Shackled (14 page)

Her hand smoothed the sheet that covered her. The soft, luxurious white cotton pleased her tactile senses even as she realized the fresh-smelling sheets weren’t the same ones that had been on the bed the day before.

If I can’t make dinner, I can do the laundry
. She had clothes of her own to add to a load for the washer, too.

She hadn’t lied to Jonathan. She rarely napped in the afternoon. Grogginess seemed to want to hold on to her. Odd, but she felt even more tired now than when Jonathan had carried her to bed. Tossing the blankets aside, she decided a quick shower would finish the job of waking her up.

Fifteen minutes later, feeling a little more awake, dressed, she made her way downstairs. Inhaling deeply, she intuited from the delicious aroma that dinner would be roast beef. Maybe she wasn’t too late to pull a little KP duty, as there would be veggies to peel, maybe even a salad to prepare. Jonathan wasn’t in the kitchen. The counters stood empty, sparkling clean, not even a spoon sitting dirty beside the sink. The oven was set at three hundred and fifty degrees. She’d already noted the drawer Jonathan kept his pot holders in. She used that knowledge to check on the roast.

The meat looked wonderful, and Bethany discovered there’d be no veggies to peel as the roast was surrounded by tiny carrots and potatoes.

A quick check of the fridge showed her a tossed salad, ready to serve, and bowls of fruit, covered with plastic wrap, for dessert.

She shook her head as she noted even the coffeemaker had been filled, ready for the push of a button.

The dining room table held three place settings, the arrangement complete with napkins and candles in very nice twin crystal candleholders.

Her next stop, the laundry room, showed her yet again there seemed to be no end to Jonathan’s domesticity, for the hamper stood empty, with both the washer and the dryer working happily away.

Images of the last time someone other than herself tried their hand at laundry flooded her mind. Unable to resist, she opened the dryer. Some things tumbled right out into her hands, and she quickly set them back into the machine, as they were damp. This load of darker clothes would need another good half hour to dry. She couldn’t open the washer as it was a front-load model, but clearly, from what she could see, whites and lighter colors comprised the entire load.

“Afraid I was going to wash your blouse with my jeans?”

Bethany jerked up, Jonathan’s voice startling her.
The man moves like a stealth tiger
! She turned to face him. He stared at her, one eyebrow raised, apparently waiting for her answer.

She figured she’d better give it to him, since he could likely read her guilt in her rosy cheeks and dropping gaze. “Yes. Sorry. I’m not used to anyone but me doing things.”

Jonathan just chuckled, shaking his head. “Doesn’t your lack of faith in me seem strange, under the circumstances?”

Bethany wasn’t sure what he meant. “You mean, because we’re lovers?”

“You trust me to do anything I want with your body, but you don’t trust me to sort the laundry correctly.”

Put that way, it
did
sound ridiculous. She could only shrug her shoulders, certain she looked exactly how she felt—sheepish.

“Dinner smells good,” she said.

“It’ll be ready soon.” He stepped closer, lifted her face with his hand. Understanding the unspoken command, she met his gaze.

“I want you to take it easy for a few days, sweetheart. You’ve got shadows under your eyes. You need to rest and let me pamper you. Once I’m convinced you’re well rested, then of course we’ll share the housekeeping chores.”

“I’m really not used to being idle.” She’d never had time, in the past, to just laze around and do nothing. Twenty-four hours had always proven too little time to get everything done.

“I don’t expect you to be idle, sweetheart. I just don’t want you to think that everything falls on you. It doesn’t, anymore.”

“I guess I could call the temp agency and ask for more assignments.” Bethany said that slowly, not because she didn’t want to work. If Jonathan insisted that she do half the housekeeping instead of all, as she was used to doing, then most certainly she would insist on splitting the cost of living, too.

“Is that what you want to do? Spend your time working for someone else?”

Bethany blinked and then tilted her head to one side. “I insist on contributing, Jonathan. If you don’t let me split the expenses here then—”

He took her hand, uncurled the fingers she hadn’t even realized she’d clenched, then brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Of course you can contribute. The house is paid for, so we’re just talking food and utilities. You likely have enough from your investment income to do that without shorting yourself.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. “I don’t want you working so hard. You’ve done that all your life. Now it’s time to do something else.”

“Something else?” Because an image of the two of them having wild, unbridled sex popped into her head, she chuckled. “We can’t do that all the time,” she said. “I assume you have to work sometimes.”

Jonathan laughed. “I wasn’t thinking about that, either.”

His smile was so wide, so brilliant, she couldn’t help but return it. Even so, she felt herself losing ground. “Jonathan, I have to do something with my time. I have to keep busy.”

“I know, sweetheart. But there’s more to life than just work and worry.” He threaded his fingers with hers. “There’re hobbies. And there are…dreams.”

“Dreams?” The excitement in his eyes made her heart race and her thoughts whirl. A tiny ember, the remembrance of a long-ago, nearly forgotten dream, stirred to life. Yes, she’d had a dream, once. Had she ever mentioned it to Jonathan? Somewhere deep inside her, a certainty began to bloom.

 
Jonathan kissed her hand. “Come with me, sweetheart. I’ve got something to show you.”

Chapter 12

Jonathan stood back and just watched as Bethany explored the special space he’d set aside for her. She stopped every so often and touched the supplies he’d stocked and arranged so neatly here, in the room directly across the hall from his home office.

She picked up a brush, stroked the soft bristles, and then set it back in its container. She stopped before the shelving unit that held canvases, all sizes of them, some of them perfect for watercolors, others best for oils. He wondered what she was thinking, what she was feeling. He knew she’d not picked up a brush or a pencil in years. Aside from the two times he distinctly recalled, she’d not talked about this, not to anyone. That was, he thought, just one more sin to be laid at the feet of Timothy Craig, Jr.

Jonathan had taken the advice of the art store owner—himself an artist—and included sketch pads, charcoals, pastels, and two easels. He’d made her an artist’s studio that held everything any artist could possibly want, he hoped.

He did worry as she silently toured the room that perhaps she wasn’t interested in drawing or painting anymore. He really hoped that wasn’t the case. He hoped that painting and sketching, that being an artist, was a dream deferred and not a dream murdered. He found, much to his chagrin, that he couldn’t read her expression at the moment. Jonathan hated not knowing.

“It’s been so long,” Beth said.

He got no clues from her voice, for she’d spoken quietly, almost as if she’d said the words aloud inadvertently.

“I know it has, sweetheart.”

She shook her head slowly and turned around the room. “You…you had this ready for me.”

“Beth? I was always going to come for you.” The look on her face told him she couldn’t process that fact right now.

“I—how did you ever think of this? I don’t even remember telling you I used to paint.”

“You did tell me. You know, you would light up whenever you talked about your children. But the one time you told me about discovering art, about the lessons you took, you positively glowed. How could I not remember that? And there was one other thing you told me about, one day.” He walked over to look out the window and stepped back to the day that had haunted him. It was, he mused, the day he’d understood just how abusive her husband had been. “It was raining the day you told me about what Tim had done to your canvases. I’d come over and you’d been crying. I asked you what was wrong, and you told me you’d been set upon by an old memory, that it was nothing. I wouldn’t rest until you’d told me what that memory was.”

“Ah. Yes, now I remember. I’d forgotten all about that afternoon.” Bethany shook her head. “Those paintings weren’t very good. I likely would have tossed them out myself.”

“They were yours, and he had no right to burn them with the leaves,” Jonathan said. “At the time, I didn’t understand why you would have left your dream behind after that. I didn’t get why you wouldn’t have fought for it. I do, now.”

One of the benefits of being older, he thought. Now he could understand. Her husband had mocked anything she’d tried, anything she’d loved, to the point that, in order to protect herself, she’d withdrawn completely, focused only on the necessities and the day-to-day work. Tim had likely expected her to have a fit when he burned her canvasses that long-ago autumn day. She’d claimed the only kind of victory available to her when she’d stayed silent and refused to give him the reaction he craved.

“It’s been so long, I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” Beth said at last. “Whatever talent I had may have deserted me. Maybe whatever I produce won’t be any good at all.”

Jonathan walked over to her. Such a frown! He knew in that moment what it was that had her worried. He’d bet a month’s profits she was worrying that she’d somehow not be good enough, that somehow, she would disappoint him because of it.

He didn’t know how talent worked. Perhaps it had deserted her, which would be a damn shame. But the other, her fear of disappointing him, he could put that to rest right now.

“Let me ask you one question, sweetheart. Do you think this is something you might enjoy dabbling in? That it might be something fun for you to do whenever the urge strikes?”

She looked around the room, taking it all in, even taking a moment to look up at the skylights he’d had installed to give the room as much natural light as possible. Her lips curved into a smile.

“Yes. Yes, I think this would be a lot of fun.”

“Then that’s all it has to be. Think of this as a guilty indulgence, just for you. Something to put a smile on your face, and maybe a bounce in your step. It doesn’t have to be more than that. If it pleases you to paint, or draw, then
that
will please me.”

“I can’t think of this as my guilty indulgence.”

“Why ever not?” Jonathan knew he was frowning. He couldn’t help it. Beth was a very intelligent, logical woman, and that statement had been totally illogical.

“I can’t do that because
you’re
my guilty indulgence.”

“Am I, now?” Jonathan grinned. If he had his way, he’d be a hell of a lot more than a ‘guilty indulgence’.

I have to be patient
.

He sought her right hand and brought it to his lips. “Thank you, sweetheart. Are you hungry?” And he laughed at the lusty look she gave him. “I meant for dinner, of course. Our dinner guest will be arriving shortly, but we can return to that thought, later.”

Beth laughed. “Actually, I am hungry. Your roast smells delicious.”

“Then let’s go downstairs and have a drink. And after dinner, when we’re alone again, we can each spend time in our respective lairs. And then, after…” He let the thought taper off. He didn’t need to spell out what they would do, after.

* * * *

Bethany sat in the living room, a glass of wine in her hand and a smile on her face as Jonathan went to answer the doorbell. He’d been very mysterious about the identity of their dinner guest. At this moment, she didn’t even know if they were expecting a man or a woman.

A man, she thought moments later when she heard the second masculine voice. And then their guest came into the room.

“Hello, Bethany.”

“Peter!”

She set her glass down and got up, meeting him halfway across the room. She held out her hands to him, and he took them, brought them to his lips. Then he bent down and kissed her cheek.

“You’re looking good, Bethany. How are you?”

“I’m terrific. My goodness, Peter Hamilton. I haven’t seen you in a couple of years.”