Lover in the Rough Read online

  Books by Elizabeth Lowell

  Lover in the Rough (1984)

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Lover in the Rough (1984)

  One

  “Ms. Farrall,” asked the photographer, do you want the white jade dish next to the baroque pearl cluster or the ivory sculpture?”

  Reba Farrall walked gracefully over the dry streambed toward the photographer. Angular gravel grated beneath her flat-heeled sandals. She stopped behind the photographer, bent and looked through the camera lens. Absently she pushed aside wisps of honey-blond hair that had escaped from the casual knot she wore on top of her head. She straightened and flipped through the papers on her clipboard, trying to look professional and competent when all she wanted to do was steal away for a few minutes and cry.

  “Group eight?” asked Reba, her voice higher and harsher than its normal contralto.

  “Yes,” said the photographer, consulting her own clipboard.

  Reba looked back at the precious objets d’art resting on the ledge of natural marble. Pale marble walls rose on either side of the dry streambed, walls polished by water and time into flowing curves and hollows. Bands of cream and pale yellow, gold-grey and eggshell wove through the walls, giving depth and subtle texture to the satiny stone. Above the marble rose steep, deeply eroded hills of vermilion and black and chocolate, volcanic rock so new that the sun hadn’t had time yet to bake out the intense colors.

  Mosaic Canyon’s contrast in textures was fascinating. Polished marble walls that would be the envy of any castle were juxtaposed against the jagged debris of past volcanic explosions. Bent, broken, canted on edge, the banded marble strata were almost shocking in their smoothness. The subtly untamed stone was an excellent foil for the tranquil, highly civilized curves of the white jade dish. The baroque pearls, however, didn’t quite fit. As for the arching, intricately carved ivory bridge . . .

  “Do the dish alone on the marble. Try the baroque pearls in one of the hollows,” said Reba, pointing to one of the many holes that pocked the marble, creating natural handholds and footholds up the face of the eight-foot wall. “I think the ivory bridge will do better contrasted against the darker mixture of marble and volcanic rocks in the streambed.”

  The photographer’s assistant arranged the jade and pearls and ivory, adjusted the lighting, and stepped aside. The photographer squinted through the lens, readjusted the white parasols and reflective panels and began to shoot.

  Reba watched with a patience that went no deeper than the mist of perspiration on her skin. She knew that her desire to lash out at the people around her was irrational. The photographer was excellent. The guards were as unobtrusive as men carrying guns could be. The two insurance agents had stayed out of the way. The various assistants and gofers had been more help than bother. Except for Todd Sinclair, everyone was doing exactly what was expected. And, in a way, so was Todd. He was being every bit the crass boor that he had been while his grandfather was alive.

  With a silent cry Reba turned away from the sight of the beautiful objets d’art that Jeremy Bouvier Sinclair had collected during his long lifetime. A month hadn’t given her enough time to adjust to Jeremy’s death. Even at eighty he had been erect, alert, his eyes bright and quick. In his precise, elegant French, he had introduced her to a world that she would never have found alone.

  The half-century gap in their ages had not prevented a mutual understanding that was as rare as the materials they worked with. Never having known a father, Reba had given Jeremy a daughter’s love. He had returned that love, taking a parental pride and pleasure in her growth from a rootless young divorcee to a sophisticated, accomplished collector of natural objets d’art. He had given generously of his immense knowledge of gem minerals, cut gems and art created from precious materials. He had taught her everything and accepted nothing in return but her delight when they found something exquisite to add to his collection.

  When it had come time for Reba to make her own way in the world that he had opened to her, Jeremy had given her his blessing. His unqualified confidence in her skill, taste and honesty had gone out along the gem grapevine. In a milieu where a person’s integrity was his only bond, Jeremy’s support had been a priceless asset . . . but still not a tenth so valuable to her as his love.

  And now he was dead.

  “Ms. Farrall?” said the photographer in the voice of someone who has repeated a question several times. “Should we go back to the mouth of the canyon for the Green Suite? I don’t think those shades will do well against the marble. Perhaps the salt flats or the dunes?”

  “Hey, sweet stuff,” called Todd before Reba could answer. “Wake up! The lawyers are gone. There’s nobody here to impress with your great grief for the old goat.”

  Reba looked at Todd with golden-brown eyes that were as clear and hard as the cinnamon diamond Jeremy had given her for her thirtieth birthday. The ring glinted fiercely as she clenched her fist, then relaxed it. Today was the last day that she had to put up with Todd Sinclair, yet it wouldn’t be the last time that she would wonder how a gentleman like Jeremy could have given rise to a toad like Todd.

  Ignoring him, Reba turned to the photographer. “The dunes, I think.” She looked at her watch. “Take a break, everyone. We’ll meet at the dunes in half an hour.”

  She waited while people packed up equipment and began walking back toward the mouth of Mosaic Canyon. When the last person vanished around a bend in the canyon’s marble walls, she closed her eyes and fought the welling tears. She had more work to do. The terms of Jeremy’s will dictated the sale of his collection. She would do as he had asked. She would even accept the five percent commission—then she would use it to pay for publishing a full-color book containing photographs of his collection as it had been while he was alive. The book would be her memorial to him, a celebration of Jeremy Bouvier Sinclair’s taste and unerring judgment.

  But first she had to get through this day as she had gotten through every other day since Jeremy died, by not giving in to the despair and emptiness inside her. She turned and put her cheek against the marble wall, enjoying its coolness. Even in April, Death Valley was a place of dry winds and barren mountains black against the cloudless cobalt sky.

  She hadn’t wanted to come here. The very name had set her on edge. Yet, once here, she couldn’t help but respond to the fierce, naked land. There were no plants to mask the infinitely subtle variations of color and texture that marked the passage of geological events and eras. Minerals both common and rare were jumbled together, colors and textures juxtaposed in a haphazard way that told much about the violent geologic history of the valley. Earthquakes, molten rock flowing thickly, seas and lakes alternating with grinding drought, floods eroding mountainsides, strata of rock sinking, rising, bending, breaking; it was all here, written across the hard surface of the earth.

  The land had been here so long and human life was so brief, a glitter of gold dust riding a restless wind.

  Reba heard footsteps and spun around, angry that her solitude had been spoiled. Todd Sinclair was picking his way along the streambed toward her. His city shoes and sidewalk gait looked awkward in the primal land.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her voice clipped and cold.

  “Same thing you gave old Jeremy,” said Todd, trying to close the distance between them as quickly as he could.

  Pebbles rattled beneath his feet, threatening to trip him. He swore and slowed down. Reba made a sound of disgust and moved to walk around him. He stepped to the side, cutting her off.
r />   “C’mon, sweet stuff,” he said, smiling and reaching for her. “They’re all gone. No need to pretend you don’t want it as bad as I do.”

  Reba stepped back with quick grace, only to be brought up short against the marble wall. She looked at Todd and felt nauseated. Tall, dark, handsome, rich. The perfect prince. And she’d just as soon kiss a toad. “I’m through being polite, Todd. I’m through ignoring all your sleazy double entendres and ‘accidental’ pawing. All I want from you is a guarantee that you’ll never touch me again. Is that clear enough or would you like it notarized with copies to your lawyer?”

  “Too bad, baby. I want to know what the old goat thought was good enough to be worth five percent of $7.6 million. And don’t worry,” he added, grabbing her. “If I like it, I can afford it now that he’s dead.”

  Reba straightened her arms and shoved suddenly, using every ounce of her strength. Todd wasn’t expecting her to resist. He staggered backwards two steps and sprawled on his rear in the gravel. He scrambled to his feet, swearing.

  “That’s it, Farrall. I was going to be nice about it, but it’s time somebody taught you that a whore’s place in this world is on her back!”

  Reba spun around to run up the canyon, only to collide with something warm and hard. A man. His presence shocked her into utter stillness. She had heard no one approach, seen no one—but there he was, as unyielding as the canyon wall. He lifted her, turning to put her behind him, then faced the furious Todd.

  The stranger said nothing. He merely stood, waiting, as calm and unbending as the black mountains.

  Reba stared at the man’s back, too surprised even to speak, caught by the impressions of the instant—the hard warmth of his hands, his easy strength as he had lifted her, the brilliance of silver-green eyes. He was not as tall or as heavy as Todd, but the stranger had moved with a muscular grace that spoke of power and a rare coordination. There was also an indefinable assurance about him that was like nothing she had ever seen.

  Todd took two steps toward Reba before he stopped. Though angry, he was no fool. He looked at the stranger. “This isn’t any of your business,” snapped Todd.

  The man said nothing, did nothing, simply stood and waited with a patience that was frightening.

  Todd took one more step forward, saw the smooth change in the stranger’s stance and backed up quickly. With a crude oath, Todd turned and stumbled back down the dry streambed, pausing only to call over his shoulder, “The whore isn’t worth it!”

  The man watched until Todd was out of sight, then turned toward Reba. She stared at him, caught by the color of his eyes, a pale, shimmering green that was startling against the sun-browned darkness of his face. Crisp black hair curled out from beneath the rim of a dark western hat. A thick sable moustache contrasted with the fine sculpting of his lips. The short-sleeved khaki desert shirt he had tucked into his faded jeans did little to conceal the male strength of his body. From a loop on his wide leather belt hung a geologist’s hammer, blunt on one face and shaped like a pick on the other. Though he could have used it as a weapon against Todd, the stranger hadn’t even put his hand on the tool.

  “Thanks,” Reba said. “You saved me a run through the rocks.”

  His smile was a slash of white against the tanned darkness of his face. She revised her estimate of his age downwards. She doubted if he was over thirty-five. Hard years, though. His face made that clear, as did the physical assurance that had routed a man younger and larger than he.

  “The next time you need to be alone,” he said, “you might try the valley. It’s so quiet there you can hear grains of sand hiss down the slipface of a dune.” His deep voice had a gentle western drawl overlaid with harsher accents she couldn’t identify. “And,” he added dryly, “it’s not as easy to be trapped out in the open.”

  “How did you know I wanted to be alone?” Reba asked, pushing a wisp of hair behind her ear. The cinnamon diamond flashed and burned with each movement of her hand.

  “The same way I knew that you weren’t just playing hard to get with loverboy. Body language doesn’t lie.”

  “Like you standing there, just waiting for Todd to move, so confident you didn’t even touch the hammer on your belt.”

  His light green eyes narrowed as he reassessed her in a single, comprehensive look that noted the eggshell silk of her blouse, her russet shorts, her Italian leather sandals, the vibrant cinnamon diamond ring on her right hand, and most of all the curving woman’s body conditioned by a lifetime passion for gymnastics.

  “He doesn’t know you very well, does he?” said the man softly.

  “No.”

  “And he’s not likely to,” added the man, a statement rather than a question.

  “Not if I can help it,” she agreed, feeling more at ease with the stranger than she had with any man but Jeremy.

  The man’s smile flashed suddenly beneath his midnight moustache, transforming the harsh planes of his face into less intimidating lines. “There’s another way out of the canyon, if you’re game.”

  “How did you know that Todd’s the type to ambush me on the way out?”

  “Same way I knew I wouldn’t have to use the hammer on him. Instinct.”

  “And experience in a few rough places?” said Reba lightly, somewhat shocked by the casual way he had spoken about using a hammer on Todd. If she’d had any doubt that the stranger was as hard as he looked, that doubt was gone.

  The man measured her for an unsmiling moment, then nodded abruptly. “A few. Still want to come with me?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly, surprising herself. She was usually wrapped in layers of professional reserve, armed and armored against life’s emotional ambushes. Jeremy’s death had changed that, fracturing her careful facade like a gem struck by a careless stonecutter. The stranger’s quiet strength drew her as surely as the naked beauty of the land.

  The man watched her for another instant, black eyebrows raised in silent query. He turned away without saying anything, walked three steps and disappeared around a bend in the marble wall. She followed, then watched with admiration as he went up the polished marble wall as though it were a staircase, moving from handhold to foothold with an easy rhythm that told of years spent in rough country. It answered one small mystery—where he had come from so suddenly. His speed and silence were impressive.

  Reba removed her sandals, knowing that their slick leather soles would not help her climb the marble. She slipped the sandal straps over her left wrist and waited until the stranger reached a wide ledge where the marble gave way to steeply slanted layers of volcanic rock. She took a few deep breaths as though she were preparing to execute a gymnastics routine, measured the footholds available and began her ascent. She let the spacing of the hollows determine her rhythm. Only the last part was difficult; she was seven inches shorter than the stranger’s six feet and there were no hollows for the last four feet of the wall.

  “Hold up your arms,” he said.

  She did. He bent and wrapped his hands around her arms. There was a brief sense of hard, callused hands followed by a surge of strength. He lifted her up the last few feet so quickly that she had no time to object. He steadied her, took the sandals and knelt to put them on her bare feet.

  Reba made a startled sound as his fingers closed around her calf and the arch of her foot. Caught off balance, she braced herself with a hand on his back, feeling the shifting resilience of his muscles beneath her palm. A warm hand held her foot, brushing away sharp bits of rock before he strapped on her sandal. He moved so quickly, so surely, that by the time she realized she should object to his touch, the moment for objection had passed. In a rather dazed silence, she watched him buckle the second sandal.

  “That’s the worst of the climb,” he said, standing up in a single smooth motion. He assessed her confusion, smiled slightly and nodded. “Loverboy was wrong about that, too.”

  “What?”

  “You aren’t a whore. Whores are used to being touched by stran
gers.” He turned and began walking along the ledge.

  Reba stared after him for a few seconds before she followed, wondering how much of Todd’s tirade the stranger had overheard. She flushed and then went pale, remembering Todd’s accusations. Emptiness settled in her. More than ever she missed Jeremy’s presence, his faith in her as a person worthy of friendship and love. No one had treated her like that before she met Jeremy—not her mother, not her husband. No one.

  Tears burned behind her eyelids, blurring the rough trail. Impatiently she rubbed her eyes. Not yet. Tonight, after the last photograph of Jeremy’s collection was taken and the last person left for Los Angeles, tonight she would cry.

  She realized that the stranger had turned and was waiting for her. She knew that those silver-green eyes hadn’t missed her brief tears. With a defiant lift to her chin she walked toward him, pulling her professional composure around her like an opaque shell, concealing her emotions inside.

  He hesitated for a moment, as though he would speak or hold out his hand to her, but did neither. Instead, he turned and walked soundlessly through the crumbling volcanic rocks. She followed, moving carefully, sensing his attention on her during the roughest parts of the trail and his approval when she negotiated the tricky spots with a poise that came from hours spent on a balance beam. She said nothing, though, nor did she meet his eyes again. She couldn’t bear to think of anyone overhearing Todd’s crude accusations.

  As Reba walked, the silence and primal beauty of the canyon seeped into her, easing her feelings of anger and humiliation and emptiness. Curiosity grew in her as she watched the stranger’s unconscious grace of movement, his silvery eyes constantly appraising the cliffs and rocks, his alertness to every shift of sound. He was like a wild animal, intensely aware, moving powerfully and silently over the harsh land.

  He stopped to wait for her by a stratum of black rock thrusting out of the land.

  “Precambrian,” he said, pulling out his hammer and striking the stone. It gave off a hard, almost crystalline sound. The hammer left no mark. “One of the oldest rocks on earth. There was no life then, nothing but water and rock, lightning and wind. After a few billion years, single-celled life caught on. Algae. Not much as we measure life, but damned powerful just the same. The algae gave off oxygen as a byproduct, same way we breathe out carbon dioxide. They divided and multiplied and finally polluted the atmosphere with oxygen so badly that they killed themselves off.”