Wicked Burn(69)

“Morning, Vic,” Tim greeted his brother-in-law extra cheerfully, perhaps compensating for Vic’s surly mood. Donny and Andy added their greetings, but Niall was silent. He saw from the corner of his eye, as he poured himself a cup of coffee, that Donny sat next to her and one of his sketch pads lay on the table between them.

“Where’s Tony?” Vic asked Tim as he took a sip of hot coffee, referring to Tim’s other full-time employee. The property that he’d inherited included thirty-six hundred acres of workable farmland. Tim needed several full- and part-time employees to help him run it during the planting season.

“His four-year-old is sick,” Andy answered.

“And his wife is in Pennsylvania visiting her folks,” Tim added as he set a plate of buttered toast on the table.

“You’ll need some help getting those soybeans in the ground, then,” Vic said stonily as he sat down at the end of the table farthest from Niall. He often helped on the farm, enjoying the manual labor and the feeling of accomplishment that accompanied it, even if he didn’t want to make farming his official profession. In fact, he liked to find excuses to work on his farm. He felt a real connection with the rich, black soil, a feeling just as powerful as what he felt for the stark, barren landscape of Montana where he owned a ranch. Maybe his Uncle Manny really knew what he was doing by leaving Vic his land.

“I’ll do Tony’s share while he’s out,” Vic muttered.

“We’ll get them planted one way or another,” Tim assured him.

“I thought you were going to get some writing done today,” Meg added as she brought plates of scrambled eggs and bacon to Andy and Vic.

Vic just shrugged and picked up his fork. He could feel Niall’s gaze on him like a light current of electricity buzzing just beneath his skin. He looked up abruptly, meeting her stare. She glanced away immediately, likely put off by the message of blazing irritation in his eyes. She carefully drew back a page of the sketch pad and returned her attention to Donny’s drawings.

“These are really good,” Vic heard her say quietly to Donny. “You have considerable natural talent, Donny.”

Donny blushed beneath his tan. “It’s just comic book stuff. It’s not like they’re art or anything.”

Vic gritted his teeth in annoyance when he saw the kid’s expression when he looked at Niall’s face, like he’d entered the house half-asleep as usual, ready for a ho-hum day, and suddenly found himself sitting next to Cameron Diaz for breakfast.

Not that he could necessarily blame Donny. Niall looked as fresh and pretty as a daisy, wearing a short-sleeved white cotton blouse with her golden hair falling in shiny waves to an inch above her shoulders. He’d rarely seen her dressed so casually. Vic remembered how soft her hair felt between his fingers all too well, just as he recalled the way her skin flowed like silk beneath his hands. Her complexion glowed with health . . . and perhaps an awareness of his anger at her uninvited presence on the farm. With the light sprinkling of freckles on her nose and her lack of makeup or jewelry, she looked about twenty years old. Vic’s frown deepened when he noticed that not only Donny stared at her with a slack-jawed expression of awe but that Andy kept throwing calf-eyed glances at her as well.

When Vic realized he was staring just like every other male at the table, his frown deepened and he transferred his attention to eating his breakfast. Still, he couldn’t shut out the impact of Niall’s low, husky voice, much as he wished he could.

“What would make you think it’s not art?” she asked Donny seriously. “There are some very fine artists in the ranks of cartoonists. Look at the power you’ve managed to convey here”—she brushed her fingertip across the page—“the inherent movement, the forward-surging energy in his body. That’s some very fine artwork. And your writing for the story line is very good, as well. What’s your character’s name?”

Donny glanced up between his too-long bangs to see if anybody was listening, flushing slightly with embarrassment. Vic turned his eyes back to his plate.

“Stealth Judge,” Donny mumbled almost unintelligibly.

“Thank you, Meg,” Niall said warmly when Meg handed her a plate of scrambled eggs. “Let’s close your book, Donny. I don’t want to get anything on your artwork. You know, we did an exhibit at the museum a few years back of Marvel comics. I don’t suppose you came to it?” Niall asked as she reached for a piece of toast.

Donny shook his shaggy head. “Nah, I’ve never been to Chicago.” He sat up straighter in his chair. “You actually showed stuff about comics in a museum?”

Niall laughed, the sound making Vic cock his head slightly, as if trying to catch it fully in his ear. When he realized what he was doing, he determinedly shoveled the rest of his eggs in his mouth in one bite and pushed back his chair. Niall glanced up uncertainly at the loud scraping of his chair.

“Art isn’t as stuffy and boring as you’re making it out to be, Donny,” she assured the boy as soon as she recovered. “Art reflects life, so that means it can be just about anything. It’s the power and message of the reflection that make it art. I brought the book that we published for the Marvel exhibit. I’ll show it to you later. It was amazing. I got to meet Stan Lee.”

Vic looked over his shoulder from where he was standing at the sink with his plate in time to see Donny’s jaw drop a mile.