Writ on Water (11 page)

Chloe had loaded her memory stick and was set up for the frontal shot when she noticed that there was a fine tracery of cobwebs all around the wide, solid wood door veiling the heavenly choir who sang around its frame. Her first impulse was to wipe them off, but she didn't have a cloth with her—she made a note to bring one next time, along with a broom, a stepladder and some gloves. Also, they weren't really hiding any detail of the architecture, and they added a certain eerie quality to the shot, which would show up nicely in the thirty-five millimeter photos when highlighted properly. She was being unprofessional in allowing artistic impulses to override technical ones, but in this case, it wasn't an actual impediment to sight, so she let her sensibilities have their way.

Anyway, she would have to come back later with a key to photograph the interior, if there was any statuary inside. That would be a job best left for early morning, though. By this late in the day, the interior would be an oast house, and she had
no intention of subjecting herself or her cameras to a sauna.

Chloe hummed her way through her favorite Stevie Ray Vaughn tunes as she worked. Time passed quickly under the gloom of the oaks and cedars, and it wasn't until she heard MacGregor's footsteps that she realized that the light, such as it was, had shifted far to the west.

“I guess I forgot the time,” she began, turning away from her tripod with a smile.

“Having fun?” Rory asked, plucking a stray oak leaf from her improvised coiffure, which was also going astray, being pinioned by nothing more than her pencil. Once again, Virtue towered over Wantonness. “I wouldn't have guessed you were a blues fan.”

Chloe collected herself. She was surprised, but not entirely displeased to see MacGregor's son waiting for her. Sometime during her morning outing with MacGregor, she had decided that Rory actually had a large cross to bear in looking after both his dad and a large business, and that she would be magnanimous about his reserve and strange sense of humor—as long as it wasn't directed at her again.

“Actually, yes, odd though it seems,” she answered, allowing herself to really smile at him for the first time.

Rory blinked once and took a half step back.

“Well, good.” He sounded a bit wary.

Chloe pointed at the large iron key in his left hand.

“Did MacGregor send you to evict me?”

“MacGregor?” He looked at her oddly.

“Your father,” she prompted him, and saw his brows draw together.

“I know who you mean. Most people call him
Mister
Patrick.”

“Really?” Chloe's inner devil prompted her to say: “But not his family, surely. And MacGregor told me that he thinks of me as a daughter.”

“What?” Rory looked a little startled. “He can't! Not already.”

“Well, a potential daughter,” she amended, saving her files and then closing the lid of the laptop and returning it to its bag. She wished for a moment that she had one of those new memory sticks that could hold more images before having to upload them to the computer, but they were both experimental and very expensive. And Roland didn't mind her being inconvenienced.

“Oh, damn.” Rory sounded more weary than annoyed. “Not again. I thought we would have a few days before he started in.”

Again? Chloe felt a slight pang at the thought that MacGregor might try to adopt every stray female who came his way.

“Come now! If you insist on this effete career as a flower man, you have to expect that your father would feel the need to try to arrange some
opportunities for you to meet females,” she teased.

“I meet lots of women, thank you very much.”

“But are they the right kind of women?” she interrupted in a familial manner, zipping her tote closed. She managed not to laugh at his lowering brow. He was so easy to provoke. “You could save yourself a lot of grief if you would just take up a masculine sport like football or hunting. As long as you remain a shrinking violet, your dad is likely to try setting you up with masterful females who can mold the next generation.”

“You'll stop laughing when you see that he's serious,” Rory warned, then smiled nastily. “Did you know that you are standing in poison ivy?”

Chloe yelped and jumped for the path. It was only after she was clear that she saw she hadn't been anywhere near the noxious weed.

“Not real good at identifying plants besides flowers, are you?” she asked with a wry smile, which conceded that he had scored a hit by making her squeak and hop about.

Rory smiled back. This time his expression wasn't tinged with evil, but she wasn't sure that she liked it any better. He was lovely to look at, but she sensed that for some reason this man was not her friend.

“Maybe not. But I'm really good with irises. All of us effete guys are. You'd better hurry. You need to pretty-up for the company.”

“Company?” she asked warily.

“Yes, my cousin Claude has graced us with his presence. Again. And this time he has brought a friend. MacGregor is not pleased. This would be a good night to be seen looking pretty and not heard.”

“Why not just send me to bed without supper?”

“It would be kinder.”

“What kind of
friend
is this?” she asked, shoving back her sweaty hair with a grimy hand and wondering if it was a well-dressed female with manicured fingernails. “Just how
pretty
do I need to be?”

“A dress will do. MacGregor isn't too well-versed about female apparel.” Rory added as he began to turn away, “I wouldn't worry about pleasing Claude and his . . . muscular companion.”

“No? Why not? I like muscular men as much as the next woman,” she said, eyeing Rory's own lean limbs, which were actually much more appealing than any weight-lifter's body could be—but she would rather die than say so.

Rory's lip curled. “I gave you credit for having better taste. However, if you want Claude to notice you, then that is your affair. I know my cousin's taste though, so here's some advice. Unless you're independently wealthy he'll never look twice unless you flash some skin. Or else tuck a few twenty-dollar bills into your cleavage. Then you can have his undivided concentration turned upon at least part of you.” He turned away.

“Thanks bunches. All you young Patrick men
sound so charming,” she muttered, breaking down her tripod. “And thanks for lending a hand with my equipment. You're a real gentleman.”

She raised her voice and called to Rory's retreating back: “You may as well wait here. You can't lock up until I'm done, and I'm not leaving until I get this stuff put away.”

Rory stopped in mid-stride. She heard his curse under his breath and then he turned and walked back to the tomb. He was glaring at her.

“I don't know what it is about you that makes me forget my manners.”

“You aren't seriously blaming me for the lapse, are you?”

“Certainly. I'm never rude to anyone else.”

“Well, that's a lie,” she answered cheerfully. “You are very rude to your father—”

“That is self-defense!”

“And I expect that you are probably rude to your cousin, too.”

“Claude is a parasitic toad who only comes around when he—”

“And what is
my
crime?”

“Breathing,” he snapped, and then started to laugh. His eyes creased into the charming folds that came from his father. “Maybe MacGregor is right about you.”

“In what respect?” Chloe asked.

“Maybe you were a Patrick in another life. If I had a sister, I expect the relationship would look about the same.”

“You think so?”

“With one notable difference, of course.” Rory scooped up her tripod and camera bag, leaving her to gather the map, shears and computer. He didn't explain what the difference was, and she decided not to ask.

Morag served. Slowly. She was dressed, as always, like she was going to a funeral. That night the mood in the dining room made her couture acceptable. Two minutes in Claude's company had Chloe convinced that Claude Patrick was one of the planet's most unappealing human beings. The things that were wrong about him might not be noticed by some less discerning women, but Chloe had no trouble identifying them. Claude looked handsome enough, in the way of all the Patrick men, but his tendency to whine his sentences put Chloe's teeth on edge. She hated men who were babies. Her first short-lived romance with one had cured her of any desire to mother another Peter Pan.

Claude's friend, Isaac Runyon, was no treat either, but he was of another category of undesirable altogether. Claude was a jerk. Isaac was something worse. An air of violence lay over him like an extra skin. He looked and acted like a junkyard dog who was restrained only by the fist of a brutal master. Actually, he rather ate like a cur too, grinding his food with powerful jaws. His eyes were sly and greedy. She wouldn't be surprised
if he was one of those nasty types who rode the bus at rush hour, using the crowded conditions as an excuse to dry-hump strange women.

Her best friend, Lynsay, had a ranking system for men, a three-tiered hierarchy for sorting potential dates:

 

A) Wouldn't screw him if he were the last man alive and all the vibrators were broken.

B) Would screw him, but only if no one ever found out about it.

C) Would screw him—in public if he wanted.

Actually, there was a D category too—would screw him in public, the news cameras rolling and her mother looking on—but Lynsay had yet to meet this hypothetical superman, and Chloe couldn't help but hope that she never did.

Her friend would probably rate Rory a C, but only because she didn't care much about personality and was tired of dating B's. Lynsay kept mental books on her relationship deficits and freely admitted that she often ran in the red. Most of her boyfriends only lasted as long as one of the shorter Alaskan cruises that she worked in the summer, but she was a great believer in the old “try, try again” thing. Chloe didn't keep books on her failed relationships mostly because she knew they would also be awash in red ink, and her personal motto ran something like: If at first you
don't succeed, have the good sense to back away before someone gets really hurt.

Rory might be a potential C, but the other two were definite A's. She had no problem with things like thinning hair, short stature, or strange hobbies. She had even dated a guy with mild halitosis who walked dogs for a living. But idiocy and cruelty were deal-breakers for her, and intuition was telling her that these two were both. Chloe was happy to learn that they were only staying for the weekend.

Much as she disliked Claude's mannerisms, it did not affect Jolly Roger's opinion of their guest. Roger was fascinated with him, and spent a good portion of the evening stropping against Claude's legs and trying to chew on his shoes.

Claude clearly disliked the cat, and Chloe suspected that MacGregor kept the feline in the dining room precisely for that reason. Roger hadn't previously been allowed in the dining room at mealtimes, but his pheromone-induced attraction to Claude was causing the lord of the keep no end of amusement, so the beast would doubtless be permitted at the table until Claude left.

Chloe would have been amused by this, but she worried about what might happen to the cat when MacGregor wasn't around. Claude didn't strike her as the sort who was kind to animals. Perhaps she would try to lure Roger into her bedroom tonight. It would also be good if the cat were too
stuffed to eat anything Claude gave him, she thought, slipping another bit of salmon under the table and chucking it in Roger's direction. The cat wasn't so besotted that he couldn't spare two seconds to gobble the poached fish.

Rory was on his good behavior and remained with them for the entire evening, though Chloe suspected that it cost him a great deal of patience to be polite to all and sundry. He managed this feat of forbearance primarily by treating everyone as just more dining room furniture and being sure to keep food in his mouth. Chloe unwisely made several attempts to draw him into a discussion, but was rebuffed every time.

His conversational aloofness was straining the tentative camaraderie they had established in the graveyard. Before dinner, Chloe would have been willing to take up a sword and knight Rory for his efforts to ride herd on his erratic father. Now, if she had a sword, she would take a poke at him. And at Claude and Isaac, too, though they would be poked a good deal harder. She might not be willing to lop the head off a hapless reptile, but she'd have no problem dealing with these snakes.

The cook had gotten carried away with the thought of having guests, and dinner was an especially long and elaborate meal that evening. While they ate it was easier to overlook the lack of conversation. Once the excuse of food had been taken away, the lack of social intercourse became painfully apparent.

Chloe hoped that the gentlemen might cling to the old custom of brandy and cigars sans female company, so she could excuse herself and go to bed, but MacGregor apparently didn't want her excluded from this masculine ritual, so she was poured a healthy post-prandial brandy with rest of the guests and passed the lidded silver cigar ewer, which she—and everyone except MacGregor—declined.

Chloe eventually managed to stop fixating on Rory's silence long enough to realize that the heir-apparent wasn't the only verbal laggard. MacGregor was spending more time scowling than speaking while he smoked, something he did without any trace of guilt, possibly because it annoyed everyone else and was therefore a worthy endeavor. She wasn't holding up her end of the conversation either, but as she wasn't supposed to speak of the cemetery in front of strangers—and Isaac Runyon was definitely strange—she was at something of a loss as to what to talk about. So instead of speaking, she took shuddering sips of brandy and discreetly waved MacGregor's smoke away from her face.