Somewhere I'll Find You (14 page)

Shrugging as she sipped from her own glass, she studied him over the rim. 
“
I have to support myself somehow.  But one day  . . .” Her voice drifted away while she stared at the papers that held her private hopes and dreams.  “You’re not the only o
ne who wants out of the peg
you’ve been plopped in.  At least you’re a man.  A woman, no matter what side of the camera that she’s on, is still only a woman.  Did you know I wrote the script for your last two pictures?”

Puzzled
,
he swirled the drink in his hand.  “It’s not your name listed on the credits.”

“No, and it probably never will be.  Don’t misunderstand me, I’m lucky to be working at all, and as long as I get a paycheck, does it matter whose name is on the credits?”

****

The sudden flapping as the reel spun to an end brought Michael and Paige gradually back to reality.  Astounded, they looked at each other, somehow knowing that each shared and experienced a portion of someone else’s life.

Blinking
,
Paige moved
away
from Michael, desperately trying to gather her thoughts. 
Is this some ne
w
part of my gift?  Never before have I tapped into the thoughts of another person without some connection.  And besides, what does all of this have to do with me . . . with him . .
. with
us?

Turning to flip the switch on the projector, she seemed to see Michael for the first time.  Midnight hair curled about the nape of his neck, framing an aristocratic face. His features were fine and even, with eyes
that were
not quite green but flecked with gold.  It was the face of someone who had seen the best and worse that life had to offer.  And had survived.
  Serena’s words echoed in her mind. 
“
It’s his eyes, I think.  He looks at you and really sees you.  There’s something seductive
but dangerous about that kind of total focus in a man.”

Not for
her
, Paige promised herself.

Shivering, she realized that time had escaped them
, and
its swift passage deepened her muddled emotions.  Moving to the fireplace, unanswered questions ran through her mind. 
Who is this man?  How did he know of a cache that even I didn’t known about?
And what about its contents?

Obviously, the same thoughts were whirling through his mind.  “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve lived here all this time and didn’t look into its history?  How long exactly have you lived here?”

Startled, she glanced over her shoulder. 
“I’ve lived here just over two years and why on earth would I care
about
who lived here previously?”

But why didn’t I know about the cache?

Michael’s mind swirled in a mire of confusion.  His years of training all told him there was more to this than she was telling.  And yet . . . something nagged
at him . . .
fleeting images of people and places of which he had no knowledge.
 

He wiped a hand wearily down his face. 
“Look, for right now, your fondness for privacy works in our favor.  Whoever was at the mansion obviously hasn’t been here, so I suggest we make the best of a bad situation.”

“And
how, exactly, do you
suggest
we do that?
” she asked suspiciously.

“At the moment? 
We eat
.
  You have food here, don’t you?
”

“What?”  Of all the things on her mind,
cooking
was the last
on the list
.

“Why don’t you get settled . . . see if there is a place for me to bunk,” Michael suggested gently, projecting an air confidence he was far from feeling. 
How long
have we got
before someone tracks us here?
But he didn’t let his uneasy question show in his face.
 
“In the meantime, I’ll throw us something together.”

“You’re going to cook?” She didn’t know if she should laugh or throw something
at him. 

“Don’t be such a chauvinist, O’Neal.”  Michael’s eyes glinted.  “You might just be surprised.”

She was.

He sorted through the meager contents of
her
refrigerator and lined up ingredients neatly
on an old pine table.  Then he went to work, silent, and intent, competent in
th
is
,
as he seemed to be in so many other things.

Paige watched, amazed.  First came
a handful o
f crushed mint, and the juice of
two limes in a bow
l.  Next, came a trace of garlic, a single piece of rosemary and freshly ground pepper.

The man really can cook – and it looks like he’s actually
enjoying
it.  Where does a transatlantic playboy learn to navigate a kitchen like this?

Michael smiled at her obvious shock.
  He’d learned at his mother’s knee all the arcane mysteries of stockpot, roux, and
foie gras
, and was utterly comfortable in the kitchen.  Some of his warmest childhoo
d memories, in fact, were of his mother’s
large, window-lined kitchen filled with sun
light
and wonderful scents
.
 
But Michel shuddered to think what
Alena
Ro
stov
Sinclair,
nouvelle cuisine
virtuoso and sister
-in-law
to one of the finest chefs in all of France, would have thought of this particular meal.

It certainly didn’t help that part of his mind was on the unknown
assailant back at the mansion, and of the shot aimed at one of them. 
And what about those strange visions that I keep having?  Has the stress of all the years of living in the shadows finally caused me to crack? 

Cursing when he nearly set his cuff on fire
as he wrestled
a plate of grilled salmon with lime sauce
away
from a stove that
had
definitely seen better days
, he tried to pull his mind back to what he was doing
. 
How does the woman manage to cook for herself on this thing?

While these thoughts churned through Michael’s head, Paige sat silently at the
end of the table.  Chin in
hand;
she watched his swift, efficient movements, utterly hypnotized and unaware of the tumble of thoughts that crashed behind his eyes.

The fish was perfect. She had purchased
the
salmon
but had been too tired
after her trip from the museum to prepare it, so she’d left it
here in the fridge
for later.  And she doubted if her efforts would have come anywhere near the meal that he had prepared.

He seemed at home in her kitchen –
they seemed at home together.

Uneasy at the increasingly personal dire
ction her thoughts had taken
, she poured two glasses of a French vintage,
given to her
on a recent birthday.

Paige studied
the grilled fish, the golden slices of pan-fried French bread, and bananas cooked in brown sugar.  “Amazing.  It smells wonderful.”

He se
t the plates on the table, r
aising a brow at Paige’s contribution.  “Chateau Climens ’49?” There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes.  “You shouldn’t have, Ms. O’Neal.”

“
I
didn’t.
  Not with two homes to keep up.  It was a gift.  I’
ve always thought that red wine
made a perfect match to a full flavored meal like this.  And rules be damned.”

The crystal glinted in the candlelight as he raised his glass.  “Here’s to good wine, and rules be damned.”

In her mind, Paige could clearly see two others sitting as she and Michael sat now.  Only there was love in those other people’s eyes – a touching of hands across the table.   A bond between them she was likely never to know
.

Lifting his fork, Michael noticed she had barely touched the flakey salmon, making a production out of rearranging the food on her plate
instead
.  “So what do you know about this secluded hideaway of yours?”

His question shattered the visions she had been seeing.  “Know?”  Placing down her for
k
, she lifted her glass, sipping carefully.  “
I don’t
know
anything. 
It’s
just
a perfect place to get my head together.  The other house –
between
parties, business meetings . . . it’s never been as much
of
a home to me as this place is.  That is
, until now.” 
Shoving back her chair, Paige looked about with new eyes.  “I always knew that the mansion was connected to Fletcher, but here?
”  She shrugged.
 
“
Now if this had been a boat . . . a real sailor’s yacht like the
Zaca
was . . .
that
,
I could have believed.  I suppose that I should have done more research but
. . .”

“Go on,” Michael urged as he shoved her plate in front of her. 

Picking at her fish, she gestured with h
er shoulders.  “He had her -
the
Zaca
,
I mean -
completely refurbished, and
,
in 1945 sailed her to Acapulco on a scientific expedition that turned into a fiasco.  After everyone jumped ship, Fletcher trai
ned a Mexican crew and rented the
boat out to
Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth for the filming of
The Lady from Shanghai
.”