A Stranger in Wynnedower (34 page)

His paintings. She
slapped the wall. What a fool she was. She’d made her exit prematurely.

How on earth was she
supposed to go back downstairs and force him to listen about those other
paintings? How could she do that and maintain this chilly distance between
them?

Because it was all
about her?
All that she’d done,
everything she had invested her time and heart into, was as if nothing. The
truth was she had invited herself in—looking for someone else’s life in which
to live. Anywhere, but in her own.

She hit the wall again,
this time with her fists.

Experts must examine
the paintings. They might be genuine or not, but at least Jack should have the
opportunity to find out.

There was nothing left
for her to do in her room. She was already packed.
Her suitcase needed only to be lugged down the stairs
and out to the car. It sat there, stuffed, zippered and upright, like a
billboard message signaling ‘time to go.’

Rachel decided to carry
her suitcase down with her and tell Jack the news about the paintings as she
was on her way out the door. Tell him privately, of course, so no one would be
tipped off, and then she’d make a clean getaway.

She dropped onto the
upholstered bench. Was she supposed to chase after him? Go to him after the
scene they’d just endured and say, “Oh, and one more thing….”

Impossible.

No, not impossible.
Merely awkward. Humbling.

Alright, then. She
rose, tugged her sleeves back into place and brushed at her slacks. She drew in
a deep breath. She was ready to go find Jack. Halfway down the stairs she
realized she’d forgotten the suitcase and left her keys and phone on the
dresser. Again. She paused on the landing. Should she go back and grab them
before tackling Jack? It was called procrastination either way. Or maybe her
subconscious was playing tricks to keep her here.

A rumble and a scraping
noise vibrated the floor beneath her feet.

Not as loud as she’d
heard it before, but unmistakable.

Was that a soft voice?
Muffled words? A breath and a sigh? A bump, a slip?

Light-footed, she
descended the last steps and flew to the dining room doors. She grasped the
knobs and turned and they opened, but Jack wasn’t there. In his quarters, then?

She ran down the hall.

Jack’s door was
unlocked. She went from room to room, past his living room and into his
bedroom. A cursory glance took in the bed, night stands, bureau—nothing
special, nothing fancy, and no Jack.

The basement, then, but
with Jack missing, and knowing what she did about the paintings, no way was she
going down there alone.

Jack’s gun? Should she?
Jack could be in danger. Her brittle nerves became steady, fed by a sudden rush
of excitement.

Where would she keep
the gun if she were Jack? Not the nightstand. Not the closet.

She walked back into
his living room and stood quietly, thinking. The desk. She tried the top two
drawers. No good. The bookcase. She pulled the chair over and climbed up. There
it was.

His revolver was cold
in her hand. She wasn’t familiar with guns except for what she’d read or seen
on television and in the movies, but she’d helped inventory a gun shop once.
She could recognize a Ruger. She pushed the cylinder open, noting the gun was
loaded.

If it was Jack making
the noise, well, the paintings belonged to him and Helene—so no problem. If it
wasn’t Jack, well, then she could just about manage this revolver. Thank
goodness it wasn’t a semi-automatic. She put it into the pocket of her suit
jacket. She and her pockets—she’d never expected to tote a gun in one. At least
this jacket had a more substantial interior pocket.

A noise behind her
caused her to turn and gasp.

“Helene.”

Helene’s eyes were
wide, her smile uncertain.

Rachel touched her arm.
“Where is Jack? I was talking to him only a short time ago, so he must be here
somewhere.”

“I don’t know.” She
clutched Rachel’s hand. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?”

“I heard you. You were
angry.”

What to say?
“Everything will be okay.” But as she was speaking, she was thinking. Right
about now, someone could be realizing the paintings are gone. What would that
person do next?

Helene flinched. Rachel
unwound her grip.

“Go to your rooms and
wait there for me, okay?”

Rachel watched Helene
go, but her thoughts were on how best to get into the basement. There were at
least three access points, the stairs from the pantry, the narrow stairs at
either end of the house. And the carriage doors at the back—she’d almost
forgotten them. But with Jack here, and likely downstairs, the direct approach
seemed best.

She stood at the top of
the pantry stairs and called down. “Jack?”

A shuffling noise,
something scraped. A soft curse. She descended two steps.

“Rachel?”

“Brendan? You’re down
there? I heard noises again. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Fine.” He
stopped at the foot of the stairs, looked to the side and then back up at her.
“I’m good. I heard a noise and came down to check it out.”

“I did, too. Did you
see anything? Is anyone down there with you?”

“Anyone?” He frowned.

“Jack.”

“Jack?”

“Yes, didn’t you bring
him back from the airport? What’s that smell?”

“Smell?”

“Like exhaust.”

“The furnace. Sorry
about that. I was working on it this morning.”

“Is Jack down there?”

Brendan shook his head,
saying, “I haven’t gone to get him yet.”

“He’s back early.”

“Oh? I’ll be right up.”

Rachel stepped back up
into the pantry. Where was Jack? The last thought spurred her to return to the
basement stairs. She had almost reached the bottom when Brendan was suddenly
there in front of her. She did a small stutter step to regain her balance as
she tipped forward.

Brendan grabbed her, wrapping
his arms around her. “Steady. You okay?”

Jack’s voice came from
above. “What’s going on? Rachel?” He was already several steps down and
staring. His voice was cold, so cold, but hot, too, and sharp.

Brendan dropped one arm
and shifted the other to rest around her waist. “Rachel told me you were back.
Guess I don’t need to drive out and pick you up.”

She looked up at Jack.
“I heard a noise.”

“A noise.” He didn’t
wait for a response, but turned and left. The floorboards above creaked as he
walked away.

She pushed Brendan’s
arm away. The wooden stairs vibrated as she ran up.

The dining room doors
were closed. She grabbed the door knobs.

“Rachel?” Jack stood in
the hallway, near his quarters. “Were you looking for me?”

“I was. Where were
you?”

“Getting my stuff from
the rental car.”

“Rental?”

“I was in a hurry to
get here. Was. Now, I understand why you were so different when I returned. I’m
surprised, but it’s none of my business.” He crossed his arms and shook his
head. “You didn’t have to sneak around. You’re an adult and can make your own
choices.”

She swallowed her
outrage and closed the last few steps between them. “Jack, I need to speak with
you.”

He held up one hand,
palm outward, gesturing to her to stop.

How dare he? Hair neat
and a sports coat over a half-unbuttoned white shirt—his appearance more than
respectable having come from Amanda—and he had the nerve to suggest her
behavior was suspect.

He turned his back and
walked into his rooms. He’d dismissed her. It ignited something deep in her core.
She followed. Her vision turned blood red as words burst from her.

“Whatever is going on
in that mulish, arrogant, self-centered mush that passes for your brain—well,
it’s wrong. It would serve you right if I left, just like that, but I won’t.
No, I won’t, not until I’ve had my say.” She put her face close to his even
though she had to stand on tiptoe to do it. “Don’t dare hint that you think
there’s something going on between me and Brendan. Don’t.” She waved her hands
and did a lot of finger pointing. When the words ran out, she planted both
hands in her hair and covered her head as if she were in danger of assault. She
was angry. Justified. Embarrassed.

His expression was
hard, his jaw taut.

When she spoke again,
she kept her voice under better control. “This will only take a moment of your
time. Then I’ll leave you and Helene and Wynnedower to figure out your future
all by yourselves. Oh, and Amanda. I forgot about her, but then, you did, too,
didn’t you?”

“Amanda? What about
her?” His arms dropped from their folded position, and his fists landed on his
hips.

“It doesn’t matter.”
She grabbed his arm. “I want to speak with you. Privately.”

Jack’s face turned
maroon. She lost her grip on him as his hands wrapped around her upper arms.
“It doesn’t matter? I saw you two down in the basement, hanging on to each
other and whispering in the dark. Don’t play with me. I’m not some kid who
falls for a new woman every few days.”

His hold on her arm was
harsh. She relished the pain because it felt real and memorable, not a wispy
dream she’d doubt within a week of leaving this place.

Her heart hurt and her
eyes watered. She averted her face. She was the same—not a kid and not someone
who fell for every guy who came along. And she’d fallen hard.

The unseen Amanda
danced in her head. “I don’t have time for your temperamental flights of fancy,
and neither do you. I have something important to tell you.”

But Jack was stuck back
at the beginning of the sentence.

“Temperamental? Me? Is
that what you said?” He jabbed a finger into his chest. “I remember clearly
that we shared two nice, if short, kisses before I left. But it’s a different
story now that I’m back. And you say
I’m
temperamental?” He put his
hands on her arms again, and they kept right on sliding around her back. She
gave up the attempt to argue when his lips touched hers.

His arms tightened,
pressing her to his chest, his hands working against her back. She did the
same, suddenly forgetting anything else mattered. But not for long. No matter
how tempting his lips were, no matter how compelling the pressure of his hands,
there was a wife back in New York and someone here who was trying to steal
Wynnedower’s treasure.

“Jack, I’m serious.”

Her words were
interspersed with heavy breathing. Jack barked a brief, rude laugh, before
returning his lips to hers. Her arms found themselves tracing a path up his
arms and to his neck and hair. Curls slipped through her fingers. His curls.
Jack’s curls. Some survival instinct, that brain stem, brought her back to
reality. She pulled his face to her neck so she could speak.

“Jack, someone’s trying
to steal your paintings.”

He stopped, suddenly
serious. “My paintings?”

So much for passion.
“Keep your voice down.”

“My paintings? What are
you talking about?”

“Listen, there’s something
going on here at Wynnedower. I don’t know who’s behind it, and I don’t know
how…how dangerous it might be.”

“Dangerous? What?”

Words weren’t
sufficient. They needed to go to the dining room. She opened the door for a
quick look in the hallway. Brendan was standing on the other side.

“Hey, Jack. Welcome
back.” He walked past her into the room. Thumbs in his pockets, his hands hung
casually as if nothing troubled him.

Jack said, still with
tension in his voice, “Thanks for helping out here while I was gone.”

“No trouble. It was
quiet—well, except there were some noises in the basement a couple of times.
Never figured out what it was.”

“Or who,” Rachel added,
breathless.

Brendan shuffled his
feet. “Not that I’m suggesting rats or anything. Maybe old house settling or an
event in the pipes.”

Jack’s changing
expression showed the progress of his thoughts—consternation first at the
mention of noises in the basement, then considering possible explanations. “Is
that why you and Rachel were down there?”

“She heard noises, too,
although it isn’t safe for her to go down there alone to investigate. I told
her so.”

Jack nodded. “Thanks
for your help.”

“Sure thing, Jack. I
hope the showing went well.”

“Very successful.
Couldn’t have been better.”

“Great. How’d you get
back? Aren’t you early?”

“I rented a car. Wanted
to surprise…everyone.”

“Well, you did.”