Fantasy Man Page 2

  “You?”

  She followed his gaze and nodded abruptly.

  “Posed nude.” He laughed. “You’re a witch, Claire Jade.”

  “It’s not my fault you have preconceptions about artists’ poor morals.”

  “But you’re not an artist.” He lounged on a bar stool on the other side of the island counter and watched her make coffee.

  “No talent.” She set a mug in front of him and pushed a cookie jar towards him. “I baked coconut kisses this morning. You might as well have some.”

  “Kisses. They’re good.” He took a second.

  She sat beside Leo on the shabby sofa and Marc shifted to sit at right angles to her in a leather armchair.

  “Do you really distrust me?” She avoided looking at him.

  “I’ve always known your first loyalty was to your family and that Ian blames me for the failure of his high class resort.”

  “It was a lot for Ian to deal with—his mom’s death and the loss of the resort. He had a ton of plans for it. He and I weren’t ever close. He was at college when Dad and Yvette married. But family dinners and that, he’d go on about the old ghost town and how people liked their luxury with an edge these days. It didn’t work out, but at least he had a vision.”

  Her defense of her stepbrother riled Marc. He believed a man looked out for himself and those around him. Marc had been looking out for himself all his thirty one years. No one cleaned up his failures. No one handed him dreams on a silver platter.

  Claire studied her coffee mug as if it held secrets. “I know you weren’t responsible for the Lost Horse Resort failing. Ian shouldn’t have bought the old ghost town. Then he spent too much money doing up the buildings. It was never the sort of setting to appeal to the jet-setting crowd he wanted to capture. Your families and church groups approach is much more sensible.”

  “Ian is back and going around the valley telling people I stole the resort from him.”

  She winced. “I didn’t realize.”

  “Forget him. The resort employs enough local people now that I know where their loyalty lies.” He put his mug aside and leaned forward. “Why do you still treat me as an enemy?”

  Her hand froze in Leo’s fur. “I don’t.”

  “Oh but you do.” He smiled wryly. “From the very first time I saw you, and you all but dared me to hire you.”

  “I was desperate.”

  “And resentful?”

  “Perhaps.” She tugged Leo into her lap and rubbed his muzzle. “But not of you, not on Ian’s behalf. You said you admired my loyalty to Dad, but it wasn’t easy. I had intended to stay at university. I had some tutoring lined up, some chances to teach.”

  “So you resented the disruption of your plans.”

  “It was a bad time. I wasn’t close to Yvette, my stepmother. Dad married her when I was fifteen and I spent most of my time with Mom and her family. I only spent holidays with them. But I grieved for Yvette. She got such a kick out of living. She was one of those people who thrived on drama. However, mostly I worried about how her death affected Dad and Ian.”

  “Ian stayed with you while your dad recuperated.”

  “The house had been Yvette’s home. Where else would Ian go when he was grieving?”

  “But you still had to leave your house to move in with the two of them and oversee your dad’s rehabilitation.”

  “Ian was lost and Dad…needed me. You look disapproving. Mom would agree with you.”

  “She didn’t like you taking on their burdens?”

  Claire smiled unhappily. “If anything, her opinion of Ian is worse than yours. She thinks he stole my inheritance.”

  “So he did.”

  “No.” She looked around the comfortable room. “How many women my age have a house as beautiful as this one? Or filled with so many paintings that tell their family history? I was selfish, Marc. I could have sold some of the paintings I inherited from Aunt Jess to fund Dad’s rehabilitation, but I wouldn’t consider it. I love the stories she told me. Stories woven around so many of the paintings and statues. They make me feel like I belong.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Mmm. Do you resent that?”

  He glanced back at her, forgetting the paintings and sculptures that made the room unique and welcoming.

  “You say I met you with hostility and challenge, but you matched and surpassed me. I’m constantly aware of the scorn you feel for the people I care about—both Dad’s artistic side and Mom’s academic family. Do you resent my security?”

  “Why should I?” He shrugged with assumed laziness. “I’ve earned everything I’ve got.”

  “You seem very lonely.”

  He’d stood before he realized how revealing that action was of his state of mind.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice.

  He thrust his hands in his pockets and continued to stare out the window. A bird feeder hung from a jacaranda tree. Brown leaves drifted down, adding themselves to their fallen fellows on the small lawn.

  “I don’t know how we got to be so personal.” It was another apology. She’d shed her high heels before curling up on the sofa and her steps were nearly soundless as she padded across to him. She touched his back, the left shoulder blade, tentatively.

  Everything in him stilled at the uncertain caress.

  She sighed and withdrew her hand. “The truth is, I resent your strength.”

  “What?” He spun around.

  Without her heels, she barely reached his chin. That didn’t stop her meeting his gaze steadily. “You’re right. Everything you have, you’ve earned. And you’ll keep it. You’re focused and ruthless and very powerful.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  It was her turn to look out the window. “I’m not sure. I know it’s not something I can be, not even to protect the people I love.”

  “I think you would do anything to protect those you loved.” He touched her face gently, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek before pushing back and tangling in her brown hair. “And that scares me.”

  He tilted her face up and kissed her.

  Chapter Three

  Marc kissed her as if he was a thief with the law on his tail. It was hard, desperate and all-consuming, with no quarter given for their lack of familiarity. Their noses bumped till they sorted out the angles. She gasped a breath and he deepened the kiss.

  She could have wrenched away. She knew that. He anchored her with only a hand threaded through her hair—and with his mouth.

  His mouth was an angel’s. No, a fallen angel’s. He kissed like dark chocolate—bitter and sweet, addictive. His tongue invaded, pleasured and learned her mouth.

  She shuddered under the impact of that sensual possession.

  “Claire, you home?” Ian walked into the room.

  Violence flared in Marc’s eyes as she wrenched herself away.

  Ian stared. He dropped the house keys he’d been rattling. They landed loud on the wooden floor.

  “No, Leo.” She shooed her dog back onto the sofa, accustomed to keeping him away from Ian.

  “Do you always walk so casually into your step-sister’s home?”

  Ian stooped for the keys. When he straightened, his face was red and angry. “Claire is family. The real question is why are you here?”

  “I would have thought that was obvious.”

  Claire gasped at the insolent look Marc gave her mouth. She could feel her lips’ kiss-ravaged pout. She could still taste him. But that was no reason for him to wind Ian up—or to score points using her. “I showed Marc Labyrinth House. You know, Ian. Rosa’s ghost house. I was telling you about the painting that changes with the full moon the other day.”

  “Yes, the legendary painting,” Marc interrupted. “May I see it?”

  “Well, I guess that’s more original than offering to show her your etchings?” Ian sneered.

  “Marc.” Claire gripped his arm. Leo bounded off the sofa. “Leo!”

  Bo
th were tense with the need to attack Ian—or to defend her? Her grip on Marc’s arm relaxed at the unexpected thought. Her hand slid down his arm and he caught it in his clasp.

  Ian’s blue eyes narrowed, focusing on their joined hands.

  Leo came and stood beside Claire.

  “What was it you wanted, Ian?” Unobtrusively, she tested Marc’s grip. Nope, he wasn’t about to release her without a first class fuss.

  “Nothing that can’t wait.” Ian had assessed the mood of the room, too. Retreat was definitely wisest.

  “Leave the keys,” Marc said.

  A muscle twitched in Ian’s jaw.

  Claire hesitated. The truth was, she hadn’t give Ian her keys. He must have taken, or copied, her dad’s set.

  He glared at her hesitation and threw the keys onto the coffee table.

  They would probably scar the polish. Ian had never been careful of others’ treasures. The table had been Aunt Jess’s, a memento of a trip to Japan. “I’ll see you later, sis.”

  The front door crashed behind him.

  Claire tugged free of Marc’s hold.

  Leo dashed up to sniff the front door before returning to his sofa.

  Only Marc didn’t move, though his eyes tracked her retreat to the kitchen with the excuse of their empty coffee mugs.

  “I would like to see the painting,” he said.

  “It’s in the parlor.” She led the way to the formal room with its antique furniture and serene air. She was very conscious of him following. She recalled the heat and strength of his body, and how she’d wanted to sway into that trap. Color warmed her cheeks as she indicated the painting in a corner above the old radio cabinet, now used to hide her stereo.

  “It’s cheerful,” Marc said, surprised. “Did you make up the story?”

  “No.” She perched on the arm of a solid 1940s armchair.

  He looked from the painting to her. “Have you ever seen the trees writhe in ghostly warning?”

  “I’ve never looked.” And in answer to his raised eyebrow. “I didn’t want the story ruined.”

  He relaxed into a near-smile. “You’re a romantic.”

  “An impractical dreamer—but not a liar, Marc. And not a cheat or a betrayer.” She waited with her nails digging into the fabric of the chair back for his agreement.

  Instead, he said, “I’d like to see Labyrinth House again.”

  “Why?”

  “Over-whelming curiosity.”

  “This is stupid,” Claire hissed five hours later.

  “You’ve got the real estate agent’s keys to the house. That means we have permission. This is not breaking and entering.”

  “So why are you dressed as a cat burglar?”

  Marc grinned at her. He felt remarkably cheerful to see her off balance and unguarded. The memory of their kiss hummed through his body. “I like black.” Black jeans and a black sweater.

  Claire wore blue jeans and a fire engine red sweater, but the starlight leached the color from both. Only her eyes sparkled—with apprehension.

  He liked her in jeans. Her long legs were sexy and her butt heart-shaped. Her sweater hugged the full curves of her breasts.

  The stiff lock finally clicked and he pushed open the front door of Labyrinth House.

  Claire scurried in after him, casting a guilty look over her shoulder. She wasn’t scared of ghosts, he realized, but of being caught and questioned by a neighbor.

  He shook his head. The neighborhood was definitely improving—and would improve out of sight if he bought the hotel and the two adjoining houses, knocking them down and extending. Still, in the current situation, neighborhood watch was unlikely to come a’questioning.

  Moonlight filtered through the numerous stained glass windows. It was odd that they’d survived the decades of abuse and neglect. He’d have thought the local kids would have used them for target practice.

  “Where’s the flashlight? If you left it in the car…” She threatened him in a whisper.

  “Why would I do that?” he countered in a normal voice. He flicked on the flashlight. The elaborate staircase soared up in front of them. He traced the handrail with the flashlight beam.

  She stomped forward. “I don’t even know why we’re here.”

  He didn’t know himself. It was something about the bright yet wistful painting hanging in her parlor. Oliver Jade had created it while wanting the woman living in this house.

  Marc redirected the flashlight beam, letting it flick and flick again, evoking a shifting, ghostly atmosphere. Anything could be hiding in the shadows.

  Claire sat down on the bottom step. “Are you thinking of promoting this place as a haunted getaway?”

  “If I was, your lack of fear would discourage me.”

  “The place just feels tired and old. Can you imagine it in the Jazz Age? Bathwater gin, flappers in their skinny, slinky dresses. Debonair men. Kick your heels up Charlestons. Shrill laughter. Long, thin cigarette holders. One decade away from the war to end all wars—and still chasing forgetfulness, excitement.”

  “Cheap thrills. I wouldn’t go that way if I bought this place. It would have to be boutique. Glamour. Expensive illusion.”

  “But still filled with people running from their real lives.”

  He sat down beside her on the step and switched the flashlight off. “Do you ever want to run from your life?”

  She shook her head. “I prefer to get in and change things.”

  “Me, too.”

  The car he’d hired was parked outside. He’d left Claire’s house abruptly that afternoon, phoning for a cab and telling her to expect him at 9 p.m. for some ghost hunting.

  “Come on, let’s finish this ghost tour.” He stood and offered her his hand.

  They walked up the stairs to the bedrooms.

  The old glamour had been ruined by disastrous renovations in the 1970s. Lurid green and orange wallpaper and shag carpets rotted in the rooms. Only the large corner bedroom seemed to have escaped. Its purple wallpaper and sparkly linoleum was almost tasteful in comparison, and the attached bathroom had its original, though corroded, fittings.

  “I think this was Rosa’s room.” Claire wandered in.

  The city lights were bright enough to dully illuminate the uncurtained bedroom. Marc switched off the flashlight. It was easy to imagine the large bed that must have dominated the room—a room for a mistress. Claire stood silhouetted at the window. Strange to think her great-grandmother had played that role here. Had she been as unwilling as family legend reported? Or was that tact for her husband’s benefit?

  “Would you ever play the mistress role, Claire?”

  Her head jerked up.

  “No, that’s not a proposition,” he said, forestalling her anger. “How would you feel waiting in here to please a man, a man who adored you and pleasured you and liked to arrogantly parade you to the world as his possession?”

  “Women can’t be owned, any more than men can.”

  “Men can be owned. They can be seduced.”

  “Reduced to willing sex slaves?” She laughed as if the notion was ridiculous.

  It stirred his interest and he strolled forward, stopping in the middle of the room where the bed would have been and hooking his thumbs in his jeans pockets. “Haven’t you ever had a sex slave?”

  “I’m a very ordinary woman, Marc. On the shy side.”

  “That’s not how I see you. You stalk into my life on those prim and proper heels, all buttoned up and radiating feminine arrogance.”

  “And untrustworthy, you said.”

  “Not untrustworthy. Just other loyalties. If I was the man in your life, I’d want to know I had first claim to your loyalty.”

  “You’re possessive.”

  “Yes.”

  She leaned back against the window, hands on the sill, head bent.

  Sensual tension was building explosively in him, and she was studying the floor. “Claire?”

  “You’re making it clear you want me.�
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  “Your kiss this afternoon said you’re interested.”

  “Any woman would be. You’re gorgeous, Marc.”

  He felt the burn of embarrassed color over his cheeks. He’d posed for charity calendar shots when he’d played ball. The sessions had never affected him like the painful wistfulness in her voice. “I’m just a man. Probably more guarded than many. I never slept around, not even when I was young and dumb.”

  “Because that would have meant letting people close to you.”

  “No. It was about respect for myself and for my partner. It was about wanting a woman who wanted me, not the glamour boy.”

  “Fantasy Man,” she murmured.

  “I hate that name.”

  “It’s worked for you. Your brand.” She walked toward him, her expression hidden by shadows. “What fantasy are you offering me? Willing sex slave or honest man?”

  The light mockery in her voice rebuffed his uncharacteristic openness. “Both would have been genuine.” He walked out, hurt.

  She caught up with him on the stairs, her footsteps slow and uncertain in the dim light.

  He kept the flashlight off and headed toward the inner courtyard.

  “I thought we were leaving.” She stood by the front door.

  He ignored her, wanting space, not the intimate confines of a car and the warm scent of her curling around him. He knew better than to make himself vulnerable. What was it about Claire that drew him into rare recklessness?

  The courtyard appeared bright after the interior darkness. He drew a deep breath. Jasmine had somehow survived years of neglect and its starry white flowers released their perfume into the still air. The pattern of the mosaic floor was clearer than he remembered it from the day. Dark green tiles laid in the form of winding vegetation traced the pattern of a maze.

  Slowly he walked to the center of the maze and looked down at the monster at his feet.

  Chapter Four

  Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Claire shivered and rubbed her arms. Coward and idiot.