CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Moira~
“Are you just toying with our boy?” Anthony Drake demanded as he let out the clutch of his big black SUV.
Moira had expected Anthony’s attack. He had been fairly simmering since she had introduced herself. Her talent for reading people had only been enhanced by her transformation. Anthony’s wrath showed up in his aura and in a certain bitter taint in his scent. Too bad she didn’t know precisely what had triggered his fury.
“The thought of keeping Quinn as my boy toy is rather tempting,” she said lightly, “But I am Fae, we don’t trifle with the feelings of others.”
Anthony shot her a look as he turned onto the Old Coast Road. “So what are you and Quinn up to?”
“Shouldn’t you be asking him that?”
“Is he going to tell me something different than you?” he snapped.
“Um. No. Does our relationship distress you?” she asked gently.
“What distresses me is having my neighbors haul me aside and ask me what the heck my only son is doing seducing a fairy. A virgin fairy too.”
“Not anymore.” She hoped she did not sound as smug as she felt.
Anthony snorted. Smoke hung in the air. “I’m going to tell you what Quinn should have told you before he ever got you into bed.”
Moira rolled the window down, second-hand dragon smoke could not be good for the lungs. “Yes?”
“The transformation makes the marriage.” Anthony threw down the gauntlet.
“Old dragon saying?” She kept her voice polite.
“More like ancient dragon lore.”
“Ah. So you think that Quinn and I should get married?”
“Before the baby comes.” He shot her another ferocious glance before he powered through another hairpin bend.
She patted her tummy happily. She had only been sure for a few days, herself, and the reality still made her giddy. “Is the baby general knowledge?”
He snorted. Flames flickered in the air. “Furlong knows. The others are just outraged by the idea of you screwing a hunter.”
She winced. “Quinn and I prefer to think of what we do as making love.”
“Good. So you won’t mind if Lorraine and I start planning a wedding?”
“That would be up to Quinn, wouldn’t it?” She did not think a second ceremony was important, and Quinn wasn’t much for fusses.
“If he transformed you and isn’t in love, there’s more wrong with that boy than his artistic bent.” Anthony’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “He threw away a perfectly good career at Drake Investments. He’s going to be a relative pauper, you know. Maybe you could persuade him to go back to trading bonds?”
“Quinn has true talent, sir. Believe me, I know. And he was miserable being a bond analyst. And money isn’t everything.”
His face eased out. He turned the car into the winding drive to the cottage. “Looks like they beat us back,” he said.
“That isn’t Quinn’s truck,” she said.
Anthony parked the SUV in the garage. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll see who our visitor is.”
Honestly. Were all the Drake men overprotective alpha males? She supposed it went with the territory. She foresaw a life of being smothered in cotton wool. But Moira slipped obediently into the shadows and listened.
“Cynthia!” Anthony’s distinguished voice was tight with anxiety. Or maybe she had extra-sensitive hearing now that she was a dragoness. “What brings you to West Haven?”
“Hello, Anthony,” Cynthia Fitzhugh cooed. “I thought I had given Quinn enough time to come to his senses. So here I am.”
“Huh?”
It was time to rescue the dragon. Moira stepped out and walked up the path to the porch. A whippet-thin blonde was reclining in one of the Adirondack chairs. Her posture was relaxed, but her aura was tense. So this was the ex-fiancée.
Moira slipped an arm through Anthony’s. He patted hers nervously. “Moira, I’d like to introduce you to a family friend. This is Cynthia Fitzhugh. Cynthia this is Moira Fairchild.”
Moira held out her hand politely. “Hello,” she said.
Cynthia laughed brittlely. “Actually, I’m Quinn’s fiancée.”
Abruptly, Moira felt sorry for the other woman. She was due for a major embarrassment. “I’m Quinn’s,” she paused delicately, “Agent.”
“His agent?”
“Artists generally have to have agents if they want to sell their work,” she explained patiently.
“A Drake scarcely needs to make a hobby pay for itself,” Cynthia said condescendingly.
Anthony unlocked the front door. “Lorraine and Quinn should be along momentarily. Why don’t we have a drink while we wait for them?”
“Good idea,” Moira said cheerful. “Make mine mineral water, please.” She turned confidingly to the other woman. “I’m drinking for two.”
Cynthia visibly relaxed. “Oh. Congratulations. Is Mr. Fairchild going to join us?”
“Any moment.” Moira began to enjoy herself.
Anthony practically herded them into the parlor. Cynthia looked around with interest. “Have a seat, ladies. I’ll get those drinks. White wine, Cynthia?”
“Yes, please.” Cynthia sat down on one of the two stiff settees.
Moira took the one opposite.
“Who are the olds?” Cynthia whispered pointing at the portraits over the mantelpiece.
“I think they are the parents of the Drake who built Shoreside,” Moira said.
“Seriously deformed,” pronounced Cynthia. “I mean, look at her neck.”
Moira seized the opportunity to explain about American Primitivism and the role of itinerant artists in American art history. “Those portraits were evidently done as a pair, probably just after the Revolutionary War. Even if they weren’t family portraits, they would be worth collecting.”
Anthony returned with a tray on which there were three glasses. “Here we are,” he said with false heartiness. “What were you two talking about so cozily?”
“Moira was just telling me how valuable these lovely paintings of your ancestors are,” Cynthia lied sweetly.
Anthony took a sip of his drink and gave Moira a sharp look. “Are they?”
“Hmm. For serious collectors, the artist’s flawed technique is as much a part of their charm as their age. I particularly like the fact that the lace on Mrs. Drake’s dress is executed so carefully, while her features are slightly lopsided. Probably the artist painted the clothes during the winter and added the head when he – or she – went door-to-door offering to paint portraits.”
“I had no idea women were painting in that era,” Anthony said, looking absurdly grateful.
“Oh, yes.” Moira was perfectly willing to keep the conversation neutral, but it was time to find out why Cynthia was here. She turned to the other woman. “It’s too bad you missed the prize-giving. Of course all the paintings and art pieces will be on view until the end of the month. But the judging was this afternoon. And all of Quinn’s have already sold.”
“Really?” Cynthia shrugged. “I will have to go see them, I suppose.”
“You should. Quinn took first prize,” Anthony said into the awkward silence that followed Cynthia’s perfunctory remark.
“He couldn’t have,” blurted Cynthia.
“No?” Anthony’s voice was dangerous.
Cynthia chuckled lightly. “I have it on good authority that the judges found his work sadly derivative. Absolute dreck.” She made a recovery. “But perhaps they didn’t want to offend the Drakes?” she suggested.
The penny dropped. Moira saw it all. Cynthia and Adrian were in cahoots. “I assume your informant was Adrian Whitlock?”
Big blue eyes widened. Cynthia nodded. “How did you know?”
“Mr. Whitlock got himself thrown off the jury,” Moira informed her. “For bad-mouthing the art, and making threats. I’m afraid that he was not the impartial judge he should have been.” She shook her head in feigned sorrow. “I hate to speak ill of my former partner, but he is not above taking bribes. His reputation is not what it once was.”
“He wasn’t on the jury?” Cynthia snapped.
“He was replaced by Sylvia Gospel, who thinks Quinn is a genius. As he is,” Moira informed her.
Cynthia swallowed hard. She gulped her wine. “Really?”
“Oh, yes,” Moira said happily. “He has true artistic vision and great technique.”
“Thank you, darling,” Quinn drawled from the doorway. He kissed Moira on the mouth. A brisk, possessive kiss. “Why, Cynthia,” he murmured as if he had only just noticed her, “What brings you all the way to our little island?”
She stood and moved to embrace him, but he sidestepped and pulled his mother forward. “Mom, Cynthia has joined us.”
Lorraine kissed Cynthia on both cheeks. Moira wasn’t surprised that Quinn’s ex-fiancée looked pale. Anthony stood up. “White wine, Lorraine? What’ll you have, Quinn?”
“Red, please.” He sat down beside Moira and put an arm around her shoulders. “Tired?” he asked solicitously.
“Just a little.”
Cynthia looked as if she had swallowed a lemon. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
Quinn’s arm tightened. “Yes, indeed.” He picked up Moira’s hand and kissed her fingers. “Moira has made me very happy.”
Cynthia’s eyes bulged. “I was referring to your first prize,” she said stiffly.
“That too,” Quinn said affably. “But a first prize is nothing compared to a wife and baby.”
Anthony entered on that remark. He acted with smooth aplomb that Moira could only admire. “A toast,” he declared. “To Quinn’s triple successes.”
They all raised their glasses and sipped. After that there was nothing for Cynthia to do but to excuse herself and leave. “I have to find a hotel,” she said.
Moira rose to the occasion. She pulled out her cell. “I’ll call my aunt – she runs the Tidewater Inn. She’ll find you something.” Robin would, even if it meant putting Cynthia up in Robin’s quarters.
Cynthia’s taillights had not disappeared before Anthony led them into the family room. “I think your mother and I are owed some explanations,” he said when they were all comfortable and the fire was lit.
“As you have already noticed, I have transformed my mate,” Quinn kissed Moira’s hand. She let her rings appear. “She’s pregnant. And we were married in Mystic Bay three weeks ago.”
Anthony looked inclined to be indignant. But Lorraine jumped up to kiss Moira. “That’s wonderful news,” she cried. “But poor Cynthia.” She looked accusingly at her son.
“I wouldn’t feel too sorry for her,” Moira said. “She and Adrian Whitlock were in collusion to destroy Quinn’s art career before it got started.” She told the older couple about Adrian’s campaign to discredit the art show and the artists.
“But what would Cynthia have gained from that?” objected Lorraine.
“She obviously thought that if I went back to Drake Investments, we would pick up our engagement as if nothing had happened,” Quinn said. “But it was over for me the moment I realized she was more in love with my money than me.”
“Unlike Moira,” Anthony said with satisfaction. “Now we just have to decide where to hold the wedding.”
“We are already married,” Quinn protested.
“We’ll do it up right.” Lorraine ignored Quinn. “I think we should have a reception here on West Haven and one in Seattle. We only have one son.”
Moira squeezed Quinn’s hand tightly. “As long as I get to have two more wedding dresses,” she said.
He laughed and swept her into his arms. “Done,” he cried.