignoring the curse she hurled at him, he leaned over her worktable.

The wicked queen was nearly finished, and her face was terrible in its beauty. Her body was long, elegant, draped in purple and ermine. Her golden crown was as sharp as blades and glittered with wicked-edged jewels. And in her narrow, regal hand, she held a vivid red apple.

“Gorgeous,” Jared murmured. “Evil to the bone. Is this from ‘Snow White’?”

“No, it’s from the Three Stooges. You’re in my light.”

“Sorry.” He shifted slightly, knowing it wasn’t what she wanted.

“I can’t work with an audience,” she said between her teeth.

“I thought you used to paint on street corners.”

“This is different.”

“Savannah.” Patient, he rubbed a slight red smudge from her cheek. “Did Rafe or Regan say something to upset you?”

“Why should they?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“They were perfectly polite. Perfectly.” When he only cocked a brow, she huffed out a breath. “I like your brother, I loved seeing the house. It was fascinating. And your sister-in-law’s just adorable.”

It was a woman thing, he realized, and took a cautious step back. “You’ve got a problem with Regan?”

“Who could have a problem with Regan? We just wouldn’t work well together. And besides, I don’t want my art in your office.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Because I don’t. I had time to think about it, and I decided I’m not interested.” She aimed a cool, level look at him. “All the way not interested, Jared. So beat it.”

He moved fast. Lawyer suit notwithstanding, she should have expected him to move fast. He had her up from her stool, his hand clamped on her arm, before she could blink.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t speak.

“I’ve told you not to grab me unless I ask you to.”

“Yeah, you’ve told me. You’ve told me a lot of things.” For the hell of it, he took a firm hold on her other arm and watched her eyes flame. “Now why don’t you tell me what’s going on here?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you. You think because I let you kiss me a couple of times, I owe you? I’ve let plenty of men kiss me, Ace. And I don’t owe anyone.”

She’d aimed the arrow well. He felt it hit home, stunned by just how sharp the point was. “You owe me the courtesy of an explanation.”

“Courtesy doesn’t interest me.”

“Fine.” Then he wouldn’t let it stop him. He yanked her close and crushed his mouth to hers in an angry, frustrated kiss.

She didn’t struggle. Instinct warned her it would be worse if she struggled. Instead, she kept herself stiff and turned her mind off. Cold rejection, she knew, was more effective than heated protest.

But both her body and her mind betrayed her, and she trembled.

It thrilled him—that quick, involuntary shiver, that low, helpless moan. But temper was still sparking through him when he jerked away.

Her face was flushed, her breath fast. He knew by the look in her eyes that she wanted as he wanted. At the moment, that fact only infuriated him.

“I owed you that,” he said tightly. “Now you can tell me again how much you’re not interested.”

She was interested. Interested in having a man look at her, just once, the way she had seen Rafe look at Regan. And, oh, it was demoralizing to realize she had that vulnerable need inside her.

“In a quick tumble, Jared?” In a deliberately insulting gesture, she brushed her fingers over his cheek. “Sure, baby, when I’ve got the time.”

“Damn it, Savannah.”

“You see.” She sighed, shook her head. “I knew you’d take it personally. You’re the type. And like I said, that’s not my type. You’re terrific to look at, and you’ve got a lot of heat. But—” she lifted a hand, tugged on his tie “—just too traditional and by-the-book. Now, Lawyer MacKade, you know all about the laws against trespassing, the sanctity of someone’s home. I’m going to ask you real nice, since you like things real nice, to leave. You wouldn’t want me to have to call your brother, the big bad sheriff, would you?”

“What the hell has gotten into you?”

“A dose of reality. Now go away, Jared, before I stop asking nice.”

He’d be damned if he’d beg. Damned if he’d let her see that she’d wounded him where he’d never expected
to be wounded. Iron pride chilled his eyes. He turned and left without a word.

When she heard his car start, and the sound of it going down her lane, she sank back onto her stool and shut her eyes.

She gave Bryan permission for his promised sleep-over and enjoyed the noise and bother of two active boys lasting late into the night. She was in the bleachers on Saturday, cheering on her son and his team. And if she looked around now and again, scanning for a tall man with dark hair and green eyes, no one else knew.

At Cassie’s insistence, she dropped both boys at Connor’s late Saturday afternoon. Home alone, she paced the house, fidgeted in the quiet, and finally went back to work.

The queen was finished, but she still had the prince to sketch. No wimpy, soft-eyed dreamer for her Snow White, Savannah mused as she began running the pencil over the thick white pad. Her Snow White deserved some fire, some passion, some promise of a happy-ever-after with heat.

It was hardly a wonder that her first rough sketch resembled a MacKade. Dragonslayers, she thought with a grim smile. Troublemakers. Who said a prince had to be polite? Hadn’t most of them won their thrones in battle first?

Yes, she could see Jared as a fairy tale prince. Her kind of fairy tale. The kind of story that had inspired the legends that had been passed down through the ages,
before they became softened and misted to lull children rather than frighten them.

Warrior, avenger, adventurer. Yes, that was the prince she wanted to create.

She began to enjoy herself. The familiar process of bringing something to life through her heart and mind and hand was always fascinating, if not always soothing.

If things had been different, she wouldn’t have made her living from assignments, but from that heart and mind. Painting what she saw, what she felt, what she wanted—for the joy of it.

She was lucky, she reminded herself, to have this much. There had been no art classes in her life, only stolen moments with a pad and colored pencils. Dreams no one had ever understood.

Yes, she was lucky, because her work and the payment for it allowed her to take time for painting, to justify it as a harmless, not terribly expensive hobby.

Quickly, fueled by instinct, she began to add details to the sketch—the diamond-bright dimple at the corner of that sensual mouth, the arrogant arch of an eyebrow, a hint of muscle beneath the cloak, more than a hint of danger in the eyes she would certainly have to paint a grass green.

Hell, she reflected, if nothing else, her brush with Jared MacKade had given her the perfect model for her assignment. The illustration would be a good one. She couldn’t have asked for more.

She should never had let herself get caught up in the idea of painting for Jared, or selling him work that she had done for herself.

The sound of a car had her bracing and fighting to squash a little flutter of hope.

But when she went to the door, she saw Regan MacKade. The two women studied each other coolly. After a long moment, Savannah opened the door and stepped back.

“I don’t know what’s between you and Jared,” Regan said without preamble. “And if you think it’s none of my business, you’re wrong. He’s family. But I’d like to know why you’ve decided you can’t stand me to the point where you won’t even take a potentially lucrative job just because we’d rub elbows occasionally.”

“I don’t want the job.”

“That’s a lie.”

Savannah’s eyes went molten. “Now look, sister—”

“No, you look.” Revved, Regan jabbed a finger at Savannah’s chest. “We don’t have to be friends. I’ve got friends. Though I’m baffled at how we could both manage to be friends with someone as sweet as Cassie Dolin. She finds you admirable, and it’s not my place to tell her you’re just plain rude. You were interested in the job when Jared suggested it. Interested enough to come to the house. And according to Rafe, everything was just dandy until I walked in. Now what’s your problem? Sister.”

Savannah found her temper warring with amusement, and reluctant admiration. Didn’t the woman realize Savannah was big enough to break her in half? “I guess you told me.”

“So why don’t you tell me?” Regan shot back.

“I don’t like the way you look.”

“You—I beg your pardon?”

“Or the way you talk.” Pleased with herself, Savannah smiled. “Let me guess—private education, dances at the country club, debutante ball.”

“I was never a debutante.” If she hadn’t been so baffled, Regan would have been insulted. “And what’s that got to do with anything?”

“You look like you just stepped out of one of those classy women’s magazines.”

Regan threw up her hands. “That’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Well, you look like one of those statues men sacrificed virgins to. I don’t hold it against you. Exactly.”

They frowned at each other for a minute. Then Savannah sighed, shrugged. “I’ve got some ice tea.”

“I’d love some.”

By the time she was sipping her second glass, Regan was up and wandering the front room. She stopped by a landscape, all rocky hills and trees gone violent with autumn.

“This one,” she decided. “He needs this one where that horrible white-orchid still life is hanging.”

“I’d have thought you’d go for the orchids.” When Regan turned, her eyes narrowed blandly, Savannah smiled fully for the first time. “Yeah, I can see I’d have been wrong.”

“Greens and mauves,” Regan announced. “Deep greens. And those chairs in the outer office have got to go. I’ve got a couple of library chairs in mind. Deep-cushioned, high-backed. Leather. And I figure hardwood with area rugs, instead of that gray sea of wall-to-wall.”

Yes, of course. Savannah could already see it. Regan MacKade was obviously a woman who knew what she wanted. “Look, I’m not a humble person, but can you actually see my paintings jibing with your taste…or Jared’s?”

“Yes. And I think, all things considered, that you and I will work together very well.” Regan held out a hand, waited. “Well, are we going to give Jared a break and get him out of that tomb?”

“Yeah.” Savannah took the pretty hand, with its glittering rings, in hers. “Why the hell not?”

Later, Savannah walked toward the woods. She had to admit she’d done something she detested in others. She had looked at the surface and made a decision. All she had seen—maybe all she’d wanted to see when she looked at Regan MacKade—was elegance, privilege and class.

But who could have guessed there’d be such grit under all that polish?

She should have, Savannah realized.

And when she saw Jared sitting on a rock smoking quietly, she realized she had known she’d find him here.

He said nothing when she sat down beside him and took the cigar. The silence was lovely, filled with birdsong and breezes.

“I owe you an apology.” It didn’t quite stick in her throat, but she handed him back the cigar. “I was… You caught me at a bad time the other day.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t make it easy, MacKade.”

“I won’t.”

With a quick, bad-tempered shrug, she swung her legs up, crossed them under her. “I wasn’t completely truthful with you. There are a lot of things I don’t mind doing, but lies don’t sit well with me. I wanted the job. I can use it. But I felt…intimidated,” she muttered as the word sat distastefully on her tongue.

“Intimidated?” It was the last reason or excuse he’d have expected to hear out of her. “By what?”

“Your sister-in-law, to start.”

“Regan?” Sheer astonishment ran up hard against the foul mood he’d been mired in for twenty-four hours. “Give me a break.”

It was his quick, dismissive laugh that snapped it. Temper soaring, Savannah bolted up from the rock and whirled on him. “I’ve got a right to be intimidated by whatever I please. I’ve got a right to feel exactly how I chose to feel. Don’t you laugh at me.”