Darknight (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 2) (19 page)

“No, I like watching you work, if it doesn’t bother you.”

“It doesn’t bother me at all. I’m just surprised you’re not working on your own stuff.”

“I will. My fingers are a little sore.” Which was true. Setting stones and bending wire for six or seven hours a day took far more of a toll than doing the same thing for two or three hours a couple of times a week.

“Mmm…I’ll have to do something about that.” He set down his pencil and came over to me, lifted my fingers to his mouth and kissed them gently, one at a time.

Delicious shivers worked their way up and down my spine. “I think maybe you need to take a break, too.”

“Great idea.” He took my hand and started to lead me toward the door so we could go over to the apartment, but then his phone, stuck in his jeans pocket, started to ring. Ignoring it, he pulled me out to the landing.

“Aren’t you going to get that?”

“Not important. It can go to voicemail.”

I wasn’t about to argue, not with the heat coiling in my belly, needing release. It wouldn’t be the first time we shared a little afternoon delight, and obviously he didn’t think it was going to break his concentration too much. Maybe it would even help.

His phone went quiet, then started up again. We looked at each other.

“Go ahead and answer it,” I told him. “If they’re calling back this quickly, they must have a reason.”

“Or it could be telemarketers,” he argued.

“I’ve never once heard you have to deal with a telemarketer. I figured maybe you’d put some kind of Wilcox whammy on your phone so only people you want to talk to get through.”

“Very funny,” he said, but he did pull the cell out of his pocket and look at the display, then frown a little as he lifted the phone to his ear. “Joelle? Is there a problem?”

Silence as he listened to what she had to say.

“What? No, that can’t — ” He stopped; apparently Joelle had cut him off. “Okay, well, yeah, I can be down there in a few minutes. Just hang on.” Shaking his head, he ended the call and shoved his phone back in his pocket.

“What is it?” I asked. “Something wrong?”

“No.” Incongruously, he began to smile. “Something right. Really right. Joelle said a man came in and asked about my paintings, said he was really impressed.”

“That’s awesome!” I exclaimed, and reached out and pulled him to me.

“There’s more. Apparently he owns one of the biggest galleries in Sedona, and he wants to do a show of my work. He’s down there, waiting to talk to me.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Go!” I let go of him, laughing at his obvious befuddlement. “I’ll still be here when you get back…promise,” I added with a wink.

That seemed to spur him to action. He hurried down the stairs, and I watched him go, smiling and thinking how well our lives seemed to go when we didn’t have to worry about Damon sticking his nose into them.

E
verything seemed
to go on fast-forward after that. The owner of the Sedona gallery, one Eli Michaels, came upstairs to see the rest of Connor’s paintings, both in the studio and in the apartment. Thank the Goddess that both places were reasonably clean, and that I was more or less presentable, since Connor and I tended to go out for lunch a good deal and I tried to make sure I was ready to go at a moment’s notice. To tell the truth, I was pretty sure Eli barely noticed I was there; he was far more interested in looking over all those canvases.

“Impressive,” was his evaluation. “I’d like to do a show at the end of the month, if you can be ready for that. We need to get your work out there as soon as possible.”

Connor sort of stammered out a “sure,” sounding very unlike his usual confident self.

“Excellent,” said Eli. “I’ll be in touch. If it’s not asking too much, I’d prefer that you take down the pieces in your own gallery. I’d like this to be a proper debut.”

“No problem.”

“Very good. I’ll let myself out.”

And that was that. Connor and I looked at each other, and I let out a little squeal and flung myself at him. We celebrated properly, upstairs in the big king-size bed, and then went out for a decadent dinner at the Cottage Restaurant, where I had what was probably one of the best meals I’d ever eaten in my life. Then of course I had to call Sydney and tell her the good news, promising her that as soon as I had a firm date for the art opening, I’d let her know.

When I hung up, though, I realized that I should have been calling my aunt to tell her about it — if things were different. If we hadn’t avoided speaking to each other for the last month and a half.

I also realized that Connor hadn’t called anyone at all. “Shouldn’t you at least let Damon know? He might surprise you and actually be proud.”

“I doubt it,” Connor replied, his expression grim. “I’ll let Lucas know. He’ll spread the word.”

That seemed to be that. I could tell he didn’t want me to press the issue, so I decided to let it alone for now. Once we did have the actual date and time from Eli Michaels — February 27
^th
— I emailed Aunt Rachel and told her the news. She could ignore it if she chose. The decision lay with her. At least the opening would be in Sedona, in neutral territory. I didn’t think anything in the world could have induced her to set foot in Flagstaff, except maybe a phone call from me saying it had all been a terrible mistake and that I needed her to pick me up right now. That might do the trick.

But since that wasn’t going to happen, it seemed a meeting in Sedona was my best bet for seeing her any time soon. Not that I was going to hold my breath.

The rest of February whizzed by, punctuated by a lovely Valentine’s Day where Connor and I both took the day off and went up to the Snow Bowl and had lunch in the snow, then came back to town and spent the afternoon making love before going out for another amazing dinner. The fateful Thursday arrived, and we drove down to Sedona, twisting our way through Oak Creek Canyon. It had flurried a little the night before, but the narrow highway was clear, moonlight gleaming on the snow between the trees.

I honestly didn’t know what to expect from that evening. Sure, I’d been to art openings in Jerome, but they were friendly, folksy affairs for the most part. This was a very different sort of thing, the kind of event announced with glossy postcards sent all over Sedona and Flagstaff, the kind where I actually went out and bought a new outfit, a slinky black wrap dress and boots with actual heels. Connor fussed and worried and ended up wearing his usual dark sweater over jeans and boots, but it worked for him. Besides, no one expects the artist to show up wearing a suit.

The gallery was almost intimidatingly elegant, with its muted lighting and glossy wooden floors. It was huge, too, so big that Connor’s exhibit only took up one large room — and he was displaying a lot of paintings, fifty in all. Despite the size of the space, people already crowded the exhibit hall.

I blinked, realizing I recognized a good number of the attendees from the Wilcox holiday potluck. For some reason, I really hadn’t expected that. Neither had Connor, apparently; he looked at them in surprise, even as Lucas approached us with a grin, plastic flute of champagne clutched in one hand.

“This is amazing,” he said. “Can’t believe you’ve been hiding this from us all these years!”

Connor managed a watery smile. “Well, I did get my degree in studio art.”

“True, but I suppose I never really thought about it. I mean, my degree’s in anthropology, but it doesn’t mean I use it.” He transferred his attention me. “And I’m guessing you’re the one who coaxed him out of his shell?”

“Well….” I didn’t want to tell Lucas just how much poking and prodding had been involved. That was between Connor and me. The important thing was that he had finally gotten his art out there for the world to see.

But somehow Lucas seemed to guess, because his brows lifted, and he shot a sly glance at Connor. “That’s about what I thought. As they say, behind every great man is a woman. Good job, Angela.” Then he looked past us, surprise flitting over his features. “Looks like your brother actually did decide to show up. I wasn’t sure.”

“Great,” Connor muttered.

“I’ll head him off at the pass,” Lucas said, and clapped Connor on the shoulder before moving off toward the entrance to the exhibit hall.

I shifted my position slightly so I could see where he was heading. Sure enough, there was Damon, looking elegant in a black jacket over a dark gray dress shirt and jeans. At his side was the young woman I first saw at the holiday potluck. Now that I could get a better look at her, I saw that she had the graceful bone structure most of the Wilcoxes seemed to share, but her hair and eyes were much lighter.

“That’s Jessica, right?” I whispered to Connor.

His gaze tracked to where I was looking, and then slid back toward me. “Yes.”

“She’s pretty.”

“I suppose so. Damon isn’t the type to attach himself to unattractive women.”

Which didn’t surprise me much. “And she’s another cousin?”

“Yeah. Her great-great-whatever grandmother was Jeremiah Wilcox’s younger sister. Jessica’s always had a crush on Damon — I know some of the cousins she went to high school with used to tease her about it.”

That seemed strange to me, that she’d be pining after someone so much older than she was, but attraction was a weird thing. So maybe she really didn’t mind being the sacrificial lamb, so to speak.

Then Connor tensed, murmuring, “Wow.”

I’d been covertly watching Damon and Jessica move farther into the hall, then get intercepted by Lucas, who was smiling and pointing at the closest painting with an enthusiasm I could see even from twenty feet away. He was definitely the most un-Wilcox-like Wilcox imaginable, and I wondered at his friendship with Damon, since they seemed so diametrically opposed in their temperaments. But I looked to see what had attracted Connor’s attention, and realized my Aunt Rachel and Tobias had just entered the gallery.

They both appeared more than a little ill at ease, which, considering they were surrounded by Wilcoxes, was fairly understandable. Behind them came Margot Emory and Henry Lynch, who also looked as if they’d like to be just about anywhere else.

“Holy crap,” I said. “I didn’t think they were really going to show.”

“We’d better go say hi, then,” Connor replied.

I didn’t question why he wanted to go greet my family members when he hadn’t made a move to do the same with his own brother. But as Damon appeared more or less occupied at the moment, it seemed prudent to leave him alone and focus our attention on the McAllister contingent.

Connor took my hand, and we moved toward the entrance to the exhibit space. I managed to get a smile more or less fixed on my face, although my heart had begun to pound and my stomach felt as if it had a flock of sparrows rather than butterflies zooming around in it. Silly, really. I was going to say hi to my aunt and Tobias and two other people I’d known all my life. This wasn’t the same as facing all those Wilcoxes for the first time.

Even so, I had to take a breath as we approached Aunt Rachel. Tobias smiled at us, but her expression was hard to read — strained, yes, but underneath the tension was something else as she gazed around her. Surprise, maybe? It was entirely possible that she hadn’t expected much from Connor’s art, had inwardly thought he must have bought his way into having an exhibition.

“Hi, Rachel, Tobias,” I said, sounding almost normal. “I’m really glad you could make it — all of you.”

Henry nodded, although Margot only acknowledged me with the barest lift of her eyebrows. Probably she’d come along only to provide support for Rachel and Tobias, and not because she cared about seeing Connor’s art.

For the first time, my aunt seemed to really look at Connor — at
him
, not at the brother of the Wilcox
primus
. “This is really quite amazing,” she said. “I had no idea you were such an accomplished artist.”

Of course you didn’t,
I thought,
because you couldn’t be bothered to learn anything about him, except that he was a Wilcox.

“Thank you,” he replied. “I’m — that is, Angela and I are both really glad you could make it.”

“Yes, it’s quite a cozy scene,” came Damon’s voice, and I could actually feel the muscles at the back of my neck tense up.

I wasn’t the only one, either; Connor’s jaw tightened, and both Margot and Henry stepped forward to flank Aunt Rachel and Tobias.

“Oh, now,” Damon went on, “surely there’s no need for you to all be bristling at me like that, is there? We’re all on neutral ground, after all.” But even as he spoke the words, I saw Connor’s cousin Marie and a few others whose names I couldn’t recall converging on our little group. Lucas, however, was staying at the far end of the gallery, chatting up an attractive woman with striking pale hair, clearly a civilian.

Great. The last thing I needed was for all our family members to reenact the rumble scene from
West Side Story
right in the middle of one of Sedona’s ritziest art galleries. I felt Connor’s fingers tighten around mine, and I cast about frantically for something innocuous to say that would defuse the tension. Nothing came to mind, however.

“Now, now,” I heard a woman say. “Look at all of you, snarling at one another like two wolf packs fighting over the same bone.”

Her voice was vaguely familiar, and I half-turned to see Maya de la Paz approaching alone, although when I looked past her, I saw standing a few feet away some of the tall young men from her clan I recognized from bodyguard duty back in Phoenix. Alex, however, was not among them.

“
P-prima?
” I stammered, and she smiled at me.

“Hello, Angela. I must say you are looking very well. As for the rest of you” — her gaze moved from the quartet of McAllisters to the Wilcoxes — “this is an art exhibit. There is plenty to look at, and free champagne. Don’t call any more attention to yourselves than you already have.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then Damon let out a clearly forced laugh, and snaked his arm around Jessica’s slender waist. “Come on, darling. Let’s take a look at Connor’s daubs, shall we?”