The Colors of Love (31 page)

Tonight, the moon would set shortly after midnight, leaving the stars clear and bright. When she got out of here, she would treat herself to an hour with the telescope up on Mount Walker.

* * *

Mac McKenzie ran up the stone stairs of Manresa Castle and yanked open the door. Inside, he recognized Jenny Denver behind the lobby counter, gave her a wave and a smile.

"Mac!" called a husky voice from the library. "You're late!"

Lydia. He greeted her with a light kiss on the cheek.

"You promised you'd help with registration," she complained. "You're hours late. We've already eaten. I kept a seat for you."

That desperate, just-divorced look in Lydia's eye had him stepping back, tempering his motion with a smile. Whatever she thought, she needed a friend more than a lover at this stage.

"Sorry I missed dinner." From the noise filtering down from the banquet room, he figured the reunion was off to a fine start. "How's the crowd? Good turnout?"

"Everybody except you. You
promised
you'd help at the registration table."

The promise she referred to had been a casual
maybe,
but she was strung brittle and he didn't contradict her.

"Couldn't be helped, Lydia."

He'd stayed late at the shipyard, sanding
Lady Orion's
hull and hoping Jake would turn up, resisting the urge to jump into his pickup and start cruising the streets. He might not have found the way to get to the kid yet, but he knew damned well that chasing after him like a nervous mother wouldn't do the job.

"What have we got?" he asked now, spotting the sheaf of papers in Lydia's free hand. "Thanks for getting these."

"It was a pain getting everyone to fill this out. What do you need all this information for?"

"Keeps the mailing list up to date," he said absently, sorting through the forms to check the out-of-towners. The first few he already knew. The pediatrician might have been a good resource if he weren't Tabby Jones, but Blake wasn't about to expose his kids to a negative bastard like Tabby.

Lydia grasped his arm and started pulling him toward the stairs. He could hear the sounds of Tony Dickson's guitar tuning up in the banquet room.

"A research chemist," he muttered, thinking of Jake's eyes. The kid had imagination, brains. Too damned many brains for the lifestyle he was falling into, but chemistry? No, too sterile.

"Mac," Lydia murmured, her breasts pressing against his arm. "Let's dance. Just you and I."

He felt a brief stirring in his loins, a memory of long-ago shared pleasures with Lydia.

"I'm not in much of a dancing mood, Lydia. Do you think there's any food left up there?"

He spotted a word written in smooth handwriting on the bottom line of the next form: ASTRONOMER.

Claire Welland.

Claire. A picture formed in his mind, big dreamy eyes staring up at him through impossibly thick glasses. He wondered if she'd been seeing stars all through high school, whether it was the heavens that had put that faraway look in her eyes and kept her from focusing on the world below.

He wondered if Jake had ever looked
up,
wondered how the kid would react to those big blue eyes behind the thick glasses. He shuffled the papers into a neat pile, folded them and stuffed them in his pocket.

It was an outside chance. Nothing else had worked, but who knew? He might hook the kid with astronomy.

"Right," he told Lydia, gaining distance by grasping her hand and placing it on his arm. "Let's check out the music."

"Hey, Mac!" someone shouted as he reached the top of the stairs. He waved, smiled, and walked on, looking for blond hair tied back, thick glasses. He couldn't see her, but she'd probably be standing off to the edge of the crowd, her nose in the book she would have snatched up in the library before coming in to dinner.

Fifteen years later, what would Claire Welland be wearing? Probably big glasses, a straight skirt, and a plain blouse covered by a loose sweater. Her head would be bowed over her books, and her eyes—big, fathomless blue eyes. She would look up, eyes wide and startled, like a deer in headlights.

He shook himself free of the crazy spell. Untouchable Claire, whose eyes he'd never really forgotten. She would have fainted with horror if she'd had a clue what thoughts her eyes stirred in a wild teenage boy.

No one was dancing yet, but Tony's guitar was tuned and the warm up had turned into an old Bruce Springsteen tune. Mac saw Don Henley and stopped.

"Hey, Don. Any word on Jake's court date?"

"Check with me Monday. How're you doing with him?"

"Coming along," said Mac, hoping it was true. "Say hello to Wendy. I'll stop by your office Monday and we'll talk about Jake."

Lydia tugged on his arm and he knew she'd be hurt if he tried to shove her off onto Don. "Let's dance, Lydia, before the rest of the guys cut me out. Just let me get us some decent music."

He walked over to Tony, Lydia still clinging to his arm, and murmured a request.

"You got it, Mac." Tony signaled to the other guys in the group as he changed gears in mid-song.

Fast music, pulsing guitar, Lydia a blessed two feet away. He must be getting old, arranging to speed up the music so he could keep his distance, but it was better than hurting her feelings by refusing to dance.

Where the hell was Claire? He needed her for Jake, damn it. If she'd slipped out already, he'd have to figure out where she was staying. If he was lucky, she'd be right here at Manresa Castle. Certainly the quiet, old-fashioned walls would suit the studious bookworm she'd been in high school. As soon as the dance ended, he'd check with Jenny at the desk.

Lydia moved into his arms as the music shifted again. Over her head, Mac saw a woman outlined against the window casement, just a glimpse before a broad back blocked her from his sight.

* * *

Across the room, Claire Welland eased herself back from the prematurely balding man who eyed her speculatively as he poured himself a drink from the punch bowl.

"You've been away for a while, haven't you?"

"Yes," she agreed, hiding a smile. He didn't know who she was, any more than she knew him.

"Claire," he said, his eyes clinging to her nametag, then lingering to study the curve of her breasts.

"That's right." Behind her, the band started playing another song she didn't recognize. Noise, she thought. Too much noise.

"Claire," he repeated again, and she wished she'd had the sense to stay out of Port Townsend this week. She had no more idea how to make meaningless conversation with people she didn't care about than she'd had fifteen years ago, the night her father insisted she attend her graduation prom.

It had been emotional torture for a nerdy teenager. Fifteen years later, she felt bored and she wished she hadn't come, but at least she'd ditched the shyness.

"Would you like to dance?"

"I'm not much of a dancer."

He wasn't wearing a nametag, which probably meant he was local, that he'd never left Port Townsend and simply expected everyone to know him.

"I'm sorry. I don't remember your name."

"Barry." His eyes lingered on her bodice again. "Let me get you a drink."

A few minutes later, when he pressed the drink into her hand, she felt the skin crawl along the back of her neck, as if someone were standing close behind her. Too close.

She turned her head and fought the urge to gasp audibly.

"Hello, Claire." His deep voice was husky with just a hint of gravel.

"Blake McKenzie," she said breathlessly. She lifted her glass and sipped, reminding herself sternly that she was a mature woman, not a dreamy teenager.

"Hey, Mac!" said Barry.

Everyone had called him Mac in school, but she hadn't. She hadn't called him anything, not to his face, but in her mind he'd always been Blake, as if she were the only person in the world—other than the teachers—who called him by his given name.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned his head, giving her a view of waving black hair curling over his collar. She took a careful breath and sipped again. If he turned back, she'd say something casual. After all, she was an adult, perfectly capable of having a cool conversation with a man who'd once turned her adolescent dreams uncomfortably hot.

He hadn't changed. Black hair, black eyes with that rebellious hint of irreverent laughter. He wore a sports jacket, better fitting than the one his shoulders had strained against the night of the grad dance, but he still had that hell-raising half grin and those big muscular hands that had been surprisingly gentle when they gripped her arms that day in Chem class.

He hadn't changed, but
she
had.

"Welland," said Barry, standing closer now. "Claire Welland. You're the physics teacher's daughter. I remember now. You've changed."

"Fifteen years does that," she said, wishing she'd refused to come. Then Blake turned back and her breath caught. How crazy that he could still make her nervous.

"Dance?" asked Blake.

She swallowed and told herself to stop this nonsense. He was just a man, a very muscular, physical sort of man. His eyes still had that alert watchfulness, that overlay of mischief, though he'd never turned it on her.

"What did you say?"

"Dance with me. I want to talk to you."

Crazy panic welled up, and she told herself his closeness was because of the noise,
must
be because of the noise.

"She doesn't dance," shouted Barry.

All these voices, sharing memories, but not
her
memories. Brenda, her one friend in high school, was firmly settled on an experimental farm in Michigan.

Blake touched her arm and somehow, crazily, she moved toward the dance floor with him.

"You don't want to dance with me."

"Yeah, I do." He gave her the half smile she'd seen him romance Lydia with, the same smile he'd turned on Sherry Miller before he and Lydia became a couple. It meant nothing, of course, a trick of facial structure and musculature.

"It's nice to see you," she said, realizing it was true, that afterward, she'd enjoy describing him to Jenn.

He
had
changed, of course. Fifteen years hadn't left him untouched. His face had always been harshly drawn, dangerous, but now the lines were deeper, the eyes quieter. Changed, but she would have recognized him anywhere.

Jenn would call him a hunk. She supposed it was something about muscles, strength that didn't come from the gym, and that smile. He must do something physical for a living, something very male. They'd have nothing in common, of course, but the man was definitely built to fuel female fantasies.

"Come on," he urged, turning that smile on her again.

"I really don't dance."

"We'll just shuffle around and pretend."

She shook off that sense of unreality and stepped into his arms. One dance, then she'd get out of here, take the telescope in the back of her SUV and go outside where she belonged, under a sky full of stars.

Moody music playing, and Blake McKenzie's arms around her. She smiled, thinking of all the times she'd dreamed this particular fantasy back in her senior year. She'd grown out of it, but Jenn would never forgive her if she didn't dance at least one dance.

"Mac!" someone shouted.

"I don't mind if you want to talk to—"

"But I mind." He turned and she found herself staring over his shoulder at the crowd of people, some faces she almost remembered, and wondering what on earth they'd talk about for the next three minutes until the song ended.

"Do you still live here?" she asked. "Work here?"

"I've got a shipyard down near the port."

"Shipyard?" It sounded very Port Townsend, but she hadn't a clue where to go from there. Even though she'd lived in here for four years, she'd never been on anything smaller than the Washington state ferries.

"I build wooden boats."

Over his shoulder, she was suddenly looking straight at Lydia, the other woman glaring back at her with fury in her eyes.

"I suppose Port Townsend is a good place for wooden boats, what with the annual Wooden Boat Festival."

Someone bumped against her and Blake skillfully turned her out of range. "What about you, Claire?"

She felt warmth from his hand under hers, heat seeping through the fabric of his jacket. If she were one of his girls, a high school sweetheart, she'd slide closer now, pressing her body against that broad chest, turning her face to press lips against his throat.

Of course she wasn't, and she wouldn't.

"You're an astronomer," he murmured against her ear.

She carefully put a little more distance between them. No wonder Lydia had looked as if she were wandering around on another planet. The man had very potent sex appeal. "How do you know I'm an astronomer?"

"That form you filled out. Do you teach? Work in an observatory?"

"You read my information form?"

"Yes." He grinned, reminding her of all the times she'd seen him sitting outside the principal's office. "Tell me about life as an astronomer."

"Why?" She pulled back and looked at him suspiciously. Had he turned into the sort of man who came on to every new woman who crossed his path?

"Tell me about your work, Claire, and I'll tell you why I want to know."

"It's too noisy to talk here."

"Let's get out, then."

"I didn't mean—"

But he'd grabbed her hand and was leading her away.

She jerked him to a stop. "Look, Blake, I'm finding this a little strange."

"Come on. We'll talk outside."

"Why should—"

Someone bumped into her, throwing her against him. He slipped his arm around her, for protection she supposed, looked over her head and said coolly, "Hello, Wayne."

"Just wanted to take your lady here for a spin," said an alcohol-hazed voice. "Dance with me, lady?"

"Too late," said Blake. "We're leaving."

"Hey, Mac, that's not fair." The man who'd wanted her to dance stumbled a little, then grinned foolishly. "Hey, gorgeous, wanna dance?"

"Back off," said Blake softly in a voice that sent shivers down Claire's spine. Then he turned their bodies to place himself between her and her inebriated admirer.