Silver Linings

best-selling Byron St. Cyr series,” Mattie said gently. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start looking forward to the day you get to sign autographs at the mall.”
    “Dear Lord,” Emery moaned. “What a fate. Autographs at the mall. I have truly made a devil's bargain, Mattie Sharpe. And it's all your doing.”
    “Your first book will be out in the stores in a couple of weeks, Emery, and you're going to feel much different when you see it selling like hotcakes. Trust me.”
    “My future is in your hands, Mattie, love.”
    Ten minutes later the cab pulled up in front of the restored early-nineteenth-century building in Pioneer Square that housed Mattie's large loft apartment. Mattie and Hugh climbed out, and after a bit of quiet nudging, Hugh reluctantly paid the fare, including enough to cover the cost of getting Emery Blackwell to his Capitol Hill residence.
    The cab departed with Emery sitting regally in the backseat. Mattie dug out her keys and opened the security door of her building.
    “What an evening,” Hugh muttered as he punched the elevator call in the hallway.
    “A little different from the Hellfire on a Saturday night, isn't it?” Mattie observed.
    “Give me the Hellfire anytime.”
    “You'd better get used to evenings like this one, Hugh,” Mattie told him sweetly. “I go to several openings a month and hold a lot myself during the year for my own artists. I'm sure you'll want to accompany me to each and every one. After all, you intend to be a part of my life here in Seattle, don't you?”
    “For as long as it takes,” Hugh said grimly.

CHAPTER

Ten

    That night it occurred to Hugh for the first time that things were not going to go as smoothly or as easily as he had anticipated.
    He sprawled on Mattie's black leather couch amid a tangle of sheets, his hands folded behind his head. It was nearly two in the morning, but the view through the high, curving windows that lined Mattie's huge studio was neon-bright. The glow of city lights at night always irritated Hugh. He preferred the velvet, flower-scented darkness of an island night. If he closed his eyes, he could conjure up a mental image of pale moonlight falling like cream on the sea.
    Seeing Mattie in her world tonight had been more of a shock than it should have been. After all, he knew what she did for a living; knew her sister and something about the family. Why had it been surprising to see Mattie looking so at home amid that crowd at the gallery? he wondered.
    A part of him knew the answer. He had not wanted to admit that she was a part of that world. For the past several months he had been remembering the night of passion followed by her soft plea to take her with him back to the islands. Take me with you, Hugh. I love you so much. Please take me with you . And for the past week he'd had her out there on his territory, where he made the rules and where he felt comfortable.
    When he had arrived here in Seattle with her three days ago and moved into her glossy apartment, he had been confident of his ability to convince her to move to St. Gabriel within a matter of days. He had been so certain that all he needed was a little time to overcome the feminine pique she felt because of his past engagement to Ariel.
    Now things were looking a lot more complicated than they had appeared from St. Gabe. A new sense of uncertainty was gnawing at his insides.
    And after two nights he was already damn tired of sleeping on the couch.
    Hugh tossed aside the covers of his makeshift bed and got to his feet. He crossed the red and gray carpet that designated what he thought of as the living room area of the huge studio and padded over the gleaming wooden floors to the windows. He stood there for a long while watching a late-night ferry crossing Elliott Bay.
    Still restless, he wandered over to the kitchen area and rummaged around in the shadows until he found the sack of oat bran muffins Mattie had bought for breakfast. He pulled one out and took a bite. He didn't think he was ever going to become a big fan of oat bran, but he'd eaten worse things in his life. Paul Cormier's sun-dried tomatoes, for instance.
    That recollection brought back a lot of other memories, some of them unpleasant. But most of all it brought back the image of the gaping red hole in Cormier's chest.
    Hugh had never had a lot of friends. Cormier had been one of the few. Truth was, for a while there, Cormier had been more than a friend. He'd been almost a father in some