Key Of Knowledge (8 page)

If she'd come into the store that afternoon, he could and would have rearranged his schedule and taken her through. It would've given him the opportunity to spend
some time with her, while keeping it all practical and friendly.

Of course, you'd think that when her car broke down and he happened by and offered her a lift,
that
interlude would have been practical and friendly.

Instead she'd gotten her back up because he pointed out the flaws in her plan to try to fix the car while wearing a dinner dress, and he, understandably, had refused to mess with the engine himself.

He'd offered to call a mechanic for her, hadn't he? Brad thought, getting riled up again at the memory. He'd stood there debating with her for ten minutes, thus ensuring that whatever she did they would both be late to the Peak.

And when she grudgingly accepted the ride finally, she spent every minute of it in an ice-cold funk.

He was absolutely crazy about her.

“Sick,” he muttered as he turned the corner to her street. “You're a sick man, Vane.”

Her little house sat tidily back from the road on a neat stamp of lawn. She'd planted fall flowers along the sunny left side. The house itself was a cheerful yellow with bright white trim. A boy's red bike lay on its side in the front yard, reminding him that she had a son he'd yet to catch sight of.

Brad pulled his new Mercedes behind her decade-old hatchback.

He walked back to the cargo area and hauled out the gift he hoped would turn the tide in his favor.

He carted it to the front door, then caught himself running a nervous hand through his hair.

Women never made him nervous.

Annoyed with himself, he knocked briskly.

It was the boy who opened it, and for the second time in his life, Brad found himself dazzled by a face. He looked like his mother—dark hair, tawny eyes, pretty, pointed features. The dark hair was mussed, the eyes cool
with suspicion, but neither detracted a whit from the exotic good looks.

Brad had enough young cousins, assorted nieces and nephews, to be able to peg the kid at around eight or nine. Give him another ten years, Brad thought, and this one would have to beat the coeds off with a stick.

“Simon, right?” Brad offered an I'm-harmless-you-can-trust-me grin. “I'm Brad Vane, a friend of your mom's.” Sort of. “She around?”

“Yeah, she's around.” Though the boy gave Brad a very quick up-and-down glance, Brad had the certain sensation he'd been studied carefully and thoroughly, and the jury was still out. “You gotta wait out there, 'cause I'm not allowed to let anybody in if I don't know who they are.”

“No problem.”

The door shut in his face. Like mother, like son, Brad thought, then heard the boy shout.

“Mom! There's this guy at the door. He looks like a lawyer or something.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Brad mumbled and cast his eyes to heaven.

Moments later the door opened again. Zoe's expression changed from puzzlement to surprise to mild irritation in three distinct stages.

“Oh. It's you. Um . . . is there something I can do for you?”

You could let me nibble my way up your neck to the back of your ear for a start, Brad thought, but kept his easy smile in place. “Dana was in the store this afternoon, picking up some supplies.”

“Yes. I know.” She tucked a dishcloth in the waistband of her jeans, let the tail hang down her hip. “Did she forget something?”

“Not exactly. I just thought you might be able to use this.” He lifted the gift he'd leaned against the side of the house, then had the pleasure of seeing her blink in surprise an instant before she laughed.

Really laughed. He loved the sound of it, the way it danced over her face, into her eyes.

“You brought me a stepladder?”

“An essential tool for any home or business improvement project.”

“Yes, it is. I have one.” Obviously realizing how ungracious that sounded, she flushed and hurried on. “But it's . . . old. And we can certainly use another. It was really thoughtful of you.”

“We of HomeMakers appreciate your business. Where would you like me to put this?”

“Oh, well.” She glanced behind her, then seemed to sigh. “Why don't you just bring it in here? I'll figure that out later.” She stepped back, bumped into the boy who was hovering at her back.

“Simon, this is Mr. Vane. He's an old friend of Flynn's.”

“He said he was a friend of yours.”

“Working on that.” Brad carried the stepladder into the house. “Hi, Simon. How's it going?”

“It's going okay. How come you're wearing a suit if you're carrying ladders around?”

“Simon.”

“Good question.” Brad ignored Zoe and concentrated on the boy. “I had a couple of meetings earlier today. Suits are more intimidating.”

“Wearing them sucks. Mom made me wear one to Aunt Joleen's wedding last year. With a tie. Bogus.”

“Thanks for that fashion report.” Zoe hooked an arm around Simon's throat and made him grin.

Then they both grinned, at each other, and Brad's eyes were dazzled.

“Homework?”

“Done. Video game time.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Forty-five.”

“Thirty.”

“Sweet!” He wriggled free, then bolted across the room to the TV.

Now that her hands were no longer full of boy, Zoe didn't know what to do with them. She laid one on the ladder. “It's a really nice stepladder. The fiberglass ones are so light and easy to work with.”

“Quality with value—HomeMakers' bywords.”

The sounds of a ballpark abruptly filled the tiny living room behind her. “It's his favorite,” Zoe managed. “He'd rather play baseball—virtual or in real life—than breathe.” She cleared her throat, wondered what the hell she was supposed to do next. “Ah . . . can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure. Whatever's handy.”

“Okay.” Damn it. “Just, um, have a seat. I'll be back in a minute.”

What to do with Bradley Vane? she asked herself as she hurried back to the kitchen. In her house. Plunked down in his expensive shoes in her living room. An hour before dinner.

She stopped herself, pressed her hands to her eyes. It was okay, it was perfectly all right. He'd done something very considerate, and she would reciprocate by bringing him something to drink, having a few minutes of conversation.

She never knew what she was supposed to say to him. She didn't
understand
men like him. The kind of man who came from serious money. Who'd done things and had things and gone places to get more.

And he made her so stupidly nervous and defensive.

Should she take him a glass of wine? No, no, he was driving, and she didn't have any really good wine anyway. Coffee? Tea?

Christ.

At her wits' end, she opened the refrigerator. She had juice, she had milk.

Here, Bradley Charles Vane IV, of the really rich and
important Pennsylvania Vanes, have a nice glass of cow juice, then be on your way.

She blew out a breath, then dug a bottle of ginger ale out of a cupboard. She took out her nicest glass, checked for water spots, then filled it with ice. She added the ginger ale, careful to keep it a safe half inch below the rim.

She tugged at the hem of the sweatshirt she'd tossed on over jeans, looked down resignedly at the thick gray socks she wore in lieu of shoes, and hoped she didn't smell of the brass cleaner she'd been using to attack the tarnish on an umbrella stand she'd picked up at the flea market.

Suit or no suit, she thought as she squared her shoulders, she wouldn't be intimidated in her own home. She would take him his drink, speak politely, hopefully briefly, then show him out.

No doubt he had more exciting things to do than sit in her living room drinking ginger ale and watching a nine-year-old play video baseball.

She carried the glass down the hall, then stopped and stared.

Bradley Charles Vane IV wasn't watching Simon play. He was, to her amazement, sitting on the floor in his gorgeous suit, playing with her son.

“Two strikes, baby. You are doomed.” With a cackle, Simon wiggled his butt and prepared for the next pitch.

“Dream on, kid. See my man on third? He's about to score.”

She stepped farther into the room, but neither of them noticed her as the ball whistled toward the plate and the bat cracked against virtual cowhide.

“He's got it, he's got it, he's got it,” Simon said in a kind of whispered chant. “Yeah, yeah,
shagged
that sucker.”

“And the runner tags,” Brad said. “Watch him fly, heading for home. Here comes the throw . . . and he slides, and . . .”

Safe!
the home base ump decreed.

“Oh, yeah.” Brad gave Simon a quick elbow nudge. “One to zip, pal.”

“Not bad. For an old guy.” Simon chuckled. “Now prepare to be humiliated.”

“Excuse me. I brought you some ginger ale.”

“Time out.” Brad twisted around to smile up at her. “Thanks. Do you mind if we play out the inning?”

“No. Of course not.” She set the glass on the coffee table, and wondered what she should do now. “I'll just be back in the kitchen. I need to start dinner.”

When his eyes stayed so direct and easy on hers, she heard—with some horror—the words tumbling out of her mouth. “You're welcome to stay. It's just chicken.”

“That'd be great.”

He swiveled back around to resume the game.

Mental note, Brad thought: Forget the roses and champagne. Home improvement supplies are the key to this particular lady's lock.

WHILE Zoe was standing in her kitchen wondering how the hell she was going to turn her humble chicken into something worthy of a more sophisticated palate, Dana was soothing her ego with takeout pizza.

She hadn't meant to tell him. Ever. Why give him one more thing to smirk at her about?

But he hadn't smirked, she admitted, washing down the pizza with cold beer. In fact, he'd looked as though she'd put a bullet dead center of his forehead.

Neither could she claim he'd looked pleased or puffed up about the knowledge that she'd been in love with him.

The fact of it was, he'd looked shocked, then sorry.

Oh, God, maybe that was worse.

She sulked over the pizza. Though she had her evening book open on the table beside her, she hadn't read a single word. She was just going to have to deal with this, she told herself.

She couldn't afford to obsess about Jordan. Not only because she had other things that should occupy her time and her thoughts, but it just wasn't healthy.

Since it was clear he was going to hang around for several weeks, and there was no avoiding him unless she avoided Flynn and Brad, they would be seeing each other regularly.

And if she accepted all that had happened in the last month, all she'd learned, she was going to have to accept that Jordan had been meant to come back. He was a part of it all.

And damn it, he could be useful.

He had a good brain, one that picked up on and filed away details.

It was one of the skills that made him such a strong writer. Oh, she hated to admit that one. She hoped her tongue would fall out before she spoke those words to him.

But he had such talent.

He'd chosen that talent over her, and that still hurt. But if he could help her find the key, she would have to put that hurt away. At least temporarily.

She could always kick his ass later.

Mollified, she ate some more pizza. Tomorrow she would get a fresh start. She had the whole day, the whole week, the whole month to do whatever she felt needed to be done. There'd be no need to set the alarm, dress for work.

She could spend the whole day in her pajamas if she wanted to, digging into her research, outlining a plan, surfing the Net for more data.

She would contact Zoe and Malory and set up another summit meeting. They worked well together.

Maybe they'd start to work on the building. Physical labor could spark mental acuity.

The first key had been hidden, in a manner of speaking, in the building they were buying. Of course, Malory had
had to paint the key into existence before she could retrieve it from the painting.

Maybe the second, or at least the link to the second, was in the house as well.

In any case, it was a plan. Something solid to get her teeth into.

She shoved the pizza aside and rose to phone Malory first. With plans to meet for a full day's painting set, she phoned Zoe.

“Hey. It's Dana. Just got off the phone with Mal. We're going to start the great transformation at the house tomorrow. Nine o'clock. Malory voted for eight, but there's no way in hell I'm getting up that early when I'm not drawing an actual paycheck.”

“Nine's fine. Dana.” Her voice dropped to a hissing whisper. “Bradley's here.”

“Oh. Okay, I'll let you go, then. See—”

“No, no. What am I supposed to do with him?”

“Gee, Zoe, I don't know. What do you want to do with him?”

“Nothing.” Her voice went up a notch before lowering again. “I don't know how this happened. He's out in the living room playing video baseball with Simon, in a suit.”

“Simon's wearing a suit?” Dana tucked her tongue in her cheek. “Boy, things're pretty formal at your house.”

“Stop it.” But she laughed a little. “
He's
wearing a suit. Bradley. He came to the door with a stepladder, and before I knew—”

“With a what? What for? To clean out your gutters? That was not a euphemism, by the way. But, come to think of it, it'd be a pretty good one.”

“He gave it—the stepladder—to me—to us—” she corrected quickly. “For the painting and stuff. He thought we could use it.”

“That was nice of him. He's a nice guy.”