“What are you working on?” Matt asked with a chuckle, letting her go and tucking his hands behind his back as he looked over her shoulder.
Winter slapped the sketch pad to her chest and turned on her stool to scowl at him. “I’m just doodling.”
He stepped around to face her and folded his arms over his chest. “That looked like a house you were ‘doodling.’ ” He lifted one brow. “Is it my house?”
Winter stood up and closed the pad. “Maybe,” was all she said as she slid the pad under the counter.
“Can I see?”
“No. I don’t show my work until I’m done.”
His brow lifted again. “Why not?”
“Because my work never makes sense to people until it’s completed. What I start out with is usually a lot different than the final product.”
“So your doodling is really your thought process?”
“Yes,” she said, frowning when she noticed what he was wearing. “You have to start dressing more appropriately, Matt. You’re going to ruin all your nice clothes.”
“I am dressed appropriately,” he said, glancing down at his crisp gray suit, then back at her,
“for the office. I have to fly to New York this morning, but I’ll be back early this evening. Have dinner with me again tonight?” He grinned crookedly. “I mean, tryto have dinner with me tonight?”
“You expect to fly to New York and be back before dinner?”
“Better yet,” he said, taking hold of her shoulders. “Come with me. We’ll eat at Lutèce, and I’ll have you back by bedtime.”
Winter just got her second surprise of the morning. “Come with you to New York City?” she squeaked. “In your jet?”
His grin broadened. “I’ll even let you try your hand at flying,” he offered, his face lit with that same cajoling expression he’d used on her the first day they’d met, when he’d been trying to get a discount. “Ever fly at mach one?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Private jets don’t go that fast.”
“Mine does. It’s a modified fighter.”
Her suspicion grew. “You couldn’t have landed a jet that powerful at our tiny airport. The runway’s too short.”
It was his turn to look suspicious. “You seem to know an awful lot about planes.”
“My mother’s a scientist. She freelances for private space exploration companies.” Winter shrugged her shoulders under his hands. “I inherited some of her knowledge by osmosis. All us girls spent a lot of time in Mama’s computer lab while we were growing up. So you can’t tempt me with promises of flying at mach one in your little jet, Mr. Gregor, because I know it’s impossible.”
“Nevertheless, it’s true.”
“How?” Winter asked, lifting her brow just to bug him.
He gave her shoulders a squeeze and let go with a laugh. “That’s a company secret. Let’s just call it magic. Come with me today.”
Winter wondered what Matt would think if he knew what realmagic could reallydo. “Thank you, but I can’t,” she said, shaking her head despite wanting to go with him. It would certainly be one way to learn more about the man behind the suit. She returned Matt’s smile with a sad grin of apology.
“Not unless you can fit my army of chaperones in your jet.”
He instantly turned serious, his eyes narrowed to golden slits as he studied her in silence. “You’
re using your family as an excuse,” he finally said. “What’s the real reason you won’t come with me?”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not flying to New York City with a man I barely know.”
“You came damn close to knowing me quite well last night,” he whispered, taking a step closer.
Winter looked down and brushed a speck of lint off her sleeve. “That was different,” she whispered back, feeling the heat of a blush spread across her cheeks. “Last night I could have disappeared into the woods anytime I wanted.” She looked up at him. “But in New York City, I’d be completely helpless.”
He folded his arms over his chest, his enigmatic golden eyes studying her for what seemed like forever. “Okay,” he softly conceded. “Point taken.” He stepped forward, took hold of her shoulders again, and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be back by seven, and I’ll pick you up at your door at eight.”
“What about your sunset with Tom this afternoon?”
Matt stepped away and walked around the counter to the wall of paintings. “I was going to ask you to explain to Tom when he came in this morning that I had to leave unexpectedly,” he said, studying Moon Watchers. “We’ll reschedule.” He stepped closer to the painting, then suddenly turned to her with a grin. “A fairy isn’t all you’ve hidden in here,” he said, turning back to the large canvas and pointing at the top left corner. “I almost missed the wolf hidden in the shadows.”
Winter walked over and stood beside him to also look at Moon Watchers. “That’s my grandfather, old Duncan MacKeage.”
“Your grandfather was a wolf?”
She smiled. “My papa told me Duncan MacKeage had the heart of a wolf, so that’s how I portrayed him.”
Matt pivoted to face her. “You put dead people in your paintings?”
“Sometimes,” she said, nodding. “As a reminder that their spirits still walk with us,” she explained. “And to acknowledge that each generation stands on the shoulders of the previous generation, forming the foundation that helps us face the future.” She took hold of Matt’s hand and led him to the back wall of the gallery. “See that snowy owl?” she asked, pointing to the upper right-hand corner of another wintertime scene. “That’s my mama’s sister, Mary Sutter. She’s Robbie’s mother, but she died when he was born.” Winter glanced at the silent, contemplative man beside her as he looked at the drawing. “There really is a snowy that lives on TarStone. I like to think she’s my aunt Mary, watching over all of us.”
Matt looked at her. “So the painting you do for me, of my house…you could put a member of my family in it?”
“Yes, if you tell me about the person. I need to get a feel for who it is. Do you have someone in particular in mind? Male or female?”
“Female,” he said, folding his arms over his chest and resting his chin on one hand as he gazed at the snowy owl. “Her name’s Fiona, and she’d also be a bird, I think. A beautiful hawk, maybe.”
“Fiona,” Winter repeated, testing the name. “Is she your mother? Grandmother?”
“My sister.”
“Ah, my spirits are usually…they’re usually deceased, Matt,” Winter said softly.
“Fiona died in childbirth.”
“Okay,” Winter said even more softly, putting two and two together between Matt’s reaction to Megan yesterday and this revelation about his own sister. “Do you have a photograph of Fiona I could see?”
Matt glanced at her, and Winter nearly stepped back at the look of anguish in his eyes. “I don’t have anything of hers,” he said tightly. “Not even her locket.”
“Locket?”
“Fiona had a gold locket our mother had given her on her sixteenth birthday, which had belonged to our grandmother.” He looked back at the painting, though Winter doubted he was seeing anything other than his sister in his mind’s eye. “But I could never find out what became of it.”
“You mentioned having a brother the first day you were here. He doesn’t know where the locket is?” Winter asked gently.
Winter saw Matt stiffen. “No,” was all he said, that one word completely devoid of emotion.
“Then you’ll just have to tell me about Fiona,” Winter continued brightly, attempting to wash away the chill that had suddenly descended over her gallery. She took hold of Matt’s hand again, ignoring the fact that it was balled into a fist, and led him back down the side wall. “Over dinner tonight, if you want, you can tell me why you think Fiona’s spirit is a beautiful hawk. Here,” she said, stopping in front of a large watercolor of a moose. She pointed at the bushes, where she had hidden the nearly translucent image of a red fox. “This is my uncle Ian. He’s the one Megan told you about yesterday, who insisted we ride draft horses.”