Colt's mind wasn't on the movie, and it certainly wasn't on the woman at his side—Linda Levine, the new pharmacist at Harco. He'd been looking forward to their date all week, but now he could barely suppress a yawn as they sat in the darkened theater. He wished he were home with his Labs.
"Do you want to stay for the rest of the movie?" he asked.
"Whatever you want."
An early night was what he wanted, an hour in his easy chair with a good Whitley Strieber book, Buck and Sam curled at his feet, then that long, deep fall into a dreamless sleep. But he owed Linda more than a quick dismissal.
"How about ice cream?"
"Great."
He took her to Blast from the Past, hoping to rid himself of the spell he'd been under since early afternoon. But the minute he walked in the door the memories came flooding back—the shapely tanned legs, the tiny nipped-in waist, the shining cap of black hair that slid across one cheek when she tilted her head, the incredible green eyes.
But more than the memory was the feeling, as if he'd been squeezed high up under the ribs, as if he'd come face-to-face with one of his own dreams.
"What a glorious place," Linda said. "Do you come here often?"
"It's a favorite haunt of mine." The same bar stools he and Annie had sat on were empty, but Colt steered Linda in the opposite direction. "What kind of ice cream do you like?"
"Sorbet or sherbet." She laughed at the expression on his face. "Too many fat grams in the real stuff."
An hour later Colt was in his own den, both dogs rubbing against his legs, vying for his attention.
"I had a narrow escape, boys, from a fat gram counter. Man, I can't believe I made such a mistake."
"Talking to the dogs again?"
Colt's spirits lifted every time he saw Uncle Pete. Grizzled and bowlegged, with more hair in his eyebrows than on his head, he was still the grandest man Colt had ever known, mother and father to him since Colt was five years old, the best parent in Alabama, the best horse trainer in the world.
"Who is there to talk to except you, and all you want to talk about is horses?"
Pete chuckled. "Let's talk about women then."
"You don't know squat about women."
"Neither do you, from all I can hear."
"You shouldn't listen to idle gossip."
"It wasn't idle; it was solicited."
Laughing, Colt slung his arm around his uncle's shoulders, towering over the old man. "What am I going to do with you, you old reprobate?"
"Many and give me grandchildren."
"What? And make Buck and Sam jealous? Not a chance."
Colt had given more than a passing thought to Uncle Pete's proposal, but somehow he managed to find fault with every woman he dated. And their numbers were legion.
He and his uncle shared a glass of iced tea in the kitchen before Pete climbed the stairs to go to bed.
Colt had intended to do the same thing himself. Tomorrow would be a long day. Star Fire was being delivered from Kentucky, and he and Pete would need all their resources to settle the Thoroughbred into his new home.
But something else claimed Colt's attention, drawing him out the back door and past the paddocks to an ancient stone barn partially covered with ivy. The barn had been built in 1870 and was one of the original structures on Colt's estate in Point Clear. He'd converted it to an office, mainly for the view of the rolling polo fields beyond the window, but also because of its architectural features.
It was cool inside, a tribute to the builders who knew the value of thick stone walls in the Southern heat. Ancient beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling, and thick cypress shelves suspended high above the work area displayed Colt's collection of pottery. He turned on the floodlights. Flowerpots and teapots and bowls and urns came into view, handmade pottery of all sizes and shapes.
Colt rolled the ladder to a stop before an intricately designed urn, one that looked as if it had been done by ancient Egyptians. Carefully he lifted it down, then set it on his desk and traced the potter's name, carved in the bottom.
He'd stumbled onto the small gallery in Soho five years earlier, and had fallen in love with the piece in his hand. "A brilliant young artist," the proprietor had told him. "Up and coming. Soon everybody will be clamoring for a piece of work by Ann Debeau."
Though Colt had a knack for acquiring horses that the polo world would soon be clamoring for, he didn't purchase art for the same reason. He didn't care if the work would increase in value. It didn't matter to him whether the artist was well known or would never be heard of. He bought for one reason only: The work had to speak to his soul.
More than any other piece of pottery on his shelves, Annie's urn spoke to his soul. Not only his soul, but also his heart. High on the shelves underneath the lights it was a beautiful work worthy of admiration, but in his hands it was alive, as if the heart of the artist pulsed there as well.
Tracing the intricate design, he pictured Annie—dynamic, vibrant, a tiny china doll. She was not at all what he would have expected, and yet she was absolutely perfect.
He caressed the work of art she'd created, and his palms grew hot. The air around him became charged with energy. It was the same electricity he'd felt earlier that afternoon in the little shop downtown when he'd kissed Annie.
A strange impulse, that kiss. Almost as if magnets were pulling him toward her lips.
Colt turned off the lights and went back to the house. Sprawled in the middle of a bed handmade from lightning-struck cedars that hadn't survived the storm of '36, he dreamed of swimming naked in the moonlight with Annie, her hair grown long and floating behind them like a banner of ebony silk.