Things That Go Hump In The Night (33 page)

NINE

There was so much that needed to get done in order to have the exhibition ready for the opening in two weeks. I forced myself to forget Ryan for a few hours and focus on my work. At four PM, we closed the west gallery, and I supervised the installation team as they packed down the kinetic exhibit in preparation for hanging Ryan's paintings. It was no easy feat. The exhibition was moving on to a London gallery, which meant that
every single
paper windmill had to be individually wrapped in tissue paper and packaged so as not to bend or squash them. I had taken my laptop in with the intention of catching up on emails while I supervised, but when it became clear we weren't going to be able to leave until midnight, I grabbed some paper and tape and joined the fray.

We didn't finish packaging flowers until nearly nine PM. When I swiped my way out of the door, I saw Ryan waiting for me, leaning nonchalantly against a pillar as if he'd only been standing there a moment. He'd changed his clothes, and now wore an exquisite pair of black jeans and a leather jacket. A pair of designer sunglasses perched on his head.

"You look …" I struggled to find the words. He looked smoking hot, more like a rockstar than a famous artist.

He gave me a brilliant smile. "I decided if I was going to take the brilliant Alex Kline out for dinner, I should look worthy of her company."

I blushed. "I'm sorry. Things took longer than they were meant to. I never want to see another paper pinwheel for as long as I live. How long have you been waiting? Do we still have a booking?" I asked him, my chest swelling as he grabbed my hand and started pulling me toward the street.

"I haven't been waiting long," was his reply. A cab waited on the pavement, the engine idling. Ryan held the door of a cab open for me.

"What? No limo?" I joked. "In the movies, billionaires always drive around in limousines."

"A limo seemed awfully tacky," he replied. "I won't stay rich if I spend all my money on frivolous indulgences. You're talking to a guy who used to slum it in Belfast, remember?"

"With all due respect, there's slumming it, and then there's
slumming it
. Actual poverty versus what spoiled rich kids do when they've read too much Hunter S. Thompson and want to be rebellious." I settled myself into the seat. "That leather jacket must have cost a pretty penny, Mr. Slumming It."

"And I don't regret a single cent," he replied, as he bent down and kissed me.

The kiss shocked me, but as soon as his lips were against mine, I was completely under his spell, his smell and touch intoxicating me. I opened my lips and he slipped his tongue inside my mouth, probing into the warmth. He lifted his hands to my cheeks, pulling my face against his, forcing himself deeper. I tried to wrap my arms around his torso, to pull him into the cab, longing to feel the strength of his muscles pressed against my skin, but the door was in the way.

He pulled away. I leaned back, struggling for breath, my mind racing.
Why has he stopped? Does he not want me? Am I so terrible that even though he hasn't seen a woman for ten years, he is completely turned off by me?

I hid my disappointment behind anger. "That wasn't fair."

He grinned at me wickedly. "No way, it was completely fair. I'm just making certain you have all the facts before you make your choice, Alex."

"What choice?"

He hopped into the seat beside me, and nodded to the driver, who pulled out into the street without a word. Ryan lowered his head toward me and whispered, so the driver couldn't hear, his breath tickling my ear. "I heard you this morning, and I respect your needs. You want to be able to choose your mate, to be in control of your destiny. That's what frightens you about me and what I've told you – you fear your choice has been taken away. Well, I am giving you back that choice. You may take me as yours, or reject me, and I will not force anything upon you. You did not ask for any of this, and I respect that. But, I want you, Alex, and I am used to getting what I want. I aim to show you what a life with me might be like."

I jammed my hands under my legs, and closed my eyes. It was so hard to think when he was right there beside me in the car, the scent of his skin mingling with the leather of the seats. I'd only known him for two days - it was far too soon for me to say whether he was…a
mate
. I tested the word under my breath.
My mate
. It was so primal, so protective, so much better than "boyfriend". It felt almost…
natural.

I shook my head. I barely knew the guy. Sure, it felt as if I'd known him for years, because I'd lived and breathed his artwork for so long, but Ryan was not his paintings. He was infinitely more fascinating, more confident, more seductive...

It's your choice,
his words echoed in my mind. He was giving me what I wanted. So, I would give him what he wanted – a chance to win me over.

The cab pulled over. Ryan grinned at me. "We're here." He quickly paid the driver, jumped out of the cab and came around to open the door for me. I stepped out, my head spinning as if I'd already consumed a few glasses of wine.

I was surprised to see we hadn't stopped in front of a restaurant. Instead, we'd parked at a small, log cabin-style home, at the end of a quiet street bordering Crookshollow forest. The front path was decorated with fairy lights, and comical witch figurines and ceramic cats peeked up from between the garden rows.

Ryan marched right up to the door, and raised his hand to knock, but before he could, the door swung open, and a petite woman of about sixty pulled open the door. She wore several long black wool shawls and dangly crystal earrings that brushed against her shoulders. Her jet-black hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a loose bun, wisps of it dangling free, framing her kind face and piercing, intelligent eyes.

"Well, well," she drawled, her hand on her chest. "Ryan Raynard, as I live and breathe. You give an old woman a heart attack, calling out of the blue like that, and then arriving two hours late for dinner. I thought I'd be six feet under before I saw you outside the walls of Raynard Hall again."

"I thought so, too." He smiled at her in a tender way. I glanced between them, wondering who she was, and why they seemed to know each other. Why had he brought me here to see a strange old lady?

Ryan stooped down and embraced her, instantly becoming lost in her swathe of black shawls. She patted his back, then pushed him away. "That's enough sentiment from you. I don't want your lady friend to get the wrong idea."

He snorted, and she threw back her head and laughed. She turned to me, picking up my hand and holding it between hers. "You must be Alex," she said. "Come in, come in. Ryan has told me all about you. I'm Clara. I imagine he's told you nothing about me."

"Absolutely nothing at all," I replied, feeling instantly at ease around the woman.

"That is like him," she laid a hand on my shoulder and led me deeper into the house. It was like no house I'd ever seen before. The dark wood walls were nearly completely obscured by all manner of art and ephemera; beautiful impressionist paintings hung next to postcards from Las Vegas dive bars and framed paintings of happy-looking people in strange costumes. I peeked into a cosy looking living room, and spied a Ryan Reynard original hanging over the fireplace. Dark, antique furniture was crammed into every corner, every surface crammed with candle stubs, crystals, old leather books yellowed with age, and realistic statues of foxes and wolves leaping and howling. I leapt back as a black cat jumped down from a velvet-covered settee and streaked across the hall.

Clara squeezed my shoulder. "Don't mind Clarence. He's always jumpy around strangers. There was a little boy living next door who used to pull his tail, and he's never quite got over it."

"I hope you gave him a stern word, Clara," said Ryan. "We can't have a young lad thinking that sort of behaviour is okay."

"Oh," she smiled, her eyes dancing. "Don't you worry; I gave him more than a word. Come through here – I've set up for you outside. Alex must be starving." Clara led us out a back door. Outside was a wooden porch overlooking a picturesque garden that faded into the dark wood beyond. Fairy lights lined the path to a wooden gazebo entwined in wisteria, beneath which a small table had been set with candles and silverware for two. Champagne chilled in a silver carafe on one side of the table. On the other, steam poured from beneath a silver dish, warmed with the flame of a small candle placed underneath.

"This is beautiful," I whispered. My stomach rumbled loudly. Clara was right- I
was
starving.

"I thought you'd like it," Ryan replied. He pulled out a seat, and gestured for me to sit. I did so, gingerly, not wanting to upset the delicate tablecloth and posy of flowers beside my place.

"Tonight's menu is a watercress salad, followed by
coq au vin
in a red wine reduction," said Clara. "And bitter chocolate torte for dessert. Ryan, do stop fussing and sit down. I'll pour the champagne. Those big, clumsy paws of yours can't be trusted not to spill."

"Wait, Ryan, this isn't right. Clara is your friend. She can't serve us out here like a…like a servant."

"This was her idea," Ryan said. "I came to Clara because I haven't taken a woman out in a very long time, and she's the closest thing to a woman I know."

"Ryan!" But his cruel words only made Clara laugh. She cupped her hand on my shoulder and waved my protests away.

"In my day, I cooked at the finest kitchens in London, Paris, New York…It does this old heart proud to see Ryan here with a beautiful young thing like yourself."

"Clara, please come sit with us," I begged.

"Nonsense. You two make yourselves at home and I'll fetch the first course." She bustled away, singing under her breath as she disappeared into the house.

I leaned over the table and whispered to Ryan. "Is Clara a shifter, too?"

He shook his head, laughing. "No, and if she were, she'd have such keen hearing she'd be able to listen to you talk about her even when you're whispering. Clara is a witch. She comes from a long line of witches that have had a close tie with Crookshollow. She's very special to me, as you'll find out, and I don't get out to see her nearly enough. Sometimes, when you're used to being alone, even the idea of visiting people who are truly dear to you seems too much."

"You haven't seen her in ages, and you made her slave away in the kitchen, cooking us
coq au vin!
"

"I made the food in Clara's kitchen, while she bustled around me, adding two pints of cooking sherry to everything and trying to steal all the chocolate." He raised his glass. "Let us toast."

"What are we toasting?"

"To you, Alex – the beautiful, charming,
infuriating
lady who wandered into my mansion, and my life." Ryan held up his glass. Feeling my face grow hot, I raised my own, touching the glass to his. I would never normally fall for such blatant flattery, but Ryan made it sound both utterly sincere and extremely sexy.

Clara brought out the salads. We both dug in. As soon as the first leaf was on my tongue, I realised how famished I was. I wolfed down my salad with hardly a word, stopping only to lubricate my mouth with wine.

"Ryan?" I asked, setting down my knife and fork as soon as I was done. "If you are happy being a recluse, why did you decide to have an exhibition? Why now?"

He put down his fork, and sighed. "I wondered when you'd ask that."

"It just strikes me as strange, is all."

"There's more to this story than you know, Alex, but I didn't want to hit you with all of it last night. You might have heard some stories about my father? How he found some witches in the forest, and they cursed him into leaving the manor abandoned while he fled to the Scottish highlands?"

I nodded.

He turned to Clara, who had arrived with the main course. "Meet the witch he found in the forest that night."

"It isn't like the stories say," Clara said, as she cleared away my empty bowl, and placed a delicious smelling chicken breast in front of me, piled high with mushrooms and drizzled in a glorious red wine sauce. "We became lovers, but Alistair was consumed with his torn feelings. He came from a long line of vulpines who believed in the importance of keeping the bloodlines pure. Men in the Raynard family only mated with other pureblood vixens, ensuring their line continued untainted by ordinary human genes. Taking up with someone like me, who did not have any shifter heritage…it was an insult to his entire family, and they let him know it. But, he was a man of violent passions, and as much as it tore him up inside, he couldn't stay away from me."

Clara smiled, and she suddenly appeared decades younger – her beauty immobile, made even more luminous by the wisdom of her years. I knew then that theirs had been a great love, for what man could have found her in the forest and not been utterly mesmerised by her?

"We were as careful as we could be, but still I fell pregnant. Alistair's father told him on no uncertain terms that if I had the child, Alastair would be disinherited. Alastair said he did not care. They were out hunting in the forest, and they got into a bitter fight. His father bit Alistair on the neck, accidentally opening a vein and killing him."