Black Ice (7 page)

'We didn't discuss it. Apparently Daniel was involved in a hit-and-run accident yesterday.'

She inclined her head in surprise, her chin-length blonde hair forming a smooth halo around her face. 'As the victim or the driver?'

'The victim.'

'And do they know who the driver was?'

Philip shook his head. 'No. But Daniel's seeing the police today. Perhaps they'll have more information for him then.'

A slight movement of her shoulders dismissed Stella's interest in the topic. 'Would you like me to clear out your father's desk for you? It has been almost two weeks …'

'I know!' Philip fought the impatience that gripped him. He wondered whether Stella realised just how much her officious manner irritated him. She was good at her job, he had to admit that, and he'd wondered more than once why she'd taken on a secretarial position when she had a degree in business management. She was a smart bitch, all right. Pity her personality didn't match.

He looked down at the large mahogany desk, at the drawers he knew would be cluttered with the numerous pieces of seemingly irrelevant paper his father had kept for years, and sighed. 'I'll bring in some boxes tomorrow. Then I can take it all home and sort through it when I have time.'

Stella smiled her mouth-only smile, but her dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

 

'It's … it's Catelyn.' Kirri traced the face of the child in the photo with a gentle finger.

'No. It's my mother.'

She looked up at Daniel, shaking her head in stunned disbelief. Then she focussed again on the photo. Focussed on the small black-haired child dressed in fringed white trousers and tunic. Except for the straight hair pulled into a plait, the child in the photo was the image of her daughter.

'She's Native American,' she whispered.

'Her mother, my grandmother, is Native American.'

Kirri fought back tears. 'I looked … at every man who came into my art gallery in Cairns and here at Noosa. Catelyn doesn't look like me, except for the curls, so I assumed she must look like her father. I never suspected …' She shook her head. 'You don't look like your mother.'

'I take after my father. We're very similar.' He showed her the other photo he carried in his wallet, and she nodded her agreement. Similar in more than looks, Daniel thought, acknowledging the constancy of his love for her. His whole body was aching, not just from the bruising inflicted on it the day before, but with intense need. The need to take Kirri's slender body in his arms and offer her comfort. To run his fingers through her tumbling cloud of red hair and draw her face to his and kiss away the distress etched on the paleness of her skin.

To love her as he had before.

But things were different between them now. He was changed - harder, tougher, with responsibilities that weighed him down. And Kirri was changed, too. There was a wariness in her that hadn't been there before.
And she didn't remember him at all!

Or did she?

'Kirri, how did you know to paint Catelyn in an outfit so much like my mother's if you have no memory of your time in New Orleans? And the painting of the cottage? That was in New Orleans as well.'

'I have no idea.' Kirri rubbed at her head with one hand, but she still clutched the photo with the other. 'Everything about that time is just a black hole. But sometimes … something … like the smell of honeysuckle …' she looked up at Daniel, imploring him to understand, 'it must trigger a chord, and I paint whatever the picture is that forms in my mind. But I have no idea where it is or what it relates to. Catelyn's painting was formed in my mind when I woke up one morning.'

She looked down at the photo, at the sombre, unsmiling child standing defiantly, staring at the camera. 'Did you show this photo to me in New Orleans?'

Daniel nodded. 'Yes. My grandmother told me my mother hated having her photograph taken, and it showed there. Apparently she was a very determined young child.'

'Like Catelyn.' Kirri touched the photo again, wishing, hoping, trying to make some connection to the weeks she had lost. 'Will your mother be pleased to know she has a grand-daughter?'

'My mother died when I was three years old. But I'm sure she would have loved our daughter.'

Our
daughter!

Kirri froze. Catelyn had been hers, and hers alone, not only since birth, but from those first faint flutterings of life in a stomach that was still remarkably flat, and a body still healing from the trauma it had endured. She wasn't sure she was prepared to share her with Daniel Brand.

Panic gripped her. For a long time she'd wanted to know who was the father of her child, but now that she did she was afraid. She'd heard of many cases where one parent would fight the other for custody simply out of spite. Nothing would make her give up her daughter. She looked at Daniel, defiance tightening her mouth.

But as she saw the shadows of pain on the face of the man standing before her, her resolve melted in a flood of compassion. He had lost his mother, his father, and, according to what he had told her, he had lost her, the woman he loved. How could she deny him his daughter?

'Daniel, why didn't we take precautions? I know I wasn't a virgin, but I didn't sleep around either. And I never had unsafe sex.'

'A condom broke. Two days before your period was due. You assured me you were always regular and there was nothing to worry about.'

'So obviously I believed you were disease free.'

A slow smile transformed Daniel's face. 'You said you knew you could trust me.'

'Except to keep your fertile sperm to yourself, obviously.' Kirri made an exasperated sound, and saw the smile on Daniel's face deepen into a grin. It melted her bones, the sight of this big, serious-looking man grinning like a schoolboy who'd been handed a wonderful treat.

Suddenly she was at a loss to know what to do next. She handed back the photo, watched Daniel's strong fingers slip it gently back into his wallet.

'Well, where do we go from here?'

'I guess you have more questions you need answers to.'

Kirri shook her head. 'I don't think I can cope with any more information right now.'

Daniel reached out and gently took her hand, a light touch that showed her he was aware just how fragile her emotions were at the moment. 'There's something I need to know.'

Her skin grew warm from the contact with his, and her body reacted before she could prevent it, leaning closer. 'Yes?' The word came out almost as a whisper.

'Why did you think you may have been raped?'

Kirri withdrew her hand and walked out onto the verandah. She gazed down at the sparkling waters of the bay, then closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, drawing in the scent of the ocean and the tang of the eucalyptus leaves. Her mind registered green, slivered with a sharp clear blue. It was a strange talent, this ability to smell and taste in colours. It heightened her awareness of everything around her. Most of the time it was so subliminal she forgot she was doing it. Sometimes she used it as a shield to protect herself from other sensations or thoughts that were too unpleasant to cope with.

Suddenly another scent invaded her nostrils. A woodsy aroma, deep rich brown and emerald green. A scent that made her pulse beat faster. She didn't have to open her eyes to know it was Daniel, and she suddenly realised that she had been denying his scent, afraid to acknowledge the colours it conjured up.

He had walked up so closely to her that there was barely a hand's span between them. Kirri took a step back, saw the disappointment in his eyes.

'When I learned I was pregnant, J.D. flew over to New Orleans to see if he could track down the … the… To find out who I might have been seeing. He didn't learn much, except from the desk clerk where I stayed who said I had gone out with a tall man whose accent wasn't local.'

'So why would that lead you to think you'd been raped?'

Kirri closed her eyes, recalling her step-brother's tired strained face as he'd told her. 'Apparently, according to the receptionist where I stayed, when I checked out that afternoon I was visibly upset and in a terrible hurry.'

'You were upset for me. You knew how close I was to Dad.'

'The receptionist … wondered if I was running away from the man I had been seeing. J.D. didn't want to tell me that, but he said if ever I met the man who'd … shared my bed … I needed to know so I wouldn't be taken in if he … came back into my life. I also had tests to see if I'd contracted an STD. I must have had unprotected sex, after all I
was
pregnant, so I worried that I could have caught something.'

Daniel said nothing. He knew the results would have been negative, but the full impact of what Kirri had gone through finally hit him. And so did a massive load of guilt that she had had to go through that trauma on her own.

'Did your family stand by you?'

Kirri nodded. 'Mum went over to the States to be with me in hospital, then flew home with me.' Her fingers clenched into fists as she recalled the long days and nights of pain and her mother's patient encouragement. The memories overwhelmed her and she shook her head to clear them away.

She looked up to see Daniel watching her, his face a mirror of the pain she was feeling. 'Daniel, I'm sorry, I have to go. I need time to think.'

He nodded, but his hands lifted as though to detain her. 'Let me help you, Kirri. We can work through this together.'

Together. For two years she had been alone. Long days and even longer nights with nothing but questions and a deep aching need to
know
. And now she did, she would have to face the consequences of that knowledge.

She shook her head. 'You're a stranger to me, Daniel. I … I don't know you.'

Her words were a knife wound to Daniel's heart. The gulf that stretched between them seemed to widen. In desperation Daniel closed the physical gap and took her into his arms.

And kissed her.

 

The colours in Kirri's brain spun gently to a halt as Daniel's lips left hers, but if his arms hadn't held her up she was sure she would have fallen to the floor.

'It can't be …' she gasped.

Daniel nodded in contradiction. 'Synaesthesia,' he said, 'You taste and smell in colours. You told me about it. How a small number of people have a mixed up sense of the world because their sight, hearing and sense of smell and taste are not processed separately by the brain.' His golden-brown eyes bore into hers, willing her to acknowledge what he said. 'You told me that some musical composers claim to be able to hear in colours or smell sounds.'

Then he confirmed what she was trying to deny to herself.

'And you also told me that you had always vowed you would marry a man who tasted like rainbows.'

Jenny looked again at the man gazing thoughtfully at one of Kirri's paintings. Jeans and casual shirt, not new, but top brand names, on a body that could have modelled them for a living. Probably in his late twenties, she guessed.

He moved a few more paces and peered at a watercolour, bending slightly to read the artist's signature. Then he turned and walked towards the counter where she was writing up the day's sales. As he approached, he smiled at her, a friendly smile with just the right amount of male interest to send her ego soaring without threatening her personal space.

'I thought at first there was just one artist with very diverse styles,' he said. Jenny sighed. The depth of his voice matched his dark eyes and black hair, and she thought all her dreams had materialised. 'Then I saw there are actually two artists.' The smile flashed again. 'I like to know something about the artists I consider buying. Do you have any background information on them?'

Nodding swiftly, Jenny took a brochure from a small pile near the tape dispenser. As she handed it across, his fingers touched hers. A brief touch, but with a hint of intimacy that sent her senses spinning.

'You'll find all the details in there. Are there any paintings you're particularly interested in?'

'There're all wonderful. But I always take a while to decide if I want to buy.' He glanced through the brochure, then back to her. 'Perhaps you'll still be here when I return?'

'Sure.' Jenny managed to keep her voice steady.

He began to walk away, then turned back as though he'd just remembered something. 'Didn't I see an ambulance outside here yesterday? Was somebody ill?'

'It was a hit and run. An American tourist had been in here looking at the paintings and when he walked across the street he was hit by a four wheel drive.'

'Was he badly injured?'

'No, Kirri, my boss, went to the hospital to check on him, but he only had bruises and concussion.'

'How lucky for him,' the man smiled.

 

The smile slid from Brett Lewis's face as he walked through the gallery door, but the feeling of satisfaction remained. The brochure not only contained photos of the two artists, but details of their other art gallery in Cairns and the general locations where they lived.

His lips twitched as he thought of the young woman in the gallery. She was attractive in a fresh-faced, gamin sort of way, not the kind he normally bedded; but if the circumstances were different, he would have had great delight in teaching her a few things she was unlikely to learn from the young men he had seen around Noosa.

Brett had an extensive range of unusual skills. He could pick locks, follow people unobserved, cut pure heroin with just the right amount of inert ingredients to keep his buyers happy and still provide enormous profits. His bedroom skills had been learned from a variety of
very
experienced women, and not restricted by the moral code vaguely encouraged by the woman who had raised him. Deception was an innate ability, one that had kept him out of the clutches of the law and others who would have dealt with him more severely, and on a more permanent basis.

But murder was something he had never had to carry out before, and he found himself painfully lacking in expertise, and enthusiasm. It was amazing though, how the smell of money could tempt him to broaden his skills.