Hidden Talents, Page 2

  The resulting scandal had ripped the family apart. Gordon's elegant, young wife, Patricia, raised in an old-money, East Coast family, had done her duty up to a point. She had bravely stood by her husband until word came that Crystal Brooke had a baby son. Gordon freely admitted to being the father.

  The news that her husband had a child by his mistress proved to be too much for Patricia. Not even the sturdy notions of wifely fortitude and family loyalty that had been handed down to her by several generations of stalwart New England forebears could sustain her. She agreed to a divorce, the first in the history of the Ventress family.

  After a stormy confrontation with Roland, Gordon had gone back to Los Angeles to be with Crystal. He vowed to marry her as soon as his divorce was final, but that weekend he and his mistress had both died in a fiery car crash.

  The only survivor had been their three-month-old son, Caleb.

  Roland Ventress had followed in the proud tradition of the Ventress family. He had done his duty by his unwanted heir. With the glaring exception of Caleb's father, the Ventresses always did their duty.

  Roland went to Los Angeles to bury his only son and claim his grandson. He had grudgingly handled the arrangements for Crystal Brooke's burial also, simply because no one else had stepped forward to do it.

  Roland had brought the infant Caleb home to Ventress Valley and informed his grieving wife, Mary, and the rest of the family, which consisted of his nephew Franklin and his niece Phyllis, that in spite of the scandal, the Ventresses would uphold their responsibilities to the boy. Caleb was, after all, Roland's only hope for the future.

  Caleb had been dutifully raised and dutifully educated. He had been instructed in the duties and responsibilities that were expected of a Ventress.

  And he had never been allowed to forget for one moment that he was the result of the scandalous affair that had brought disaster on the Ventress clan.

  If it hadn't been for Caleb, everyone agreed, the scandal could have been dealt with eventually. Perhaps Crystal Brooke could have been bought off. Perhaps Gordon would have come to his senses and dropped his little bleached-blond mistress.

  It if hadn't been for Caleb, everything would have been all right.

  But Caleb existed.

  The indomitable Roland came to terms with that fact. He had then set out to ensure that the bad blood the boy had inherited from his mother was not allowed to surface.

  As for Caleb, he knew now that he had wasted most of his youth trying to satisfy a grandfather who viewed even the smallest of failures as evidence that Crystal Brooke's genes had not been successfully stamped out.

  Looking back on it, Caleb knew that for the most part, things had been all right during the early years, when his grandmother had still been alive. Stricken as she was by her loss, Mary Ventress had eventually recovered sufficiently from her grief to refocus her natural maternal affections toward her grandson.

  Mary had learned to love Caleb although she had never successfully concealed her hatred of the woman who had borne him. Whenever Caleb thought of his grandmother, he could not help but recall the sadness that had always been there, just beneath the surface. He had always known that somehow he was responsible for that deep anguish in Mary Ventress.

  After her death eight years later, Roland had taken over the task of raising Caleb. Franklin and Phyllis had pitched in to help with the job. Both had been as concerned as Roland that young Caleb not be allowed to repeat his father's mistake.

  Caleb was well aware that he had been paying for the cheap photos of his mother all of his life. He understood the realities of blackmail better than anyone else.

  If there was one thing guaranteed to awaken the beast within him, it was blackmail. If there was one type of woman with whom he had vowed never to get involved, it was the sort who could be blackmailed because of sleazy nude photos, photos such as those that had been taken of his mother.

  The realization that he had been planning to start an affair with Serenity Makepeace made Caleb want to smash the heavy glass top of his desk into a million glittering shards.

  “Who took the pictures?” Caleb forced himself to speak in a remote, neutral tone. It wasn't easy. He wasn't accustomed to dealing with such fierce anger. But he'd had years of practice controlling all his emotions, and he'd gotten very good at that kind of thing.

  He was good at a lot of things, he reflected bitterly.

  Serenity looked momentarily confused by his question. “What do you mean? A photographer took the pictures, of course.”

  “What was the name of the photographer? Who was he working for?”

  “Oh, I see what you mean,” Serenity said. “His name is Ambrose Asterley. And he wasn't working for anyone, unfortunately. His career has been in the doldrums for years. At one time he was considered very good, though.”

  “Is that right?”

  Serenity apparently missed the sarcasm. “Oh, yes. He actually worked in L.A. Hollywood, you know. That was years ago, however. I'm told he was on the way to the top. But poor Ambrose has a drinking problem. It's ruined his life.”

  She had posed naked for a cheap, washed-up drunk of a photographer. Caleb's hand closed into a fist. The pictures had no doubt been barely good enough for the raunchiest of the skin magazines. “I see.”

  “Ambrose has been doing a little better since he moved to Witt's End a few years ago,” Serenity assured him earnestly. “He's made a couple of small sales, but he hasn't been able to get his career back on track. I felt sorry for him.”

  “That's why you posed for him? Because you felt sorry for him?”

  “Yes. And because, whatever else one can say about Ambrose, there's no denying that he's very gifted artist.”

  “Damn it to hell.” Caleb stared down at Fourth Avenue, which lay twenty floors below his office window. Everything and everyone down there on the street seemed to be a long way off, just as most things did in his life these days. He preferred it this way. It made things simpler. At least it had until recently.

  His carefully controlled emotional distance had initially been as a means of protecting himself from the silent accusation he had seen in the eyes of his grandparents and everyone else in the family. But lately it seemed to him that the detached, clinically remote feeling he had relied on for years was unaccountably growing stronger.

  There were times recently when he felt as if he were starting to dematerialize. Ordinary life went on as usual around him, but he was only going through the motions, pretending he was part of what was happening, but knowing that in reality he was not really a participant, just an observer. Nothing touched him, and he was not sure that he could touch anything in turn.

  It was as if he were becoming a ghost.

  But Serenity Makepeace had reached out and grabbed him in some manner that Caleb was helpless to explain.

  Emotions, strong, exciting, dangerous emotions, had begun to reemerge deep within him the day she walked into his office. The first thing he had felt was raw, energizing desire. It made him feel alive as nothing else had in ages.

  Now he was experiencing rage.

  He should have known that Serenity was too good to be true.

  “Those photos must be very interesting, Ms. Makepeace,” Caleb said. He thought of the old photos and newspaper clippings that were locked away in the little jewelry box that had belonged to his mother. Damning photos. The stuff of blackmail.

  The jewelry box, a gaudy case encrusted with large, fake gems, was the only thing he had inherited from Crystal Brooke. Roland Ventress had given it to him on his eighteenth birthday along with yet another solemn warning not to make the same mistakes his father had made.

  Caleb had opened the jewelry case only once. It had remained closed and hidden away ever since.

  “Ambrose may have a drinking problem, but he's a talented photographer,” Serenity said with what would have been touching loyalty under other circumstances. “The shots he took of me would be considered art by most people.”


  “Nude photos of you just sort of lying around? Give me a break. We're not talking about art, we're talking about the kind of shots that get published in cheap men's magazines.”

  “That's not true.” She was clearly shocked by his uncompromising attitude. “The pictures were never published at all, but if they had been, I assure you it wouldn't have been in a tacky men's magazine. Ambrose's work is much too good for that kind of format. He deserves to be hung in the best galleries.”

  “He deserves to be hung, all right,” Caleb muttered. “Look, you can drop the artistic outrage. I know exactly what kind of pictures Ambrose Asterley takes.”

  “You do?” She brightened. “Don't tell me you've actually seen his work?”

  “Let's just say I'm familiar with the style. It's obvious that he has a talent for producing the kind of photos that can be used for blackmail.”

  “But these pictures aren't like that,” she protested. “I'm trying to explain.”

  “I don't want any more of your damned explanations.”

  There was a moment of startled silence behind him as his words went home.

  “So whoever sent the note was right,” Serenity said slowly. “You don't approve of nude art photography. Does this mean you'll want to break off our business arrangements?”

  “I'm going to have to think about it.”

  “I see.”

  He sensed her withdrawal, and the rage within him grew stronger. She was the cause of this, not him. “Tell me, Serenity, what other talents do you possess? Do you act as well as model?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was just wondering if, by any chance, you've made a few films with Ambrose Asterley or some of his colleagues.”

  “Films?”

  “You know the sort I mean. The kind that get shown in X-rated theaters. The kind that are displayed in the adults-only section of the video stores.”

  “Good grief.” Serenity was obviously affronted. “What are you accusing me of?”

  “I'm not accusing you of anything.” Caleb swung around and met her offended gaze. “You're the one who announced that she was being blackmailed because of a bunch of nude photos. I just wondered how wide-ranging your talents actually are.”

  “You think I'm some sort of porn film star?” Serenity leaped to her feet. She clutched her small briefcase to her like a shield. “That's ridiculous. Look at me. Do I look like a woman who could make a living that way?”

  He studied her slender, delicate frame dispassionately. He was well aware that she lacked the plastic breasts and the aggressive sexuality that one associated with the models who graced the pages of cheap magazines and soft-porn films.

  But there was a disturbing sensuality about Serenity that heated Caleb's blood whenever he was in the same room with her. It was an earthy, elemental thing that defied explanation. It was all too easy for him to envision her lying sleek and naked in some grassy meadow, her eyes full of feminine mischief, her mouth parted in invitation.

  A jolting thought went through Caleb. A photo that actually succeeded in capturing Serenity's ethereal sensuality probably would be a work of art.

  But those weren't the sort of pictures that got shot by a seedy, drunken has-been of a photographer who had once worked in L.A.

  Caleb sucked in his breath. He could not stomach the thought that Serenity had posed for the kind of photos that could be used for blackmail purposes; photos like those that had destroyed his parents thirty-four years ago. He lashed out with the fury of a wounded beast.

  “No, you probably wouldn't be much of a success as a porn star,” Caleb said. “I suppose it's no surprise that Asterley failed to sell the pictures he took of you. You haven't got what it takes, have you?”

  The blood rose into Serenity's cheeks. “I told you, Ambrose Asterley is an artist.”

  “You can call him anything you like.”

  “You don't understand.”

  “I understand very well, Serenity. It's simple when you get right down to the bottom of it. A few months ago you posed for some trashy photos, and now someone is trying to use them to blackmail you. I believe that about sums up the whole mess.”

  “The blackmail attempt can only succeed if you allow it to do so,” she said quickly. “Caleb, don't you care that someone is trying to stop us from revitalizing Witt's End?”

  “I don't really give a damn if somebody wants to halt the march of progress in Witt's End. From what you've told me about the inhabitants, your blackmailer could be any one of those misfit refugees from mainstream society that you've got living there. The point is, this isn't my problem. It's yours.”

  “It doesn't have to be a problem at all.” Serenity gave him a pleading look. “I only told you about the pictures because I thought you should know about them. I certainly don't intend to let anyone blackmail me into dropping my plans for Witt's End.”

  “Bravo for you. I wish you the best of luck.”

  “Look, I'll find out who sent the photos and talk to him or her. I'm sure that whoever made the threat acted out of a fear of change. I can reassure the person that things will remain very much the same in Witt's End even if I do get the mail order business up and running.”

  “You're going to try to reason with a blackmailer?” Caleb asked, amazed at her naiveté.

  “Why not? I know everyone in town.” Serenity sighed. “It may have been Blade, although I can't imagine how he got hold of the photos.”

  Caleb scowled. “Blade? You mean that weird survivalist you told me about? The one who keeps a herd of rottweilers and drives around with AK-47s hung on his gun rack?”

  “I don't think they're AK-47s,” Serenity said doubtfully.

  “What difference does it make? The guy's a nut case.”

  “Blade's okay. You just have to get to know him. He makes wonderful herbed vinegars. I think they'll sell very well in my catalog.”

  “The man sounds like a dangerous, freaked-out, paranoid idiot. You said yourself that he's convinced that some clandestine government organization is plotting to take over the country.”

  “It may not have been Blade,” Serenity said in a gentling voice that implied she was accustomed to dealing with temperamental types. “It could just as easily have been someone else.”

  Caleb discovered that he did not like being soothed and calmed as if he were a restless stallion. “Look, there's no need to deal with the issue of who sent the pictures until I decide whether or not to continue as your business consultant.”

  Serenity's fair skin turned even paler, highlighting the sprinkling of freckles on her nose and cheeks. She searched his face. “I can't believe you'd quit because of this.”

  Caleb's brows rose. “Anyone who knows me will tell you that I've always maintained certain standards in my business dealings. I don't intend to lower those standards now.”

  Serenity looked as if he'd just poured ice water on her. For the first time anger flashed in her eyes. “This is incredible. I had no idea you were such an arrogant, self-righteous prig.”

  Caleb folded his arms across his chest. “I had no idea you were the type of woman who posed nude for fifth-rate photographers.”

  “How dare you say such things. You know nothing about me or the pictures.” Serenity took two steps back toward the door. “Do you know something? I actually liked you, Caleb. I thought you were nice.”

  “Nice?” Damn it to hell, Caleb thought. For some reason that was the last straw. “You thought I was nice?”

  “Well, yes.” Serenity's brilliant eyes filled with uncertainty. “You seemed so interested in my ideas for Witt's End. So helpful. I thought you were as concerned about the future of the community as I am.”

  “Witt's End can rot for all I care.” For once in his life, Caleb did not stop to think about his next actions. He started toward Serenity with grim intent.

  For nearly a month he had been suffering the torments of unsatisfied desire. He had consoled himself with his burgeoning plans for an a
ffair, confident that Serenity was as attracted to him as he was to her. Now it was all coming apart and that knowledge clawed at his insides.

  Serenity stood her ground, briefcase hugged protectively to her breasts. “Just what do you think you're doing?”

  “Correcting a false impression.” Caleb came to a halt in front of her. He lifted his hands, gripped her shoulders and jerked her close. “I wouldn't want you to go away thinking I'm a nice guy, Ms. Makepeace.”

  He took her mouth, crushing her soft, full lips beneath his own. The anger and the despair boiling within him was instantly channeled into the kiss. He felt Serenity tremble under the onslaught, but she did not try to pull away.

  For a few seconds she stood stiffly within his rough embrace. She seemed more startled than frightened. Caleb knew he was destroying something important, something he had wanted very much to protect. The realization drove him to do a thorough job of it. He was, after all, a very thorough man.

  His fingers tightened around Serenity's shoulders. He could feel her teeth as he dragged his mouth across hers. It was the first time he had kised her, and it would no doubt be the last. The anguished rage within him transformed itself into a fierce passion that shook him to the very center of his being.

  He tried to drown himself in the taste of Serenity, tried to fix the imprint of her against his body so that he could take out the memory of it five, ten, or twenty years hence and examine it.

  Caleb deepened the kiss, easing Serenity's lips apart. He was ravenous for her. At any moment she would wrench herself out of his grasp and out of his life. This was all he was ever going to get.

  Something very heavy crashed down onto the highly polished toes of Caleb's shoes. He winced. Serenity had dropped her briefcase.