She touched the carved flowers again. “I’ve never met a man with flowers on his door.”
“Does it make me seem less masculine?”
“Nothing could do that. Besides, I like a man who has a sensitive side. Men shouldn’t always be about the brawn, right?”
When he didn’t answer immediately, she turned and saw a slight weariness in his eyes. “Is something wrong, Darrius?”
“No, it’s just that sometimes the life of Indians in a non-native world can be hard—flowers or brawn. No offense to anyone non-native, of course,” he added unlocking the door.
“None taken. I understand perfectly. Your people’s land was taken over for reasons of greed. A lot of my people were forcibly brought here for the same reasons.”
“I knew you would understand. But I want you to feel at home here despite what I just said.”
Justine walked in, through the foyer and into a Native American version of Eden, with stained wood floors so shiny they looked wet. An off-white partitioned wall with a fireplace in the middle of the huge living room separated it from the open kitchen. “This is spectacular. I’ve never seen a place so, so full of custom and—”
“Heritage?”
“Exactly! May I explore?”
“Only if I can follow; I’d like to explain a few things.”
Justine gladly took his arm again. “You lead the way, master.”
As she walked through the living room, she saw metal wall hangings similar to the ones in his showroom at the store. The steer skull hanging above the tiled rust-and-red fireplace was her favorite. “Do you use the fireplace often?”
“Only on cool nights, and sometimes for effect when company is here. Don’t you have one at home?”
“My loft at home doesn’t have one—some do, but not mine.”
Richly designed Hopi and Navajo rugs in all sizes, shapes and colors lay on the hall floor and in areas in the living room. There were quivers of arrows on walls of his living room and hall; baskets and pots decorated corners. A large cherry wood island was apparently used for both food preparation and casual dining. “Is this where you cooked my crepes?”
“Yes. I love to cook. Mother taught all of us.”
“Even Derrick?”
“Yes, why?”
“I don’t know, he just doesn’t strike me as the cooking type.”
He took a fruit drink from the wood-framed refrigerator and handed it to her. “Derrick made this. It’s a blend of natural fruit, coconut milk and spices. Tell me how you like it.”
“Umm, this is delicious.”
“Derrick made it when he was here the other night. He’s actually a chef at La Carouas when he’s not overseeing the tea factory, dancing in ceremonies and finding rare gems.”
“A chef, huh? Well, that’s impressive. What does Jemez do for a living?”
“Landscaping and designing. He designed my home. Good, isn’t he?”
“Clearly a master.”
“Come, let me show you one of my favorite places.”
They walked through a hallway as wide as a gallery, its walls covered with Native American art by masters such as Ernest Franklin, Roger Deal Jr. and Tony Abeyta. Justine lingered at a painting of a warrior by JD Challenger, fascinated by its details: the feather headband, multi-patterned robe and steer-skull shield. She was quite intrigued by the red outline of a buffalo skull painted across the warrior’s mouth.
She had been so absorbed in the painting she had become lost in time until Darrius came up behind her, taking her hand and kissing it. She was quickly brought back to reality. His warm hand covering hers made him want to touch her in other, more intimate places. She looked up at him in the stillness of the hallway and swallowed hard. “Where is your darkroom? Do you still want me to help you develop your pictures?”
“There’s time. Just one more place to show you.”
I hope it’s not the bedroom. But her mind was on seeing the bed on which his naked, sculpted body slept. His bed would hold his scent, his sweat—memories of the pounding he gave it as he made love to someone. The image racing through her mind was so vivid she had to close her eyes to drive it away. She felt him pulling her along, heard him speaking of something of minor interest to her. How he felt next to her was what interested her. He’s just a man, not a god. He’s flesh and blood. He’s…he’s intoxicating. The sound of his voice startled her.
“This is where I downloaded your bio. It’s my favorite place, next to the darkroom.”
There were large windows on all sides of his study. Intricately woven bear and deer symbol rugs hung from the walls and Pueblo pots were on either side of a wicker ottoman chair. A basket sitting on a coffee table caught her eye.
“It’s a Hopi basket from second Mesa in Arizona.” Darrius handed it to her. “I knew you’d like it. Here. Take it.”
The basket was so light it felt like cotton in her hands. She examined it, ran her fingers across the fine straw. “It’s lovely. I love the colors, the way the weave is patterned in star and moon designs.”
“Then it’s yours.”
“Oh, Darrius, I can’t. You’ve given me so much already.”
“Please. That’s how we do things sometimes. If a visitor likes something, we make a gift of it to show kindness and respect.”
“This looks very expensive.”
“Aren’t you worth it?”
