Jayne Castle: Obsidian Prey

Great. She was not just feeling sorry for him, she was actually making excuses. She had to get a grip.

Cruz closed the door before she could ask him any more questions. A few seconds later, he got in beside her and rezzed the engine. Flash-rock melted, and the Slider eased away from the curb. Cruz turned at the corner, driving deeper into the Quarter. Navigating the maze of twisting streets in the Colonial neighborhoods was not for the faint of heart or those who depended on maps. But Cruz piloted the Slider with unerring precision. She did not have to prompt him even a single time. She was not surprised. Cruz always knew exactly where he was going.

He did not speak until he parked the Slider in front of her apartment building. For a moment he sat quietly, his hands resting on the steering wheel. The black stone in his heavy gold ring glinted a little in the green-tinged shadows.

"Did you get the new sofa?" he asked.

Startled, she looked at him. "What?"

"Three months ago you were planning to buy a new sofa. I've been wondering if you got it."

"Right, the sofa. No. I didn't get it."

"Why not?"

"Turns out suing Amber Inc. is sort of an expensive hobby. I've had to economize lately."

"You had a really bad lawyer," Cruz said grimly.

"You've already mentioned that." She unbuckled her seat belt. "Turns out really good lawyers are even more expensive than sofas. I thought we weren't going to snipe at each other."

"Sorry. Just wondered about the sofa."

It struck her that his curiosity about the sofa was another positive indicator. Evidently he had been thinking about her a lot, and in a personal way, if he had been musing about homey things such as her plans to purchase new furniture.

He got out from behind the wheel. She opened her own door before he could get around the front of the Slider to do it for her. At the lobby entrance of the apartment building, she took the key out of her small green clutch and rezzed the lock.

They got into the rickety elevator and stood, a little distance between them, until the door opened on the fourth floor. Without a word they went down the hall. She opened her door, stepped into the apartment, and turned on the light switch.

A large ball of dryer lint with bright blue eyes tumbled toward her, chortling a cheerful welcome. Its six paws skittered on the hardwood floors. A small, jaunty red beret was clipped to the tatty fur in the vicinity of the top of its head.

Lyra scooped up the dust bunny and plopped him on her shoulder.

"I'm home, Vincent," she said.

The greeting ritual satisfied, Vincent burbled happily and hopped onto Cruz's much broader shoulder.

"At least the bunny is glad to see me," Cruz said. "Hey, there, pal. How's it rezzing?"

Vincent chortled again.

Dust bunnies were not overly concerned with petty things like the legal ownership of spectacular amber discoveries in the jungle, Lyra thought. Nor did they fret about having fallen in love with the wrong man. But she rose above the impulse to make that observation out loud. She had to stay focused. The window bench was at the far end of the room, still in shadow, but she could make out the curves of the bra cups

"While you two reminisce, I'll get out of these heels," she said.

She hurried toward the window bench.

The plan was simple. She would keep her body between Cruz and the bra.

She reached her goal, grabbed the end of the towel, and rolled the bra inside with a few quick twists. Still moving fast, she darted behind the sliding screens that concealed the bedroom area and dropped the towel and its contents onto the dresser.

In the outer room, Cruz rezzed another light switch. The resulting glow permeated the bedroom through the translucent screens.

"I see Vincent is still painting," Cruz said from the other side of the screen.

Oh, damn, the painting . She had been so focused on the bra that she had forgotten about the artwork. Well, there was nothing for it but to brave it out. The odds were seriously against Cruz ever discovering the truth.

She went back out into the main room, deftly sliding the screen closed behind her to conceal the bed. There was something about having a bed clearly visible when you were alone with a man who could heat your blood and excite all your senses with just a look; something dangerous.

Cruz was standing over Vincent's latest work of art. The canvas lay flat on the floor atop a protective layer of newspapers. The one attempt at setting up an easel had ended in disaster when Vincent had tried to climb it to get to the top of the painting. He'd had a blue rez-brush in one paw at the time. The easel had toppled over. Vincent had landed with his usual adroitness, but the rez-brush had shattered when it hit the floor. The little tube of paint attached to the brush had broken off, splattering blue paint on everything within range, including the artist. It had required a great deal of paint remover and repeated baths to restore Vincent's fur to its customary shade of nondescript gray.

"Painting is just a game to him," she said. "I keep thinking he'll grow tired of it. But so far he hasn't. I still have to lock up the rez-brushes whenever I'm not around to supervise, though. Three weeks ago, I went downstairs to take out the trash while he was playing with his paints. I was gone for only five minutes, but by the time I got back, the lower portion of the refrigerator was green."

Cruz studied the bright, chaotic swipes and blobs of color that covered a third of the canvas. "Looks like he's heavily into magenta. When I left he was still in his blue period."

She thought about what had happened to the three blue paintings and cleared her throat. "He's gone through several colors since we last saw you," she said.

Cruz looked at her across the room. He had removed his jacket and tossed it over the reading chair, just as he had done so often during the time they had dated. His black tie was unknotted, and he had opened the top three or four buttons of his shirt. Making himself at home, she thought wistfully. Just as if nothing had happened.

The coffee table, with its vase of amethyst orchids and the little stack of cards, stood between them. He must know that she had gotten the message of the unsigned cards. A woman would not keep flowers from a man unless she was prepared to forgive him. The anticipation was almost unbearable.

"Things got very complicated three months ago," he said.

"Yes, they did." She went around behind the kitchen counter. "Would you like a drink? I still have the Amber Dew you bought before the complications set in."

"Sounds good." He lowered himself onto one of the counter stools and hooked a foot over the bottom rung. "I'm surprised you didn't throw out the bottle."

"I considered it a few times, but it seemed like a waste of good liqueur."

"Smart thinking." He watched her take the two-thirds-empty bottle down from the cupboard. "Looks like you've been enjoying it. We only had one drink each out of that bottle."

"Well, it has been three months, and I must admit it is rather nice to be able to serve a fancy liqueur like Amber Dew when I have guests."

"Guests?" he repeated very deliberately.

"Mmm. They're always very impressed."

She gave him a warm smile and set one of the filled glasses on the counter within reach of his hand. Let him think that she'd been dating madly since he had shattered her world. She was not about to tell him that the only person she had invited to dinner in the past three months had been Nancy, and that every time they had shared a glass of the fabulously expensive Amber Dew they had chanted, "To the bastard, may he rot."

He picked up the glass. "Thanks for trusting me enough to let me come back here with you tonight. I know that must have been hard for you."