Every Time I Love You (3 page)

“It's just such a pretty night,” Gayle murmured. “Spring is in the air.”

“The stale smell of rotting fish is in the air. Come on, let's go in.”

The Red Lion was alive with music and with smoke—and with writhing bodies. A live group was playing a number by the Police, and couples were gyrating on the dance floor while people sat in small groups at dimly lit tables. Liz went to the bar and ordered a screwdriver for herself, a rusty nail for Tina, and Johnny Walker on the rocks for Gayle. Meanwhile, Tina found three seats together at the end of the bar, and the barmaid obligingly carried their drinks down that way.

“It's crowded tonight!” Gayle shouted over the din of the band.

“Very!”

“That's a group called Guts. They're good, huh?” Liz shouted.

“Hey!” Tina said. She straightened on her bar stool, trying to look over peoples' heads.

“Hey, what?” Liz demanded.

“Gayle—that's Geoffrey over there, isn't it?”

She frowned. Was Geoff here with Boobs? It wasn't really his type of place. People did come here to dance. Geoffrey liked to bring his steadies to his apartment. “Where?”

“Way over there, against the wall.”

She sat up high on her stool, but it wasn't really necessary. It was Geoffrey and he had seen them. He murmured something to the other two men at the table and stood; one of the others did likewise; the third man remained seated. Geoffrey started to thread his way through the crowd.

“It's Geoff, all right,” Gayle murmured curiously.

“Who are the other two?”

“I don't know. I can't really see them.”

Geoff broke through. He caught Gayle's hands, kissed her cheek, said hello to Liz and happy birthday to Tina. Gayle saw that the man behind him was Chad Bellows, Brent McCauley's personal manager. She leapt off her stool to take his hand with a smile. He was a tall, lean blonde with an aesthetic smile and an easy-going manner. She was glad to see him, especially since the show was tomorrow. Geoffrey had been nervous that something might go wrong, Gayle realized. She had actually been expecting something to go wrong.

“Hi, Gayle!” Chad said. Geoffrey was trying to introduce him to the others.

“Hi! It's nice to see you. It's a surprise to see you!”

“Geoff said we might run into you. It's your friend's birthday?”

“Yes.”

“Tina!” Geoff announced, turning back. “Tina, Chad Bellows; Chad, Tina Martin, Elizabeth Dowell. Can we get you a drink?”

“Just ordered, thanks, Geoff,” Gayle told him.

“Good. Come out and dance with me.”

She didn't get a chance to protest. He led her out to the floor. It was a slow number then, and she'd danced with Geoff dozens of times over the years. They fit together easily.

She pulled back a bit to look questioningly at him. “What on earth are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?”

“I wasn't sure that we were coming here.”

“Aren't you being a little rude? There's another man with you. Why didn't you bring him over?”

“Oh, he's not the type you drag around. We'll go over to the table in a minute. And be on your best behavior, huh?”

“I'm always on my best behavior. What is this?”

The music ended. Couples began leaving the floor.

“The end of the song,” Geoff laughed. “Come on—”

He broke off. Gayle was already looking toward the back, toward the table.

The third man was standing, leaning against the wall.

He was staring at Gayle. Across the length of the room. Through the crowd.

And Gayle felt it. Felt the power of his look, despite the distance. Felt his eyes, raking over her, piercing into her, searing through her...

He was tall, as tall as or taller than Chad or Geoffrey. His hair was nearly black; in the artificial light of the lounge, it appeared ebony, as pitch as the darkest night. The others were dressed in three-piece suits; he was wearing a light blue denim western shirt, a casual beige jacket, and blue jeans. He was broad-shouldered, well muscled, and dark-eyed, with handsome, thick brows. She judged him to be in his mid-thirties, with a well-sculpted face, nice firm jaw, high cheekbones, long, straight nose, and a firm, sensual mouth. He was shatteringly attractive, arresting in the most masculine, rough-and-tough sense. He wasn't smiling; he was just looking at her. Studying her, as if she were a portrait, a piece of art to be carefully evaluated and judged.

And it was so strange. So very, very strange. It was as if he had waited a long, long time to study her.

Her palms were wet, she realized. Her knees were weak, and a streak of white heat seemed to be searing along her spine. She knew that she had never met him before, and yet he looked strangely familiar to her, as if she had known him before.

She was dimly aware that she was staring at him as blatantly as he was staring at her. She felt as if mist swirled around her. For the most fleeting of seconds, she felt as if she had actually blacked out. As if something had...happened.

Between the two of them.

Gayle cleared her throat, gripping Geoffrey's arm. “Who-who is he?” she asked him.

“Who?” he said innocently.

“That man! The man with you. Who is he, Geoff?”

“Oh, him? The tall guy over there?” Geoff laughed. “Tall, dark, muscular, and handsome? Why that's just that scurvy old hermit with the dirty beard you've been dreading all week.”

“What?”

“That's the old hermit. The artist—Brent McCauley. I think he's been waiting to meet you.”

Waiting...yes.

Gayle shivered and swallowed. She had the most curious feeling that she had been waiting to meet him, too. Waiting...all of her life.

CHAPTER 2

Who is she?

Brent had voiced the question to Geoffrey several minutes ago. It still rang loudly in his mind. A ripple of heat and excitement knifed through him, settling in the pit of his gut. For a moment, it seemed to steal his breath away like a crippling blow. It was almost as if he had seen her before, and yet he knew that he hadn't. He wouldn't have forgotten her. The sensations that streaked into him at the first sight of her were so strong, almost painful. He hadn't been able to walk over to the women with Chad and Geoff. He had barely been able to move. He had forced out some kind of casual comment, and then he had played the eccentric artist with an “I'll-wait-here-you-bring-your-friends-to-me,” type of comment.

And now she was coming.

If he had ever known her, he would have definitely remembered her. She was medium tall, slim, extremely shapely. What he'd noticed first was her hair—a head of long, lush, honey-blond hair, falling over one shoulder. What he'd noticed next had been her back—a gorgeous back, long, supple, graceful. As an artist, he'd been impatient with the swatch of black cloth that covered that elusive, flowing spine from the waist down. The temptation was to rush to her in the midst of the crowd and snatch away the offending fabric. It would, of course, be rather difficult to explain that he was undressing her in the name of art. She was the most elegantly sensual woman he had ever seen, from the flash in her eyes to the quiet, confident sway of her hips. She was the perfect, fascinating woman...

Brent told himself that surely that was it—the key to the violence of the emotion that swept through him at first sight of her. She was an artist's dream. The body magnificent. Not that he didn't appreciate most women; he did. And his adrenaline had certainly been sent into motion before.

But not to this extent. Not so strongly that it was almost overpowering. Not so much that time and music and the very pulse of life seemed to stand still—light and darkness and shadow to seep away just because she was walking toward him, because their eyes met and some shimmering chemistry was being awakened.

Her eyes were blue: sky blue, pure blue, innocent blue—a rather incongruous color when compared to the sophistication of her dress, her hair, even her easy smile. She knew that she was an attractive woman; that she appealed to men. Perhaps, Brent thought wryly, she even set herself slightly above the tongue-hanging appreciation she could surely accrue. Brent crossed his arms over his chest and a slow smile seeped into his own features. His eyes were still locked with hers, and hers with his. He felt definitely challenged. Alert, aware, tempted—excited. And more than ready to march to the fore. He smiled with a slow, sure assessment of the woman approaching him.
You've met your match, sweetheart
, he wanted to tell her.
I'm the man who is going to call your bluff.

Geoffrey Sable had reached the table with her. Chad was coming over with two other women.

“Brent, this is Gayle Norman, my assistant, the lady who has been doing most of the work for the showing. Gayle, Brent McCauley. Oh, and these are two of Gayle's friends...”

Geoffrey was still talking. Brent didn't hear him. Gayle Norman's hand was in his. Warm, electric. She was smiling at him, not a foot from him. Her smile had a haughty little curve to one side, as if she were longing to tell him that she wasn't in the least impressed by the fact that he was a great artist. It was all a lie, he thought. Or maybe she wasn't impressed with the fact that he was an artist. Still, she was affected. He could see her breasts rising and falling beneath the hugging black silk; he could feel the tenor of her heart, the beat accelerated.

“Mr. McCauley,” she said simply. Her voice was music. Cool, melodious. She was fighting it; she knew that it was there, that shattering chemistry, but she longed to deny it.

“Miss Norman,” he returned. He seemed to be testing the sound of her voice, she thought. Tasting it...

He released her hand. He said something polite to the other two women. They all slid into the booth he had been sharing with Chad and Geoffrey Sable; conversation ensued. Easy laughter, easy chattering. It was a nice group, very relaxed. They were talking about the showing, about oils, about painting in general, about their expectations for tomorrow. He answered everything said to him; he replied—coherently—he believed.

But she was sitting across from him, and his eyes never left hers. She knew the intensity of his interest. She tried to ignore it. She talked too. Her voice was clear and feminine. He liked it.

And every once in a while, she would look back across the table to see if he was still watching her. When she discovered that he was, she would flush slightly despite herself, lower her eyes, and then jump back into the conversation.

The band began to play something by Robbie Nevill. She sweetly asked Chad to dance; Chad jumped at the chance.

Brent didn't mind. He sat back and watched. She was playing a game and he didn't mind it one bit. She was nervous.

He danced too, with the redhead, with the pretty brunette.

He always knew where she was. And he watched her still. He watched the curve and the sway of her back and, again, he convinced himself that his utter fascination was as an artist. He knew just how he would pose her, angled upon her derriere, legs flowing in a curve, her back rising gracefully high, her head tilted just slightly toward him, her eyes downcast, that rage of hair falling long over her shoulder so that its beauty was evident without hiding any of that glorious, elegant back.

The number ended; another began. A slow song, Lionel Ritchie. She had been dancing with Geoffrey. This time, when they started back for the table, Brent grabbed her hand.

“Want to dance this one with me?”

Those blue eyes hit him, clean and pure. They fell over his features, forehead to chin. Her lashes swept over them.

“I'm really rather tired—”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Of course not.”

“Want to pose for me, then?”

Her eyes opened again, full, honest. A ripple of laughter issued from her lips.

“Here?” She countered skeptically. Umm, she could be cool. Very superior when she chose.

“Anywhere.” He could deal with it.

Her head rose high. “And just how would you want me to pose, Mr. McCauley?” She queried with weary sarcasm.

“Nude, of course.”

Couples were moving around them. He slipped his arms around her and moved her onto the dance floor. She stiffened; she acquiesced. They swept along in circles. She fit wonderfully in his arms. Lights spun around them. Her eyes were on his.

“No,” she told him. “I don't want to pose. Nude or otherwise.”

“Want to sleep with me, then?”

She laughed. She had beautiful dimples. “No!”

He pulled her closer against him, resting his chin against her hair. He breathed in the scent of it; he let his fingers fall over the bareness of her back, and he felt her flesh, smooth as the silk, ripple and heat to his touch.

She leaned her head back and she stared at him, a brow arched in pure challenge. She wasn't about to do anything so gauche as shove against him nastily. She was going to tell him in eloquent silence that he was overstepping his bounds.

He met that challenging stare...smiled slowly and pulled her closer, hard against his chest. She wasn't wearing a bra. He had known it, of course. Now he felt it. And she was either halfway frozen to death or feeling the same desperate ache he knew himself; her nipples were like hard, smooth marble. Her breasts were full and firm, flush against him. His arm was about her so tightly that even her hips were pressed against his, and everything he knew about her body, she had to know about his.

Desperate...that was the least of it.

Lightning might have jolted through him, hard, fast, searing. He burned throughout the length of him, experiencing another of those feelings that had seized him at first sight. It was shattering, as if he had been razed to the ground, body and soul. He almost seemed to black out; the world to disappear. And it left him simmering, seething, brewing...

Hungry.

She strained against his hold; he loosened it. Her arms were still about him, one resting lightly upon his shoulder, the other at his waist. There was something a bit frantic about the way she was staring at him.

“The music,” she whispered urgently.

“What about it?”

“It's fast now! You have to—you have to let me go.”

“Oh.”

The music was fast; people were barely touching now as they danced. He'd been living in his own little sea, a place where the two of them had been dead tight against one another while life careened on around them.

He caught her hand, his fingers twining around hers. “Come on, let's sit out a few.”

He didn't lead her back to the table, but out into the night. It was probably cold for her, but he felt that he had to have the air. He slipped off his coat and set it over her shoulders and when they had walked down the street a ways, he suddenly backed her against the wall, leaning over her, his palms flat on the concrete on either side of her head.

“Where have you been all of my life?”

She offered him a captivating, knowing grin.

“That's a hell of a line, if I've ever heard one.”

“You have to sit for me.”

“I most certainly do not.”

“Please.”

Everything seemed to echo sweetly in that single word. Gayle shivered slightly, not with the cold. He really wanted her to sit. She felt anew all the raw emotion she had sensed in his work. She felt the aching, the longing...the sense of something missing in her own life. He wanted her. It was a plea, but it wasn't exactly humble. It was probably the most humility she—or anyone else—would ever get from him. He was not a humble man.

It was crazy. She had no intention of posing for him. She didn't trust him. She didn't trust herself. He was beyond a doubt the most sexually alluring man she had ever met. The most self-assured, audacious, confident, and charming. He was absolutely fascinating.

“I don't—I can't see myself sitting there...the way that you want me.”

“I'm an artist.”

“I know. I've seen your work.”

“I can be very professional.”

She hesitated a moment. He was no old, bearded hermit. He was young, macho, and gorgeous. Ever since she had seen him, she had felt as if heated honey filled her veins, rushing through them. She wasn't terribly sure that she would have the strength to stand if he turned away. Her own palms were at her sides, braced against the wall.

“I—can't.”

“But you will.”

“You are quite sure of yourself.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Don't be, Mr. McCauley.”

“Brent.”

“I won't sit for you, and that's that. I've never been a model; I never intend to be.”

He sighed softly, dropping his hands. He reached his left out to her, entwining his fingers with hers when she hesitated, then accepted his touch.

“You're giving up?” she asked.

“Disappointed?”

“No! No, I told you—I just don't sit.”

They were nearing the door again. Gayle stopped, pulling back on his hand. “Mr. McCauley...Brent. I wanted to tell you, though, you are a wonderful artist. I've never seen paintings like yours. Your work is beautiful.”

A slow, slow sensual curve caught one corner of his lip. He took a step back toward her, catching both of her hands, bringing them to his lips. She felt the brush of his kiss against her knuckles, very light. She might just as well have been branded, and her reactions started all over again. The palpitations of her heart, the gasping for breath, the spinning that tilted the world.

“Thanks.” It was husky. He could have been a linebacker, a cowboy, Cool Hand Luke. But he was an artist. No—that was what he
did.
He was a man.

“You don't want to be painted—immortalized!—by one of the great masters of the century, huh?”

“I said you were good. I didn't quite say that you are Michelangelo.”

He laughed, unoffended. “It was worth a try.”

“Mr. McCauley, if you were me, would you consent to sitting in the nude for a man who was definitely coming on to you?”

“Now that would depend, wouldn't it?”

“On what?”

“What you intended your eventual response to be.”

“That's something else that I just don't do, McCauley.”

“What's that?”

“Respond—not the way I think you want me to. I don't just jump into bed with men. I'm sorry.”

He was silent for several long minutes. He arched a midnight brow at her and spoke softly. “Did I ask you to jump right into bed with me?”

“Yes—the third time you spoke to me,” Gayle told him dryly.

“Sorry—and I didn't say that we needed to jump right into bed. I've got all the time in the world. And a response, well...that remains to be seen, doesn't it? And anyway, I'd promise to play fair. Honest. I am an artist. Maybe I'm not a Michelangelo, but then maybe I am one of the great masters of this century. Only history will judge. I'd never come on to you until you had a chance to dress. If you wanted to put your clothes on, that is. You might discover that you really had no desire to do so.”