Branded Sanctuary (27 page)

This one only showed the two from shoulder to hips. They were back to back, seated, the point of their buttocks on grass, marked with a scattering of tiny white wildflowers. Again the green was the only color, the humans in black and white. Their heads were averted from the camera and so emphasized the jaw lines, the arch of their necks turned from the viewer and each other. But their bodies were pressed so close their hips and shoulders touched, conveying connection and separation at once.

Several cushions and a woven blanket had been tossed across the sectional. On the side table was a pyramid of linked picture frames, forming a sculpture of photos.

Drawing closer, the first one she identified was Marguerite and Brendan, a shot taken of them after Marguerite‟s wedding. He was looking down at her, a light smile on his face. Marguerite‟s peace and happiness had been obvious that night, enough to make Chloe smile now in remembrance. The bride leaned into the curve of Brendan‟s body, as if the picture had been taken while they were dancing, the fairy lights and silhouettes of the large oaks in the background.

Another pair of pictures were soldered at the corners to link them diagonally. One showed a young couple with a boy of about four. The father squatted with the child between his knees while the woman was caught in a half laugh, her hand on her husband‟s shoulder, two of her fingers firmly clasped by the child as she leaned over them. The other photo was a department store type shot, a pleasant-looking older couple with an adolescent Brendan, their hands on his shoulders, a solidly middle class picture.

“My parents and my adopted parents,” Brendan confirmed, returning from the kitchen to stand behind her. “I was very lucky to have them both. Ellen and Reid live in Dayton now, which is where Reid was from originally.”

His tone was easy, no hidden meanings, and she was glad to know his adopted parents had appreciated his wonderful qualities as much as those who‟d given him birth obviously had. If there was a heaven, she was sure it was a comfort to them to know he‟d not lost that security, that vital need of a child to know he was specifically and specially loved by someone who felt it was their duty—and privilege—to be in charge of his safety and wellbeing.

In this rack of obviously significant choices, she was surprised to see a picture of herself.

It was also from the wedding. She‟d still been recuperating from her injuries, enough that she‟d looked a little thinner, the face bruises healed but the impression of them still somehow there. But in this shot, she was sitting at a table with Brendan, Gen and a couple of regular visitors to the tea room.

She‟d been firmly instructed by everyone to keep her leg elevated. Brendan had it propped on his leg, his hand resting on her ankle as he leaned back, beer in hand. His lips were curved in a grin that suggested they‟d all been laughing at something. She was laughing too, one of her hands clasped in Gen‟s, the other reaching out to grab Brendan‟s, as if they‟d made her laugh so hard she was steadying herself with their touch.

Brendan and Gen were partially cut off in the picture, Chloe the center focus.

“Marguerite gave it to me.” Brendan touched the photo, her face, without any obvious self-consciousness.

“Yet all those months, you didn‟t call me.”

“I gave you my phone number. You didn‟t give me yours. Remember?” He said it without judgment in his tone, a simple fact. “I thought we hit it off that night, but there were things, the way you looked at times, that told me you needed time. Crazy as it sounds, I thought it might mean more to you, when you finally called, if I was ready to be with you, waiting for you, rather than forcing you to decide on me before you were ready.”

He’d waited on her to call. For months. Wow.
“Oh.” Chloe absorbed that. “Either that‟s a really spectacular thing to say to overwhelm a girl, or the smoothest lie I‟ve ever heard to cover being too chickenshit to risk rejection.”

Brendan chuckled, not confirming or denying. Glancing at the several other photos, she saw a precocious-looking hound in one, and then some shots of what might be his students, clustered around him and dressed in costume for one of the community plays he‟d probably helped produce.

She wanted to know the stories behind those as well, but not right now. She turned on her heel to take in the rest of the room. A flat-screen TV—the essential piece of male home décor. An assortment of books on art and theater, as well as some espionage novels. They were mixed with a fairly substantial movie collection, neatly arranged in handsome glass-faced cabinets.

“Did you know I was coming? Or are you always this scarily neat?”

“Which answer makes me seem less OCD?”

She gave a snort. She remembered how she‟d thought it possible to mistake him for the gay stereotype, with his physical perfection, sense of style and interests. Having been the recipient of a direct blast of his unleashed sexuality, she knew he had a fully committed appreciation for the female form. Still, Brendan‟s program section at the auction hadn‟t noted a limitation to female bidders only.

“There‟s no picture of an old girlfriend, or boyfriend.” She tested the waters, wondering why she was hesitating to ask him straight out if he was bi. “Or a current one, for that matter.”

He gave her an easy smile. “Well, papering the wall with my conquests tends to put off the scores of dates I bring home.”

“Yeah, right.” She bumped him with her hip. “I can tell you‟re a real slut.” Though she remembered his words.
I don’t usually date outside the club…
It suggested he‟d been telling the truth, when he said he‟d been waiting for her call. She wasn‟t sure what to make of that. Truth be told, he was like nothing she‟d ever met before.

When he slid an arm around her back, she automatically leaned into him, feeling her tiredness. “Am I prying?” she asked.

“No. Well, yeah, but I want you to be interested. Sometimes, depending on how a relationship ends, it‟s too painful to keep a picture, you know?”

“But do you keep them?”

“It depends. On whether that helps me move on or not. The last one, no.” She saw the shadow, registered the tension that tightened the biceps against her shoulder blades. “I‟m sorry. How long ago?”

“Over a year. Before you think it, no, you are not a rebound.” He gave her a little admonishing squeeze.

She believed him. But what about her? He was her first foray into a relationship, hell, even dating, since that terrible day. Her first attempt to open herself up in the way a good romance demanded, fully experiencing the tingling delight, wonder and adventure of falling in love again, wherever it ended up. Only she wasn‟t sure what she‟d find in her heart, when and if she opened it fully again. She was afraid those spurts of unreasoning anger and desire to hurt, strike out, were evidence of the sharp slivers her heart had become.

She could see the ground level hallway off the sitting room led to a bathroom and home office. In his kitchen, where he‟d been checking his messages, a small four-person table was visible through the pass through. Following her desire, she headed for the stairs to the second level. She had a sudden impulse to take him at his word, see, explore whatever she wanted, without asking permission. As she went up the carpeted stairs and reached the hallway, she noted there was a guest bedroom. It wasn‟t his, because it didn‟t have any personal articles. When he turned on the light, she could see two rooms off further down the hallway. More intriguing prints lined the walls. This time they were water scenes, shots that she assumed had called to the swimmer in him.

She glanced over her shoulder. He stood behind her, hand on the light switch, gazing down at her face in that intent way that made heat prickle on her skin and increased her awareness of where she was headed.

“I want to see where you were lying, that night I called you,” she said, her voice husky. “I‟d like to see your bedroom.”

He nodded, gesturing her forward, letting her lead. He didn‟t say anything further as she stepped through the doorway. Her gaze fell on a king-sized shaker style bed of dark sleek wood. The throw was the dark, swirling blue color of the deep ocean. An oil painting positioned above the head board picked up the nautical theme. It depicted a storm-stirred sea against a lightning-illuminated bank of clouds, no other features except the turbulence of the waves and foam of the white caps.

She briefly noted his armoire and closet, a single dresser. One silk tie and jacket were folded over the arm of a straight chair. She imagined he‟d been running late after work and had left them there before heading for Marguerite and Tyler‟s. Or maybe they were there for Monday. In her mind‟s eye, she saw him getting ready for work. Sitting down in the chair to pull on his shoes, standing in front of the dresser mirror to adjust the tie. Picking up his keys, sliding his wallet into his coat or pants. Through an open door, she saw a spacious master bath reflected in the mirror over the sink.

Her heart dared to give her another image. Her, living with him. Destroying all that neatness with her propensity for leaving her clothes everywhere. Turning on music in the morning to dance around him as he shaved at the mirror. He‟d be smiling at her as she karaoke‟d for him, garbled, because her toothbrush was in her mouth.

It hadn‟t even occurred to her heart‟s imaginings that she‟d stay in the guestroom.

Brendan touched her lower back as he moved past her. He went to the nightstand and laid his cell phone in the charger there.

“Where do you—” She cut herself off, turned and went to the armoire. Opened it and let her gaze wander over the clothes hung to one side. Compartments on the right held a few sets of good shoes, an assortment of ties and slacks on racks. There were some built-in drawers and she opened the top one to find socks, underwear, the lower one revealing jeans.

Nodding to herself, she moved to the closet. She noted he shifted, as if he might stop her, or wanted to say something first, but when she glanced at him, he only gestured, confirming she was free to do as she pleased. He sat down on the bed, his eyes on her.

The door did have a keyed lock, so he could secure it if he wished. But it was open to her. While it turned under her hand, she didn‟t immediately pull it open.

She knew what had to be in here. The carnival had made clear being a sexual submissive wasn‟t a casual pastime in his life. It was innate to who he was. The person who wanted to be with him would need not only to accept that, but embrace it. She wished she could banish Mistress Lyda‟s words, but she couldn‟t, could she? Because she didn‟t know her feelings on any of it.

If she didn‟t open the closet, he might think she was rejecting that part of him.

However, that wasn‟t why she was wavering. She didn‟t want the ugliness that had gripped her at the carnival to take over here. While she wasn‟t sure what had happened, she was pretty sure having the trappings and tools to put him entirely at her mercy had been a dangerous catalyst.

As she wavered between what she owed him and what she owed herself, the overhead light clicked off. It would have alarmed her, except there was still light thrown into the room from the hallway. And Brendan was here.

She didn‟t turn, but heard his feet cross the carpet. Then his hand closed over hers on the doorknob. He pressed close, the curve of her buttock against his thigh, his hip bone. Flattening his palm on her abdomen, he traced the navel through her dress, a teasing circle, then curved his fingers inward so his knuckles glided up her body, shifting to follow the line of her left breast.

He‟d lingered at the navel, identifying that bump of scar tissue, but he hadn‟t commented on it. As his long fingers straightened so the pads grazed her nipple, before he closed over the curve fully, taking gentle possession, she whispered the truth of it.

“I used to have a piercing there.”

“Yeah?” He disengaged her grip on the knob, and brought her hand back behind her, guiding her until she molded her hand over his right buttock. Her thumb tucked into his jeans‟ pocket, helping her keep her hand there. Her touch moved with cautious but unmistakable greedy pleasure over the well-toned muscle.

As he let that hand go, he slid his arm forward over her shoulder. She figured he‟d cross over his other to clasp her other breast, but his destination was higher, his palm curving around her neck, one finger sliding over her cheek, thumb tracing her bottom lip. Slow caresses of her breast with the other hand made the nipple ache and flesh swell.

“What was your favorite piece of jewelry for it?” he murmured. “What did it look like?”

How could you speak when someone was stealing your breath? “It was a silver yin and yang symbol…with a diamond for the point of light in dark and vice versa.”

“Who gave it to you?”

She shuddered as two fingers pinched the nipple. Her thighs quivered, her hips pushing back into that solid leg. “What if I said he was a sexy bad boy biker guy with six pack abs and a dragon tattoo on his biceps? Are you the jealous type?” Nudging her head to the side, he put his lips on her accelerating pulse, right between his fingers. “What do you think?”

“I think you get underestimated in the dangerous bad boy department.” She gave a half laugh, half gasp. “You don‟t have to get jealous. You make damn sure a girl has zero desire to be with anyone but you. It‟s a different form of possessiveness, more Mach…Machiavellian than Attila the Hun.” She had to take a deep breath to get through a suddenly far too complex word, but that reaction increased the pressure of her breast against his hand, embellishing the squeezing, pleasurable sensation. Her nipple was stabbing his palm and she wanted to push it against him harder.