Fire's Lady Read online

  At times it made her uncomfortable that it was Alexandra who would ultimately become the instrument of Andrew Lowell's destruction but the irony of that was unavoidable. Alexandra was the key to their success, the seed Andrew sowed in Marisa's belly coming into full flower before his very eyes. Stephen's plan was foolproof—she knew it was.

  What did Alexandra know of the darker side of life, sheltered as she had been in the golden meadows of Provence? Let the girl take what she could from the experience, then build a life for herself afterward.

  Let Stephen have Andrew's fortune, for whatever good it may do him.

  All Mary Margaret McBride wanted was for Andrew Lowell to understand that his sins would follow him to the grave.

  And she would be there waiting for him at the gates of hell.

  #

  Alexandra finished breakfast and was passing through the kitchen on her way to the carriage house when Janine called out. "Mr. Matthew has been lookin' for you everywhere."

  Just the mention of his name made Alexandra's hands start to shake. "He mustn't have looked everywhere, Janine, for I was sitting quite plainly in the dining room for the past hour."

  "You are wanted upstairs. Mr. Lowell wishes to see you."

  "Stephen has returned?"

  Janine shook her head. Her eyes were wide as soup bowls. "Mr. Andrew Lowell," she said. "If I were you, miss, I would hurry."

  Alexandra knew from her one visit how true that statement was. Racing through the center hallway she paused in front of the mirror and smoothed down her hair and ran a finger across her brows. Despite his age and illness, Andrew Lowell had the sharp eyes of an artist and she instinctively knew he would be critical of imperfection.

  Dayla greeted her at the entrance to his suite of rooms. "Good morning, Miss Alexandra," she said in a voice soft as a rushing stream. "He awaits you most anxiously."

  The woman's greeting was warm and cordial and Alexandra had to battle down a nip of jealousy at the thought of Dayla in the arms of Matthew McKenna.

  McKenna himself stood by the window in Andrew's studio, his profile etched sharply against the leaded glass. He didn't glance her way when she entered and silently she vowed to ignore his presence.

  This morning Andrew Lowell sat in a straight-backed chair, draped in a satin-bound blanket. An easel was set up to his right; to his left was a gate leg table with his palette and tins of turpentine and linseed oil arranged upon it.

  "Over here, girl," he said, motioning toward a hassock in front of him. "I want to see you when I talk."

  McKenna glanced toward her as she crossed the sun-filled studio but she refused to meet his eyes. The memory of the way his arms had felt around her last night was still too fresh in her mind.

  Smoothing the back of her skirt she settled herself on the low stool and wished the great artist had seen her last night in her elegant russet gown instead of this flower-sprigged dress.

  Andrew Lowell fixed her with his fierce topaz eyes. "I am waiting," he said, his voice stronger than the previous day.

  "I beg your pardon, sir?"

  "I am waiting," he repeated.

  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I'm afraid I do not understand."

  "Details, girl, details! Stephen sent you into the attic to begin cataloguing, didn't he? How bad is it?"

  Matthew's attention was riveted to her and he flashed a "be careful" sign and beside him, Dayla's huge dark eyes urged caution.

  "There's a great deal of work," she began, choosing her words judiciously. "I have barely begun to—"

  He raised a gnarled hand to stop her. "The truth," he commanded.

  "It is a disaster," she said meeting his gaze. "Your works have been sadly neglected and the resulting damage was inevitable."

  "Is everything lost?" His eyes were keen upon her, glowing brilliantly within his ravaged face.

  "No, but it will take great effort to salvage what we can." She listed the few paintings that needed little more than a thorough cleaning and minor repairs then eased into a list of the more seriously damaged items.

  He listened quietly, nodding at intervals, fingers tapping out some inner rhythm on the edge of the gate leg table. "Do you withhold anything, girl?"

  "Nothing, sir."

  He pointed in the direction of Matthew and Dayla. "They would have had you soften the blow, wouldn't they?"

  Alexandra took a deep breath before answering. "They care a great deal for you, sir."

  "Come here," he said, motioning her closer. "Bend down beside me and let me see your face."

  She cast a questioning look toward Matthew but his face was impassive. He merely watched her, arms folded across his chest. Dayla fluttered like a bird seeking its nest, obviously worried about whether Andrew was tiring himself.

  Alexandra rose and moved closer to Andrew, then bent down until her eyes were level with his. He smelled vaguely of lavender soap and peppermints and, up close, his eyes were even more startling. Age showed more clearly up close but so did intelligence and fire.

  "Look toward the door," he ordered, cupping her face between his bony fingers. "Lift your chin... there it is..." He turned her face so that their eyes were level. "You've done some modeling, girl?"

  She swallowed hard. "Yes, sir." She named a few of the artists she'd posed for and he nodded distractedly.

  "Your skin takes the light... a rare thing, that... and your features are familiar somehow..."

  Dayla stepped forward, breaking the moment. "She is uncomfortable, Andrew. Please let Alexandra sit down again."

  Andrew dismissed the dark-haired woman with a wave of his hand. "Don't disturb me," he barked, and then turned back to Alexandra. "You would tell me if you were uncomfortable, wouldn't you, girl?"

  "Yes, sir," she managed. "I am in the habit of speaking my mind."

  With his fingertips he probed her cheekbones, the angle of her nose, the gentle curve of her forehead and jaw and his inspection caused her to relax as she understood the artist's mind was at work.

  "I don't know," he mused quietly. "Something so familiar here... that jawline... have we met before?"

  "No, sir," she said with a smile. "I would remember such an occasion."

  "You were born to be painted, girl. That face is meant to be treasured."

  "I was born to paint," she corrected softly, "not to be painted."

  "Audacious chit. How dare you assume you can wield a palette knife. It takes years of study." He glared at her. "Artistic talent is a gift from the gods."

  "I have talent and I hope one day to have time to study."

  Closing his eyes, he waved her away impatiently. "You're dismissed."

  Embarrassed, she stumbled to her feet, hands clutching the sides of her cotton gown. "Does that mean I am to leave Sea View?" Her voice was a whisper as she felt a blinding rush of fear sweep down over her.

  One golden eye flickered open. "That means you are to go about your business then return here after luncheon to pose for me."

  Dayla stepped forward and put a restraining hand on Andrew's shoulder. "Tomorrow morning would be better for you," she murmured softly. "Afternoons are your time to rest."

  "I'll rest when I'm dead," he barked. "I am going to paint this afternoon. Now I intend to eat my breakfast in peace. Out with you all!"

  Alexandra didn't need to be told.

  A few moments later Matthew entered the drawing room, closing the door to the studio behind him. "Dayla will help him with breakfast."

  Alexandra nodded, finding it difficult to stop her heart's furious pace.

  "You handled him very well," he observed, watching her closely. "Good work."

  "I did nothing but answer his questions truthfully. If that is cause for thanks..." Her voice trailed off meaningfully.

  "How extensive is the damage to the paintings?" he asked as they left Andrew's suite and moved down the hall toward the staircase.

  "Dreadful," she said bluntly. "I told him no lie when I said it will take hard work
and even then the results cannot be guaranteed."

  "Can you handle the job?"

  "Some of it, yes. Once the items are properly cleaned and catalogued, the more severely damaged canvases should be sent to a museum."

  "No." Matthew's voice was adamant. "Under no circumstances do his paintings leave Sea View."

  She stopped at the head of the staircase. "I thought the purpose of all this was to save as many works from destruction as possible."

  "Not at the risk of Andrew's pride."

  "His pride? Those paintings are his legacy. Restoring them should be a tremendous source of pride."

  "You don't understand." He started down the stairs and Alexandra hurried behind him.

  "Then explain it to me, please," she said, touching his arm as she caught up to him on the landing. "How can sending his paintings to a museum for repair damage his pride?"

  McKenna dragged his hand through his hair and muttered an oath that sent Alexandra's color rising but she kept silent. McKenna was obviously struggling to keep his temper under control but still his anger was something to behold. "We have made every effort to prevent Andrew's condition from becoming common knowledge. Sending them to some museum would be an admission of weakness. He's a proud man—pity could do more to hurt him than illness."

  "But the work must be done. It would be unconscionable to allow such treasures to turn to dust."

  "Then you do it, Miss Glenn. Not a museum."

  "I'm not capable."

  "You said you could handle some of it."

  "A portion," she explained, "but not half of what an expert could accomplish."

  "It's the only way," he said, continuing down the stairs. "Either that or the paintings decay before your eyes. It's your choice."

  She followed him down the steps and into the library in time to see him reach for the decanter of whiskey on the side table and take a long swallow.

  Her voice was a whisper. "Don't do it."

  His look was dark and unfathomable. "You made your choice," he said, wiping his mouth, "and I made mine."

  Chapter Nine

  Choices of another sort were being made that morning in a bedroom in Southold.

  "I don't know, Stephen," the woman said, staring at the painting propped up against her lacquered wall. "It doesn't look so awfully wonderful to me."

  Behind his back, Stephen Lowell's hands clenched into fists.

  Ignorant cow. He was offering her one of Andrew's best paintings and she was pursing her painted lips as if she knew what in hell she was about.

  "Cynthia, darling girl, trust me." He took her plump white hands in his and kissed her palms. "Bernard will be beside himself if you present him with an original Lowell."

  Cynthia's upturned nose crinkled in dismay. "But it's so dirty, Stephen. Look at all that dust."

  He bit back a sharp reply and somehow managed to retain his winning smile. Next time he would remember that morning sun revealed flaws in paintings as well as in women. "A good cleaning will take care of that. For a moderate fee, Connor Templeton in Manhattan can restore this to its original splendor."

  "I'd rather fancied buying a stickpin for Bernard," she pouted. "Then I should have enough money left to buy matching earbobs for myself."

  He looked at his naked greedy mistress and pitied her fool of a husband. Spare him from such undying love. A fat bank account would do more to warm him in his old age than the charms of any woman, no matter how willing.

  Reaching into the pocket of his coat, which was draped across the foot of the bed, he withdrew a small flat box and handed it to her with a flourish. "I trust this will suffice for now."

  Cynthia squealed with delight as she opened the jewelry case and saw the diamond necklace glittering on a bed of black velvet. "Put it on," she commanded, turning away from him and lifting her hair off her neck. "I must see how wonderful it looks."

  He did as she requested, then ducking his head, began a series of love bites across her shoulder blades and down the curve of her back toward her delightfully rounded buttocks.

  "Naughty boy," she said with a girlish giggle. "I should be getting home soon."

  "You will." Grasping her hips he turned her around and nipped at the tops of her thighs. "I haven't shown you how much I care, Cynthia." His tongue danced across her moist, throbbing nub and she cried out and moved closer. He cupped her with his hand. The silky red curls were soft against his skin yet her flesh burned with a heat of its own. Breathing deeply of her musky odor, he buried his face against her and caught her honey on his tongue.

  "Oh, Stephen... my God, what you do to me...."

  Her legs trembled and he pulled her down on the Persian carpet by the fireplace and rolled on top of her. Her green eyes were dilated and wild; her breathing, shallow. Spreading her thighs for him eagerly, she arched to receive him and he pulled back then plunged his shaft deep inside her warmth until she cried out that she could take no more... she would die from pleasure... he was the best... the most wonderful...

  And that was when he leaned up on his elbows and withdrew until just the tip of his manhood teased her tender flesh.

  "The painting," he said, noting with satisfaction the flush on her shoulders and breasts, the way her mouth seemed swollen with desire. "You should buy the painting, Cynthia."

  Her hands clutched his buttocks, her long fingernails digging into his flesh. "Stephen, please," she whimpered, trying desperately to draw him back.

  He entered her then withdrew once again. "The perfect gift, Cynthia," he coaxed, running a finger wet with her juices across her rosy lips. "Trust me."

  "Yes," she cried, drawing his finger into her mouth and sucking hard. "Yes, yes, yes."

  Stephen Lowell plunged back into her tight and willing body as she found a quick and violent release.

  His own would take much longer, he feared, and had precious little to do with sex.

  Power was what he wanted and sex was just one of the many ways he'd discovered to attain it. Cynthia, avaricious and insatiable, was but a means to reach her husband.

  Bernard Worthington, respected businessman, ran a tidy trade in stolen artwork. He was discreet, however, and Stephen had learned one never approached him through the front door. No, with Worthington one had to have finesse and how better to finesse one's way into his good graces than through his beloved wife? The moment Worthington saw the painting he would understand what was being offered—and for what price.

  Time was of the essence. With Alexandra working in the attic storeroom, the number of paintings already missing from the home collection would soon become apparent. And, worse luck, he overheard Dayla and McKenna talking about his uncle taking up a paint brush again. The last thing he needed was a flood of new paintings to drive down the value of the old. Fortunately, the medications he'd procured from the discreet doctor in Sag Harbor should quell his uncle's artistic yearnings.

  Cynthia's moan barely registered upon his mind as his thoughts leaped forward.

  The shots he'd fired at Alexandra Glenn last night were part of his grand scheme. A few attempts on her life and everyone would be talking about the poacher. He laughed as he thought about the daisies he'd filched one morning right under Cook's watchful eye. They were so caught up in their fear of the gypsies camping in town that real danger passed them right by. Marisa's daughter would help him get more of Lowell's paintings out of that attic and into the right hands and then he would kill her and his bastard uncle, as well.

  And, if he had planned things right, no one would look beyond the gypsy encampment for the murderer.

  A perfect scheme.

  As flawless as the woman moaning beneath him.

  Rearing back he plunged into her as deeply as he could and laughed when he climaxed inside her.

  Perfect, he thought. All of it, perfect.

  #

  Promptly at one o'clock, Alexandra presented herself at Andrew's suite. Dayla, in her usual white dress, greeted Alexandra at the door with a warm smile a
nd led her into the studio where Andrew awaited. Alexandra had a terrible time maintaining her composure as vivid images of the beautiful dark-haired woman entwined in the arms of Matthew McKenna danced before her eyes.

  It was all too confusing and she was glad when Dayla opened the door to Andrew's studio and said, "He is ready. I shall return in an hour," then disappeared.

  "Don't just stand there," came Andrew's voice from where he sat in the center of the room. "We're wasting valuable daylight."

  Her boots made a terrible clacking noise on the shiny wood floor of the studio and she steeled herself against the artist's critical inspection.

  "That dress does not flatter," he said in his blunt fashion. "Throw it out."

  Her temper flared despite her best intentions. "I have few enough gowns as it is, Mr. Lowell, and I shan't throw them away as your whim dictates." A smile began to crack through her apprehension. "You are an artist," she said boldly. "Paint me another dress."

  She heard an answering smile in his voice although his stern countenance did not soften. "And while I'm about it, shall I paint you a quieter pair of boots then, girl?"

  "I wondered if you would notice."

  "How could I not?" he countered, adjusting his easel with trembling hands. "The sound could wake the dead." He motioned toward the window. "Sit over there and I shall do the best I can."

  Alexandra positioned herself at the window, striking one of the poses she had learned from artists in Provence. To an artist, light was a blessing from God and she understood just how it must strike her features to display her to best advantage.

  "Excellent," said Andrew. "You have modeled before, have you not?"

  "Yes, I have." Sadness tugged at her heart that he could not remember their last conversation.

  "Turn a little... yes... that's it... damnation!" A fine camel's hair brush rolled under his chair and he made an involuntary move toward it then stopped, his lean face wracked with misery as she realized he had not the agility to retrieve it.