Storm Winds Read Online Free

copy. But, my son, the Wind Dancer is …” He shrugged. “I think it has a soul.”
    “Mother of God, it’s only a statue!”
    “I can’t explain. The Wind Dancer has seen so many centuries pass, seen so many members of our family born into the world, live out their lives … and die. Perhaps it has come to be much more than an object, Jean Marc. Perhaps it has become … a dream.”
    “I failed you.”
    “No.” His father shook his head. “It was a splendid gesture, a loving gesture.”
    “I failed you. It hurt me to know you couldn’t havethe one thing you so wished—” Jean Marc broke off and attempted to steady his voice. “I wanted to give something to you, something that you’d always wanted.”
    “You
have
given me something. Don’t you see?”
    “I’ve given you disappointment and chicanery and God knows you’ve had enough of both in your life.” Denis flinched and Jean Marc’s lips twisted. “You see, even I hurt you.”
    “You’ve always demanded too much of yourself. You’ve been a good and loyal son.” He looked Jean Marc in the eye. “And I’ve had a good life. I’ve been fortunate enough to have the means to surround myself with treasures, and I have a son who loves me enough to try to deceive me ever so sweetly.” He nodded at the statue. “And now why don’t you take that lovely thing out to the salon and find a place to show it to advantage?”
    “You don’t want it in here?”
    Denis slowly shook his head. “Looking at it would disturb the fine and fragile fabric of the dream.” His gaze drifted to the portrait of Charlotte Andreas over the fireplace. “You never understood why I did it, did you? You never understood about dreams.”
    Looking intently at his father, Jean Marc felt pain and sorrow roll over him in a relentless tide. “No, I suppose I didn’t.”
    “That hurt you. It shouldn’t.” He once again opened the leather-bound volume he had closed when Jean Marc came into the study. “There must always be a balance between the dreamers and the realists. In this world strength may serve a man far better than dreams.”
    Jean Marc stood up and moved toward the table on which he had set the statue. “I’ll just get this out of your way. It’s almost time for your medicine. You’ll be sure to remember to take it?”
    Denis nodded, his gaze on the page of his book. “You must do something about Catherine, Jean Marc.”
    “Catherine?”
    “She’s been a joy to me but she’s only a child of three and ten. She shouldn’t be here when it happens.”
    Jean Marc opened his mouth to speak, then closedit abruptly. It was the first time his father had indicated he knew the end was near.
    “Please do something about our Catherine, Jean Marc.”
    “I will. I promise you,” Jean Marc said thickly.
    “Good.” Denis looked up. “I’m reading Sanchia’s journal, about old Lorenzo Vasaro and his Caterina.”
    “Again?” Jean Marc picked up the statue and carried it toward the door. “You must have read those old family journals a hundred times.”
    “More. I never tire of them.” His father paused and smiled. “Ah, our ancestor believed in dreams, my son.”
    With effort Jean Marc smiled. “Like you.” He opened the door. “I don’t have to return to Marseilles until evening. Would you like to have dinner on the terrace? The fresh air and sunshine will be good for you.”
    But Denis was once more deeply absorbed in the journal and didn’t answer.
    Jean Marc closed the door and stood a moment, fighting the agony he felt. His father’s last remarks shouldn’t have hurt him, for they were true. He was no dreamer; he was a man of action.
    His hand clenched on the base of the statue. Then he squared his shoulders. The pain was fading. Just as he had known it would. Just as it had so many times before. He strode across the wide foyer and threw open the door to the salon.
    Desedero’s gaze was searching. “He knew?”
    “Yes.” Jean Marc set the