The blast of heat blew straight through her.
That had always been, as well. Fire and flash and promise all balled together in some sort of molten comet that exploded in the brain and left the system wrecked.
Not this time, not this time. Not ever again.
With considerable force she shoved him back a step. She wouldn't slap. Too predictable and female. But she very nearly punched.
"Sorry. I thought that was what you called me out here for."
“Try that again, and you'll be bleeding from various fatal wounds."
He shrugged, sauntered over to the coffeepot. "My mistake."
"Damn right. Any rights you had to touch me expired a long time ago. You may be part of this thing because you happened to buy that damn painting, and I'll tolerate you because of that. And because you're Flynn's friend. But as long as you're here, you'll abide by the rules."
He poured two mugs of coffee, set hers on the counter. "Spell them out for me."
"You don't ever touch me. If I'm about to step in front of a damn bus, you don't so much as reach out to pull me back to the curb."
"Okay. You'd rather be run over by a bus than have me touch you. Check. Next?"
"You're a son of a bitch."
Something that might have been regret flashed across his face. "I know it. Look, let's step back a minute. Flynn's important to both of us, and this is important to Flynn. That woman out there's important to him, and she's important to you. We're all connected here, whether we want to be or not. So let's try to figure it out. He was in and out of here in about three minutes flat this morning. I didn't get much more out of him then, or when he called last night, than that Malory's in trouble. Fill me in."
"If Malory wants you to know, she'll tell you."
Hand her an olive branch, he thought, and she rams it down your throat. "Still a hard-ass."
"It's private stuff," she snapped. "Intimate stuff. She doesn't know you." Despite a thousand vows, she felt her eyes fill. "Neither do I."
That single tearful look punched a hole in his heart. "Dana."
When he stepped toward her, she snatched a bread knife off the counter. "Put your hands on me again, I'll hack them off at the wrist."
He stayed where he was, slid his hands into his pockets. "Why don't you just stick it in my heart and get it over with?"
"Just stay away from me. Flynn doesn't want Malory left alone. You can consider this your shift, because I'm leaving."
"If I'm going to be guard dog, it would help to know what I'm guarding against."
"Big, bad sorcerers." She yanked open the back door. "Anything happens to her, I'll not only jam that knife in your heart, I'll cut it out and feed it to the dog."
"Always were good with imagery," he drawled after she'd slammed out.
He rubbed a hand over his stomach. She'd tied it in knots—something else she was damn good at. He looked at the coffee she hadn't touched. Though he knew it was foolishly symbolic, he picked up the cup and poured the coffee down the sink.
"Down the drain, Stretch. Just like us."
Malory studied the paintings until her vision blurred. She made more notes, then stretched out on the floor to stare at the ceiling. She jumbled what she knew in her head, hoping it would form a new, clearer pattern.
A singing goddess, shadows and light, what was within herself and outside herself. To look and see what she hadn't seen. Love forged the key.
Hell.
Three paintings, three keys. Did that mean there was a clue, a sign, a direction in each painting for each key? Or was there a compilation in the three paintings for the first key? For hers?
Either way, she was missing it.
There were common elements in each portrait. The legendary subject matter, of course. The use of forest and shadows. The figure cloaked by them.
That would be Kane.
Why was Kane in the portrait of Arthur? Had he actually been there at the event, or was his inclusion, and Rowena's and Pitte's, symbolic?
But still, even with those common elements, the Arthurian portrait didn't seem part of what she was certain was a set. Was there another painting, to complete the triad, of the Daughters of Glass?
Where would she find it, and what would it tell her when she did? She rolled over, examined the portrait of young Arthur once more. The white dove at the right top. A symbol for Guinevere? The beginning of the end of that shining moment?
Betrayal by love. The consequences of love.
Wasn't she dealing with consequences of love now, within herself? The soul was as much a symbol of love and beauty as the heart was. Emotions, poetry, art, music. Magic. Soulful elements.
Without a soul, there were no consequences, and no beauty.
If the goddess could sing, didn't that mean she still had her soul?
The key might be in a place where there was art, or love. Beauty or music. Or where the choice to keep them or discard them was made.
A museum, then? A gallery? The Gallery, she thought and bolted to her feet.
"Dana!"
She dashed toward the kitchen, pulling up short when she saw Jordan sitting at the scarred table working on a small, sleek laptop.
"Sorry. I thought Dana was in here."
"She took off hours ago."
"Hours?" Malory passed a hand over her face as if coming out of a dream. "I lost track of time."
"Happens to me regularly. Want some coffee?" He glanced toward the empty pot on the counter. "All you have to do is make it."
"No, I really need to… You're working. I'm sorry to interrupt."
"No problem. I'm having one of those days where I fantasize about having an alternate profession. Like being a lumberjack in the Yukon or a bartender at a tropical resort."
"Pretty disparate choices."
"Either of which seems like more fun than what I'm doing."
She noted the empty coffee cup, the half-full ashtray set beside the jazzy laptop on a secondhand picnic table in a stupendously ugly kitchen.
"Could be the ambience isn't particularly conducive to creativity." "When things are going well, you can be in a sewer with a notebook and a Ticonderoga."
"I suppose that's true, but I'm wondering if you're set up in this… unfortunate room because you're watching out for me."
"Depends." He eased back, fiddled with his dwindling pack of cigarettes. "If that's okay with you, sure. If it's going to piss you off, then I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
She cocked her head. "And if I said I had to leave now, that there's something I want to check out?"
He gave her an easy smile, one she thought might pass for innocent on a less wicked face. "I'd say, is it okay if I tag along? It might do me good to get out of the house for a while. Where are we going?"
"The Gallery. It occurred to me that the key must be attached to art, to beauty, to the paintings. It's the most logical place in the area to look."
"Uh-huh. So, you're going to walk into a public place of business, during business hours, and nobody's going to mind if you go on a scavenger hunt through the stock and/or office areas."
"Well, when you put it that way." Deflated, she sat across from him. "Do you think this whole thing is just some kind of lunacy?"
Jordan recalled watching several thousand dollars appear and disappear. "Not necessarily."
"And if I said I might have a way to get into The Gallery after business hours?"
"I'd say you wouldn't have been picked to be a part of this unless you were a creative woman with a flexible mind who's willing to take some chances."
"I like that description. I don't know if it always applied, but it does now. I need to make some phone calls. And, Jordan? I think it shows a strong sense of character and loyalty for a man to waste his day looking after a stranger because a friend asked him to."
MALORY took the keys from Tod and gave him a huge hug in return. "I owe you big."