Every Time I Love You (4 page)

“You really are something!” She forced anger and disdain into her voice. She didn't know what she really felt. He was so blatant. She'd never met anyone like him.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Tell me, do you do this with all your models?”

“I've never done it before in my life.”

He spoke flatly; she sensed the honesty. Kinetic energy swept through her, and she couldn't deny the excitement he aroused in her. She couldn't wait to be away from him, just to see if it would be possible to think of anything besides him once they were apart. He was a total stranger. They'd exchanged a few words, rather crude words!—and she was feeling as if they were long-lost friends. No.
Lovers.
Maybe he was right. Maybe he was just honest enough to speak his feelings aloud. It was surely a streak of curious chemistry, nothing more. And she wasn't like that, she simply wasn't. Her values were a bit old-fashioned, maybe; and though she didn't consider herself a prude, she did believe in getting to know a man properly. A handshake on the first date was all she believed in offering. And she'd never in her life—not even with Thane—been tempted to anything more.

But this was different. This was frightening.

She felt an impulse to run her fingers through his hair. To lean up and taste his lips. Oh, God, it was deeper than that. The impulse was to be with him. Bare, vulnerable, touching him, flush. Knowing him. Standing, just as the couple stood in his painting. Standing in a naked embrace that evoked every primitive feeling in a man and woman, passion and protection, lust and security, infinite tenderness, and a love that blocked out the rest of the world and stood tall before it.

She realized how intensely she was staring at him. And that he, in turn, was watching her with fascination.

She hugged his coat around her. “We should go in.”

“I suppose we should.”

But neither of them moved. Couples laughing and complaining about the cold, moved in and out of the doorway to the Red Lion. Occasionally, glances came their way. Neither of them noticed.

She smiled suddenly. She couldn't quite help it. She liked him, and she couldn't forget the feelings that his work had aroused in her.

“Have you ever been in love like that?” she asked him at last, rather wistfully.

“I beg your pardon?” He looked at her quizzically, an ebony brow arched high.

Gayle reddened, wondering if he were laughing at her sentimentality. She was thinking love, and he was thinking lust. “Never mind, I shouldn't—”

“No, no—I'm the one who is sorry. You're talking about the painting. 'Jim and Marie.'“ He paused, then shrugged. “No, never. I've never been in love like that.”

“Then how...how could you create such a thing?”

“Imagination. Hope. That's the way people should be in love, don't you think?”

“I don't know—”

“Surely you have an opinion.”

“All right! Yes!”

“Do you know what it's like?” He asked her. She realized that he was still holding her hands.

“That's none of your business—”

His fingers tightened roughly around hers.

“Have you?”

She swallowed and shook her head. “I—uh—no,” she murmured uneasily, not meeting his eyes. Then she added softly. “Not like that.”

He smiled, then laughed, then whispered against her earlobe. “Good. You've saved yourself for me.”

His teasing words broke the spell. “You really are a pompous bastard, you know.”

“Pompous?
I object to the word. A little rough around the edges, perhaps, but
pompous?”

“Pompous.”

“I prefer
arrogant.”

“You would. It would fit the image. But trust me—
pompous
is correct.”

He laughed and put his arm around her shoulders. His incredibly dark eyes held hers, yet she was laughing too. And it felt marvelous. She was so warmed by his touch.

“You really are freezing,” he told her huskily. “I'm taking you back inside.”

He held her close to his side as he opened the door, ushering her in. The crowds were upon them again. Gayle was vaguely aware that heads turned toward them, that they drew attention. There were so many people around them. She glanced up at his face, and she very much liked what she saw. There was a sense of strength to his jaw. Intelligence in his eyes. Warmth and laughter. And he was just a bit arrogant—not pompous.

Aware of her scrutiny, he gazed down at her with a questioning look in his eyes. She looked away quickly—she wasn't accustomed to being caught in the act of studying a man with such deliberation. But they were coming closer and closer to the table, and she knew that she was about to lose something. Him. Having him alone with her...and the unique intimacy they had shared.

“I'd really like to get to know you,” she blurted out suddenly, and she prayed that it had sounded casual enough.

He stopped, catching her chin with his knuckle, raising it to meet her eyes.

“Isn't that supposed to be my line?” he teased.

“Ah, but you've had so many lines already.”

“Pose for me,” he demanded again heatedly.

“I—”

“You've the most beautiful back I've ever seen. I watched you, and I know exactly how I want you seated. It would be chaste, I swear it. No terribly intimate part of your body would have to show. My God,” he swore passionately, “I've got to paint your back.”

“My...back?” She couldn't help it; she felt a little disappointed. She'd wanted to imagine that he had fallen head over heels with her face, her eyes, her lips...

Her back? It didn't sound at all erotic.

“Think about it?” he said. He was very determined and very professional. She realized it wasn't at all a come-on. He wanted to paint her—her back.

“I'll bet it has dimples,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Your back. Way down, on either side, just below the small of your back. Cute,” he added with a grin. He lowered his voice. “Sexy. Do you?”

“You have the most incredible nerve,” she charged him.

“It comes from being pompous. Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Have dimples on your—rear.”

“I really haven't the faintest idea.”

He broke out laughing. “You haven't?”

“No! I'd hardly run around staring at my own—”

“Buttocks,” he supplied. “Come, come, Ms. Norman! You were an art major. You've got to know something about anatomy. Enough to call a spade a spade and—a buttock a buttock. Or a rear or a derriere or an ass—”

“Enough!” Exasperated, Gayle stared at him. She tried to walk past him quickly, but he caught her arm and pulled her back. His warm breath caught her earlobe as he whispered, “I do believe you have dimples on your buttocks. I'm willing to bet on it. Has no lover ever mentioned such a thing, Ms. Norman?”

“No!”

“Then you have indeed been neglected. And I do intend to remedy such sad circumstances.”

A flood of color washed over her and she pulled her arm away. She felt naked. She hadn't blushed in years and she had never felt at a loss for words with a man.

Especially with a man who possessed such an overwhelming magnetism. One who called to every need and longing inside of her.

Gayle slid his jacket from her shoulders and handed it to him. She walked on ahead of him to the table.

The group had been dancing. Chad and Liz and Geoff and Tina, then Geoff and Liz and Chad and Tina. No one seemed to have noticed that Gayle and Brent had disappeared for any length of time. Or maybe they did. As Gayle slid in beside Geoff she felt his scrutiny, sensing that he was just barely containing a snicker. Geoffrey knew she'd been outside.

She leaned back in the vinyl-padded booth and murmured, “No, the man isn't exactly a bearded hermit. When did you meet him, and how did all this come about?”

Geoffrey sipped something that looked like a gimlet and raised his glass before his face.

“I met him this morning—you knew he was coming into town. And I came here because you always talk about it.”

“You might have warned me.”

“Why on earth would I want to do that?” he demanded, chuckling softly. “You were so intent on meeting a bearded hermit.”

“All right! I've admitted he's not a bearded hermit.”

“He doesn't seem to smell too bad, either. I'll bet that he even bathes.”

“Geoffrey—”

“Gayle!” he protested innocently. “I did tell you—”

“Liar! You told me you had an appointment!”

“I did not lie. This is an appointment. You were so busy making fun of Madelaine—”

“Boobs!” Gayle interjected.

“I rest my point. Why should I have warned you that I might be out with a hermit?” He sipped his gimlet again and looked at her pensively over the rim of his glass. “Come to think of it, I did try to warn you. I wonder why. Can chemistry spark before two people meet?”

Gayle glanced across the table, but Brent McCauley was busy answering a question Tina had asked him about his work habits. Chad laughed and broke in with something.

Gayle glanced back to Geoffrey. He was still watching her in a brooding appraisal.

“He wants you to sit for him, you know. It was the first thing he said when I pointed you out across the room. Before he even asked your name. He really thinks you'd be a fabulous subject.”

“And you want to feed me to the wolf.”

“I don't consider him a wolf. I think he's a nice guy. I like him a lot.”

“A man's man?” Gayle taunted.

Geoffrey exhaled. “He's intelligent, interesting, and fun. Yeah, a man's man. I like him. He's a person first, then an artist.”

“You do! You want me to do it! To sit for him! Nude.”

“God, you're making me sound like a pimp.”

“Well, I won't do it, boss.”

“Hey—your choice. This whole thing is in your hands.”

“There is no 'whole thing,'” Gayle snapped. Then she smiled. “Say that
he
was a
she.
Would you do it?”

“Sit in the buff?”

“Yes.”

Geoff laughed. “I'll pose for you anytime, sweetie.”

“Oh, you're an awful liar!”

“I'm not!”

“All right. Maybe you would. Maybe Boobs stands before an easel every night—”

“Don't you just wish you could be there!”

Gayle started to laugh, amused, and not at all sure what Geoffrey really would or wouldn't do.

“Hey...” Geoffrey lifted his hands with an exaggerated shrug, then turned from her to answer a question Chad had just asked about lighting in the gallery.

They were all talking around her. Someone had ordered her a new Scotch, and Gayle quickly sipped at it. Once again she was seated across from Brent McCauley. When she tried to cross her legs she kicked him by mistake. He stopped speaking to Tina and looked at her, and his sexy arrogant smile slipped into place. He seemed to think she had kicked him on purpose to draw his attention.

“I didn't,” she retorted, though he had said nothing out loud.

“Pose for me,” he whispered.

“No,” she mouthed in return.

She wanted to go home. While everyone else was having a good time, she was burning up inside. She was in panic. She needed things to go slowly, very slowly, with a man. She couldn't deal with this kind of emotional assault. Her head was pounding. She began to wish that Brent McCauley had been an old hermit with a mile-long beard. When would this party break up?

Not ever, or so it seemed. For a reclusive eccentric, Brent was friendly and funny. He had an ability to draw people out. He listened to stories about Liz's kids, and laughed about the foibles at Tina's spa. He and Chad seemed to be good friends, not just employer and employee. They all talked; they all had a nice time. And Gayle just couldn't bring herself to be the one to break it all up.

Liz finally suggested that it was time to go; she had to get the baby-sitter home. Brent McCauley went to retrieve their coats for them. While Chad and Geoffrey stayed inside, Brent walked the three of them out to Liz's car.

Gayle never entered it.

Before she could, he caught her hand again, pulling her back to his side.

“I'll drive Gayle home.”

“You needn't—” Gayle began.

“Are you sure?” Liz interrupted.

“We've a few things to talk about. The show tomorrow, you know.”

Gayle knew that she could have protested politely. She could have said that she was tired, that she would see him at the gallery. She could have said a dozen things. But she didn't. She stood there silently, her hand in his, as Liz and Tina and Brent talked.

They exchanged pleasantries. Brent McCauley was a star, of sorts. Maybe it was natural that Liz and Tina seemed a little awed as they told him good night.

But he was just as warm in return. He liked them, Gayle realized, and she was grateful without knowing why. He liked them as more than pretty women; he liked them as friends.