Next to You (23 page)

Then he fell serious again, his eyes shadowed in the dusk. “I never thought about another woman like that again—with all the plans—until you.”

Suddenly Jared flipped around and was on his knees before her, straddling her outstretched legs. His face was earnest and hopeful, his lips curved in an uncertain smile. The beating of her heart was louder than the gentle waves of the lake or the wind whispering through the trees. He took her left hand and pulled it to his lips. He kissed each knuckle one by one, his eyes holding hers, and just that simple contact was charged and erotic.

After his lips brushed her pinky finger, he kissed the soft underside of her wrist where her pulse was pounding, then gently straightened her fingers. He slipped the braided wisp of grass onto her ring finger.

“Will you marry me?"

She looked at the grass ring, then his face, everything blurring with hope and happiness.

He caressed her cheek. “I hope these are those tears of joy I used to scoff at.”

She nodded, trying to get out the words she was dying to say but failing miserably.

“I know you deserve a better man. But you’re making me a better man every day. Will you take a chance on my getting there eventually?”

“You’re the best man I’ve ever known.” The words came, finally.

“Obviously, this isn’t a permanent ring.”

“Yeah, grass jewelry doesn’t last that long. You’d have to make me a new one every day.”

He cupped her face in his hand. “Well, as the caretaker I could do that. If you marry me, I would make you a new ring every day.”

His lips drifted closer to hers, so close she could feel his words on her skin.

“Say yes, Phlox, and make me the happiest billionaire caretaker who ever lived.”

She smiled. “I think you’re the only billionaire caretaker who ever lived, but yes. I’ll marry you.”

His mouth crushed hers as they tumbled back onto the sand. She clutched at his back, pulling him onto her, letting her body—her heart—absorb the weight of all that was Jared Connor. This close, she couldn’t see the scars on his face. His skin was just that—skin. His face simply the face of the man she loved.

“You are so beautiful to me, Jared.” She tattooed each word onto his lips with a searing kiss. He groaned with each one, the length of his body pressing harder against hers, eliminating any space between them, leaving no room for doubt or fear. Leaving no place to hide. There was only love and yearning and hope—an emotion she once feared he would never allow himself. The knowledge that she had given him that hope took her breath away and in his shining eyes she finally recognized herself.

J
ared stopped
at the newsstand on the corner and scanned the magazines. There it was, the new issue of
Vogue.
He picked it up and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for—the editorial spread about the wedding. Phlox had looked like a princess in her pearls and lace, holding her bouquet of peonies (minus the ants, of course). The photographer kept his word: he had been careful to stick to Jared’s good side. Jared himself was getting better at that—navigating events so that photographers were always on the unscarred side of his face. And he was getting better at not caring when they weren’t.

He bought the magazine and walked briskly down the street, reading it, fully aware of how ridiculous he looked—a man engrossed in a fashion rag. He read the entire article through. Not a single mention of his father. Barely any mention of Jared at all, in fact. Well, weddings were about the bride, right? The magazine had tagged him as “Jared Connor, president of the Connor Foundation.” No mention of his old company. Just as he wanted it. This was who he was now—philanthropist, adoring husband to beauty mogul Phlox Miller-Connor, king of the known world.

Well, some people might take issue with the last one.

He smiled at the photograph of Emma, the flower girl. He spun around, nearly knocking over three pedestrians, and returned to the newsstand to buy another copy for her. There’s some bragging rights for you. How many girls can say they’ve been in
Vogue
? Well, how many people, period, can say they’ve been in
Vogue
? It was certainly not a place Jared had ever expected to turn up. Life surprises you that way sometimes, he thought. When you least expect it. When you’re least ready for it.

When you most need it.

Phlox was already waiting for him when he arrived at the restaurant, the magazines tucked beneath his arm. She was sitting at a table next to the window, checking something on her phone. Jared stood on the corner and gazed at her. Drank her in. Two months ago, he would have said it was impossible for her to be any more beautiful.

But she was.

Her skin glowed, her hair shone and—to her delight (and his, he wouldn’t deny it)—her breasts had become fuller. He patted his breast pocket. It was where he kept the small sonogram photo, which he pulled out to show anyone who was foolish enough to consent to see it.

Twins. Jake and Mina were still busting a gut over that one.

“You wanted a normal life?” Jake had spluttered, his eyes watering in uncontrolled mirth. “You can kiss that goodbye. Twins! This is going to be priceless.”

Well, maybe he didn’t have a normal life after all. But he had a good life. Despite his best efforts to avoid it, a good life had found him.

Phlox looked up from her phone and caught his eye. She smiled, and his heart stilled the way it did every time he looked at her. He loved her. Hell, he had loved her from the minute he scooped her up off the stone pavers behind her house and bandaged her scraped knees. He loved their children, the ones in progress and the ones who would come later. Jared wanted as many kids as Phlox would allow. A houseful of noisy, squabbling, funny, charming kids. He was going to be one of those annoying helicopter parents—and he was unrepentant about it. It was his paternal prerogative to love them as much as he damn well wanted to. He’d pay for their therapy later.

He crossed the street and pulled open the door to the restaurant where his wife and unborn children—things he had never even allowed himself to consider, so remote he had thought the possibility—were waiting for him.

So yeah. He had a good life. No, correct that—he had an
amazing
life.

T
urn
the page for a special sneak preview of Chapter One!

M
arie couldn't remember
the last time she'd picked up a pencil for any reason, let alone to draw, and yet here she was turning her car off a country road in western Virginia and into the gently curving driveway of the home of Luc Marchand. Marie had never heard of Luc Marchand, though her best friend Nishi swore that he was famous. In certain circles, anyway. And he was French. That was all Marie knew about the man with whom she was about to begin three months of drawing lessons.

The drawing lessons had been a thirtieth birthday gift from Nishi, a handmade gift certificate carefully packaged inside a flat, shallow box. A big purple bow on top

"You said you used to love to draw," Nishi explained.

"I did." Marie had minored in studio art at Yale, the only thing that had made a major in poli-sci bearable.

"I was originally thinking champagne or expensive truffles made with fairy diamond dust imported from Saturn."

"And I'd have to start going to the extreme spin class to burn off those calories," Marie pointed out.

"Well, right. Not that you need to worry about that. But you consume those and they're gone. I wanted to give you something that would last."

"Thank you, Nish." She laid the gift certificate back in the box and gave her friend a quick squeeze. "This is perfect. I would love to take drawing lessons again."

Now here she was. She braked her car to a stop in front of the house and stepped out into the August heat. She took a deep breath. Amazing how much cleaner the air was out here than just thirty miles back, in the smog-choked suburbs of Washington, DC. Out here, you could almost forget that Washington even existed.

Marie looked up at Luc Marchand's Middleburg home, an old Colonial-era Virginia farmhouse with weathered grey stone and meticulously-restored windows. Gracious old maples shaded the front lawn. Behind the house, miles of yellowing fields dropped away beneath a pale blue sky.

A tasteful wooden sign next to the front steps read, "Studio in back. Follow the red brick road." Ah yes, if she looked carefully, she could make out a trail of faded red bricks pressed into the lawn, a walkway as old as the house.

Behind the house was a newer building, its board and batten siding painted a fresh deep red. The building looked like a cross between a carriage house and a small barn, though it was far too close to the house to have ever been the latter. The place reeked of old, understated money, the kind of money her mother chased incessantly as a professional fundraiser.

She knocked lightly on the studio's door and heard what sounded like the scraping of wood against a floor, muffled footsteps that stopped for a moment and then began again. The door opened and a man stood before her, a man whom Marie would have pegged as French even if she hadn't known beforehand to expect it.

Marie knew that the French were a varied people. But still, she had in her mind what a French person should look like. Dark hair, always. Lively, tousled curls. A jaded, slightly annoyed expression.

Check. Check. Check.

A white shirt. Check. Luc Marchand was wearing an impossibly white tee shirt. Marie doubted one could buy a tee shirt that white and crisp in the U.S.

A scarf wrapped insouciantly around the neck. Check. Luc Marchand's was more of a paint rag than a scarf, but it had the same general effect.

Clever shoes. She glanced down at Luc Marchand's feet. Okay, well not so French there. His fee were bare.

"You must be Marie?" he asked, rolling the r in her name so that it sounded like
ma-rhee
and not muh-ree. "Marie Witherspoon?"

Marie was momentarily struck speechless. She'd never heard her name pronounced in a French accent.

"You are not Marie Witherspoon?"

"Yes. Yes, of course I am, " Marie managed to squeak out. Her tongue felt useless in her mouth, like a limb that had fallen asleep.

"Of course you are," he said, an amused smile flitting across his lips. "Come in."

She followed him inside the carriage house. He took her purse, set it on an old wooden chair, then looked Marie up and down, assessing her, taking her measure. She flushed.

He laughed. "I am a man, and not an old man. So, yes, I will look over a woman." He nodded at her. "You are a pretty woman."

She tried to fix a look of injury to her face. The nerve! But part of her was flattered, nonetheless; after years of living in Richard's desert of indifference, being called pretty by a man—even an arrogant Frenchman Marie suspected she wasn't going to like—was a welcome mirage. Then she remembered the decidedly un-French attire she had chosen to wear that morning. Military green cargo pants, out of fashion for several years now and whose cuffs were worn and fraying. A black cotton tee shirt, faded in the wash to a bluish tinge. No clever shoes. No scarf. The few times Marie had tried to tie a scarf, she'd ended up with something that looked more like a noose.

And she hadn't replaced the blowdryer that had died the morning after Richard served her with divorce papers. Her hair was tied back in a limp, pathetic ponytail.

"Sorry," she apologized, looking down at her clothing. "I dressed for an art studio, I guess."

"Nothing to apologize for. I'm just French, that's all. I find, in the states, I can take all manner of liberties if I simply say afterward, 'I am French.'"

Marie's failed injury was replaced, at last, by a smile. "We expect bad behavior from you."

"Ah, she speaks. I will try not to behave too badly with you. But I cannot make any promises."

Marie was stunned into silence. She had assumed that Nishi had picked Luc Marchand out of some community center's directory of class listings. There was no shortage of people in the Virginia foothills who fancied themselves artists. She'd been expecting someone older, paunchy, balding.

Luc Marchand was none of that.

Marie wasn't sure exactly how old he was, but she guessed late thirtyish. He was over six feet tall and definitely not paunchy. Lanky, that's how Marie would have described him. Not skinny but not overly muscled either. His movements as he crossed the studio to a tiny kitchenette on the other side had an almost desperate carelessness to them, as if he were daring the floor to trip him or the ceiling to rain down on his head.

He held up a bottle of red wine. Marie frowned. At ten in the morning?

"Oh, right," he said. "Too early for an American. Coffee then?"

He set about grinding and measuring and filling the coffee maker. He swung his arms and hips around the tiny space and yet he didn't once bump into the sharp corners of a countertop or allow a stray coffee bean to fall and bounce into the sink or behind the wastebasket. Despite the seeming unchecked carelessness of his limbs, there was a graceful economy of purpose to each step and turn. He didn't seem like the kind of person who would go into a room and then forget what he came in for. Marie did that all the time, as though her days were constantly rebooting.

He looked up and frowned at her. He gestured toward a small metal café table and a set of those grey metal bistro chairs that had become all the rage in the furniture catalogs. "Sit down, please."

Marie sat and looked around his studio while the coffee sputtered and hissed into the pot. The studio looked like the studios she remembered from school. Messy. Canvases in various stages of completion, or inspiration, stood like sleeping sentries around the room. There were landscapes and horses and children and opulent interiors. From a glance, it was hard to say what Luc Marchand's artistic style was.

One particularly tall canvas held the rough outlines of a life-sized woman's head and torso, arms and shoulders. She looked like some spectral creature in the process of materializing. Or disappearing, Marie couldn't tell which.

Two mugs of coffee appeared on the table, along with a small white pitcher of cream and a matching bowl of sugar. Luc Marchand flipped a chair around and straddled it, leaning his chin on the chair back.

"We won't do much drawing today. A little, maybe. But we need to get acquainted with each other a bit first, so I can determine how best to teach you."

This close, Marie noticed the small scar on his forehead.

"I fell out of a tree when I was eleven," he answered her unasked question. He pushed the cream and sugar toward her. "So. Your friend signed you up for private drawing lessons. Have you drawn before?"

"In school." Marie's tongue remained uncooperative. She had to force each word from her mouth. "I took a few classes."

"And where was that?"

"Yale."

He lifted an eyebrow, tilted his head down slightly in a gesture of deference. "You must have been a good student."

Marie shrugged. "It wouldn't have mattered either way."

"And why was that?"

Marie hesitated. She wasn't expecting twenty questions out of a drawing lesson. Usually you just showed up, sat down behind an easel and began to draw. And she really didn't want to get into the whole complicated situation that was her family.

"I would tell you I don't bite, Marie, but sometimes I do."

Marie felt her face grow hot. Normally, she wouldn't recognize innuendo if it bit her on the ass, but Luc Marchand seemed entirely composed of the stuff. He made it hard to miss.

"My father was a senator."

"And he's not a senator now?"

"Lobbyist now. No one ever goes home after they leave Congress." She spit out a sharp laugh. "It would have taken wild horses to drag my mother back to Indiana."

"And your mother. What does she do?"

"She runs a fundraising firm."

Luc Marchand seemed to consider this, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "And are you married?"

"Separated."

"I almost hate to ask what your husband does."

"My soon-to-be-
ex-
husband is also a senator. From Pennsylvania."

He appeared amused by that piece of information. "Why are you divorcing?"

"It's a long story."

Luc looked down at his bare wrist. "We have time. Your friend paid for the entire morning."

"I'd rather not talk about it." Even as the words came out of her mouth, she knew Luc Marchand wasn't going to let her get away with that answer.

"Okay."

He surprised her, after all. She'd been certain he was going to pick and probe, make her rip off that particular bandage. Still, he made her uncomfortable. He was staring intently at her face, like maybe he recognized her. He could have seen her photograph in the paper or a magazine. That was entirely possible.

She looked away from his gaze, toward a nicked and stained work table along the studio's back window. Brushes and rags littered the tabletop. Beneath the table, the wooden floor was dusty and stippled with morning light. It was all too Vermeer. She hadn't been in a painting studio since college, but the smell of paint and old wood and dust was stirring up an old yearning in her. Nishi had been on the mark, as usual. Drawing lessons would be enjoyable—she glanced back at Luc Marchand—if Mr. Fancy French Artist could lighten up a little.

"Let's go outside," he suggested.

He collected two sketchpads and a fistful of pencils from the table Marie had been staring at. He turned to her.

"Come."

Outside, she followed him down the gentle slope of the back lawn, to a low stone wall that looked as if it had once seen Colonial militia running past, bounding over it, muskets under their arms. More old maples sheltered a wooden picnic table and benches. Beyond, the fields and rolling hills went on forever, it seemed, stopped only by the low dark mountains on the horizon.

Luc took a seat on the wall and patted the spot next to him. When she sat down, he handed her a sketchpad and pencil. She flipped over the cover to the first, empty page.

"Draw blue," he said.

"What?"

"Draw blue."

"You mean draw something that
is
blue?" Marie asked for clarification.

"No, I meant what I said. Draw blue."

She frowned. "Do you have that condition ... what is it called?" She tried to pull the word out of the depths of her brain.

"Synesthesia?"

She nodded.

"No, I do not."

He flipped open the sketchpad on his lap and Marie watched in wonder as his hand flew across the page. When he was finished, the center of the page was filled with a swirling tangle of lines.

The man was crazy. Marie began to doubt he was even a real artist.

"See? That's what blue looks like to me."

"Why is that blue and not red?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know. That's what I see when I imagine blue."

"That doesn't make any sense to me. What are you thinking about when you do that?"

"I'm not thinking about anything. I'm simply seeing." He tapped her sketchpad. "Don't think. Just draw."

Marie stared at the ivory cotton paper in her lap and tried not to think. But thoughts intruded anyway. How quiet it was out here. How hot a late August breeze could be. How uncomfortable this man was making her feel. Whether the paint stains on his hands were permanent. Why he hadn't put on shoes when they came outside.

"You're thinking, Marie. I can hear the gears turning."

She sighed. "I don't know what blue looks like. It's the color of the sky, or someone's eyes. Or water."

"Then choose another color. It doesn't matter so much which color. Let your mind go blank and allow your fingers to take over."

Marie took a deep breath and tried to do as he instructed. She let her pencil begin to move across the paper. It felt entirely random at first, but after a few seconds her movements became more purposeful. It was maybe even enjoyable, she admitted to herself, just a little.

After a minute, she lifted her pencil from the page. Luc leaned into her to take a closer look, his arm pressing against her shoulder. "And what color is that?"

"Red," she declared confidently.

"Hmm. Doesn't look like red to me."

Her bubble of momentary confidence burst "Yellow?"

Beside her, Luc Marchand's laughter jostled her shoulder. "We'll compromise and say orange."

Then before Marie knew what was happening, Luc's arm was on her back and pulling her body against his chest. She opened her mouth to object, but found her lips quickly sealed over with his. She tried to free her lips from the kiss, trying to speak, but the only sound that came out was more akin to loud humming than any meaningful protest. Pushing at his chest only made him tighten his arms around her more securely.