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“That must be refreshing after a night with one of your women.”
“It is, although I have to say, I don’t understand your dislike of bridesmaids.”
“I don’t dislike them. I simply don’t understand what you see in them. Or what they see in you.”
The last was a lie. Mathias was funny enough to be charming and sexy enough to be irresistible. She would admit that even she had had the odd fantasy or two about him. Not that she would ever bother to act—she knew her place in the world. She was the plain peahen, while Mathias was the classic peacock. There was no reason for him to notice her and even if he somehow did, he only did one-night stands and that had never been her thing. She was much more a fall in love first kind of girl.
“What I see in them is that they’ll be gone in the morning,” he said as he stood. “As for what they see in me, isn’t that obvious?”
He held out his hand. She reached for it and he pulled her to her feet. As soon as she found her balance, he released her, then reached down and grabbed her jacket. He put it around her shoulders.
“Come on, my little animal warden friend. We need to get you into bed. Morning comes early and cows expect to be fed.”
“I should slug you really hard in the stomach,” she grumbled as they walked to her Jeep.
“Such violence. You’re not embracing the cow mantra of being one with nature.”
“If you say cow one more time, I swear I’m going to—”
He held open the driver’s door and she slid onto the seat. They were nearly at eye level.
“You’re going to what?” he asked.
The dome light illuminated his features. His eyes were dark and his smile nearly blinded her with its brightness. He had broad shoulders and the honed body of a man who used muscles every day in his work.
As happened every now and then around him, she remembered that she was a healthy woman in her twenties who hadn’t been with someone in way too long. Mathias had to know what he was doing—he certainly had enough practice.
Not that he would be interested in her. Not only didn’t she fit his “You must be leaving town” criteria, she wasn’t, you know, special. Or at least not special enough to tempt the likes of him.
“I’m going to start training the zebras to poop in your yard. Have you smelled zebra poo? It’s going to make that perfume seem like nothing.”
He flashed her a smile. “Time to say good-night, Carol.”
“Good night, Carol.”
He closed the door and walked to his sedan. She started down the road, the Mercedes following closely. A couple of miles later, she pulled into her driveway. Mathias flashed his lights, then kept going. For a second, his car disappeared as he rounded a small hill, then she saw him as he came out the other side. The lights turned as he drove onto his property, flashed twice again before disappearing into his garage.
She continued to stand in the darkness until more lights appeared, this time in his massive house on the edge of the animal preserve. There was humor in the fact that her twelve-hundred-square-foot bungalow could fit comfortably in his five-car garage with room to spare, yet he was her closest neighbor. There she was—living on the edge of the world of the “haves” and more than happy to stay on her side.
Carol unlocked her front door and went inside. She toed off her boots, then went directly to her bedroom and barely pulled off her jeans before sinking onto the mattress and sighing.
Morning would come way too early, thanks to Bronwen. Unlike some people who lived in big mansions with views, she had to get up with the sun. Her herd didn’t like to wait for breakfast.
Carol quickly fell asleep only to find herself tangled in a strange dream of flying cows and Mathias begging her to kiss him. She woke to the insistent sound of her alarm and the knowledge that of the two scenarios, flying cows were by far the more likely to happen.
* * *
MATHIAS WALKED BAREFOOT across his patio. It was still early and a light mist clung to the ground—no doubt the result of early-morning watering, but he preferred a more romantic explanation. It was the artist in him.
He took his favorite chair, set his coffee and sketch pad on the table beside him, then prepared to wait.
He wasn’t sure how long ago the ritual had started. Shortly after Millie had arrived, maybe. He didn’t know why she got to him more than the others. She was just a giraffe. Shouldn’t he find beauty in the swift-footed gazelles or majesty in the water buffalo?
While he’d been aware of the animals when he’d purchased the house, he hadn’t really noticed them for the first few months. He supposed they’d crept into his consciousness after he’d met Carol.
Most towns hid their dumps behind gates or far away from any suburban sprawl. Happily Inc had planned differently, putting it just southwest of the population center, carefully downwind.
In addition to running a recycling and reclamation program that was one of the best in the nation, the two men who owned and ran the dump had also purchased hundreds of acres around the landfill. Grasses and trees had been brought in. Once they’d taken root, the animals had appeared. The gazelles had been first, then the zebras. There were a few wading birds, the water buffalo and lastly, Millie.
Mathias knew the basics—the two men who had created a unique African savanna on the edge of the California desert were Carol’s father and uncle. When she’d completed her degree, she’d come to work at the preserve. A year ago, the old man in charge of the animals had retired, leaving Carol to take over. A few months after that, Millie had arrived.
Mathias didn’t know why the giraffe and the woman were so closely linked in his mind, but they were. Now, as he watched the morning fog slowly dissipate, he saw Millie stroll into view.
She was a reticulated or Somali giraffe, nearly fifteen feet tall, with traditional markings. Her face was almost heart shaped, with widely spaced eyes and an inquisitive gaze.
Mathias sipped his coffee before reaching for his sketch pad. He already had hundreds of drawings of Millie and Carol, but he hadn’t yet found the one. He would know it when he saw it, so every morning he waited.
Carol appeared when they cleared the trees. She barely came to partway up Millie’s shoulder. In the morning light, her short red hair seemed almost blond. She was strong and wholly herself—a contrast to his usual type of woman, so he shouldn’t have found her appealing...only he did. There was something about her lack of artifice, something about the way she was so comfortable in her own skin that made him pay attention.
Carol and the giraffe strolled together like this most mornings, after the other animals had been fed. At first he’d thought this was Carol’s way of making Millie more comfortable with her surroundings. But the walks had continued long after Millie had settled in to her new home. When the small donation jars had started popping up all over town, he’d realized Carol was attempting to fulfill Millie’s need for companionship.
A few minutes on the internet had taught Mathias that while male giraffes were mostly solitary, female giraffes lived in a loose group. Mothers often took on babysitting duties so they could each go forage for food. Carol’s morning walks were her attempt to help Millie feel as if she had a herd.
He watched them for nearly half an hour then went inside. Before heading to the studio, he went to his sunroom where he worked from home. Not with glass—that setup would require more equipment, not to mention a very understanding insurance agent—but with pencil and pad or even paint and canvas.
He flipped through the drawings stacked on a shelf. Millie alone, Millie and Carol walking, Millie with the zebras. It was there, he thought, doing his best to ignore the ever-present frustration. He’d been close a couple of times, nearly capturing the image he wanted. It would come—he had to believe that. And when it did, he would create it out of glass. Assuming he still had what had once been his reason to live and breathe.
* * *
ULRICH SHERWOOD, Duke of Somerbrooke, stared out of the eighth-floor conference room window of the Century City high-rise. To the west was Santa Monica and the vast Pacific Ocean, to the east were haze-covered mountains...or maybe that was smog smudging the outline. He’d only been in Los Angeles twice before and hadn’t enjoyed himself either time. This visit was to meet with lawyers—something else he didn’t enjoy but which was in this case a necessary evil. A very well-financed TV producer wanted to set a modern-day Downton Abbey in England and Ulrich’s home of Battenberg Park had been chosen as the location. Not only did the use of the rambling estate mean a hefty fee, Battenberg Park would also receive a “spruce” as the lawyer had called it. For their purposes, that meant fresh paint and a significant upgrade in landscaping. Combined, the fee and the “spruce” had made a trip to Los Angeles more than worth the time and effort.
Linda, the forty-something attorney, returned to the conference room and smiled at him. “Your Lordship.”
“Ulrich, please,” he murmured, knowing there was no point in correcting her to use the more accurate “Your Grace.” Not only did he prefer to keep that sort of formality to a minimum, he was in the States. Here, true royalty came in the form of movie stars. What did anyone care about lineage, titles or peerage?
“Here’s your copy of the contract,” Linda said. “Along with a receipt for the first payment. As you requested, we wired the money directly to your bank.”
“Excellent.”
Linda had the firm, slim body of a woman who took fitness seriously. She looked at least a decade younger than what he would guess to be her age and he was sure, when it came to playing the game, she was far more experienced than he. He’d married young, divorced only two years ago and since then had avoided entanglements. He supposed he should have been flattered and perhaps intrigued when she said, “Now that our business is complete, I’d love to take you out to dinner. I know a great little place not far from my condo.”
Ulrich knew he could easily take advantage of what was being offered. He was single, out of the country and no one would ever know. He doubted Linda wanted or expected anything other than the one night. What could be more perfect?
Only he couldn’t summon the interest. It wasn’t that she was nearly a decade older, it was...well, everything.
“Thank you for the invitation,” he said, offering a polite smile and a tone of genuine regret. “I’m afraid I have pressing business in the eastern part of your state and I must get on the road right away.”
“Where are you heading?”
Ulrich did his best not to curl his lip in disdain. “To a town called Happily Inc.”
She laughed. “I’ve been there. A friend had a destination wedding at a place called Weddings in a Box a couple of years ago. It’s cute. An interesting choice for a man like you. Are you getting married?” She sounded more intrigued than put off by the idea of his pending nuptials.
“What? No. I have, ah, family business in the area.”
An American shyster stealing from his grandmother, to be exact.
Linda regarded him thoughtfully. “I’m sorry we won’t be able to spend the evening together.”
“As am I,” he lied. “Truly.” He waved the folder. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome.”
Ulrich nodded and left. Twenty minutes later he was heading east on I-10. His rental car’s nav system promised him an arrival at his destination in less than four hours.
On the seat next to him was his briefcase. Inside, along with the contract from Linda’s production firm, was a name and an address.
For the past half dozen or so years his eighty-year-old grandmother had been sending packages to one Violet Lund. At first Ulrich hadn’t noticed or cared, until the head housekeeper had mentioned that items from the estate had gone missing. A pair of candlesticks here, a small painting there. Individually the items were of little consequence, but in the aggregate, they were significant.
He’d found out about the packages, but when he’d questioned his grandmother, the dowager duchess had informed him it was none of his business.
Ulrich had very little family left—Winifred, his grandmother, was his closest living relative. She’d helped raise him after his mother had died, they’d comforted each other when his father had passed a few years before, and he loved her deeply. There was no way he was going to confront her directly, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go around her and find out about the disgusting human being who would prey on a helpless old lady.
For a second Ulrich mentally paused to appreciate the six or seven thousand miles between him and his grandmother. Because if she ever knew he’d thought of her as helpless or old, she would grab him by the ear and give him a stern talking-to. She wouldn’t care that he was thirty and the Duke of Somerbrooke.
Fortunately he didn’t plan to tell her. Instead he would confront the con artist and sever the contact. Then he would fly back to England and retreat to his beautiful if slightly needy home and brace himself for the Hollywood invasion.
Nothing about his mission was pleasant, but that didn’t matter. For over a millennia, his ancestors had been riding or sailing or, in his case, driving into battle. Not for glory or personal gain, but because it was expected. He had been raised to do the right thing—damn the inconvenience or short-term consequences. Or in this case, the thieving ways of the mysterious Violet Lund.
CHAPTER TWO (#ud45861f3-7c9d-5a70-a6ed-79e3e914f669)
MATHIAS HELD THE form in position. Ronan focused intently as he heated the glass to a molten state. Timing was everything. The material had to be hot enough to shape, but not heated too much or it would become a blob and he would lose all the work he’d already done.
A sketch of the completed piece was pinned up on the wall of the brothers’ giant studio. The finished installation would be nearly thirty feet across and ten feet high. On the left was a perfect green dragon—on the right was an elegant white swan. In between the two were morphing shapes as one became the other.
Ronan had just started the piece. He had a year to complete it and then he would oversee the installation of it in an upscale hotel in Japan. While these days he mostly worked in the privacy of his studio at home, aided by assistants and interns, he often started a project at the studio they and their brother Nick shared. Mathias liked to think Ronan wanted the comradery and the shared energy, but maybe he was fooling himself. He and his brother had once been close. A few years ago, all that had changed.
Ronan pulled the glass out of the oven. Mathias stepped into place and held the form as Ronan spun the rod. Nick applied pressure with a sharp edge. The glass yielded.
The heat was intense, as was their concentration. Success or failure was measured in seconds as the material hardened in the breathable air. Ronan studied what they’d done, then returned the piece to the oven, only to pull it out again and watch it cool and harden.
The commission would be done in hundreds of sections all carefully joined together, like a giant glass puzzle. It would consume him for weeks at a time. Mathias had seen it happen before. The start was slow, then the project picked up momentum. Usually Mathias had been a part of that. This time, he was less sure.
In his head, Mathias understood why. Everything was different now. They were no longer two of the five Mitchell brothers. He dropped the form back into the bin and walked to his work area, then shook his head. Okay, that wasn’t true. They were still the Mitchell brothers, but he and Ronan, well, that was gone forever.
He studied his own morning’s work. Two serving bowls in a dozen shades of amber, moss green and yellow. Unlike Ronan’s creation, Mathias’s was practical rather than esoteric. He made light pendants and giant vessels that were used as bathroom sinks. He created vases and platters and dishes. The latter were done in various colors to reflect the seasons. White, blue and silver for winter, pale green, pink and peach for spring, red, orange and purple for summer and amber, moss green, chestnut and yellow for fall.
There had been a time when he, too, had created art, but he’d figured out this was his path. He liked what he did—he brought beauty to people’s everyday lives. If every now and then he yearned for something more, well, what was the point? Yes, he had some of their father’s talent, but Ronan and Nick were the artists. He was just a guy who worked with glass.
He studied the bowls, pleased with the outcome. Every year he tried to do something to challenge himself. For this year, he’d decided to add a shape to the serving pieces. The fall bowls had the outline of a leaf. Summer had been a strawberry and spring, a daisy. For winter, he would take on a snowflake—something he still had no idea how he was going to create. Every attempt had been a disaster, but that was half the fun.
His phone chirped. He glanced at the screen and saw he had a text from his mother.
“Incoming,” he said aloud, then glanced at his brothers to see if either of them had heard from her.
Nick reached for his phone while Ronan ignored him.
“Nothing,” Nick said. “Guess it’s your lucky day.”
“Sure it is,” Mathias grumbled as he read the short message.
I’m coming to see you.
An interesting statement that would have made him uncomfortable if his mother hadn’t been over four hundred miles away.
When?
What he expected was for her to say sometime next week or at the end of the month, when his brother Del was getting married.
In about ten minutes. I’m in town.
Mathias swore. His first thought was “Why me?” followed by “Hell, no” followed by “Run!” Instead of following his instincts, he reminded himself that he loved his mother, even if he found her difficult, and that not dealing with her wasn’t an option.
Great, he texted back, telling himself it wasn’t an actual lie. More of a hedge.
“What?” Nick demanded.
“She’s on her way.”
His brother relaxed. “That gives us about eight hours. Why is she coming here?”
“I have no idea.” He swung his attention to Ronan. “She’s ten minutes away.”
Mathias watched the play of emotion on Ronan’s face. They were easy to read. Shock, annoyance, the need to disappear. Not all that different from his own reaction.
Five years ago he would have said the similarity was because they were twins. Fraternal, but still. They shared a bond that time and space couldn’t break. Only they’d discovered they weren’t twins at all—they never had been. It had all been a lie and nothing had been the same since they’d had that particular truth thrust upon them.
Ronan set the still cooling glass on the heatproof bench, grabbed his keys and bolted.
“We’re not going to see him for three days,” Nick grumbled. “He’s got to face her sooner or later.”
“You’re telling the wrong guy.”
Mathias walked to the entrance to the studio and waited. Ronan was already backing out of the parking space. He turned right on the street and headed for the hills. Or in his case, the mountains. Nick was right—they wouldn’t see him for days.
The October afternoon was warm and clear. Rain rarely came to the desert and this wasn’t the season. From now through the holidays there wouldn’t even be a cloud in the sky. Come spring, the weather got a little iffy, but not often and not for long.
Happily Inc sat in the middle of the California desert, with Arizona to the east and Mexico to the south. An underground aquifer provided more than enough water for residents and visitors alike. There were mountains for those who preferred that topography, as well as an odd convergence of energy that made Happily Inc a special and magical place for those who believed in that kind of thing. More significant to daily life was the fact that the town was a destination wedding location with most of the local businesses focused on all things nuptial and tourist. The only large-scale exceptions were the sleep center north of town and Carol’s animal preserve to the southwest.
