Key of Knowledge
Page 3
Pitte stood at the mantel, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. The warrior at the gate, Dana thought. He was tall, dark, dangerously handsome, with a muscular and ready build that his elegant black suit couldn’t disguise.
It was easy to imagine him wearing light armor and carrying a sword. Or sitting astride a huge black horse and wearing a cape that billowed at the gallop.
He gave a slight and courtly bow as they entered.
Dana started to speak, then a movement caught the corner of her eye. The friendly smile vanished from her face, her brows beetled, and her eyes flashed pure annoyance.
“What’s he doing here?”
“He,” Jordan said dryly as he lifted a glass, “was invited.”
“Of course.” Smoothly, Rowena pressed a flute of champagne into Dana’s hand. “Pitte and I are delighted to have all of you here tonight. Please, be at home. Malory, you must tell me how plans are progressing on your gallery.”
With another flute of champagne and a gentle nudge, Rowena had Malory moving toward a chair. After one look at his sister’s face, Flynn chose the better part of valor and followed them.
Refusing to retreat, Dana sipped her champagne and scowled at Jordan over the crystal rim of her glass. “Your part in this is finished.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Either way I get an invitation to dinner from a beautiful woman, especially if she happens to be a goddess, I accept. Nice threads,” he commented and fingered the cuff of Dana’s jacket.
“Hands off.” She jerked her arm out of reach, then plucked a canapé from a tray. “And stay out of my way.”
“I’m not in your way.” His voice remained mild, and he took a lazy sip of his drink.
Even though Dana wore heeled boots, he had a couple of inches on her. Which was just one more reason to find him irritating. Like Pitte, he could have posed for one of the stone warriors. He was six-three, every inch of it well packed. His dark hair could’ve used a trim, but that slightly curly, slightly unkempt, slightly too long style suited the power of his face.
He was, always had been, lustily handsome, with blazing blue eyes under black brows, the long nose, the wide mouth, the strong bones combining in a look that could be charming or intimidating depending on his purpose.
Worse, Dana thought, he had an agile and clever mind inside that rock-hard skull. And an innate talent that had made him a wildly successful novelist before he’d hit thirty.
Once, she’d believed they would build a life side by side. But to her mind he’d chosen his fame and his fortune over her.
And in her heart she had never forgiven him for it.
“There are two more keys,” he reminded her. “If finding them is important to you, you should be grateful for help. Whatever the source.”
“I don’t need your help. So feel free to head back to New York anytime.”
“I’m going to see this through. Better get used to it.”
She snorted, then popped another canapé. “What’s in it for you?”
“You really want to know?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t care less. But I’d think even someone with your limited sensitivity would be aware that you bunking at Flynn’s is putting a crimp in the works for the turtledoves there.”
Jordan followed her direction, noted Flynn sitting with Malory, and the way his friend absently played with the curling ends of her blond hair.
“I know how to keep out of their way, too. She’s good for him,” Jordan added.
Whatever else she could say about Jordan—and there was plenty—she couldn’t deny that he loved Flynn. So she swallowed some of the bitterness, and washed the taste of it away with champagne.
“Yeah, she is. They’re good for each other.”
“She won’t move in with him.”
Dana blinked. “He asked her to move in? To live with him? And she said no?”
“Not exactly. But the lady has conditions.”
“Which are?”
“Actual furniture in the living room and he has to redo the kitchen.”
“No kidding?” The idea had Dana feeling both amused and sentimental at once. “That’s our Mal. Before Flynn knows it, he’ll be living in an real house instead of a building with doors and windows and packing boxes.”
“He bought dishes. The kind you wash, not the kind you chuck in the trash.”
The amusement peaked, bringing shallow dimples to her cheeks. “He did not.”
“And knives and forks that aren’t plastic.”
“Oh, my God, stemware could be next.”
“I’m afraid so.”
She let out a roll of laughter, toasted to her brother’s back. “Hook, line, and sinker.”
“That’s something I’ve missed,” Jordan murmured. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh and mean it since I’ve been back.”
She sobered instantly. “It didn’t have anything to do with you.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Before she could speak again, Zoe McCourt rushed into the room, steps ahead of Bradley Vane. She looked flustered, irritated, and embarrassed. Like a sexy wood sprite, Dana thought, who’d had a particularly bad day.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
She wore a short, clingy black dress with long, snug sleeves and an abbreviated hem that showcased her slim and sinuous curves. Her hair, black and glossy, was short and straight with a long fringe of bangs accenting long-lidded amber eyes.
Behind her, Brad looked like some golden faerie-tale prince in an Italian suit.
Seeing them together made Dana think what a stunning couple they made—if you didn’t count the frustration emanating from Zoe, or the uncharacteristic stiffness in Brad’s stance.
“Don’t be silly.” Rowena was already up and crossing to them. “You’re not at all late.”
“I am. My car. I had trouble with my car. They were supposed to fix it, but . . . Well, I’m very grateful Bradley was driving by and stopped.”
She didn’t sound grateful, Dana noted. She sounded pissed, with that hint of the West Virginia hills in her voice giving the temper a nice little edge.
Rowena made sympathetic noises as she led Zoe to a chair, served her champagne.
“I think I could’ve fixed it,” Zoe muttered.
It was easy to imagine him wearing light armor and carrying a sword. Or sitting astride a huge black horse and wearing a cape that billowed at the gallop.
He gave a slight and courtly bow as they entered.
Dana started to speak, then a movement caught the corner of her eye. The friendly smile vanished from her face, her brows beetled, and her eyes flashed pure annoyance.
“What’s he doing here?”
“He,” Jordan said dryly as he lifted a glass, “was invited.”
“Of course.” Smoothly, Rowena pressed a flute of champagne into Dana’s hand. “Pitte and I are delighted to have all of you here tonight. Please, be at home. Malory, you must tell me how plans are progressing on your gallery.”
With another flute of champagne and a gentle nudge, Rowena had Malory moving toward a chair. After one look at his sister’s face, Flynn chose the better part of valor and followed them.
Refusing to retreat, Dana sipped her champagne and scowled at Jordan over the crystal rim of her glass. “Your part in this is finished.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Either way I get an invitation to dinner from a beautiful woman, especially if she happens to be a goddess, I accept. Nice threads,” he commented and fingered the cuff of Dana’s jacket.
“Hands off.” She jerked her arm out of reach, then plucked a canapé from a tray. “And stay out of my way.”
“I’m not in your way.” His voice remained mild, and he took a lazy sip of his drink.
Even though Dana wore heeled boots, he had a couple of inches on her. Which was just one more reason to find him irritating. Like Pitte, he could have posed for one of the stone warriors. He was six-three, every inch of it well packed. His dark hair could’ve used a trim, but that slightly curly, slightly unkempt, slightly too long style suited the power of his face.
He was, always had been, lustily handsome, with blazing blue eyes under black brows, the long nose, the wide mouth, the strong bones combining in a look that could be charming or intimidating depending on his purpose.
Worse, Dana thought, he had an agile and clever mind inside that rock-hard skull. And an innate talent that had made him a wildly successful novelist before he’d hit thirty.
Once, she’d believed they would build a life side by side. But to her mind he’d chosen his fame and his fortune over her.
And in her heart she had never forgiven him for it.
“There are two more keys,” he reminded her. “If finding them is important to you, you should be grateful for help. Whatever the source.”
“I don’t need your help. So feel free to head back to New York anytime.”
“I’m going to see this through. Better get used to it.”
She snorted, then popped another canapé. “What’s in it for you?”
“You really want to know?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t care less. But I’d think even someone with your limited sensitivity would be aware that you bunking at Flynn’s is putting a crimp in the works for the turtledoves there.”
Jordan followed her direction, noted Flynn sitting with Malory, and the way his friend absently played with the curling ends of her blond hair.
“I know how to keep out of their way, too. She’s good for him,” Jordan added.
Whatever else she could say about Jordan—and there was plenty—she couldn’t deny that he loved Flynn. So she swallowed some of the bitterness, and washed the taste of it away with champagne.
“Yeah, she is. They’re good for each other.”
“She won’t move in with him.”
Dana blinked. “He asked her to move in? To live with him? And she said no?”
“Not exactly. But the lady has conditions.”
“Which are?”
“Actual furniture in the living room and he has to redo the kitchen.”
“No kidding?” The idea had Dana feeling both amused and sentimental at once. “That’s our Mal. Before Flynn knows it, he’ll be living in an real house instead of a building with doors and windows and packing boxes.”
“He bought dishes. The kind you wash, not the kind you chuck in the trash.”
The amusement peaked, bringing shallow dimples to her cheeks. “He did not.”
“And knives and forks that aren’t plastic.”
“Oh, my God, stemware could be next.”
“I’m afraid so.”
She let out a roll of laughter, toasted to her brother’s back. “Hook, line, and sinker.”
“That’s something I’ve missed,” Jordan murmured. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh and mean it since I’ve been back.”
She sobered instantly. “It didn’t have anything to do with you.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Before she could speak again, Zoe McCourt rushed into the room, steps ahead of Bradley Vane. She looked flustered, irritated, and embarrassed. Like a sexy wood sprite, Dana thought, who’d had a particularly bad day.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
She wore a short, clingy black dress with long, snug sleeves and an abbreviated hem that showcased her slim and sinuous curves. Her hair, black and glossy, was short and straight with a long fringe of bangs accenting long-lidded amber eyes.
Behind her, Brad looked like some golden faerie-tale prince in an Italian suit.
Seeing them together made Dana think what a stunning couple they made—if you didn’t count the frustration emanating from Zoe, or the uncharacteristic stiffness in Brad’s stance.
“Don’t be silly.” Rowena was already up and crossing to them. “You’re not at all late.”
“I am. My car. I had trouble with my car. They were supposed to fix it, but . . . Well, I’m very grateful Bradley was driving by and stopped.”
She didn’t sound grateful, Dana noted. She sounded pissed, with that hint of the West Virginia hills in her voice giving the temper a nice little edge.
Rowena made sympathetic noises as she led Zoe to a chair, served her champagne.
“I think I could’ve fixed it,” Zoe muttered.
