Where the Heart Is by Elizabeth Lowell
The pool sent up shimmering promises of coolness and pleasure. A faint breeze rising from the bottom of the wild ravine far below picked up the ravishing scent of flowers and spread it throughout the house. Southern California’s magnificent light poured through every window in silent golden torrents.
Cain stood in the center of the first level of the house and turned around slowly, trying to take it all in. He had never felt so much at home in any place on earth. Everything from the soft gleam of wooden floors beneath his feet to the smooth, cream-colored walls and open beamed ceilings called out to his senses.
Shelley’s home was both civilized and deeply wild. The wildness was there in the view that was a part of the architecture. The hills were so high that they would have been called mountains almost anywhere else in the world. Their stony flanks were thick with chaparral, sandpaper-dry, and so rugged that even the land hunger of metropolitan Los Angeles couldn’t wholly conquer them. Nothing walked the steep hillsides and deep ravines except animals that had never been tamed by man.
Cain understood the appeal of that kind of landscape. He had sought it all over the world. The fact that L.A. still had such areas close at hand was one of the reasons it was his home base.
Obviously Shelley had felt the same. A few hundred feet from the road winding up to her house, the land itself hadn’t changed since the day a Spanish sea captain mistook a continent for a fabled island and called it California.
Silently he studied the land surrounding her home. Shelley’s house and those nearby were a glittering necklace flung in solitary splendor along the crest of steep hills. Far below, the thin ribbon of road leading to the homes was barely visible where chaparral gave way to solid rock.
More shining necklaces of homes stood on the ridgelines of other hills that marched in rising lines from the ocean to the high mountains farther inland. Those hills were broken by occasional long valleys where cities clustered and crowded and consumed the land.
But not here, not on Shelley’s hill. Here the land breathed and flexed like the wild, living thing it was.
“Magnificent,” he said.
Cain didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t even know he had spoken his thought aloud. He was focused, intent. He absorbed the elemental harmony of land and house into his very bones.
Gradually other things drew his attention away from the dry, rugged hills. The room itself had groupings of understated furniture whose colors and textures subtly echoed the view. Scattered throughout the huge, light-filled room were various pieces of art.
He smiled and nodded slightly. Unlike JoLynn, Shelley had selected her furnishings and finishings for their harmony of feeling rather than for their perfection of form.
A luminous Kashmir rug glowed like a jeweled pool in one-third of the room. Smaller rugs appeared in the remaining area, anchoring furniture into intimate groups. A superb nineteenth-century Japanese screen featuring eggshell-white cranes angled elegantly off to the right. Other, smaller screens stood throughout the room, dividing what could have been an awkwardly large space into areas that were both comfortable and unconfined.
Silently Shelley watched while Cain walked through the room, the forgotten Squeeze dangling in the pillowcase from his large right hand. Though she said nothing, she wondered what he was thinking while he stood in front of the line drawing of a Balinese dancer suspended timelessly within a golden frame, femininity and strength captured in a few fluid strokes.
Does he see beyond the primitive surface of the Eskimo carving of an old woman to the sheer courage and serenity beneath? she wondered.
Does he look beyond the expensive gloss of the Arabian ivory chess set to the timeless celebration of intelligence and play?
Does he see past the value and antiquity of the Egyptian scarab to the human fear and reverence it embodies?
When he paused, then stood rooted in front of a glass case, she stopped breathing. Inside that case was one of her favorite possessions, a jaguar carved by a German master from a large piece of opal that was still in its native stone. The opal was Australian, a never-ending shimmer of blue and green, blazing orange and shards of gold, a rainbow shattered and then caught forever in a transparent silver-white cloud.
The artist had matched the jaguar’s lines to the mixture of native stone and opal in a way that suggested the cat’s immense vitality yet acknowledged the animal’s deadliness. The stone was a very deep, lustrous gray, almost black, as though jungle shadows were falling over the cat, partially disguising its predatory beauty.
The carving alone was extraordinary, well worth its considerable cost. But what made the piece unique and irresistible to Shelley was the carved ruby butterfly that was perched on one of the cat’s solid gold claws. Large wings half spread, their veins a delicate network of pure gold, the butterfly was wholly at ease.
Somehow the artist had given the jaguar an expression of bemused pleasure, as though he didn’t know quite how it had happened, but the big cat thoroughly approved of the scrap of beauty that had drifted down to quiver trustingly on his paw.
Cain had worn a similar expression when he saw Shelley pick up the snake that sent JoLynn into hysterics.
A slight motion caught Shelley’s eye. Quickly she turned toward the movement.
Gliding, stalking, every muscle poised, a Maine coon cat eased across the polished floor. The cat’s predatory gold eyes never looked away from the pillowcase wiggling so intriguingly beneath Cain’s large fist.
Shelley took two running steps, snatched the pillowcase from his hand, and hoisted the bouncing lace high above her head. Off-balance, she started to fall into the jaguar’s glass case. When Cain grabbed her, keeping her from toppling the display case, she steadied herself by putting her free arm around him.
For an instant it was like being on the motorcycle again, her arm tight around his body. But there was a difference. He was standing, he was facing her, and he was pressed along her soft length.
The difference was devastating to her poise. A flush climbed her cheeks.
“I wouldn’t have dropped Squeeze,” he said mildly, watching the telltale rise of her color.
Shelley said the first word that came to her mind.
“Nudge.”
“That was hardly a nudge you gave me,” he said, tightening his grip subtly, “but I’m not complaining.”
He bent toward her.
“You don’t understand,” she explained desperately, knowing she couldn’t evade his beautiful mouth. It was coming closer with each breath, each instant. “Nudge was stalking Squeeze!”
Firm lips hesitated, then curved into a lazy kind of smile. “Sounds like fun.”
“What?”
“Nudge stalking squeeze. Kind of like push coming to shove, only sexier.”
She made a strangled sound that was halfway between despair and laughter.
“Nudge is my cat,” she said.
“That explains it.”
“It does?”
“Either that or you have a third leg that’s playing footsie with me.”
Shelley’s eyes widened. She peered down at the floor. “That’s Nudge.”
“Claws is more like it.”
“If you’ll let go of me, I’ll—”
“Don’t bother,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers. “I have nothing against claws.”
His kiss was like his smile, sensual and slow, an exploration of the joined possibilities of their mouths. It made her feel like a ruby butterfly held within a jaguar’s soft grasp. A quiver of pure pleasure shimmered over her nerves.
She returned the kiss as gently, as thoroughly, as it was given to her. It had been a long time since she had allowed a man to kiss her so intimately.
It had been forever since she had enjoyed a kiss half so much.
A warm, sinuous body wedged itself between their feet. Nudge was trying a different approach to the dancing pillowcase. The cat’s familiar pressure along her knees reminded Shelley of where she was, who sh
Casual kisses from a stranger weren’t among them.
The sudden stiffness of her body was an unmistakable signal. Reluctantly he ended the kiss and released her.
“Cain, I don’t—”
“I know,” he interrupted in a husky voice. “You don’t kiss strangers. I’m not a stranger, Shelley.”
“But—”
“I know that you love things that are both beautiful and wild, civilized and unrestrained. I know you’re intelligent, independent, and compassionate. I know that you’re very much your own person, yet you will share yourself with a boy you barely know who has just gone through hell.”
Her mouth opened, but not one word came out.
He smiled gently. “I know you’re warmer than my dreams, sweeter, more alive. And you’re as elegant as a ruby butterfly trembling on a jungle cat’s solid gold claw.”
“Cain,” she whispered.
His lips brushed over hers.
“Am I a stranger, Shelley?”
“N-no.” Then, almost fearfully, she added, “But I don’t know you.”
“You will.”
Nudge butted against Cain’s knee. Hard.
He glanced down. His eyes widened in surprise as he took in the size of the mottled cat.
“My God, that thing is as big as a lynx!”
“Almost. Coon cats and Himalayans are the biggest of all domestic cats.”
“Domestic?”
He eyed Nudge, who was watching the wiggling pillowcase with frankly carnivorous intent.
“You’re sure about that domestic bit?” he asked dryly.
“Cats are always cats, no matter where they live.” Nudge stood on her hind feet and reached playfully for the pillowcase.
Shelley was still holding it out of reach, though her arm had begun to tremble with the effort. Squeeze was hardly as light as a shoelace.
“Allow me,” Cain said. He took the pillowcase and hoisted it out of danger. “Now, call off your cat.”
She bent down, grabbed Nudge firmly, and walked to the front door. With one hand she opened the door. With the other she launched the cat into the yard.
“Good-bye, Nudge. I’ll call you for dinner.”
After a disgruntled twitch of her body, the cat stalked off to find easier prey.
Shelley turned around and saw that Cain was surveying the room again, his gray eyes intent. She could see that he approved of what he saw. That pleased her as much as the mingled hunger and restraint of his kiss.
“Usually I can tell what a person does for a living by looking at their home,” he said.
“And?”
“You’ve got me.”
She bit her tongue against a flip remark. She didn’t want to go into who was getting whom, and how.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Despite the fact that your furnishings come from all over the world, and despite the fact that some items cost pennies and some cost thousands of dollars, everything is in harmony. The room isn’t masculine or feminine. It isn’t modern or old-fashioned. It’s simply very human.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He turned suddenly, catching the approval in Shelley’s tawny-hazel eyes.
“So what do you do for a living?” he asked.
“Gild lilies.”
A wry smile changed the line of his mouth. “Care to be more specific?”
“Sure. My clients are the mobile rich, the people who are only in one place for a few months at a time but want that place to be more welcoming and suited to their personalities than an expensive hotel suite.”
“If they’re that rich, why don’t they just buy a place?”
“Then they have to worry about taking care of it. Most of them don’t want to buy anything at all, including furniture,” she explained. “Come on, let’s get Squeeze stashed in a safe place. Follow me.”
It was just as well that Shelley couldn’t see Cain’s very male smile after she turned away. He would have been delighted to follow anywhere the alluring curve of her hips led. But he knew if he said anything, she would retreat again.
“So you rent houses to the restless rich?” he asked.
“No. A realtor rents the houses. I provide the finishing touches.”
“An interior decorator, is that it?”
He looked around closely, noting the changes in the house as he followed her.
“Not quite,” she said. “I don’t do paint and fabrics and such. Most of my clients want to rent everything from the Oriental rug on the floor to the Picassos on the wall to the wall itself. That’s Brian’s department. Decor. The walls and furniture. The basic lily, as it were.”
“Then you gild the lily.”
She nodded. “I have an inventory of various objets d’art, which I use to personalize rented homes, rented furniture, rented lives.”
“But you don’t live like that yourself.”
“No. This is my home.”
Her slight emphasis on the word “home” said a great deal about how she felt on the subject.
“Yet,” he said slowly, “you understand what it’s like to be rootless and still want to live in a place that feels right, even if you can’t stay long.”
“I spent my childhood wanting a home, a place of my own, the certainty that if I called out in the night—”
She stopped abruptly, realizing what she had almost told him. It was her nightmare, the worst experience of her life. She had been a child, sick and frightened and unable to communicate with anyone in their camp because her mother was also sick and her father was out in the wilderness chasing snakes.
“Yes,” Shelley said bleakly, “I understand what it’s like to hunger for something more than a rented room.”
“Sounds like you’ve been there.”
She turned away without answering the implicit question.
Cain didn’t ask any more questions about rented rooms and homes. There was no point. He was certain that she wouldn’t answer them.
He didn’t like that, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Yet.
Chapter Four
Quietly Cain followed Shelley to the bottom of the first stairway. The second level of the house opened out in front of him. There was a suite on the left that she ignored. She led him past a family room and open kitchen. Both had spectacular views of the hills and distant city.
With an odd hunger to know more about this unexpected woman, he scanned the house carefully, noting each sign of her likes and delights. Cooking was definitely something she enjoyed. Pots of herbs stood three deep on a sunny window ledge. A large white bowl heaped with fresh lemons occupied the center of the counter. Pots and pans hung within easy reach over the stove. Their sides were clean, but showed the patina that came only from long use over heat.
Obviously she preferred to cook in her kitchen rather than to eat out at the multitude of restaurants Los Angeles had to offer. He understood that impulse. There was something satisfying about preparing your own food, whether it was over a campfire, as he often did, or in a well-appointed kitchen like hers.
There was another way in which he and she were alike. Both of them valued privacy. The deeper into the house he went, the more personal the decor became. He sensed that few people ever went below the street level of her home.
There was a hushed quality to the private area of the house that pleased him. Stairs carpeted with a thick, rust-colored wool led down to the third level. Pale, creamy walls displayed paintings that beckoned to him, but Shelley kept walking, giving him no time to linger and learn more about her.
A room pleasantly crowded with overstuffed suede chairs and a huge sectional couch invited Cain to stop and rest, but she never even slowed down. She didn’t even pause at the door of what appeared to be a library. The room was filled with racks upon racks of catalogues and art books, as well as novels and a stereo that rivaled Billy’s. St. George
Cain stopped. He wasn’t going to pass this room with only a look. With long strides he approached the painting, drawn by the gleaming malevolence of the dragon.
When Shelley realized that she had lost him, she turned and looked over her shoulder.
“Cain?”
“In here.”
She backtracked to her favorite room—the library.
He was standing in front of St. George, measuring the potent fascination of danger and dragon and immortal combat. She glanced at the pillowcase Cain carried so casually. The lace bulged and bounced energetically.
“Squeeze is getting impatient,” she said.
Reluctantly he turned away from the painting.
“I always wanted my own dragon,” he explained, catching up with her.
“That particular one is a bit dangerous for a pet.”
His smile was lazy and very male. “That’s a big part of the fascination.”
He saw the flash of her answering smile just before she turned aside to conceal her reaction. The female understanding in the curve of her lips lit up his bloodstream like a shot of neat whiskey.
They returned to the hallway together, walking toward the final suite of rooms. The smell of flowers was stronger here, and with the herbal scents of cured grass and chaparral. The combination of lush summer and desert mystery was irresistible to him. It reminded him of the woman walking beside him, female invitation and wariness at the same time.
“I think it’s in here,” she said.
He didn’t ask what “it” was or where “here” was. He simply enjoyed the tantalizing scents that drifted through the louvered windows of the room she walked into.
It was her bedroom. For a heartbeat he thought about what it would be like to be invited there for the night. Then he forced himself to think about something else, anything else. He had hardened in a visible, hungry rush, as though he were a teenager instead of a man fully grown.
Concentrate on the room, he told himself sardonically, not on the woman.