So Into You (11 page)

Five months later

Phil sat in his office, and for the
millionth time enjoyed the view and the fact that he actually had an office all
to himself.

Ryan had been true to his word and
the job with a projects development company that was small and energetic had
proved the answer to Phil's dreams. Employment dreams, anyway.

He had a pretty damn good salary, a
new apartment in a new town, and a view out over the city. On clear days he
could see the blue strip of the ocean in the far distance.

What he didn't have was Casey.

And for the five millionth time he
wished he could stop wanting her so badly.

"Package for you, Mr.
Cooper." A young intern popped his head around the door and waved a large
flat box at him.

"Okay, thanks Ted." Phil
stood and took the box, walking over to the table by the window and pushing a
few folders aside to make room for it.

He stilled as he saw the return
address.

That publishing company. Fuck.

Phil forced his thoughts away from a
certain fateful afternoon and slit the packing tape. Inside was more paper, a
little more tape and then bubble wrap. Eventually he waded through the outer
layers to find a good-sized book with a brilliantly beautiful dust jacket.

He read the title aloud. "Eyes
of the Heart: A look at all the colors of love."

The credits screamed endorsements
from everyone from the Mayor of a major metropolis to a movie star.

Curious now, he took it back to his
desk, sat down and spun the chair so that he could rest one knee on the edge.
Resting the book in his lap, he opened it.

Love. It has been written about more
than any other subject in the history of our species. Or perhaps it just seems
that way. However you describe it, love is always different, always fresh,
always new. And always fodder for writers, movie screenplays and television
dramas ad infinitum.

This book is a compilation of images
about love in a variety of different media from a variety of different
viewpoints. You'll find old masters and new voices, images from
state-of-the-art devices and soft pictures painted several centuries ago with
nothing more than a brush.

Enjoy each of them. And perhaps find
your own special vision somewhere within…

Intrigued, Phil began to turn the
pages, pausing at the first section—photographs of a new mother and her child,
obviously taken by the father. They were happy, warm and filled with the kind
of love that shines from a family welcoming a new life.

After them came some of the classic
old masters, gods and goddesses both real and imagined, and then some stills
from the all time great romance movies.

It was a truly beautiful book, with
commentaries in some places and none in others, where the image spoke for
itself. He paused at that one immortal shot of Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey
Bogart at the airport in Casablanca. It didn't need any caption at all.

That was followed by a series of
photos tracing love through a long relationship—blurry black and white wedding
photos leading through kids, grandkids and eventually two senior citizens
holding hands next to the ocean, renewing fifty years of commitment. It was
sweetly poignant.

Then he turned to the next section
and his hand trembled as he saw his own sketch. The title blurred for a minute
and he had to blink to clear his vision in order to read the words at the top
of the page.

Loving, Losing and Strokes of
Charcoal. Sketches by "P" and comments by "C".

And there she was.

Casey.

It was a drawing he loved; she stood
next to a window in their employee café, cradling a cup of coffee in both hands
as she stared outside. He'd caught a little bit of that vulnerability that day,
he realized as he looked at it all over again. Her eyes were focused on some
place only she could see and wherever it was, she had lost herself there.

Then he read the caption.

He sees me, sees inside me. How
could he know, this man who was only my friend that day? How did he discover
that beneath my carefully applied polish lies a frightened child?

And so it went on. More office
sketches, one of Casey at a meeting, standing before a presentation board.

I knew he wasn't paying attention to
the material. But truthfully I didn't mind. I have realized that his focus on
me warmed me and gave me strength I didn't know I needed. But sadly, sometimes
knowledge arrives too late.

She'd commented on many of his
sketches, sometimes just a brief where and when, and then there were others.
Like the fanciful illustration he'd done of her as a fairy queen in a garden
with birds and flowers.

If only my life could be like this.
If only I could be like this. He offered me sunlight in his garden and I, in my
stupidity, turned him down and laughed at his gifts. How foolish are those who
believe they have nothing to lose.

The drawings became more sensual,
the curve of her breast, the soft rise of her hips as she lay on her side. And
to each she had added her thoughts.

My body. To see it as someone else
sees it is…strange. But to see it through the eyes of a man who loves me? That
is a miracle I cannot describe. I am blessed in that at least I have these
memories to warm me.

A nude, from the back, her buttocks
ripe and curved, one leg slightly bent, inviting strong arms to enfold her.
Phil's had done just that. He gulped then read her words.

His touch inflamed me like no other.
He knew how to make me burn and scream and let go. And when he spoke to me,
held me close and urged me down the road to bliss with his hands, his mouth,
his body—I was lost. We were one in those moments and the memories are as fresh
today as they were that night. I will always carry them—and him—in my heart.

Phil held his breath as he came to
the last page of their section. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, which
sketch they would have chosen for the final one. And he was right.

Lying on her side, Casey was naked,
barely covered by the rumpled sheet of the bed in which she lay. Her hair was
tangled, her breasts soft and lax, and her face clearly showing the sated
pleasure she'd just experienced. It was sexual, sensual and passionate without
being overt.

He felt it was the best thing he'd
ever done and he looked at it with yearning and an ache he couldn't deny.

I loved him. I love him still. I
think it's the forever kind of love because I didn't even know it was there
until it was gone. Sometimes love hits you like a brick, quick, bright, painful
and over. But other times it slowly fills you up until you don't question why
you're smiling, you just do. That's how it was in this sketch. I was happy,
relaxed and content. And although I hadn't realized it, I was in love. He
banished my fears, held my hand and led me to the place where I could be the
woman you see.

Phil couldn't help himself. His eyes
stung as he re-read her words and looked again at the image. He'd packed his
sketchbook and hadn't opened it in almost six months.

The final comment arrowed straight
to his gut.

If he ever reads this, I hope he'll
understand now that his friendship was appreciated, his touch desired and his
heart—loved. He is the best man I've ever met, and I guess I didn't deserve
him. Be well my dear. And know I will always be so into you…

He sat there and ignored the world,
letting his calls go to voice mail and barely hearing the ping of incoming
emails. His head spun and his pulse thudded as he let the memories of Casey
sweep over him.

He'd tried to push her away,
mentally. To tell himself they were done, over. That she might even be married
by now.

He'd asked a couple of women out on
dates, but hadn't really enjoyed it. They'd been nice, but there was no spark,
no heat. They weren't Casey. Once or twice he'd fancied he'd seen her—at the
local mall he'd actually followed a woman for a few minutes before her child
ran up to her.

That's when he realized he was back
to being obsessed and made himself a promise. No more pining or yearning. To
him, Casey was officially dead. As dead as Dominic.

No, that wouldn't work.

Running his hand through his hair,
Phil sighed and closed the book. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor as he
rose and he reached down, catching it before it landed.

"
Dear Mr. Cooper
,"
he read. "
Here is a galley proof of the book containing your art. We
hope you like it, since we have great hopes for its success. Also, as a friend
of Ms. Casey Andrews, I think you should know she is not herself these days and
very much regrets whatever it was that occurred a few months ago. I won't interfere,
but it pains me to see my friend so unhappy. Perhaps you might know of
something that can be done to fix that situation. With best regards, D. Palmer,
Agent, Paintbrush Publishing
."

So she was unhappy, huh? Phil
considered those words.

He almost missed the quiet tap on
his door until it was repeated.

"It's open. C'mon in."

He was still reading the note again
as the door opened, then closed. And a voice broke the silence.

"Hi Phil."

*~*~*~*

She'd read the expression
"heart in her throat" many times in many romance novels, but never
realized the truth of it until she stepped into Phil's office and he turned to
look at her.

She couldn't catch her breath, her
ears thrummed with her own pulse and for a moment Casey wondered if she was
going to faint.

Then the look of astonishment gave
way to the heat she remembered and he was in front of her before she could
blink.

"Casey." His hands ran
from her shoulders down her arms and back up again.

"Yes." She couldn't drag
her gaze away from his face. "It's me."

"Oh God. I…" He looked at
her, then roughly pulled her against his chest and kissed her.

It was harsh, hungry, tongues and
lips and teeth clashing and dueling, and exactly what Casey had yearned for.

She gave back everything and then
some, sucking on his tongue, clutching at any part of his body she could reach.
Her bag fell to the floor, her hands slid over his pants and she realized she
had a handful of his ass just as he grabbed hers.

Her leg lifted instinctively to his
hip. "Phil, Jesus. I've missed you so very much. I was such a fool."

"Shhh." His hands slipped
further upward and he caressed her body. Her followed her curves and raised her
head with his finger on her chin. "You're real. You're here."

The phone rang, jolting them out of
the sexual haze enveloping them.

"Crap." He ignored it,
letting it go to voicemail. But the damage was done.

She nearly sobbed. "Phil."
Her hands went to hold him. "Phil." It was the only word she could
manage.

"Yeah, I know." He leaned
his forehead against hers. "Take a breath. We have to talk."

She straightened her clothing,
sighed and then chuckled a little. "Usually men hate that phrase."
She gestured at the book. "You saw it, then."

He nodded, adjusting himself and
wincing. "It's beautiful."

"Your sketches make it exquisite."

"Your captions make them come
to life."

They smiled at each other.

Casey looked at him, refreshing her
mind with his image right there, in front of her. He looked the same, his hair
a bit messed, his mouth with the smile lines just beginning to etch his happy
personality into his face.

"God, I don't know what to say
to you."

He held up a hand. "Before you
say anything, I have to ask. I heard you had a visitor from the past.
Dominic?"

She shrugged her shoulders.
"You'll laugh. He never died, of course. He fell off the mountain,
recovered, assumed a new identity—and married his lover." She paused
dramatically. "Keith."

Phil opened his mouth. Then shut it
again. Then opened it. "Um, Keith? As in…man named Keith?"

"Yep."

"Oh. So Dominic was…er…is…
"

"Gay? Yes. Although I
understand most people come out of a closet not a mountain ravine."

"Ah." He pondered that for
a moment. "Well then."

She bit her lip and then gave up,
her grin turning into a laugh. "Yeah. That was pretty much my reaction
too."

He leaned his butt on the desk and
folded his arms. "So you're here. You, and the book. Would it be safe to
say that you wanted to see
me
?"

"I wondered if I could get you
something? A muffin? Hot chocolate? I remember you don't drink coffee."
She peeked at him from beneath her eyelashes. "There must be some
binoculars here somewhere."