VirtualHeaven (26 page)

Maggie stood by the door for a few moments and peered about.
A large drawing board stood at one end of the room. A long table, cluttered
with the tools of an artist, sat next to it. There were coffee cans loaded with
brushes, sheets of paper, pencils, and templates. But they held no interest for
her. Cheek by jowl with the artist’s tools were two computers and a bevy of
electronic equipment she couldn’t identify.

Maggie slipped her hands into the pockets of her jeans as
she approached the computers. A well-worn chair on wheels stood askew before
one computer whose screen showed a kaleidoscope of colors twisting and moving
in fascinating repeating patterns.

She was only prolonging her pain.

She wrenched her attention to the other end of the room,
walking slowly past a tan leather couch sitting squarely in front of the windows.
A low coffee table crouched before it. Books piled there showed interests other
than art. She touched one, open face-down.
If I Never Get Back,
by
Darryl Brock. Curiosity, an itch she scratched far too often, made her lift the
book and read the front flap. She slammed the book closed and dropped it on the
table.
A time-travel
.

Finally, she could no longer avoid the right end of the
room. She squared her shoulders and held her hand to her queasy stomach.

This side of the room held three easels. Stacks of canvases
leaned against the wall and many hung helter-skelter across the white spaces.
They were pictures of the mountains beyond the windows, painted in all seasons,
all lights, and all moods. They were Tolemac in summer, Tolemac in winter,
Tolemac in earthly colors, and unearthly.

One oil painting caught and held her attention. She walked
to it like an automaton, for there, front and center on an easel, sat a
painting of Kered.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears. He had been painted face
to the wind, his hair blowing wildly behind him. A kilt molded his thighs.
Heather-covered hills filled the background.

Her hand reached out to the canvas, clutching the wide
wooden frame that held the painting. A single bold word—Townsend—had been
stroked across one corner.

Every detail of Kered was perfect. Every hair on his chest.
Every shadow of his beautiful face.

She couldn’t bear it. “No,” she practically shouted.
Her
Kered did not dwell in the Highlands
. She clutched the edge of the easel
and it tipped. The painting crashed to the floor.

A door behind her opened and closed.

Frantically, Maggie tried to right the easel and replace the
heavy oil painting, while wiping her tear-blurred eyes. She felt caught in some
demonic slapstick routine.

“Do you have something against my Highlander?” called a
voice filled with laughter.

Maggie felt heat flash up her cheeks and she ducked her head
in embarrassment. She settled the painting in the easel and tried for
nonchalance, “Actually, I’ve never much cared for half-naked men in kilts.” She
pasted a smile on her face and turned to face the artist.

The room stretched away from her as if viewed through the
wrong end of a telescope. The man standing in the wash of brilliant sunlight
cast a huge shadow across the white wall.

Maggie took one halting step toward him, hand out, throat as
dry as the Scorched Plain. “Kered. Oh, God, I’ve found you,” she whispered
right before slipping into oblivion.

Derek Townsend made a valiant attempt to catch her. He
almost made it. Luckily, she did not strike her head on anything more solid
than a pile of folded drop cloths. He knelt at her side. Unable to resist, he
reached out and smoothed the hair from her cheek. “Yes,” he said softly,
“you’ve found me. And it seems I’ve finally found you.”

Maggie woke stretched out on the long leather couch. She
moaned, then sat up. She swung her legs over the side and her gaze frantically
searched the room. Rising, she saw him standing with the housekeeper by his
computers. He turned toward her, his face blank. The pulse in Maggie’s forehead
throbbed. Her body was cold and hot at the same time, for she saw no
recognition in the artist’s expression.

Consuela bustled forward. “Are you feeling better, my dear?”

Maggie nodded to the woman, but it was the man who stood by
her shoulder who held Maggie’s eyes.

“This is Derek Townsend,” Consuela said, her hand on Mr.
Townsend’s arm.

The sunlight glinted off the artist’s wire-rimmed glasses so
Maggie was unable to see the color of his eyes. “Forgive me for that little
episode,” she said, rubbing her arms with her hands. Why didn’t he recognize
her? Or say something? “You really look like…I mean…I thought you were…I’m so
sorry.”

The housekeeper clucked with concern and felt Maggie’s
forehead and said, “I think you’ll be all right now. And he is that warrior
fellow. He doesn’t much like to be reminded, but he is. I’ll make you some
tea.” With that, she bustled off and left the room. Left them alone.

Maggie stood up and faced him. He came forward and offered
his hand. She took it in hers. The urge to tug him close was almost
overwhelming. His words prevented her from making a fool of herself.

“Miss O’Brien? Right? You’re here to interview me about
cover art?”

Despite the impassive expression on his face, the complete
lack of recognition or any sign that he knew her, he was Kered. She would know
him anywhere—in any world.

He wore his brown, sun-streaked hair pulled back at the nape
of his neck. Although he wore a faded flannel shirt and jeans, he was every
inch her lover and friend.

They spoke as strangers. “Yes,” Maggie said softly, “and I
apologize again for my behavior. I never expected—”

He gave a rueful laugh and withdrew his hand, which Maggie
realized she still held.

“I get strange reactions all the time,” he said. “In my
pauper days, when I was designing the game, it made sense to use myself as the
Tolemac warrior. Now, let’s just say, it’s inconvenient.”

They stood in awkward silence for a few moments. Then he
swept an arm out to indicate the computers. “Why don’t we get started, Miss
O’Brien?”

“Maggie,” she offered.

He nodded.

She sat at his side. Near enough to touch. A feeling of
being at sea without a sail, in a boat that just swirled along with the
current, made her dig in her tote bag for a notebook and pencil and hide her
embarrassment.

And as if it really mattered, Maggie consulted her list of
questions. Just as she had not told Kered the truth of where she had come from,
she would not tell Derek Townsend the truth of why she was interviewing him.
She’d consider it a two-fold quest—for now—a quest to discover how she could
ensure the game continued, and, at the same time, a quest to discover who this
man really was.

Consuela entered with a cup of tea and insisted Maggie drink
it. “Don’t pester Miss O’Brien,” Derek said, taking the cup and placing it at
Maggie’s elbow. “I think Miss O’Brien, I mean Maggie, seems quite recovered.”
The housekeeper left with further admonitions that Maggie drink.

“So,” Maggie said, trying to regain some semblance of a
professional demeanor, “you do cover art for Hearts on Fire Publishing. Do you
paint any covers other than romance?” How was she going to bring up the game?

“Not often. Hearts on Fire keeps me busy—”

“Excuse me. The British accent. Are you from England?”

Derek Townsend tipped his chair back and Maggie’s heart
skipped a beat. He was so large and familiar.

“My mother was British, my father a colonel in the American
Air Force.” He swiveled his chair to face the sheet of glass and gestured at
the distant mountains. “My father taught military history at the academy. I
bounced around a bit from England to here as a kid.” When he swung his chair
around to face her, she bit her tongue to keep from screaming out her
frustration.

Why didn’t he recognize her? What cruel trick had life
played on her? Instead, she kept her tone as neutral as his. “How did you come
to be the model for the covers?” She pointed over her shoulder with her pencil
in the direction of the half-naked Highlander.

Flags of color appeared on his cheeks. “It’s a long story,
but basically, I’d made up this
Tolemac Wars
game as a kid and thought
it might be a lark to fashion it into a computer game. I found some backing,
did the artwork and so on, but it wasn’t making enough money to feed me…so my
agent suggested I do cover art. Hearts on Fire gave me my first commission, and
the rest is history.” He fiddled with his keyboard. “Of course, I don’t paint
the covers in oils anymore.”

Maggie found herself staring at his face. He had beautiful skin
for a man whose tan told her he spent many hours outdoors. “Why don’t you tell
me how all this computer stuff works? And why don’t you paint in oils?”

She sat on the edge of her chair, barely able to follow what
he said. She kept searching his words for some sign he recognized her, for some
opening to mention her fears for the game’s demise.

“For years,” he said, “I did the paintings the traditional
way, but now I use the computer for everything. I go through a photo shoot with
the models in costume, then I scan in the photos I like and…paint.”

“Paint?” Maggie tried to concentrate on her notes. “Whoops,
excuse me.” She hastily dug in her tote bag to find the mini tape recorder. How
unprofessional she must appear. What if he threw her out? He had a temper.

No.
Kered
had the temper—like a swift summer storm.
She started the recorder. She could listen later, bring back each word he had
said.

“Watch. This is called a stylus,” he said, holding up what
looked like a thin plastic pencil. She thought of those doodle boards from
childhood where you could lift the plastic sheet and make your drawing
disappear. “I use the stylus just like a pencil.” He moved the stylus across a
hard plastic pad lying by the computer’s side, and on the screen an image
appeared.

Maggie stared, agog, as he sketched a face. Her face. “Now,
I can pick different options, depending on which software I’m using, and vary
the medium.” He moved the stylus to select from a drop-down menu on the screen.
As his hand moved, blue shading appeared as if rendered by chalk. “As soon as I
get the information from the art director, I start to sketch—”

“Are your sketches computerized?” Her voice was barely a
croak as she watched him work.

“Sure. Then I fax them to the art director, who changes
things to suit himself, and when I get approval, I start to work on the final
product.”

“How long does it take you to complete a cover?” Maggie
watched his deft hand as he added detail to his sketch of her. The speed with
which he worked took her breath away. In moments, she had come alive on the
screen. He drew her hair loose and flowing across her shoulder, not in a French
braid as she wore it today.

“Used to take me maybe four or five days to do a traditional
oil painting, once the art director approved the sketches.” He grinned. “Now it
takes me…four or five days. You see, the principles are the same. The computer
isn’t doing the artwork, I am. Whether I’m using the computer or not, it’s
still a composition. I need to plan the same way, balance the values, and so forth.
There’s a structure underneath, a design. That doesn’t change just because I’m
using a computer.”

He added color to her hair, highlights he could not know
existed. Maggie swallowed hard. There was a sensual aspect to the drawing,
almost as if…

“Watch.” He played with his keyboard and she disappeared
from the screen. The opening sequence of
Tolemac Wars
appeared
instead—in earthly hues. Pike’s Peak. Her heart lurched.

“This is one of the landscapes I did for
Tolemac Wars
.
I can choose to leave it the way I’ve painted it here, or I can make it
otherworldly by changing the color values. All the
Tolemac Wars
scenes
are my favorite places, altered to fit the game. I love the red rocks of
Monument Valley.” He used his stylus to make more changes. The mountain colors
shifted through various shades as he demonstrated. At red, he stopped.

“More brown.” She said it softly and he spun to face her.
They stared at each other for several long moments. Finally, he lifted the
stylus and altered the color.

“I can tint the sky, too,” he said with a touch of
hesitation. The heavens on his screen deepened through the blue scales to deep
purple.

“Darker,” Maggie instructed. “Like velvet on an ancient
king’s robe.”

He did as directed, but slowly, his head turned away so she
could not see his expression. A pulse throbbed in his temple.

Maggie desperately wanted to know if the people of Tolemac
were figments of his imagination. “How do you know what the characters should
look like?”

He rolled his shoulders a moment, then faced her again.
“Hearts on Fire always sends me a few pages of the hook describing the
characters. I read them and when the photo shoot is set up, I make sure the
costumes are correct. The little details, like hair color and eyes, I take care
of later. And I buff the pecs—”

“No,” Maggie interrupted. “The beggars. The warriors. How do
you know? I meant in…Tolemac.”

“I think them up in my head, Maggie. That’s it. I decide.”

She had nothing more to say. Her mind was blank.

He thought them up. Was she insane? Had she suffered some
collapse after the fire and simply imagined it all?

Sitting next to this man made her doubt her sanity far more
than when she’d tried to explain it all to Gwen.

“But you didn’t come to discuss
Tolemac Wars
, did
you?” His words challenged her. His expression remained as neutral as before.
He moved his head, and the sun’s glare on the lenses of his glasses concealed
his eyes as effectively as a blindfold.

Maggie shook her head. She had to get out of here. Yet the
thought of leaving him hurt. She consulted her notepad. What other excuse had
she to stay? “Do you mind discussing the issue of respect? Are you pleased to
be known as an illustrator of romance novels?” She’d almost forgotten the
question that had gained her the interview in the first place.

Derek busied himself loading another program into the
computer. “To do a cover, I need to know everything a painter doing fine art
knows. My training is classical, by the way. I’m a romantic at heart. Doing
these covers allows me to work with figures in many historical settings. It
gives me an opportunity to time-travel, so to speak. An artist must put many
elements together in a composition. If he likes what he’s doing, it shows,
regardless of the medium.”

He grinned at her. The smile reminded her of other smiles.

“I love the authors,” he said. “They’re great. They treat me
with respect. They’ll let me know if I get any details wrong, too.” Then he
frowned. “If I did science fiction covers, my work would probably be collected.
I know the
Tolemac Wars
poster gets stolen off shop walls. But when I
say I do romance covers, there isn’t the respect there.”

Maggie nodded. “I suppose the writers feel the same way. I
understand many romance authors feel they don’t get the respect writers of
other genres do.”

“I wouldn’t do anything else right now. If I can only
convince the board of directors to let me do
Tolemac Wars II
, I’ll be
busy for years.”

He wanted to keep the game going. “You have to!” Her voice
rose to a squeak. She forced herself to be calm. “I mean, everyone loves the
game. You can’t end it.”

“Yes, well, I just draw the game. I don’t control the
corporate heads.”

“Will you be the model for
Tolemac Wars II
?” she
asked with trepidation.

“No,” he said abruptly and drew a file folder toward him. He
shuffled through a neat pile of sketches. “I can’t play the part anymore,” he
said. “I’m getting too old, and the publicity is stifling.” With a flick of his
wrist, he pitched a sketch onto the desktop.

Maggie picked up the page. The Shadow Woman. The character blended
with the lights and darks of the forest in the background, her hair almost a
part of the leaves. The pendant about the woman’s neck, however, gleamed from
the dappled shade and drew the eye. “Nice.” Maggie handed it back without
further comment. If he expected a reaction, he wouldn’t get one. Her heart and
mind were frozen in a state of shock, mixed with the fear that some madness
possessed her. She could be as impassive as he.

“Mr. Derek?’’ Consuela stood in the doorway, a large tray
balanced on one arm. “Lunch?”

“Oh, my, is it lunch time?” Maggie’s chair slid away as she
leaped up. “I have to go.” She reached for her tote bag on the leather couch.

“Why not stay for lunch?” Derek suggested. “I’d like to show
you how the computer records my sketches. I can run them back like a movie from
the very first line.” He sounded exactly like an eager child wanting approval.

How could she refuse?

Consuela arranged the lunch tray on the coffee table as
Derek Townsend worked and Maggie pretended to listen. In truth, her mind
whirled like a storm over the Sacred Pool, preventing rational thought.

Half an hour later, Maggie perched in the center of the
couch and selected a chicken salad sandwich and a glass of iced tea.

“By the way, what software do you use for your writing?”
Derek asked, offering her a dish of lemon slices for her tea.

“None. I don’t own a computer. I hate them.” She fumbled the
lemon wedge into her glass.