Key of Knowledge

  “She also has that cute little puppy,” Malory put in.

  “I can’t get a dog right now. I know Simon would love one, but—oh, you were taking my mind off the sword.”

  “There you go.”

  Dana sat back on her heels, stretched her back. “Puppy, sword—metaphors for something. We’ll figure it out when the time comes. But if we follow this theme, Malory’s key dealt with painting. Malory’s dream was being an artist, but she didn’t have the chops for it . . .”

  She stopped, considered biting her tongue in half. “Sorry. That sounded harsh.”

  “No, it didn’t. It sounded true.” Malory stared up at the ceiling. She seemed to have the knack for this kind of painting. “I didn’t have the talent to paint, so I directed my energies into a career where I could be part of the art world in other ways. It doesn’t hurt my feelings, Dana.”

  “Okay, but you get a free kick later if you want it. Kane used Malory’s desire to paint to pull her in, to distract her from the search. But our heroine proved much too clever for him and turned the tables.”

  Malory inclined her head regally. “I like that part.”

  “It’s one of my favorites,” Zoe agreed. “Do you want to write, Dana?”

  “No.” She pursed her lips for a moment, thought about it. “No, I don’t. But I have to be around books, have them around me. I’m fascinated with the people who can and do write them.”

  “Including Jordan?”

  “Let’s not go there, at least not yet. What I’m saying is books are personal to me, the way art is to Mal. So that’s why I think my key is connected to books. I’ve got this gut instinct that it has to do with a book I’ve read. Something personal again.”

  “I’m going to do another title search, one using ‘key,’ and see what books I come up with.” Her brows drew together as she tried to puzzle it out. “The whole key-in-the-title angle may be too simple, too obvious, but it gives me another place to look.”

  “We could split it up,” Malory suggested. “If you make a list of the books you think might be the one, we could divide it into three and each take a chunk.”

  “That would help. We don’t know what we’re looking for,” Dana continued. “But we’ve got to believe we’ll know it when we see it.”

  “Maybe you should put together a list with ‘goddess’ in the title, too,” Malory told her. “My key had to do with the singing goddess, from Rowena’s clue. Yours might link to the goddess who walks, or waits, in your clue.”

  “Good thinking.” With her section of wall finished, Dana got to her feet. “God, our eyes are going to bleed. There’s this other thing.” Wanting to keep busy, she went back to her brush roller. “Your key had to do with this place, Mal, with the way he—or your head—transformed it into your fantasy of happy home, family, painting in your studio. So far, mine’s been a deserted tropical island. I don’t think I’m going to find its root here in the Valley.”

  “You don’t know where you’ll go next time.”

  Dana set down the brush and stared. “Well, gee. That’s a happy thought.”

  Chapter Eight

  SHE may have been unemployed, but Dana doubted that she’d ever worked harder or put in longer days.

  There was Moe to deal with, which she equated with having an eighty-pound toddler on her hands. He needed to be fed, walked, scolded, entertained, and watched like a hawk.

  There was the sheer physical demand of painting for several hours a day, which had considerably upped her respect for anyone who did it for a living. But as Moe came with comfort and amusement, so did the work on the building bring satisfaction and pride.

  Maybe it didn’t look like much yet—they’d decided to prime all the walls before starting on color—but when you had three determined, dedicated women working as a unit, you saw considerable progress.

  There was the design and strategy of the business she would debut in a matter of months. She had long, long lists of books, intriguing sidelines, possible styles for shelves and tables, for glasses and cups.

  It had been one thing to fantasize about owning a bookstore, but it was another matter entirely to deal with the thousands of details involved in creating one.

  Added to that were the hours of midnight oil she burned searching for the key. Reading had always been a passion, but now it was a mission. Somewhere in a book was the answer. Or at least the next question.

  And what if the answer, or the question, was in one of the books she’d assigned to her friends? What if they missed it because it would only resonate with her?

  That way lay madness, she told herself.

  On top of everything else she had to do, had to think about, had to worry about, she had to get ready for a date. A date, she reminded herself, that she should never have agreed to.

  Talk about the road to madness.

  If she canceled, Jordan would either nag and harangue her until she sliced him to pieces with a butcher knife and spent the rest of her life in prison, or, even worse, he’d get that smug, told-you-so look on his face and claim he’d only proven that she was afraid to be around him.

  In which case, it was back to the kitchen knife and life in the women’s penitentiary.

  The only choice left was to go—and to go fully armed. She would not only prove she wasn’t the least bit concerned about spending a few hours with him, she would drive him mad while she was at it.

  She knew he was a sucker for scent, so she slathered herself in perfumed body cream before slipping into what she thought of as her tonight’s-the-night underwear. Not that she would give Jordan the chance to see it, but she would know she was wearing the sexy black bra, the lacy panties, the lace-trimmed garter belt and sheer hose.

  And they would make her feel powerful.

  She checked herself in the mirror—front, back, sides. “Oh, yeah, I look just fine. Eat your heart out, Hawke.”

  She picked up the dress she’d laid on the bed. It looked deceptively simple, one long, fluid line of black. But when you put a body into it, everything changed.

  She slipped it on, gave it a few tugs, then did another turn before the mirror.

  The scoop neck took on a whole new dimension when there were breasts filling it out, rising teasingly over the edge. The column turned seductive when the slightest movement parted that long side slit and revealed the length of leg.

  She slipped on her shoes, delighted that the stiletto heels added three inches to her already impressive height. She’d never been sensitive about being tall. She liked it.

  She had Zoe to thank for the hair. She’d done it sleek and loose, with a little jeweled clip anchored between the crown and the tip of her left ear. Just another tease, Dana mused. The clip didn’t do anything but sit there and sparkle.

  She dabbed perfume at her collarbone, in the valley between her breasts, at her wrists. Then tossed her head. “You are a dead man, pal. You are meat.”

  It occurred to her that she was actually looking forward to the evening. It had been weeks since she’d dressed herself up for a date. Plus, she had to admit she was curious. How would Jordan handle himself? How, for that matter, would they handle each other? She wondered what it would be like to be with him, within the ritual of a date, now that they were man and woman rather than boy and girl.

  It was, she had to admit, exciting. Particularly exciting since she was certain he intended to win her over and she had no intention of being won.

  She leaned toward the mirror, slid murderous red on her lips, then dropped the tube of lipstick in her purse. She pressed her lips together, opened them again with a cocky little pop. “Let the games begin.”

  When Jordan knocked at exactly seven-thirty, she couldn’t have scripted his reaction any more perfectly.

  His eyes widened, blurred. She actually saw the pulse in his throat jump. Then he fisted a hand and rapped it twice against his own heart as if to get it started again.

  “You’re trying to hurt me, aren’t you?”
br />   She angled her head. “Absolutely. How’d I do?”

  “Kill shot. Am I drooling?”

  Now she grinned and turned back inside to get her coat. He stepped in behind her, leaned down and sniffed. “If I whimper, try to . . .” He trailed off as he saw the books. Piles and stacks of them beside the sofa, another stack on the coffee table, a sea of them on her dining table.

  “Jesus Christ, Dane, you need treatment.”

  “They’re not just for reading, not that there’s anything wrong with that. They’re for work and for research. I’m playing an angle on the key and I’m preparing to open a bookstore.”

  She slipped into the coat, trying not to be miffed that he now appeared to be more interested in the books than in how incredible she looked.

  “The Key to Rebecca, Key Witness, A House Without a Key. I see where you’re going here. The Key to Sexual Fulfillment?” He sent her a long, smirking look.

  “Shut up. Are we going to eat?”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” He crouched down, began flipping through pages. “You want me to take some of these?”

  “I’ve already split the load with Malory and Zoe.” She knew he’d start reading in a moment; he wouldn’t be able to help himself. In that area, they were identical twins.

  “That’s enough. Hungry here.”

  “What else is new?” He set a book back on a tower of its fellows, straightened and took another good long look at her. “Wowzer.”

  “Aw, that’s so sweet. Are we going?”

  He moved to the door to open it for her. “Where’s Moe?”

  “Romping in the park with his best friend. Flynn’s dropping him off before he goes home. Where are we eating?”

  “Just get in the car, Miss One Track Mind. You’ll get fed. How’s the painting brigade doing?” he asked once she was settled and he was behind the wheel.

  “We rock. Seriously. I can’t get over how much we’re getting done. And I have the body aches to prove it.”

  “Anything you want me to rub, just let me know.”

  “That’s a kind and selfless offer, Jordan.”

  “Just the kind of guy I am.”

  She crossed her legs, making sure the move was slow and parted the slit of her dress well up to her thigh. “But I have Chris to take care of that for me.”

  His gaze traveled down, all the way to the sharp heel of her shoe, then back up again. “Chris?” He didn’t snarl it, but he wanted to.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “And who’s Chris?”

  “A very talented massage therapist with magic hands.” She stretched, as if under those magic hands, and added a quiet little moan. Oh, yes, she thought at the quick hitch of Jordan’s breathing, she had entirely new weaponry to aim at him this time around.

  “A recommendation from Zoe,” she added. “Zoe’s going to offer a variety of treatments in the salon.”

  “And would that be Christine or Christopher?”

  She shrugged. “I got a neck and shoulder treatment this afternoon, a kind of audition. Chris passed with flying colors.” She frowned when he zoomed past the town limits. “We’re not eating in town?”

  He couldn’t breathe without breathing whatever she’d doused herself in to drive him crazy. And by the way, he thought, in case he’d forgotten she had legs that went all the way to her ears, she was going out of her way to remind him.

  If his voice was a bit tight, there were good reasons for it. “I’m feeding you and paying the bill. Venue’s my pick.”

  “It better be worthy of my outfit and my appetite, or you’ll be paying more than the bill.”

  “I remember your appetites.” He ordered himself to relax. She might be playing a hell of a game, but he hadn’t come up to bat yet. “So tell me, what is the key to sexual fulfillment?”

  “Read the book. You tell me, what pops into your head when you think of ‘key’ when it comes to literature?”

  “Locked-door mysteries.”

  “Hmm. Could be another angle. How about goddess, other than in mythology?”

  “Your femme fatale character. Like the mystery woman in The Maltese Falcon.”

  “How is she a goddess?”

  “She has the power to weave spells over a man, with sex, beauty, and lies.”

  “Huh.” Deliberately, she skimmed her fingers down the long curve of her hair. “Not bad. Something to think about.” As she did, she lost track of direction and time. It was nearly eight when she brought herself back and blinked at the big white house tucked into the hillside.

  Batter up, Jordan thought as he saw her eyes go wide.

  “Luciano’s?” Her jaw dropped. “It takes a congressional edict to get a reservation at Luciano’s this time of year. You have to book weeks in advance out of season, but in October you can’t get in even by donating blood.”

  “You’ll only have to give them a pint.” He climbed out, tossed his keys to the valet.

  “I’ve always wanted to eat here. Way out of my league.”

  “I tried to get us in for your birthday once. They didn’t laugh at me, but it was close.”

  “You couldn’t have afforded to . . .” She trailed off, and couldn’t help but go to goo inside. It was just the sort of thing he’d have done, she remembered. Unexpectedly, recklessly done. “It was a nice thought,” she told him and kissed his cheek.

  “This time I pulled it off.” He shocked her speechless by lifting her hand to his lips. “Happy birthday. Better late than never.”

  “You’re being charming. Why are you being charming?”

  “It goes with your outfit.” And still holding her hand, he led her up the steps.

  The restaurant had once been the mountain getaway of a Pittsburgh family of some wealth and influence. Dana didn’t know if it qualified as a mansion, but it certainly met all the requirements for villa with its columns and balconies and porticos.

  The grounds were lovely, and in spring and summer, even early fall, alfresco dining was offered in the courtyard so patrons could enjoy the gardens and the views along with a superbly prepared meal.

  The interior had been restored, and maintained the elegance and ambience of a well-appointed home.

  The entrance hall offered marble floors, Italian art, and cozy seating areas. Dana barely had time to absorb the light, the color, before the maître d’ hurried over to greet them.

  “Mr. Hawke, we’re so pleased you could join us this evening. Signorina, welcome to Luciano’s. Your table’s ready if you’d like to be seated. Or if you prefer I’ll have you shown into our lounge.”

  “The lady’s hungry, so we’ll take the table, thanks.”

  “Of course. Shall I take your wrap?”

  “Sure.”

  But Jordan beat the maître d’, and with a trail of fingertips along her shoulders, slipped her coat off. It was whisked away, and they were led up the grand staircase and into what she realized was a private room already prepared with a single table for two.

  A waiter materialized with champagne.

  “As you requested,” the maître d’ said. “Is this suitable for your evening?”

  “It’s perfect,” Jordan told him.

  “Bene. If you wish for anything, you have only to ask. Please, enjoy. Buon appetito.”

  He slipped away, leaving them alone.

  “When you pull it off,” Dana said after a moment, “you really pull it off.”

  “No point in doing things halfway.” He lifted his glass, tapped it gently against hers. “To moments. Past, present, future.”

  “That seems safe enough to drink to.” She sipped. “Jeez. You know what old Dom meant about drinking stars when he had his first sip of the bubbly stuff.” She took another sip, then studied him over the rim. “Okay, I’m impressed. You’re quite the big cheese these days, aren’t you, Mr. Hawke?”

  “Maybe, but it’s more knowing to use what works. And the local boy who makes good can usually get a table at a resta
urant.”

  She looked around the room, so softly lit, so private, so romantic.

  There were flowers and candles, not only on the table but on the antique server, on the long, carved buffet. The room smelled of both of them, and music—something soft with weeping violins—drifted through the air.

  A low fire burned in a black marble hearth, more candles, more flowers on the mantelpiece above it. A wide scalloped mirror reflected off it, creating a strong sense of intimacy.

  “Some table,” she said at length.

  “I wanted to be alone with you. Don’t spoil it,” he said, and covered her hand with his before she could move it out of reach. “It’s just dinner, Stretch.”

  “Nothing’s just in a place like this.”

  He turned her hand over, ran his finger down the center of her palm while he watched her face. “Then let me try my hand at romancing you. Just for one evening. I could start by telling you that just looking at you right now almost stops my heart.”

  Hers did a quick bounce, and then went thud. “You’re pretty good at it, for a beginner.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll get better.”

  She didn’t tug her hand away. It seemed wrong, a small, mean gesture when he’d gone to such trouble to give her something special. “It’s not going to mean anything, Jordan. We’re in different places than we were.”

  “Seems to me we’re both right here. Why don’t we relax and enjoy it?” He nodded to the waiter stationed discreetly just outside the room. “You said you were hungry.”

  She took the offered menu. “You’ve got that one right.”

  IT would, Dana discovered, take considerable effort and a great deal of determination not to relax and enjoy. And it would be mean-spirited. He might have cornered her into the date, but he’d gone out of his way to make it a memorable, even magical one.

  Then there was the fact that, by his own terms, he was romancing her. That was something new. As long as they’d been together, as much as they’d meant to each other, old-fashioned romance had never been particularly a part of their relationship.

  Oh, he’d certainly been capable of sweetness, if he was in the mood. And surprise. But no one, not even the most sympathetic, would ever have called the Jordan Hawke she remembered smooth or traditionally romantic.

  Then again, she’d liked his edges. They’d attracted her and they’d aroused her.

  Still, she wasn’t about to complain about being courted for one evening by a charming, entertaining man who seemed intent on providing her with a dream date.

  “Tell me what you want for the bookstore.”

  She took another bite of truly incredible sea bass. “How much time do you have?”

  “All you need.”

  “Well, first I want it to be accessible. The kind of place people feel free to stroll into, just browse around, maybe settle in for a while and read. But at the same time, I don’t want them to treat it like their private library. What I want to establish is the neighborhood bookstore, where customer service is the priority, where people like to gather.”

  “I wonder why no one ever tried that in the heart of the Valley before.”

  “I’m trying not to think about that,” she admitted. “If no one did, there might be a good reason.”

  “They weren’t you,” he said simply. “What else are you after? Are you shooting for general stock, or are you going to specialize?”

  “General. I want a lot of variety, but I worked in the library long enough to know what people in this area lean toward. So certain sections—romance, mystery, local interest—will outweigh some of the more esoteric titles. I want to