Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
The light poured through the tall windows and
splashed on the violent slashes of sapphire and ruby.
It washed over the man who stood before the canvas
like a warrior at battle, wielding a paintbrush like a
claymore.
He had the face of a warrior--tough, intense, with
knife-edged cheekbones adding hollows, a mouth
that was full but firmed in concentration. Eyes brilliant
blue and icy cold beneath knitted brows the
color of old mahogany.
His hair waved over his ears, curled over the collar
of the splattered denim shirt he wore in lieu of a
smock. He'd rolled the sleeves up, and the well-toned
muscles of his arms rippled as he slashed the brush
on canvas.
He was built like a warrior--broad of shoulder,
narrow of hip and long of leg. His feet were bare,
his wide and clever hands smeared with paint.
In his mind he saw explosions of emotion--passion
and lust, greed and hunger. And all of this he
fought onto the canvas while mean-edged rock
pumped out of the stereo and thumped against the
air.
Painting was a war to him--one he was determined
to win, battle after battle. When the mood was
on him he would work until his arms ached and his
fingers cramped. When his mood was otherwise, he
could and did ignore his canvases for days, even
weeks.
There were those who said D. C. MacGregor
lacked discipline. To those, he said who the devil
wanted it?
As he clamped the brush between his teeth,
switched to a palette knife to smear on a bold emerald,
his eyes glittered in triumph.
He had it now. The hours of waging this battle
were nearly done. A thin line of sweat slid down the
center of his back. The sun beating through the windows
was fierce now, and the studio was viciously
hot because he'd forgotten to turn on the air-conditioning
or open a window to the warm spring
air.
He'd forgotten to eat as well, or check his mail,
answer the phone or so much as glance out any of
the wonderfully tall windows in his apartment. The
energy swirled through him, as potent, as primitive
as John Mellencamp's edgy, streetwise vocals blasting
through the room.
When D.C. stepped back, the brush still clenched
like a pirate's blade in his teeth, the palette knife like
a dagger in his hand, that firm, somewhat forbidding
mouth curved.
"That's it," he murmured. He put the brush in a
jar of solution, began to absently clean the knife as
he studied his work. "Need," he decided. He would
call it simply Need.
For the first time in hours he realized the room
was stuffy, the clashing and familiar scents of turpentine
and paint thick in the air. He crossed the
unpolished hardwood floor and shoved open one of
the tall windows, took a deep gulp of fresh air.
It had been the windows, and this view of the
C & O Canal, that had sold him on this apartment
when he'd decided to come back to Washington.
He'd grown up here, with eight years of his life spent
in the White House as first son.
For a space of time he'd lived and worked in New
York, and enjoyed it. He'd also lived and worked in
San Francisco, and enjoyed that as well. But all
through his restless twenties something had tugged
at him. He'd finally given in to it.
This was home.
He stood by the window with his hands shoved in
the back pockets of ragged jeans. The cherry blossoms
were in full, glorious bloom; the canal sparkled
in the afternoon light. Joggers plugged away along
the towpath.
D.C. wondered idly what day it was.
Then, realizing he was starving to death, he left
the music blaring and headed to the kitchen.
The penthouse was two levels, with the top designed
for a master bedroom suite. D.C. had made it
his studio and slept on a mattress tossed on the floor
in the spare room. He hadn't gotten around to dealing
with bed frames.
Most of his clothes were still in the packing boxes
they'd been shipped in nearly two months before. He
figured they worked efficiently enough as dressers
until he found time to buy the real thing.
The main floor had a spacious living area ringed
by more windows, still undraped. In it, there was a
single sofa--the tags still on--a glorious Duncan
Phyfe table with a half inch of dust coating its surface,
and a floor lamp with a dented metal shade.
The random-width pine floor was bare and desperately
needed vacuuming.
The dining alcove off the kitchen was empty, the
kitchen itself in shambles. What dishes and pots
weren't heaped in the sink were still in boxes. He
went directly to the refrigerator and was bitterly surprised
to find it empty but for three beers, a bottle
of white wine and two eggs.
He could have sworn he'd gone shopping.
Rummaging through the cupboards, he came up
with a few slices of very moldy bread, a bag of coffee,
six boxes of cornflakes and a single can of soup.
Resigned, he ripped open a box of cereal and ate
a handful while debating which he wanted more, coffee
or a shower. He'd just decided to make the coffee
and take it with him into the shower when the phone
rang.
He noted without much interest that his message
light was blinking, and, munching dry cereal, he answered.
"Hello."
"There's my boy."
And those ice blue eyes went warm, that hard
mouth went soft. D.C. leaned against the counter and
grinned. "Hey, Grandpa, what are you up to?"
"Some would say no good." Daniel's voice
boomed out. "Don't you return your messages? I've
talked to your bloody machine half a dozen times in
the last few days. Your grandmother wanted to fly
down to make sure you weren't dead in your bed."
D.C. only lifted a brow. It was well known that
Daniel used his serene wife whenever he wanted to
nag the children.
"I've been working."
"Good. That's good, but you can take a breath
now and then, can't you?"
"I'm taking one now."
"I've a favor to ask you, D.C. I don't like to do
it." Daniel let out a heavy sigh and had his grandson's
brow knitting.
"What do you need?"
"You won't like it--God knows I can't blame
you. But I'm in a bit of a fix. Your aunt Myra--"
"Is she all right?" D.C. straightened from the
counter. Myra Dittmeyer was his grandmother's oldest
and dearest friend, his own godmother and an
honorary member of the Clan MacGregor. D.C.
adored her, and remembered guiltily that he hadn't
been to see her since he returned to Washington six
weeks before.
"Oh, she's fit and fine, boy. Don't, you worry
about that. The woman's just as feisty as ever. But,
well, she has another godchild. I doubt you remember
the girl. You'd have met her a time or two when
you were a lad. Layna Drake?"
Concentrating, D.C. got a vague image of a spindly
little girl with hair like dandelion fluff. "What
about her?"
"She's back in Washington. You know Drake's--the
department stores. That's her family. She's working
in their flagship store there now, and Myra ...
well, I'm just going to say it straight out. There's a
charity ball tomorrow night, and Myra's fussing because
the girl doesn't have an escort. She's been at
me to ask you--"
"Damn it, Grandpa."
"I know, I know." Daniel used his most long-suffering
sigh. "Women, boy--what else can I say?
They'll peck away at us like ducks until we just give
in. I told her I would ask you. It would be a big favor
to me if you'd see your way clear for this one night."
"If you and Aunt Myra are trying to set me up--"
Daniel interrupted with a hearty laugh that had
D.C. frowning. "Not this time, boy. This girl isn't
for you, take my word. She's pretty enough, and well
mannered, but she'd never do for you. Too cool, to
my way of thinking, and a bit of the nose-in-the-air
sort. No, no, I wouldn't like to see you looking in
that direction. And if you can't spare the evening,
I'll just tell Myra I reached you too late and you
already had plans."
"Tomorrow night?" D.C. scooped his fingers
through his hair. He hated charity functions. "Is it
black tie?"
"I'm afraid so." At the muttered oath in response,
Daniel made sympathetic noises. "Tell you what, I'll
just call Myra back and tell her you can't make it.
No use wasting your evening with a girl who's likely
to bore you to tears, is there? I doubt the two of you
have a single thing in common. Better you start looking
for a wife. It's time you were married and settled,
Daniel Campbell. Past time. Your grandmother worries
you'll end up starving in your studio, a lonely
old man without a single chick or child. I've got
another girl in mind. She's--"
"I'll do it," D.C. interrupted, purely in reflex. If
Daniel didn't think much of Myra's goddaughter, it
meant he wouldn't be on the phone constantly asking
for relationship updates. Perhaps after this favor, his
grandfather might ease off his relentless dynasty
building--and though D.C. didn't hold out much
hope for that outcome, it was worth a try. "What
time tomorrow, and where do I pick what's-her-name
up?"
"Oh, bless you. I owe you for this one. The affair's
at eight, at the Shoreham Hotel. Layna's taken
over her parents' town house on O Street." Examining
his nails, Daniel rattled off the address. "I appreciate
you getting me out of this little fix, D.C."
D.C. shrugged, upending the cereal box into his
mouth as he traded family gossip with Daniel. And
he wondered fleetingly where the hell he might have
packed his tux.
"Oh, Aunt Myra, really." Layna Drake stood in
her underwear, a waterfall of white silk over her arm
and a mortified expression on her face. "A blind
date?"
"Not really, sweetheart." Myra smiled. "You've
met before--when you were children. I know it's an
imposition, but Daniel rarely asks me for anything.
It's just one evening, and you were going anyway."
"I was going with you."
"I'll still be there. He's a very nice young man,
darling. A bit prickly, but still very nice." She
beamed. "Of course, all my godchildren are wonderful
people."
Myra continued to smile as she sat and studied her
goddaughter. Myra was a small woman with hair as
white and soft as snow. And with a mind as sharp
and quick as a switchblade. When the moment called
for it--as it did now--she could adopt a fragile and
helpless air. The aged Widow Dittmeyer, she thought
with an inner chuckle.
"Daniel worries about him," she continued. "And
so do I. The man keeps too much to himself. But
honestly, who would have thought when I was just
casually mentioning tonight's affair and how you'd
come back to Washington, that Daniel would get this
idea in his head? I was just ..." Myra fluttered her
hands helplessly. "I didn't know how to say no. I
realize what an imposition it is."
Because her adored godmother suddenly looked so
unhappy, Layna relented. "It doesn't matter. As you
said, I'm going anyway." Gracefully, she stepped
into her gown. "Are we meeting him there?"
"Ah ..." Gauging the timing, Myra rose. "Actually,
he'll be here shortly to pick you up. I'll meet
you there. Goodness, look at the time. My driver
must be wondering what happened to me."
"But--"
"I'll see you in an hour or so, darling," Myra
called out, moving with surprising speed for a
woman of her age. "You look gorgeous," she said
once she was safely halfway down the stairs.
Layna stood in the unzipped column of white silk
and heaved out a breath. Typical, she thought. It was
just typical. Her godmother was forever shoving men
into her path. Which left her with the sometimes irritating
job of having to push them out again.
Marriage was something she'd firmly crossed off
her life plan. After growing up in a house where
manners took precedence over love, and casual affairs
were politely ignored, Layna had no intention
of finding herself in the same sort of relationship.
Men were fine as decoration, as long as she ran
the show. And at the moment, her career was much
more important than having someone to dine with on
Saturday night.
She intended to continue her steady climb up the
family's corporate ladder at Drake's. In ten years,
according to her calculations, she would take over as
CEO.
It was another show she intended to run.
Drake's wasn't just a department store, it was an
institution. Being single, and remaining that way, insured
she could devote all her time and energies to
maintaining its reputation and its style.
She wasn't her mother, Layna thought with a faint
frown marring her brow, who thought of Drake's as
her personal closet. Or her father, who had always
been more concerned with bottom-line profits than
innovations or traditions. She was, Layna thought,
herself.
And to her, Drake's was both a responsibility and
a joy. It was, she supposed, her true family.
Some, she mused, might find that sad. But she
found it comforting.
With a quick move, she zipped the dress. Part of
her responsibilities to Drake's was to mingle, to attend
social functions. To her, it was simply a matter
of changing gears, from one kind of work to another.
The after-hours work called on training she'd received
throughout her childhood and was second nature
to her now.
And the "job" often meant being linked with the
proper escort.
At least this time her aunt Myra didn't appear to
have any real interest in making a match. It would
just be a matter of making small talk with a virtual
stranger for an evening. And God knew she was an
expert at such matters.
She turned and picked up the pearl-and-diamond
drops she'd already set out on her dresser. The room
reflected her taste--simple elegance with a dash of
flash. The antique headboard of carved cherry, the
highly polished surfaces of lovingly tended occasional
tables topped with vases of fresh flowers or
carefully chosen accessories.
Her home now, she thought with quiet pride. She'd
made it her own.
There was a cozy seating area in front of a small
marble fireplace and a dainty ladies' vanity displaying
a collection of boldly colored perfume bottles.
She selected her scent, absently dabbing it on
while she allowed herself to wish, just for a moment,
that she could spend the evening quietly at home.
She'd put in a ten-hour day at Drake's. Her feet hurt,
her brain was tired and her stomach was empty.
Pushing all that aside, she turned to the cheval
glass to check the line and fit of her gown. It was
cut straight at the bodice and flowed without fuss to
the ankles, leaving her shoulders bare. She added the
short jacket, slipped into her shoes and checked the
contents of her evening bag.
When the doorbell rang she only sighed once. At
least he was prompt.
She remembered D.C. vaguely from childhood.
She'd been much too nervous and impressed from
meeting the president to notice much else. But she'd
heard of him off and on over the years.
An artist, she reminded herself as she started
downstairs. Of the modern school, which she didn't
pretend to understand. Layna preferred the classics
in all things. Had there been some scandal about him
and a ballet dancer a few years back? Or had it been
an actress?
Ah well, she thought. She supposed the son of a
former president would make news over trivialities.
And being the grandson of Daniel MacGregor would
only intensify the spotlight. Layna was much happier
working backstage herself.
And obviously the man couldn't be such a hit with
the ladies if he couldn't even get his own date on a
Saturday night.
Putting on her company smile, she opened the
door. Only years of education by Swiss nuns, and the
discipline they'd instilled, kept her mouth from dropping
open.
This man--this very dangerous looking man in
black tie, with hair the color of her prized dining-room
table and eyes so blue they burned--needed
his grandfather to find him a date?
"Layna Drake?" He had to have the wrong house,
was all D.C. could think. This shimmering willow
stem in white silk was nothing like the spindly little
girl he remembered. Rather than dandelion fluff, her
hair was spun gold curved sleekly around a face that
might have been carved from ivory. Her eyes were
a soft and misty green.
She recovered, her how-do-you-do smile never faltering
as she offered a hand. "Yes. Daniel MacGregor?"
"D.C. Daniel's my grandfather."
"D.C. then." Normally she would have invited
him in, played hostess for a short time and given
them both an opportunity to get somewhat comfortable
with each other. But there was something not
quite safe about him, she decided. He was too big,
too male, and those eyes were far too bold. "Well."
Deliberately she stepped out and closed the door behind
her. "Shall we go?"
"Sure." Cool, his grandfather had said, and D.C.
decided the old man had hit the mark. Definitely an
ice princess for all her glamorous looks. It was going
to be a very long evening.
Layna took one look at the ancient and tiny sports
car at the curb and wondered how the hell she was
supposed to fold herself into it wearing this gown.
Aunt Myra, she thought, what have you gotten me
into?