Family Secrets Page 3

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  “Miss Ivy Murdock.”

  Ivy couldn’t help laughing at Chester’s pompous tones. He was the most wonderful stuffed shirt. She squeezed his arm and in a stage whisper muttered, “You did that just fine, Chester. Just like in the movies.”

  A flush stained his throat and crept upward from his starched collar to his cheeks.

  “Ivy. Dear Ivy.” Gertrude had hurriedly seated herself in a tall wing chair, her hands regally gripping the armrests. The dusty rose silk of her dress swirled about her ankles. At her throat rested an antique cameo broach pinned to a scarlet velvet ribbon.

  Corning into the room, Caine leaned a hip against the windowsill and watched in amusement as his aunt played the role of queen to perfection.

  “Aunt Tru.”

  Ivy rushed across the room and kissed her cheek, then give her a warm embrace.

  The old woman allowed her gaze to travel over the slender figure before her. “Is that what they’re wearing this year in the big city?”

  Ivy laughed and pressed a cheek to the old woman’s forehead. “You’re wearing enough finery for both of us. You look wonderful.”

  “Was that a cement mixer you drove?”

  “A bike.”

  “Bike?”

  “Motorcycle.”

  “It sounded like a garbage truck. Why on earth don’t you drive a car like everyone else?”

  “New York streets are too congested. With a motorcycle, I can sneak around traffic. It’s the only way to survive midtown Manhattan.”

  “Ummm.” Gertrude’s features remained stiff, but the look in her eyes warmed. “Have you said hello to my nephew yet?”

  Caine watched Ivy stiffen.

  “Oh, yes. We’ve had an interesting reunion.”

  Even in anger, her face was exquisite. In the dappled sunlight of late afternoon, her face was a mixture of light and shadow. Her eyes were so much greener than he’d remembered. So green they’d put his aunt’s antique emeralds to shame. She hadn’t bothered to run a comb through her hair. Dark, burnished, it fell in artless disarray about her face and shoulders. Even here, across the room, he could remember the delicate floral scent of her perfume.

  Seeing her frown, Caine returned a lazy smile of his own.

  Ivy’s heart tumbled as he continued to stare at her.

  “Well,” Aunt Tru said to break the tension. “Beneath those tacky clothes, I can see that you’ve grown into a lovely young woman. And I’m glad you were able to make it for my birthday party.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it. How are you feeling, Aunt Tru?”

  “Fit as a fiddle. Tomorrow night I’m going to dance until dawn. Now, come sit beside me and tell me about your life in the big city.”

  The young woman grinned and began to pull a chair across the floor. As she turned, she nearly collided with a mirrored pedestal holding an exquisite bronze bust. Instantly Caine steadied it and took the chair from her hands. With ease he set it beside his aunt. Their eyes met briefly and Ivy saw the glint of humor in his dark depths.

  “Still knocking into things, I see.”

  “Still preventing disasters, I see.”

  He was laughing at her. He had always laughed at her. She knew she was absentminded. But Caine’s presence seemed to make things worse.

  While she sat down, Caine added another log to the fire. With his back to her, he luxuriated in her deep, throaty voice.

  “There isn’t much to tell. I spend every day painting. On weekends, when the city quiets down a bit, I come out of my seclusion to shop, see the sights, take in a play or concert.”

  “Seclusion. Huh. You’re much too young to be living like a hermit.”

  Ivy chuckled. “I’m not a hermit, Aunt Tru. I’m an artist.”‘

  “So is Caine. Well—” she shrugged at Ivy’s look of surprise “—an architect. They’re practically the same thing. And he leads an entirely too fast-paced life. You should each take a lesson from the other.”

  Ivy chose to ignore Gertrude’s comment. “Though I need a lot of privacy for my work, I’ve made some friends in the city. But actually I often prefer my own company. I’d rather be alone than have to put up with silly, useless chatter.”

  The old woman nodded, pleased with that remark. She had lived by pretty much the same philosophy throughout her own life.

  “Caine. Stop poking at the fire and come join us. And bring that bottle of whiskey,” she added as an afterthought. “We’ll drink to Ivy’s arrival.”

  “You’d drink to anything, Aunt Trudy,” he teased. “I’ve had my limit. And you have, too. Don’t you always take a nap before dinner?”

  “A nap?” She scoffed. “I may take a walk, but I have no intention of lying down. I—I don’t sleep well these days.”

  Ivy saw the look of surprise that crossed Caine’s face at his aunt’s words. “In all the years I’ve known you, you were always such a sound sleeper, Aunt Trudy.”

  “Well, lately I’ve been restless. Now come over here and join us.” The tone of her voice rang with authority. “And bring that bottle.”

  Caine shrugged. If she’d managed to live by her own rules for eighty years, who was he to try to change her now? He filled three glasses, then sat down beside Ivy.

  Warmed by the fire, Ivy removed the leather jacket and dropped it on the back of her chair. As Gertrude lifted her glass in a toast, Caine’s gaze slid over Ivy.

  Beneath the jacket, the silk shirt was hand painted and obviously expensive. It draped gracefully over high, firm breasts, then tapered to a narrow waist. Her jeans were faded and even bore smudges of paint. They fit over her slim hips and long legs like a second skin. Her watch, he noted, was inexpensive and practical. The ruby and diamond ring on her little finger, however, bore the exquisite markings of a fine craftsman. Everything about Ivy Murdock seemed to be a contradiction.

  Draining her glass, the old woman said, “Tell us about your exhibit, Ivy. I’d planned to attend, but the winter storms kept us housebound for weeks. Chester wouldn’t venture any farther than the little store on Sumner Road.”

  “The exhibit was held at the Norton Gallery.” As the first fiery drops of liquid warmed Ivy’s blood, she felt Caine’s brooding gaze. She blamed the liquor for the heat that stained her cheeks.

  Caine nodded his appreciation. “The Norton’s one of the best. You can’t get much higher, unless you make it to the museum.”

  Ivy smiled almost shyly, suddenly warmed by his words. “It was a thrill. The reviews were very kind.”

  Gertrude watched Ivy’s reaction to Caine with intense interest. “Kind. They were absolutely raving about you.”

  “You read them?” Ivy looked pleased.

  “Of course I did. Caine mailed me a copy of every New York paper that carried a review.”

  Ivy glanced at him in surprise. “Thank you.” Turning to Gertrude, she added, “I would have sent them myself, but I was afraid you’d think I was bragging.”

  The old woman placed a soft, blue-veined hand over Ivy’s. “You should be bragging. You have a wonderful talent. It’s something to boast about. In fact, I do a little bragging myself. Everyone in this county knows about Ivy Murdock’s success.”

  “I suppose it’s because of the success of that exhibit that I’ve been given a new commission,” Ivy confided. “The Blayfield Building. I’m to do a mural in the main lobby, and several of my paintings will hang in the executive lounge.”

  Gertrude cast a quizzical glance at Caine before turning to Ivy. “The Blayfield Building? That’s a wonderful opportunity. Your art will be seen by thousands.”

  Ivy beamed. “I’m thrilled at the chance. I’m already working on the paintings. I won’t be able to start the mural until the building is constructed, sometime next year. But I can already see it in my mind.”

  “I think,” Gertrude said, leaning back in her chair with a smug look, “that you’re going to be a very famous artist one day.”

  Ivy stared at th
e amber liquid in her glass. Her voice was subdued. “I’ll settle for good. I want to be a good artist, Aunt Tru. Not a famous one.”

  The old woman nodded her approval. Clearing her throat, she said, “Did your mother tell you she was invited to my party?”

  Something flickered across Ivy’s face. When she spoke, her voice was low. “No, she didn’t. Will she be here today?”

  “No. She said she’d be driving up tomorrow in plenty of time for the party tomorrow night. But Darren should be here any time now.”

  At a knock on the door, all three looked up. The butler paused in the doorway. “Flowers have arrived for you, Miss St. Martin.”

  “Oh, how lovely. Tell Martha to bring them up to my bedroom suite.” Gertrude stood. “I want to see the flowers before I take my evening stroll.” Her gaze swept Ivy. “You did bring something besides those awful blue jeans, didn’t you?”

  Ivy chuckled. “I threw a few things in a bag.” Her smile faded. She jumped up. “Oh. I forgot. It’s on the back of my bike.”

  “Never mind. I’ll have Chester retrieve it.” The old woman arched an eyebrow. “And I’ll have Martha see that they’re neatly pressed before hanging them in your room.”

  “That isn’t necessary, Aunt Tru.”

  The old woman paused in the doorway. “They’ve just spent the better part of the day tied on the back of a motorcycle.” The haughty tone of her voice spoke volumes. “Martha will see to them.”

  When the door closed, Ivy and Caine stared at each other wordlessly, then burst into laughter.

  Caine shook his head. “She means business. You know she’ll have her way.”

  Ivy nodded. “Hasn’t she always? She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”

  “And you, Ivy. Aren’t you strong?”

  She shrugged. “Strong enough to get by.”

  “You seem to have done more than just get by.” He’d been impressed by the talent he’d seen at her New York exhibit. In all of her paintings he’d sensed an underlying quiet strength.

  Uncomfortable under his gaze, she stood and began to prowl the room, touching familiar old objects.

  Even when she was young, she’d been puzzled by Caine’s dark, serious nature. Darren had always known how to make her laugh, to make small talk or be silly enough to put her at ease. But Caine would often remain silent in her presence, unless he had something important to say.

  At twenty-five, she found herself in the company of artists and critics, reporters and art dealers. She had poise and self-confidence. She was bright and articulate. But Caine, only seven years her senior, still made her feel like an awkward teenager.

  “I get the feeling you aren’t exactly pleased that your aunt is having this party, Caine.” She looked up. “Or is it the guest list that bothers you?”

  He shook a cigarette from the pack and held a lighter to it. Through a haze of smoke, he said, “I’m just a little puzzled by it. Aren’t you a little curious about her behavior? She seems nervous. And it isn’t like Aunt Trudy to make a fuss over her birthday.”

  “She’s eighty years old, Caine. Maybe she’s feeling lonely. Or nostalgic. Maybe she wants to recapture her youth. Whatever the reason, I think it’s sweet that she invited us.”

  “How did you think she looked?”

  Ivy paused. “She doesn’t seem to have aged a bit. Her mind seems as alert as ever. Her eyesight is perfect. She doesn’t miss much. And her tongue is as sharp as I remember.”

  Caine heard the note of affection in her tone. “You really like her, don’t you?”

  Ivy felt a surge of warmth at the thought of the old woman. “She was always so good to me. Despite her tough veneer, she was one friend I could count on. When my father’s health began to fail, it was Aunt Tru I turned to. “When I needed money for college, she helped me find a job near the campus. And when I begged my father to allow me to study art, it was Aunt Tru who persuaded him that art was as necessary to me as breathing.” Ivy’s eyes took on a faraway look. “My mother had him convinced I’d never be anything but a starving artist living in some unheated hovel in the Village.”

  Caine heard the tremor in her voice for that one unguarded moment.

  Ivy turned away from his scrutiny and lifted a piece of sculpture to the light.

  Caine walked to the fireplace and stared at the flames. With a flick of the wrist, he tossed the cigarette in the fire. Turning, he said, “I know Trudy too well. She’s up to something.”

  “I think that’s an awful thing to say. Why can’t you simply let her have her fun?”

  He took a step closer, towering over her. “Contrary to what you may think of me, Ivy, I have no objection to—” his lips curled into a smile “—fun. I’ve been known to laugh a time or two myself.”

  “You could have fooled me.” Her eyes widened as the sculpture she was holding slipped from her grasp. In one swift motion, Caine caught it before it crashed to the floor. He replaced it gently on the table.

  Ivy froze, reacting to both the suddenness of the near-accident and Caine’s swift response. Caine found himself staring into her wide emerald eyes. He had the strange feeling that if he took a step closer, he’d drown in them. His hands would find their way into that wild tangle of hair. And his lips would taste the most inviting mouth he’d every imagined.

  His eyes narrowed slightly. He needed only to take one step. Feeling the uneven pattern of his heart, he paused on the brink, then pulled himself back. Shaken, he turned away.

  “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  As the door closed behind him, Ivy exhaled the breath she had been unconsciously holding. She hadn’t imagined that one electric moment. Even though they hadn’t touched, she was still reeling from the intimate contact.

  She stared dreamlike into the flames. There was something dangerous about Caine. Though he could be kind and considerate of his aunt, Ivy had felt the sting of his anger. She touched her fingertips to her shoulders, remembering how roughly he had held her when he’d thought she was an intruder. There had been a simmering anger in his eyes. Enraged, he could be ruthless. His kisses wouldn’t be friendly. His touch wouldn’t be tender or familiar. And, she knew, she wouldn’t be able to easily turn away from him.

  Annoyed with her thoughts, she opened the door and started down the hallway in search of the maid. Where would Martha have put her bag?