“Yeah, he’s sugar. Why is he worried about you?”
“I think we’d better sit down.”
She told Dana everything.
“What did he look like?” Dana demanded.
“Well . . . strong face, leaning toward the ascetic side. Wait a minute—I think I can sketch it.”
She got up to take a pad and pencil from a drawer, then sat down again. “He had very well-defined features, so it won’t be too hard. But more than how he looked was the way he felt. Compelling. Even charismatic.”
“What about the house you were in?” Dana pressed while Malory worked.
“I just got impressions. It seemed so familiar in the dream, the way your home does. So you don’t notice a lot of details. Two-story with a lawn in the back, a pretty garden. Sunny kitchen.”
“It wasn’t Flynn’s house?”
Malory looked up then. “No,” she said slowly. “No, it wasn’t. I didn’t think of that. Wouldn’t you assume it would be? If it’s my fantasy, why weren’t we living in his house? It’s a great house, it’s already in my head.”
“Maybe he couldn’t use Flynn’s
house because it’s already occupied, and . . . I don’t know. It’s probably not important.”
“I think everything’s important. Everything I saw and felt and heard. I just don’t know how yet. Here . . .” She turned the pad around. “It’s rough, but that’s the best I can do. It’s a pretty decent impression of him anyway.”
“Wow!” Dana pursed her lips, whistled. “So Kane the sorcerer’s a hottie.”
“He scares me, Dana.”
“He couldn’t hurt you, not really. Not when it came right down to it.”
“Not this time. But he was in my head. It was like an invasion.” She pressed her lips together. “A kind of rape. He knows what I feel, and what I wish for.”
“I’ll tell you what he didn’t know. He didn’t know you’d tell him to kiss your ass.”
Malory sat back. “You’re right. He didn’t know I’d refuse, or that I’d understand—even in the dream—that he wanted me trapped somewhere, however wonderful, where I couldn’t find the key. Both of those things surprised and irritated him. And that means he doesn’t know everything.”
WITH considerable reluctance, Dana tagged along when Malory decided to work at Flynn’s house. It made sense, as the two paintings were there. But so was Jordan Hawke.
Her hopes that he would be out somewhere were quashed when she saw the vintage Thunderbird in Flynn’s driveway.
“Always had a thing about cars,” she muttered, and though she sniffed at the T-Bird, she secretly admired its lines, the sweep of tail fins and the sparkle of chrome.
She’d have paid money to get behind the wheel and open that engine up on a straightaway.
“Don’t know why the jerk has to have a car when he lives in Manhattan.”
Malory recognized the tone, both the sulkiness and the bitterness, and paused at the door. “Is this going to be a problem for you? Maybe we can make arrangements to see the paintings again when Jordan’s not here.”
“No problem for me. He doesn’t exist in my reality. I long ago drowned him in a vat of ebola. It was a messy, yet oddly satisfying, task.”
“Okay, then.” Malory lifted a hand to knock, but Dana nudged her aside.
“I do not knock on my brother’s door.” She shot her key into the lock. “No matter what morons he might have staying with him.”
She strode in, prepared for a confrontation. Unwilling to be so easily deflated when she didn’t see him, she slammed the door.
“Dana.”