"Are you going to show it to her?"
Charlie shook his head. "Not yet. I'm saving it."
"For what?"
"I want her to know how I feel about her after—" Charlie stopped, was silent a moment, and then turned to look at Jason. "She told you, didn't she?"
Jason shook his head. "I guessed it and she affirmed. She'd never break a promise to you." He paused. "I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind. You've practically become family." Charlie's gaze shifted back to the portrait. "You'll take care of her?"
"I promise she'll have everything she's ever wanted."
"That's good." Charlie moved his shoulders as if shrugging off a heavy burden. "I was worried about her before you came along. She's too loving for her own good, but you're tough enough to keep her from harm."
"Yes, I'm tough enough." Jason swallowed to ease the sudden tightness of his throat and looked hurriedly back at the painting. "It's good, Charlie."
"It's the best thing I've ever done. It's no masterpiece, though," Charlie made a face. "I guess I wasn't destined to be immortal."
"Is that what you want?"
Charlie nodded. "I suppose it's basic instinct to want to create something beautiful to live on after you."
"But you've already done that."
Charlie looked at him in surprise.
Jason nodded toward the painting. "Daisy."
"I told you I didn't—"
"Not the painting. I don't have the knowledge
to tell whether the portrait is special. I was talking about Daisy herself. There's no question Daisy is a very special creation."
Charlie's expression softened. "No question at all, but she's not my creation. I'm only her stepfather. I didn't give her that voice."
"God gave her the voice," Jason said quietly. "But you made sure it was trained. You guided her and formed her values. She shines. And you polished her and gave her that radiance."
Charlie shook his head.
"Listen to me, it's true." Jason's voice vibrated with sincerity. "You've created something much more enduring than a painting. Everyone Daisy comes in contact with feels a little better, warmer. Every time she sings, she gives gifts, and you're the one who gave us that." He clapped him on the shoulder. "Isn't that almost as good as being Rembrandt, if not better?"
"No." Charlie's eyes were twinkling. "But it comes pretty close. Being Svengali ain't so bad."
"Being Svengali is pretty damn good." Jason turned and went back to the kitchenette. "Now, I'll give you that cup of coffee and you can get back to work. You know, I've been thinking. I know a few people in New York art circles who might want to take a look at the portrait. We may be able to get you a shot at immortality after all. Will you let me borrow the picture for a few weeks and give it a try?"
"To put my mind at ease?"
Jason shook his head. "I'm no do-gooder. It just occurred to me that you weren't looking at your accomplishments in the right light. You're one of the most successful men I know." He glanced back over his shoulder. "And a damn fine human
being."
Charlie nodded his head in acknowledgment as he followed Jason to the breakfast bar. "I return the compliment. Daisy has excellent taste."
Jason poured coffee into two mugs. "Daisy gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. She can't tell the gold from the dross."
"You think you're dross?"
Jason handed the mug to Charlie, "With a few golden moments."
Charlie gazed at him thoughtfully. "I believe you may be wrong."
Jason shrugged. "Well, I'm right about Daisy and I'm right about you too, Charlie." He lifted his mug in a mock toast. "To Daisy."
Charlie lifted his own cup and a gentle smile lit his face. "To Daisy."
Jason collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving, his entire body shaking.
Daisy's own breath was coming in gasps, and it took a few moments to steady it before she asked, "Is something wrong?"
She could feel Jason's muscles harden against her. "Why do you ask that? Did I hurt you?"
"No." He had been careful not to hurt her, but the tempo of their lovemaking had been wilder than ever before, almost brutal in intensity, and she had sensed great desperation in Jason's possession. "No, but I—" She stopped as she felt Jason's lips tugging at her earlobe and his unmistakable arousal pushing against her thigh.
"Again?" she whispered. "So soon?"
"Again. He parted her legs and moved over her.
With one stroke he filled her to the hiit And again." He drew out and began plunging wildly. "And again."
Jason was definitely acting very strangely tonight, Daisy thought uneasily. He had showered with her, helped her to dress, and now was leaning against the jamb of the doorway of the bathroom, watching her as she stood before the mirror combing her hair as if he couldn't bear to have her out of his sight. She glanced at him with a worried frown. "Jason, are you sure that—"
"I love your hair," he said thickly. "Lord, it's beautiful."
He loved her hair. He loved her body. She felt a jab of pain at the knowledge that he always spoke of the physical, never the total person. "I should really cut it. It tangles terribly."
"No!" She looked at him in surprise, and he smiled with an effort and said less violently, "You must do as you think best, of course, but it would be a mistake." He glanced away from her. "Ill always remember how your hair looked spilling over that pillow."
Her hand stopped in midair as a chill swept through her. "Remember?"
"I have to get back to New York."
She quickly lowered her lashes to veil her eyes. "You do?"
He nodded jerkily, still not looking at her. "Night Song,"
"Will you be coming back?"
"It's not likely."
"Of course." She put the comb down very carefully on the marble vanity. "I understand. There's really no reason you should stay here now that you know I can't play Desdemona." /
"It's not—" He broke off, and for an instant she thought she saw a flicker of torment on his face. She must have been mistaken, for the next moment his expression was impassive. "I have to leave Geneva."
"How soon?"
"This morning. I have a flight at six a.m. I'll throw my suitcases in the car and drive directly to the airport after I drop you off at the cottage."
She mustn't let him see the pain flowing through her. She should have expected this. He had been honest with her. He had told her his music was everything to him. "You don't have to take me home. I can take a taxi."
Jason's lips tightened. "I'm taking you."
"I think I'd rather you wouldn't." She tried to keep her voice steady. "I seem to be having a few problems maintaining control. I'm not really good at saying good-bye."
"Daisy, I don't want—" He broke off and then said hoarsely, "I'm sorry it had to be this way."
"Am I making the situation difficult for you?" Her lips stretched in a frozen smile. "I have no claim on you. You've never made me any promises." She pushed past him, grabbed her jacket from the chair, and headed for the door leading to the hall. "Good-bye, Jason. Good luck with Night Song."
"To hell with Night Song." He reached her in three strides and whirled her to face him. "Dammit, I can't help it."
"You have your priorities." Her voice was brittle, but at least it was no longer shaking. "I told you I didn't blame you, but you know I'm not very sophisticated. I can't seem to handle this in the approved, civilized fashion." She was struggling to get away from his touch. It was incredible that even through the pain engulfing her, she still wanted him to touch her, hold her. "Just let me go. I have to get home to Charlie." She broke away and turned toward the door, her words tumbling out feverishly. "Hell miss you. Why don't you drop him a postcard from New York?"
"I've already said good-bye to Charlie."
"Have you? That's good." She jerked open the door. "I really have to go." She was half running down the corridor toward the elevator as she spoke. "Charl
ie ..."
"Daisy!"
She paid no attention, and a moment later the elevator doors closed behind her and the elevator started to make its smooth descent to the lobby. She mustn't cry. If she wept, her eyes would be red and puffy and Charlie would know. Charlie had enough to face without having to comfort her. After all, she had understood this would happen sometime. No strings, he had said. She was stupid to think Jason might learn to feel the same love for her that she felt for him.
Oh, Lord, it hurt!
But she mustn't cry. Charlie mustn't know.
She paused on the doorstep of the cottage and took a deep shaky breath, trying to form a game plan.
She wouldn't be able to fool Charlie into believing she didn't care that Jason had gone, but she could pretend all was well between them and Jason had gone away for only a short time. Then she'd have an excuse for being upset but not heartbroken. Yes, that would be the best course.
She swallowed, pasted a bright smile on her face, and went into the cottage. The room was lit by the lamp on the table by the door, leaving only shadows beyond the pool of light. She had been so upset she hadn't noticed that the house wasn't flooded with the brilliant light Charlie required to work.
"Charlie? I guess Jason told you that—" She broke off, an awful feeling of deja-vu sweeping over her.
Yes, that was it. It wasn't real. This was just a memory of that other night, when she had made the terrible mistake.
But it was real.
Charlie wasn't asleep in the armchair, he lay crumpled on the floor in front of the easel.
"Charlie?" she whimpered. "Oh, God, no."
And the tigers come at night. . . .
Daisy hadn't expected there to be so many people at the funeral. She hadn't realized how many friends Charlie had in the colony. Artists were basically solitary folk, and there was little socializing among them. Yet here they were, sober, awkward, a little uneasy, to say a last farewell to Charlie. She blinked the tears from her eyes as she turned away from the grave.
"I wonder if I could speak to you a moment, Miss Justine?"
Daisy turned to see Eric Hayes standing beside her. Jason's brother, not Jason himself, she thought with a sudden jolt of pain followed immediately by a violent wave of anger. She didn't want Eric here with his polite murmurings of sympathy. She had gone through enough in these past few days without being reminded of both her naivete and the hurt she had suffered because of it. "What a surprise to see you," she said coolly. "I'm afraid I don't really feel like conversation, Mr. Hayes."
"Eric." A flush reddened his pleasant features, and for an instant she felt a flicker of remorse. It wasn't Eric's fault that the sight of him brought back all the pain of her last evening with Jason.
"I know this is lousy timing," Eric muttered. "And I wouldn't have bothered you, but I promised Jason."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Jason sent me to help you. He couldn't come himself."
Of course he couldn't come to Charlie's funeral. He was busy with Night Song. Besides, he would be appalled if she misunderstood sympathy for something deeper. She accepted both those facts, but it didn't keep her from feeling a smoldering resentment toward him. He may have crossed her off his A list, but, dammit, Charlie had been his friend and he should have been there to say goodbye. "I don't need help."
"Please." Eric put his hand on her arm. "Jason doesn't often ask favors of me. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me give him what he wants."
"I don't see—" She broke off as she saw his pleading expression. Why not? It didn't make any difference. "All right, we can talk while you walk me to my car."
Eric breathed a sigh of relief and fell into step with her. "Now, what can I do for you? I'm sorry you had to make all the funeral arrangements by yourself. The manager of the theater didn't notify Jason of your father's death until day before yesterday.
Her eyes widened. "Why would he notify Jason?"
"Jason called him before he left Geneva and asked him to let him know if you—" He paused before adding awkwardly, "Experienced any problems."
"I see. How kind." She tried to keep the bitterness from her tone. Jason was a possessive man, and she supposed it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that he could feel a certain responsibility toward her after taking her virginity. Perhaps, in his own way, he was even genuinely sorry about Charlie's death. "I'm sorry you had to go to all this trouble. Before Charlie died I didn't know how I was going to survive it. But I have." She met his gaze. "I found out that if you reach down deep enough, you can handle almost anything. I don't need any help."
"Look, why don't you use me?" he asked coax-ingly. "I'm great at handling Insurance companies and movers and stuff. I even enjoy it."
"Movers?"
"Well, you won't want to live in that cottage any longer." He added matter-of-factly, "Memories are hell." He hesitated. "Besides, we kinda hoped you'd come, to New York now."
Stunned, she turned to look at him.
"Desdemona. There's really no reason why you can't take the role now," Eric said. "You'd be crazy not to do it. It will send your career soaring."
"I'm afraid you've come for nothing. I still don't want to be in your brother's play."
Eric was silent a moment. "It's Jason, isn't it?
He told me you might resent him." He appeared faintly embarrassed as he continued. "I don't know what's between the two of you, and it's none of my business. I'm just playing messenger boy. So let me do my job. Okay?"
His boyishness was appealing, and she found herself softening toward him. "I'm sorry, none of this is your fault. What's the message?"
"He said to tell you that if you take Desdemona, you won't see him until opening night unless there's an emergency." He grimaced. "Maybe not even then. He's been known to miss his openings on occasion."
She gazed at him uncertainly. "He wouldn't be in New York?"
Eric shook his head. "He never leaves his estate in Connecticut unless there's a glitch in the works."
"That seems odd."
"It's crap," Eric said flatly. He gestured impatiently. "But that's beside the point. Jason would be out of your hair."
Pain flashed briefly within her and then faded into a dull ache. "I don't know."
"Jason said you liked the music."
"What I heard of it."
"It's all super." Eric smiled coaxingly. "I know Jason can be difficult, but why give up a job that can put you up there where you belong just to spite him? Jason keeps his promises."
"I know he does."
"Then what's the hold-up? I'd say it's the medicine you need under the circumstances." They had reached the car and he opened the driver's door for her. "You should keep busy." He grinned.
"And I've hired a director who'll guarantee to work the socks off you."
Work. The concept filled her with longing. To be able to work so hard she'd fall into bed at night and not lie awake thinking of either Jason or Charlie. Not only work but the gift of that enchanting, mesmerizing music.
"You're tempted." Eric sounded gleeful. "Why not give yourself what you want, what you need?"
She got into the car and sat there gazing at the wrought iron gates of the cemetery. "Because I'm not sure what I need right now."
"Ill drop by later this evening." He frowned in concern. "Will you be okay? My wife, Peg, is back at the hotel. Should I bring her with me?"
She shook her head. "No strangers. I'm not up to it."
"Peg's not a stranger." He grinned. "When you meet her, you'll understand." His smile faded. "But 111 come alone. Eight?"
"If you like," she said wearily. Lord knows she didn't want to be alone tonight. It was going to be difficult enough going through Charlie's possessions and deciding what she wanted to keep and what to give away. "Eight o'clock."
She found the note in the middle drawer of the
desk.
Just a careless scrawl that she instantly recognized as Charlie's lying on top of a stack of bills and
receipts. She supposed it was a will of sorts. Charlie had never wanted to think of death, and it came as a shock that he had made this attempt at setting matters straight.
To my daughter, Daisy, I leave all my love and possessions with the exception of her portrait, which 1 leave to my friend, Jason Link—who is less dross and more gold than he thinks.
Shock upon shock. He must have written this note sometime during those last days, perhaps even that very last day.
She slowly stood up and moved toward the covered painting on the easel. She hadn't been able to bear touching any of Charlie's paintings since his death. So much love and effort had gone into them that they were far more intimate than any clothing or other things.
She took off the drape cloth and looked at the portrait.
She stood there a long time, gazing at the canvas with tear-bright eyes as afternoon faded into dusk.
Love. Jason had said the portrait was filled with love and he had spoken truly. She knew she would never be able to look at this painting without remembering Charlie and their life together. This was a legacy far more precious than the worldly goods Charlie had mentioned in that pitiful scrap of a note.
The note. This painting belonged to Jason! Dammit, she didn't want to give it up.
And she didn't actually have to give it up, she thought fiercely. Surely that note wasn't legal. Even the name in the bequest was wrong. If Charlie had known what the circumstances were, he would have—
How did she know what Charlie would have done? She slowly put the drape cloth back on the painting and wearily turned away. She knew she couldn't ignore Charlie's last wishes. The painting would have to be packed up and shipped to Jason.
She glanced around the room and pain surged through her. She couldn't stay here. There were too many memories and this part of her life was over forever. She had to move on. Why not make the move that would give her the most satisfaction? Jason had not let his feelings stand in the way of his music, so why should she? She wasn't that same soft, quivering bird caught in the eagle's spell any longer. She had met the tigers, endured their bites, and survived. She was tough enough to face Jason calmly even if she did run into him in New York.