Golden Lies - Barbara Freethy [13]
Her words put a knife through his already bleeding heart. "This isn't about Elizabeth."
"It has always been about her. You must leave now."
He ignored the anger in her eyes. "I have a dragon that looks very much like the one in your painting, Jasmine."
Her eyes widened. "What did you say?"
"You heard me."
"It doesn't exist. You know that. It was something I saw in a dream."
"I think it does exist. Let me come in. Let me show you."
Jasmine hesitated. "If this is an excuse—"
"It's not." He glanced over his shoulder, not seeing anyone but feeling as if they were being watched. There were many eyes behind the thick curtains that covered the nearby windows. "Let me in before someone sees me."
"Just for a moment," she said, allowing him to step inside. "Then you must go before Alyssa comes."
"I will go," he promised, "after you look at this." He pulled the dragon out of the canvas bag and watched her reaction.
Her gasp of disbelief told him everything he needed to know.
* * *
Riley McAllister pedaled harder, the street in front of him rising at an impossibly steep angle. Even the cars were parked horizontally to protect from accidental runaways. Most people were content to ride their bikes along the bay or through Golden Gate Park, but Riley loved the challenge of the hills that made up San Francisco.
He could feel the muscles in his legs burning as he pumped harder, the incline working against him. He switched speeds on his mountain bike, but it didn't help. This wasn't about the bike; it was about him, what he was capable of doing. It didn't matter that he'd conquered this hill a week ago. He had to do it again. He had to prove it wasn't a fluke.
His chest tightened as his breath came faster. He was halfway up the hill. He raised his body on the bike, practically standing as he forced the pedals down one after the other, over and over again. It was slow going. He felt as if he was barely moving. A car passed him, and a teenage boy stuck his head out the window and yelled, "Hey, dude, get a car."
Riley would have yelled back, but he couldn't afford to waste a precious breath. Nor could he afford to stop pedaling. Otherwise, he'd go flying backward down the hill a lot faster than he'd come up. He pressed on, telling himself this was what it was all about, pushing the limits, forcing the issue, achieving the impossible. He was only a few feet away from the top of the hill now.
Damn, he was tired. He felt light-headed, almost dizzy. But he wouldn't quit. He'd faced bigger challenges than this. He couldn't give in. Quitting was what his mother would have wanted him to do, what she'd told him to do many times. If you can't do it, just quit, Riley. You're just not that good at things. You're not smart. You're not artistic. You're not very musical, but you can't help it. You take after your father. Whoever the hell he was. Aside from his name, Paul McAllister, Riley knew absolutely nothing about his father.
The funny thing was the more his mother told him he couldn't do something, the more he wanted to prove her wrong. That feeling had driven him through boot camp and a stint in the marines, and it was still driving him today. Maybe he was as big a fool as his grandmother, believing that his mother might actually care that he'd ridden up the steepest hill in San Francisco today.
Forget about her. He heard his grandfather's stern, booming voice in his head now. This isn't about your mother; it's about you. No one else can fight your battles for you. In the end we all stand alone. So when it comes your time to stand front and center, raise your chin high, look everyone straight in the eye, and know in your heart that you're up to the challenge.
The words sent him over the top of the hill.
Pumping a fist in the air, he coasted across the intersection. In front of him was one of the best views in the world, the San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. He could see sailboats bouncing