Read Online The Sinister Touch by Jayne Castle - Free Book Online Page B

of the expensively paneled restaurant. The place was noted for its fish, of course, just as most of Seattle 's good restaurants were known for seafood. But this particular restaurant was also known for its prices. It looked as if it had been established for fifty years, but Guinevere knew for a fact that it had been built only recently. Nevertheless, the mahogany walls, old-fashioned chandeliers, and heavy green carpeting gave the impression of a much older heritage. She had been looking for an excuse to dine here, and she wondered now whether Mason or his cousin had chosen the place. A waiter materialized near Dane Fitzpatrick.
    "Would anyone care for a drink?" Fitzpatrick asked.
    "Sure," Mason said. "I'll have a beer."
    Mason hadn't bothered to dress for the occasion. He was wearing his usual paint-stained jeans, a scruffy-looking pullover, and an even scruffier pair of Nikes. There was a certain air of defiance about him that touched Guinevere. She had the feeling that Mason had been battling his family a long time. Carla was watching him with a protective expression, as if ready to jump between Mason and Dane, should violence erupt. But violence wasn't about to erupt, Guinevere knew. Dane Fitzpatrick would never stoop to such blue-collar behavior. Above all, he was a gentleman.
    "Well, Mason, I had planned to discuss business with you, as you well know, but since we have guests . . ." Fitzpatrick let the sentence trail off. His meaning was clear. This was family business and not meant for the ears of outsiders.
    "Don't worry about Carla and Gwen. I've already told them why you've flown three thousand miles just to take me to lunch. You can talk in front of them."
    "Perhaps they would prefer that we didn't," Fitzpatrick suggested with grave politeness. It was obvious he was seeking a socially acceptable path out of an uncomfortable situation.
    It was Carla who took charge of the conversation at that point. She buttered a chunk of French bread and said blithely, "Did you hear about Mason's show last night? Very successful launch. Several important paintings were sold, and next time there will be press coverage. He's on his way in the art world."
    Fitzpatrick looked directly at Mason, who was nursing his beer. "I'll be sure to tell your father."
    "Why bother? Dad could care less. But he must have been the one who sent you out here on this wild-goose chase. You wouldn't have come on your own. Why, Dane? What's happening back home to make him suddenly start wondering how things are going with the black sheep of the family? And how did you get my address? I haven't communicated with anyone back East for nearly two years."
    "Your father asked me to try to find you, Mason. It's taken quite a while. When I told him that I had a Seattle address for you at last, he asked me to come and see you. You know him. He's much too proud to contact you himself. As it so happened, I had business out here on the Coast. After I finished meeting with my clients in L.A. I flew directly here. I think you should consider it an overture, Mason. Your father is a stubborn man. He'll never be able to bring himself to contact you first. Not after what happened between the two of you. But this is his way of trying to tell you the door is open."
    "But I'm the one who's supposed to take the big step and apologize? What good would that do, Dane?" Mason asked wearily. "An apology isn't going to solve the problem. As far as my father is concerned, nothing will solve the problem except for me to give up trying to make a career out of my painting. You know as well as I do what kind of life-style he thinks I'm living out here. As far as he's concerned, I'm beyond the pale. Decadent, addicted to God knows what, and totally immoral."
    "Mason, perhaps you should give the old man a chance," Fitzpatrick said earnestly. He appeared to have forgotten Guinevere and Carla now, as the conversation came down to brass tacks.
    "What chance did he give me or my painting? He