Orchids in Moonlight (30 page)

He unlocked the door and pushed it open, moving to one side for her to enter.

The furniture in the room, consisting of an
ornately
carved bed, tables, desk, and armoire, was all of dark wood. But everything else was done in shades of pink: the spread and canopy, the dressing-table skirt, the cascading curtains. Even the curving divan was upholstered in pink velvet, and a rug of soft rose covered the floor.

"It's lovely," Jaime said breathlessly, in awe. "Your mother had excellent taste."

"She was very dainty and feminine in everything she did. I like to think I inherited some of her charm."

"I'm sure you did." She bit her tongue to keep from saying he couldn't have got it from his father.

Blake went to the armoire and opened it. "Take your pick."

Never had she seen such an array of stunning gowns, but she still felt uncomfortable.

He sensed her reluctance and assured her, "You're welcome to it all. An hour should give you enough time. I'll be waiting in the dining room. Walk straight when you start back. Don't turn anywhere. The Franciscans intended for anyone wandering about to lose the way."

She gave him a grateful smile. "I'll be fine."

He started out, then paused to look at her quietly for an instant before proclaiming in a voice filled with emotion, "You look like her, you know."

Not knowing quite how to respond, she thanked him.

And then he was gone.

She began to go through the dresses, thinking how, even though Blake was attractive and nice, it would be a long time before her heart could open to any man. It still hurt deeply to think of the one who had left her without a backward glance.

Time slipped by, as, fascinated by such a vast collection, she could not make up her mind. Then, spying the one tucked way at the end of the rack, she gasped out loud with delight. It was fashioned of watered silk, shades of green and blue melded together in shadows of gold swirling throughout. It was off-the-shoulder, with a dipping bodice encrusted with tiny teardrops made of—what? She blinked in disbelief, drawing the creation closer to the window and the light, and lo and behold, saw her suspicions were correct. The teardrops actually appeared to be tiny gold nuggets.

She knew this was the dress she wanted to wear, knew she had to try it on.

Quickly changing, she stood before the full-length mirror, twisting and turning to marvel at the heavenly creation.

The door to the next room opened slowly, quietly.

Jaime was too absorbed in the exquisite gown to be aware of anything going on behind her.

Then she saw it, in the mirror: the maniacal face of a woman enraged.

And she was holding a knife.

Chapter 19

Morena had been in Stanton's room when she heard the noises coming from the one adjoining. Investigating, she was terrified for one frozen moment to think she was looking at the ghost of Emily Lavelle.

Then it dawned on her.

The woman could only be fames Chandler's daughter, and Morena had been momentarily taken aback because of her hair. It was like Emily's, a rare and brilliant color, almost like polished gold.

Indignity replaced fear, and she slipped the knife from the sheath strapped to her thigh and crept up on her to demand harshly, "What are you doing in here?"

Jaime stared with fear-widened eyes and began to back away as she stammered to explain. "Blake... Mr. Lavelle's son... told me I should come in here. Now put that away, please."

"Pah, he has no say." Morena swung the blade in an arc. "This is not his house. It belongs to his father, which means it also belongs to me, for I am soon to be his father's wife."

"Over my dead body."

They both turned as Blake walked in.

Jaime watched, relieved, as he crossed the room to grab Morena's wrist and squeeze until she dropped the weapon. Then he maneuvered her roughly to the door. "How dare you come in here and threaten a guest? You might sleep with my father, but so help me, if I ever catch you in my mother's room again, I'll give you the thrashing of your life."

He flung her into the hall, but before he could slam the door she shrieked, "Your father will kill you if you touch me, you shit sack—"

"I'm sorry." He whirled to face Jaime. "Pay no attention to her. She's my father's mistress, and I'm furious my father lets her live in the house. But she's not allowed in here, and I promise she won't bother you again. It's just a good thing I came to see why you hadn't finished yet."

Jaime was still upset but pulled away as he tried to put his arm about her shoulders to comfort her. "I really think," she said raggedly, "I should go back to San Francisco."

With a sweeping grin, he caught and squeezed her hands. "You'll do nothing of the kind. I won't allow it. God, you're magnificent in that color. And your resemblance to my mother is absolutely remarkable. No wonder Morena was so mad."

He dropped her hands and walked to the bed, where she had spread out several outfits.

"Did you find a riding costume? Ah, the garnet velvet, a splendid choice. Now hurry and change. I'm anxious to show you about."

He breezed from the room, closing the door behind him. Jaime ran to lock it, as well as the one adjoining, then wondered dizzily what she had got herself into by being so desperate. But for the time being, she could only accept the Lavelles' hospitality and hope for the best.

* * *

Jaime was relieved that Stanton was nowhere around when she finally met Blake in the dining room. She declined his offer to have an early lunch, because she was anxious to see the rest of the estate.

The horse she was given was a mare, dark red in color, and promised to be quite gentle. Blake's was a large dapple-gray stallion. Its high spirits were evidenced in the way it pawed the ground, snorting impatiently to be on its way.

They rode first through the vineyards, as Blake explained how the Franciscans in Alta California began growing grapes early in the eighteenth century. "By 1800, the groves here had every kind of fruit you can imagine, and my father cultivated date palms and plantains. He has a huge greenhouse where he experiments with different exotic plants and flowers, such as orchids."

Jaime's memory was painfully jarred to think of her first orchid... her first love.

He went on to describe life in the 1700s, when more than seven thousand Indian converts lived in the various missions up and down the coast. Artisans were brought from Mexico—masons, millwrights, tanners, shoemakers, saddlers, and potters—to teach them.

"It was quite a place before the American conquest, and when my father was able to buy the mission here, he changed the name to Pointe Grande and built his own empire."

"It's more like a fort, with all the guards and walls and fences," Jaime ventured to remark.

"Yes—well, my father has some enemies, I'm afraid. I try to stay out of his business, and he never tells me anything. But I hear rumors now and then."

"Did you know your father claims my father reneged on a pledge to invest in one of his mines?"

She knew by the look on his face that he did, even before he began to hedge. "Well, a little something. That was a pretty big mine, and a lot of people got upset, but I really don't know any of the details."

She hesitated, then decided it had to be said. "My father gave yours a bogus map to his mine as a pledge, because he didn't trust him."

Blake raised an eyebrow. "You mean he thought my father salted his mine to lure people to invest in it?"

"I don't know what you mean by
salted."

"Unscrupulous people do it to make hard-rock mines appear to have gold in them. It's done by shotgun or a large-caliber pistol. You load with fine gold dust instead of buckshot, and if the barrels have plenty of flare, and a man stands back far enough, he can blast the whole face of a barren drift with particles of gold."

She was fascinated and wanted to know. "So how can you tell if it's been done, salted, that is?"

"Because you can't blast just any kind of dust. You have to know what you're doing, because it has to be the kind that would have got there in the normal course of geological events. I heard of one instance where a man salted his mine with particles of free gold that were deeper and redder in color than usual under a microscope. A suspicious investor ran a bullion assay and proved there was a trace of copper, which is used by the Royal Mint in London to make gold hard enough for use in coinage. There's no way that dust could have come from that mine.

"Another way," he went on, "is to take a few bushels of ore from a good mine and scatter it at the bottom of a shaft or along the drift of a mine that's poor. But salting isn't as prevalent as it once was, because investors are getting smart enough and wary enough to hire the services of professionals to appraise the property."

"Why wasn't that done with your father's mine, the one that caused so much trouble?"

"It was," he said matter-of-factly, "but I heard he hired the appraiser himself, and that's why so much hell was raised when the mine played out. There were those who claimed the appraiser wasn't honest."

"And what do you think?"

"Nobody likes to think his father is capable of hornswoggling," he retorted lightly, then added with a frown, "I'd really rather talk about something else, if you don't mind. I'm not like my father. I don't worship gold. I'm like my mother. Money never meant that much to her. Land is the thing. And freedom. You could have moved her into one of those hovels carved out in the cliff and she'd have been happy. My father was always the greedy one. Not her. And I feel the same. That's why I'm interested in the vineyards, the gardens, and when I inherit this one day, I won't be living in that monstrosity of a palace he's created. I'll live simply and happily.

"With a wife who's just like my mother," he added with a caressing smile.

Jaime glanced away, not meeting his adoring eyes as she asked, "Was your mother happy with your father?"

"No. He was a tyrant, and it was bad enough even before he took Morena as his mistress, but after that my mother eventually couldn't take any more. Oh, she knew he had lovers, mistresses, from time to time, but Morena was different. Morena made up her mind she was going to get my father to divorce my mother and marry her so she could move into the mansion and have the status of wife instead of mistress. So she made sure my mother knew about her. That made my father mad, but he was too infatuated to get rid of her."

"But he didn't marry her when your mother died. How long has it been?"

"Two years. But that doesn't mean anything. I think he would have married her if not for me. He knows I blame her for Mother's death."

Jaime was curious but refrained from asking further questions. After all, they had only met that morning, and she felt somewhat disconcerted already at the way he had bared his soul to her.

Suddenly, he blurted, as though he had to share the pain, "My mother killed herself."

"Oh, Blake, I'm so sorry."

"I was the one who found her. She—"

Jaime reached to cover his hand with hers. "Really, you shouldn't be telling me all this. We're practically strangers."

His mouth curved in a mysterious smile. "You're wrong. You see, I've been waiting all my life for this, and when I walked into the dining room this morning and saw you, my heart almost stopped beating. No," he repeated fervently. "We can't be strangers, because I've known you always."

"Oh, Blake." She shook her head. "I wish you wouldn't talk this way. I'm glad we met, and I certainly appreciate your friendship, but I've only got one thing on my mind right now, and that's finding my father. I'm not looking for romance."

He took a deep breath, forced a bright smile, and yielded. "Very well. We'll let the future take care of itself, but meanwhile I want you to know I'm willing to do anything I can to help you with your search."

Jaime relaxed. They had wound up on the beach, directly below the highest point of the bluff. On one side the ocean glistened in the sun like gold flakes dusting the green waves beyond the frothy whitecaps. Bordering opposite were the cliffs, stretching skyward as though trying to touch the clouds.