A Taste of Ice (6 page)

When he lifted his head the Burned Man no longer haunted the glass. And Cat no longer looked at him.

“You never answered my question back at the gallery.” Helen
leaned heavily on the table, elbows pulling at the white cloth. They’d nearly finished the best bottle of wine Cat had ever had. Although that wasn’t saying much, considering ten dollars for a bottle at home was a splurge. This one had cost two hundred; Cat had snuck a look at the leather-bound wine list.

“Which question was that?”

Helen flicked her wrist in a grand gesture, a massive diamond ring twinkling on her finger. “Why do you paint water? What draws you to it?”

Cat frowned and twirled her wineglass, leaving fingerprints on the bowl. “If I could put it into words, I’d be a writer, not a painter.”

Helen had gotten it right, though, in what she’d observed that morning: Cat both loved and hated the source of her inspiration. Most days she really did wish she could put it into words. Might have made her life a heck of a lot easier.

Helen made an “
ah
” sound and nodded, like Cat had just imparted to her the secrets of the universe. It was impossible not to like this woman. Cat was close to so few people. Her job—the real one, the one that actually brought in money—made her skeptical of most human beings. Not many women chatted her up while sitting at her bar, and the men who did
didn’t seem to realize that small talk and false enthusiasm were written in to her job description. There were co-workers who were friends, sure, but when her shift ended, she was in front of her canvases, trying to figure out her life.

Cat threw back the last of her wine. The music filling Shed carried a steady, sexy, electronic beat, and the sounds of boisterous, wine-soaked conversations made Cat raise her voice. “What do you know of inspiration?”

Helen had started to peruse the dessert menu and now looked at Cat over her bifocals. Her eyes were done only in champagne eye shadow and black eyeliner. Age had only slightly overshadowed the beauty of her youth. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, is inspiration something artists talk about a lot?”

Helen smiled and folded the little dessert menu. It likely wasn’t on purpose, but that smile made Cat feel about six years old. “They get asked about inspiration a lot. Where it comes from.”

Cat inched forward on her chair.
This
was what she wanted to hear. “And what do they say?”

Helen shrugged. “That it just comes to them. That it’s indefinable.”

Cat looked at the table, trying not to let the defeat show on her face.

“That upsets you?” The bifocals came off again.

“‘Upsets’? Not exactly. Disappoints, maybe. It’s…never mind.”

“No, go on.”

Cat uncrossed then crossed her legs, and a warm trickle of awareness skated over her, moving slowly from hip to ankle. It tingled stronger than the wine in her blood. She didn’t have to glance at the kitchen to know Xavier was watching. Just the thought of it exhilarated her, but she wouldn’t look over there, not with Helen’s eyes on her, too.

She tapped the table. “I don’t understand why I love water so much. Only that I’m drawn to it, that it’s part of me, and the only way to express how large a portion of me it is, is to paint.”

Helen pursed her lips and bobbed her head side to side. “Makes sense. That comes through in your work. There’s mystery to it. Agitation. A sense of the unknown.”

“Yes! I’m so glad you see that.” The wine made her all loose and comfortable, so she kept going. “I guess I’m partly here to learn what that’s all about. Maybe, if I put myself out there, I’ll find something that might be able to explain why my inspiration is so strong. Maybe, if I get to be around other artistic types, I could see how they work. Get a clue about myself.”

“And sell some paintings.” Helen smiled beneath a raised eyebrow.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Helen sat back, considering. “Are you prepared for criticism?”

“As prepared as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” Which wasn’t at all, but she wouldn’t tell Helen that.

“Are you ready for the spotlight? Because anyone standing next to Michael gets it.”

Cat tried not to wince. “I had no idea who he was when I met him. I mean about the films and such. I didn’t know until the third or fourth time he came to my bar.”

“No?”

“I’d been showing my paintings at one of the island’s art fairs to try to bring in some cash. My car needed work and…anyway, I needed money. Michael walked by one day. I remember it so clearly. He stopped and looked at my stuff, did a lap around the market and then came back. We got to talking and, I don’t know, I just got a
feeling
about him. Like, even though I could tell he was vain and used to getting his way, underneath I felt a connection. Like, maybe he got me and I got him? He bought a painting. The rest is history.”

The curator was watching her in that astute way again. “I’m glad you see that about him. But since he’s not here I’m going to be completely honest with you. Michael Ray is selfish. The first person he thinks about is himself. Always. He didn’t pluck you out of obscurity and involve me because of charity. Yes, he wants to see you succeed, but that’s because there’s something in it for
him
, whether it’s money or recognition or both.”

Cat pressed her lips together. She’d suspected as much. The fact that it came from Helen didn’t soften it.

“On the other hand,” Helen went on, “he’s going to bring a serious level of clientele to your show. You will sell, and you will be able to fix your car ten times over.”

Cat laughed. “Tell me more about him. About the two of you.”

Helen folded her crumpled white napkin next to her fork. She took her time, made sure all the edges lined up. “I was married to Michael Ray’s father, Raymond, when the boy was eight. I was told his mother just upped and left, and never looked back. My marriage to Raymond lasted less than a year; he was a demanding ass of a man who didn’t understand I could be a demanding ass of a woman. It’s how I got to where I was; I don’t know why he never saw that. Anyway, almost as soon as the honeymoon was over, so were we.

“Except that I adored Michael Ray. First abandoned by his mom and then completely ignored by his dad. I insisted on keeping in touch with him even after I’d gone. I wasn’t going to be the third adult to walk out on him. We used to have ice cream every Sunday, even after wife number three came around, and then wives four and then five. Even growing up in L.A., where kids’ views of the real world are so twisted, and even with that ass of a dad, he was a good kid. And then something happened.” She shifted on her chair, then turned and waved to the waiter for the check. “At first I thought it was just puberty but I’m pretty sure something else went on with him, too. We were close enough I’d hoped that if something was wrong he could tell me, but he never did.”

“You still don’t know?”

“No.” Helen’s gaze turned inward. “But it changed him. Made him hard and angry at first, then really, really arrogant. More so than he is now, if you can believe it. Things with his dad just got worse. It was like they were enemies; it was very strange. But I made sure to stand by him and treat him like a human should be treated. It was my hope he wouldn’t turn out like his father.” She laughed to herself. “Although at times that can be debated.”

“I admit I don’t know him that well. Our conversations have remained fairly on the surface.”

Helen stretched across the table and patted her hand. “Well, I do. And deep down he really does have a good heart. I’ve seen it. He believes in you. And I do, too. We’re partners now, Cat.”

A knot of tension started to uncoil from deep inside her.
She let herself sink into her chair, relaxing in the aura of Helen’s faith.

As Helen looked over the check and took out her wallet, Cat let her gaze drift toward the kitchen. Xavier stood tall behind the counter, front and center, owning it. His long hair was tied back in a band, a black handkerchief with SHED stenciled over his brow. Deep lines of concentration creased his mouth. He whisked something now, one arm churning madly in a stainless steel bowl. He paused to wipe his forehead on the sleeve of his black double-breasted coat…then froze. As though he knew she was staring again.

As if he could feel her, too.

For the second time that evening, his eyes met hers. The sight of his—so gray as to be silver—pulled a little gasp from her throat. Maybe they glowed, or maybe it was just the reflection of the bright kitchen lights. There was power in his stare. Yearning. And denial.

Their moment couldn’t have lasted more than a second or two, but when his head bent to return to his work, she exhaled like she’d held her breath for an hour.

Helen dropped the pen into the check folder. “Do you know him?”

“Who?” Damn wineglass was empty. Cat had nothing to do with her hands.

Helen threw a pointed look at Xavier.

“No.” Cat fidgeted with a spoon. “No, I don’t know him.”

“Huh,” Helen said. Her eyes shifted between Xavier and Cat. “I recognize him, you know. I’ve seen him around town. And here, of course, when I bring in clients and artists. He’s very handsome.”

Handsome wouldn’t have been the word Cat used. Stunning, maybe. Intriguing.

“You sure you don’t know him? He looks at you like you’ve met.” Helen leaned forward to whisper like a teenager. “Like you share a secret.”

Xavier ducked into the Fresh Powder Pub at midnight, well and
painfully aware he’d purposely thrown himself directly into the world of the Primaries. The pub smelled of damp wool and tangy beer, and he instantly wanted to turn back around and lose himself in the swirl of snow.

But where would he go? Home? For once his little kitchen offered no comfort. Tonight, Cat’s image had been sewn into the chop and slide of the knife, the swipe of the spoon, the jiggle of the pan. He prayed that time would rectify that, unravel what had been inadvertently bound together. Cooking was all he had. If it became tainted by his past, he’d own nothing but his name, and not even that was his.

If he went home now carrying thoughts of Cat, the Burned Man would find his way through the front door, too. Xavier couldn’t afford that. He supposed he could take the Burned Man into the basement, apply his face to the tattered bag hanging from the chain, and beat the crap out of it, but the Ofarian ghost would come back. He always came back. In the Plant and outside.

So Xavier would force himself to stay here, try to have a quiet beer, and unwind before he ventured back up the hill to his dark house. He’d stay, because he was fucking sick of himself already, and he wasn’t going to get any better if he continued to hide.

“Hey, man.” The bartender raised a hand attached to a thick, muscular arm. “I know you.”

Xavier’s eyes darted around the pub. There were very few
open seats, but those who were drinking didn’t look Hollywood. “You do?”

“Yeah. Few years back. You took my class.” The bartender nodded at the door, east, toward the small boxing gym at the bottom of Groundcherry Street.

“Oh, yeah.” This guy had shown him how to throw a punch. How to make sure he gave as good as he got. “Ryan, right?”

“Yep. Never seen you here before.”

“Never been in here before.”

Ryan grinned, turned his baseball cap backward. “There’s a seat free down at the end.”

Perfect. The last bar stool, tucked against the back wall and near the short hallway that led to the bathrooms. He tugged the rubber band out of his hair, feeling a few strands rip, and let it fall around his face, an extra layer of protection. Ryan slid a pint of a reddish ale in front of him and said, “Try this. Local brew.”

Xavier nodded in thanks, wrapped his fingers around the cold glass, and started to feel easier about his decision to come. This was all so ordinary, and no one seemed to care whether he sat there or not.

“So the insanity starts again,” Ryan said, leaning against the mini-fridge and propping his foot on a shelf below the bar. “Read that Turnkorner’ll break attendance records this year.”

Xavier grunted and sipped his beer, and let Ryan’s well-meaning but inane chatter keep his mind from tripping into darker thoughts. The beer eased into his belly and slipped into his bloodstream. He’d never been a big drinker, though he’d had a few rough nights here and there. Women had been his drug of choice. But now the Primary world—this tiny planet centered around the comfortable vinyl chair and filled with the soft drone of local voices—tucked itself around him and he was satisfied.

“Oh,
hel
lo.” Ryan pushed to his feet.

And the world dropped out from under Xavier’s.

He knew before he saw. The hair stood up on his forearms. Dread and excitement danced in his gut. A gust of something colder than winter whooshed across his body. Though he didn’t
want to turn, his traitorous body swiveled on the chair, following the line made by Ryan’s gape.

Cat stood in the Fresh Powder doorway, snow billowing behind her. The red hat was back, that silly pompom flecked with white. She swept it off, shook the snow to the floor, then shrugged out of her coat. The wall pegs were already crammed with winter gear and she draped hers precariously on top. She’d replaced the short skirt from dinner with jeans but she still wore the sexy sweater that showed her shoulders.

She was alone. And she was here. In a bar he’d walked by a million times but had never entered.

Had she followed him again?

She innocently craned her neck, looking for an empty seat. Looking unsure about being there. Through the shifting bodies, she found Xavier and froze. No, the whole bar froze. Her mouth dropped open in surprise. The hard beat of Xavier’s heart hurt. He knew he should face the bar again, hunch his shoulders. He knew he should give her a pretty strong hint to go away.

He didn’t.

A shy smile tugged at her lips and the bar blurred back into motion. So did she, coming tentatively toward him. He should have gotten the hell out of there, but the pub was long and narrow, with a small path between the bar lining one side and the occupied highboy tables on the other. Even if he shoved to his feet and went for the door, he’d run into her. So he held his ground and watched her approach. The conqueror bearing down on the defeated.