Page 24 of The Promise
She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong. "Nick, stop it. You're hurting, me."
He leaned forward, his glacial eyes boring into hers. "My dear, I simply won't take no for an answer." The icy fury in his eyes scared her. He was close enough now she could smell the gin on his breath.
"I believe the lady said no."
If the situation hadn't been so frightening, it would have been absurd. Michael stood in the bedroom doorway clad in his jeans and her tee-shirt. What had served as a nightshirt for her, barely fit over his broad shoulders. The cotton clung to his muscles, outlining the hard lines of him and displaying the grossly distorted figure of Tweety Bird across his chest.
Nick rose, dragging her with him, then froze, obviously completely thrown by the man in the doorway. Cara jerked free, and took a step in Michael's direction.
"Who the hell are you?" Nick's normally elegant voice was lost in his anger, his classic good looks marred by the rage etched on his face.
"The cat."
Cara watched as Nick pulled himself together, schooling his face into the social equivalent of bland, his gaze going first to Cara, then Michael, then back to Cara again. "And does the cat have a name?"
Cara opened her mouth to answer, but Michael was faster.
"Michael Macpherson. And I think it's about time that you were going."
Nick's mouth twitched at the corner, the only sign that Michael's words affected him. With a shrug he focused his attention on Cara. "I'm sorry if I upset you, Cara mia. I'm afraid I got carried away." He moved to touch her, but Michael moved faster, stepping neatly between them.
"I said it's time for you to go."
Nick was in full control again, cool composure masking any hint to his real feelings. "Very well. We'll talk later."
Cara poked her head around Michael. "I'm not changing my mind, Nick."
"I understand. I shouldn't have overreacted. It's just that I wanted them so badly. Forgive me, darling?" He actually managed to look contrite.
Cara smiled weakly. "Of course." Anything to get him out of here before Michael throttled him.
With a last blistering look at Michael, Nick strode into the mud room. A few seconds later the door slammed behind him, rattling the windows.
Cara blew out a long breath, her eyes meeting Michael's. "He wouldn't have hurt me. He was just angry about the paintings."
"Maybe not, but I didn't think it was worth taking the chance."
She sank onto the sofa, grateful for its support.
Michael sat in the easy chair, leaning forward, his blue eyes filled with concern. "Are you sure you're all right?"
Cara smiled. "I'm fine. Besides, isn't that supposed to be my line? You're the one who got shot." She leaned back and closed her eyes. "Maybe we should clarify a few things."
"Fine by me. I'll start. Tell me about your paintings, the ones that Nick wants so badly."
Cara opened her eyes, surprised at the turn of the conversation. She'd been expecting him to talk about being shot not her artwork. "There's not much to tell. Once when I was a kid, I stumbled on the ruins of an old mine up in the mountains. It was a long way from here. Straight up the canyon, something like five or six miles past the tunnel where I found you. I'm not good at distances.
"Anyway, I managed to climb up to a ridge of sorts, nestled in a valley, and there it was, perched on the top of the mountain, defying nature. There wasn't much left. Fallen timbers and a sink hole. The remnants of a shack of some kind—one window, unbroken, silhouetted against the sky. It seemed so lonely there, sort of lost in time. So I sketched it from various vantage points.
"Then a few months ago, I came across the sketches, and remembered the mine. I tried to find it again. I went to where I remembered it being. But it wasn't there. I guess it had been toolong. Whatever had been there was gone. Anyway, for whatever reason, it still called to me. So I painted it. But I never could seem to get it right—to capture the magic. So I painted it again and then again. Each time using a different angle and different light. The result being the series of paintings Nick was talking about."
"One of the paintings is calledthe Promise?"
"Yes, that's the only one Nick's actually ever seen."
"So why did you call it that?" His voice tight, almost tense.
"My grandfather used to talk about a silver mine named the Promise. It was lost, too. Like my mine. Made me think of all the hopes and dreams that died in those mountains." She shrugged. "So I named the painting after it. It just seemed right somehow. Why do you ask?"
