Jeopardy (3 page)

“She's Nico’s sister.” “So?”

“It was nice meeting you, Metta,” Angelica said to fill the silence that ensued, but Metta had already gone Into her studio and shut the door firmly behind her.

“Interesting lady.” she murmured.

“She’s a complete eccentric and a great friend.” He took her arm and guided her away from the warehouse. “She’s also the finest metal sculptor in the New England area.”

“Really? There was something about her name that sounded familiar to me, but—”

“Metta is short for Mehetabel.”

“That was
Mehetabel
? Everyone’s heard of her work. I’m sorry to say, though, I don’t think I’ve ever seen any other than in art publications.”

“I have several pieces by her,” he said, “but I’m displaying only one at the moment.”

“I’d like to see it.”

He hesitated, and she sensed that he was about to turn her down.

But in the next moment he shrugged. "We can come back to my place after we’ve had dinner if you like.”

“I would.” They were walking diagonally across the street now. “Where are we going?”

“Le Maree Cramoisi.”

She gasped with delight. “I’ve been there, and it’s wonderful!”

He felt his pulse quicken as her lovely features became suddenly animated. She took his breath away. She always did, those times when he made the mistake of paying too much attention to her or of looking too long at her.

“I didn’t realize Le Maree Cramoisi was walking distance from your place,” she said, continuing. “It’s a very exclusive restaurant, and reservations are almost impossible to get.”

“That’s what I hear.” He steered her into an alley. “Hungry?”

“Starved.” She laughed and realized that her encounter with Metta had been so interesting, she had forgotten to be nervous with him. She hoped the feeling lasted. “What
is
this thing you have about feeding people? Metta said you nag her, too, about eating.”

“She gets so involved with her work, she forgets to eat. It’s not good for her." He smiled briefly. “I hadn’t thought of it before, but I don't think it’s really about
feeding
people. It’s more to do with seeing a situation that needs to be taken care of and taking care of it.”

Her high-heeled shoes clicked on the pavement of the narrow alley. “Is that what I am? A situation?”

His tawny gold eyes caught the light from a nearby doorway, causing them to glint strangely. “No. You’re Angelica."

His flat, emotionless tone left her disconcerted, but she didn’t have time to pursue it further, because he guided her toward the light, opened the door, and ushered her into a stainless-steel and white-tile kitchen where confusion seemed to reign supreme.

She blinked as a melody of rich scents and a cacophony of sounds assaulted her. “I thought we were going to Le Maree Cramoisi.”

“We’re here."

“Rill! ’Bout damned time you got here.” A big man dressed all in white and built on the order of a large, thick-trunked tree came striding toward them. “How can I plan a tour de force if I don’t know when you’ll get here?” he roared in a heavy Alabama accent.

And hearing the accent, Angelica understood why the restaurant was named Le Maree Cra-moisi, The Crimson Tide.

“Hell’s bells, Rill, you have no idea what goes into creating a perfect sauce.”

Amarillo grinned. “Are you saying you can’t handle it?”

“Of
course
I’m not saying that, you fool!” Amarillo turned to her. “Angelica, meet Beauregard Hamilton, the owner and chef of this fine establishment and our host for this evening.” 

“Call me Beau.” He took her hand and exuberantly pumped it. “Angelica, prepare yourself for a feast. Tonight you will experience culinary delights you never imagined." 

She found his enthusiasm contagious. “I’m sure I will, and I can’t wait.”

“That’s what I like to hear! Take a seat and well get you fed.” He hurried away and disappeared back into the confusion.

“Take a seat?” She glanced at Amarillo for guidance.

He pointed toward several high metal stools in front of a stainless steel counter. When her expression turned to amazement, he grinned. “I always eat in the kitchen. I like the atmosphere better than out front. Less stuffy.”

He’d rather eat in the kitchen, she thought, yet she had seen him at sophisticated social gatherings perfectly at ease and elegant in a tuxedo. And he shared a warehouse with a prickly sculptress, provided her with an obvious sanctuary, made sure she ate, and took rent from her only because she insisted.

After all this time she was beginning to learn some things about Amarillo. And she was enjoying herself immensely.

At the counter she hitched her tight skirt halfway up her thighs and began to lever herself onto the stool. He automatically reached out to help her, grasping her waist to give her a needed boost. She felt a flash of warmth in her stomach. If being with Amarillo in even the most casual of ways could bring this kind of excitement and heat, Angelica reflected, what would it be like to be his lover? Perhaps it was better, safer, not to know the answer to that question.

She slipped out of her jacket and laid it and her purse on the counter beside her. The air on her right side heated as Amarillo came down on the next stool over. Self-conscious and nervous again, she said the first thing that came into her mind. “I’m afraid I didn’t have time to change before I came.”

“You look fine, as always.” A muscle jerked in his cheek.

Angelica glanced at him, then away. He was irritated with her.
She
was irritated with herself. Why did
he
have to be the only person in the world with whom she became awkward and tongue-tied?

Food began to be served, a French version of dim sum first. She tasted everything from lobster in wine sauce to delicate veal in cream sauce and chicken breast stuffed with mushrooms and Gru-yfcre cheese. Complementing the entrees was a clear sherried beef bouillon with chives sprinkled on top, along with julienne carrots steamed with butter and tarragon, followed by bundles of green beans and straw mushrooms wrapped in strips of leeks.

And so it went, until finally Angelica put her hand across her stomach and groaned. “I’ll never eat again.”

“I say that every time I come here,” Amarillo said, “but it never quite seems to work out that way.”

Just at that moment Beau appeared, wheeling a cart that bore a huge chocolate confection. He presented it with a great flourish. “It is called Chocolate Angelica, in your honor, my dear, and will be introduced tonight in the restaurant for the first time.”

Angelica cast a helpless glance at Amarillo.

He smiled. “I did promise you chocolate.”

She’d seen him smile many times before, but rarely at her. She was captivated by the unexpected twinkle in his eye and the amused sensual curve of his lips.

“It looks superb,” he said to Beau.

“It is superb!” the big man boomed. “Of course it is! It couldn’t be anything else.
I
created it. Angelica, darlin’, I will explain. What you have here is a chocolate gateau with chocolate mousse piped on top, surrounded by strawberries hand-dipped in both white and milk chocolate and drizzled with crushed raspberries."

Amarillo reached for a spoon, scooped up a portion, and fed it to her. It melted in her mouth. “It tastes as if it were made in heaven,” she assured Beau, who had been watching her closely for a reaction.

“Naturally!” He smiled broadly and patted her on the back. “This one is yours. Eat. Enjoy. Be happy.”

“Uh, Beau? I wonder if I could trouble you to wrap it up for me so that I can take it home and eat it later?” She saw Beau’s face begin to darken and she hastened to add, “I’ll eat it all. I promise. ”

“Shell have it for breakfast tomorrow, ” Amarillo said.

She couldn’t help but grin at him. He had read her mind.

They left the restaurant in silence, Amarillo carrying the gateau in a white cake box. As they neared the warehouse, she could see lights burning in Metta’s studio.

“Metta’s working late.”

“She enjoys working at night. Fewer people to bother her, she says.”

“I gather she’s not much of a people person.”

“No, but she liked you.”

They walked in the direction of the river, and soon they were at the warehouse and a door well hidden by shrubs. When he opened it, he stepped back to allow her to precede him. She hesitated and glanced up at him. Part of his face was concealed by darkness, but she had the sudden, strange feeling he would rather not have her in his home.

‘‘What’s the matter?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know.”

His lips quirked sardonically, as if he had read her mind, but with a wave of his hand he indicated she should enter.

She walked into a space of mammoth dimensions, and for a second she could only stare, amazed. Across the front of the building, two wide half-circle windows went from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. During the day the windows would offer a spectacular view of the river. As it was, she could see lights glinting in the dark water like fallen stars.

Her attention returned to the interior. The predominant colors of burgundy and hunter green created a dark, rich, intimate feeling in spite of the immense dimensions. The furniture was oversized and overstuffed. Tall bookcases served as dividers. Tapestries and prayer rugs hung alone, suspended from the tall ceiling and from the back of the dividers. Plants and room-size trees abounded. An ebony staircase led up to a large second floor loft—no doubt the bedroom area, she thought. And in a comer there was a huge bronze sculpture of a rearing horse, its mane flying.

“It’s Metta’s work.” he said from behind her.

He moved so quietly, she hadn’t known he was near. But now her skin reacted, and a quiver of warmth skimmed along her arms and up her legs. She swallowed against the sudden tightness of her throat. “I guessed that. And the Stetson hanging on one of the legs?”

“Mine.”

“What does Metta have to say about your using her work as a hat rack?"

“She thinks it's a great idea that someone’s finally found a practical purpose for it.”

She laced her fingers together. “Your home is terrific. I really like it. It’s . . . unexpected, very unusual.”

His lips moved in a suggestion of a smile. “What did you expect? Ranch house furniture and an open campfire?”

“Something like that, I guess. Pretty stereotypical thinking, huh? Actually, this place is very much like you.”

“Why is that?”

She knew there was a touch of the provocative in her answer, but she decided not to let that stop her. “Because I have a feeling no matter how much I explored, I would never see everything.”

He stilled, and she waited for his reaction. Silence surrounded her, but her senses picked up danger.

When he finally spoke, though, all he said was, “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, brandy, something else . . . ?"

“Coffee will be fine.”

His expression moody, he lightly touched a finger to her cheek. “Explore, Angelica."

He disappeared behind a divider, and she was left to deal with the wash of heat sweeping through her. For a moment she stayed where she was, feeling and absorbing the sensation. But his invitation was a lure she couldn’t resist for long.

The bookcases held a wide assortment of books— leather-bound, hardcover, paperback. The latest Stephen King novel stood beside the complete works of Shakespeare. A row of scientific books marched above a row of Louis L’Amour westerns.

She continued around the room and found a Regency mahogany Pembroke worktable that held a large baccarat bowl filled with arrowheads. Further on, an exquisitely tooled, silver-trimmed saddle was displayed beneath a French Impressionist painting.

She noticed a red button, pushed it, and jumped with surprise when an electric train chugged out from under a table, smoke billowing from its smokestack. Its track had been arranged in areas where people wouldn’t normally walk, and the little train cheerfully wound under and around the furniture and traveled over fine Oriental rugs and gleaming hardwood floors.

Obviously Amarillo Smith was a man who did things in a different way, and, it took not a second for her to realize, she loved his way of doing things. The revelation shook her.

“Here it is,” he said, returning with two cups of steaming coffee and handing her one.

“Thank you.” She chose to sit on the nearest couch. He dropped down onto the same couch not too far from her.

She took a sip of the coffee. The hot black liquid fortified her. Then it hit her. He hadn't asked if she took cream or sugar. He had known she didn’t. No, she immediately corrected herself. He must have guessed.

She was surrounded by contradictions and puzzles. A French Impressionist painting and a show saddle. A crystal bowl and a collection of arrowheads. An electric train and Oriental carpets. And heading the list of contradictions and puzzles was Amarillo.

She turned to him. “You grew up in West Texas, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve never been there. I’ve seen pictures of it, though.”

“No photograph could begin to capture what it’s like.”

There was a tone akin to reverence in his deep voice. Her better judgment told her she couldn’t afford to be any more intrigued with him than she already was, but her curiosity was strong. “Then tell me.”

“Telling is easy. It’s miles of nothing but wind and barbed wire, sand and dust, mesquite and coyotes. But you can’t understand its immensity or its spirit unless you go there and see for yourself.”

“You sound as if you really love it.”

“I do. West Texas is cruel and elemental, but it also has a very special kind of beauty.”

And using all those elements, it had formed a man like Amarillo, she thought.

She wanted to ask why he had left, but she already knew at least part of the story, enough to know she shouldn’t ask more. Nico had once told her that Amarillo had married a girl he had met in college. A year later his wife had been killed in a tragic accident, and he had moved to Boston, where her elderly parents lived, to be near them and care for them. She had heard that they had both died within the last two years.