The Billionaire Boyfriend Proposal: A Kavanagh Family Novel (13 page)

"You didn't give me enough notice," I said. I
kissed Becky's and Cleo's cheeks, but not Ellen's. We'd never had
that sort of relationship.

I sat at the small table in the center of the
light-filled room. Ellen's conservatory was similar to mine in
basic design, but nothing like it in decoration. Mine was a working
art studio whereas hers was a classically decorated room fit for
'Roxburg royalty' as the media liked to call the Kavanaghs. It was
more like a garden room with fat-leaved tropical plants adding an
exotic twist. One palm was so tall that its fronds brushed the
stained glass of the domed ceiling.

We discussed the arrangements for the formal
engagement party. To my surprise, Ellen didn't dictate a single
thing and allowed Cleo to plan it the way she wanted. She did,
however, remind Cleo that money was no object.

Cleo winced. "Yes, of course. I sometimes
forget."

Becky and I discussed renovation plans for
the house, and she told me she was waiting for Blake to finish the
summer house. She wouldn't tell me why exactly, just that she
didn't think it a good idea to have the two projects going at
once.

By the time lunch was over, I still had no
idea why I'd been invited. When Ellen got up to powder her nose, I
asked Cleo why she'd wanted me there.

She frowned. "I didn't ask for you. I am glad
you're here," she said, laughing. "But I didn't specifically ask
for you. Why?"

"Ellen told me that you did."

We all three turned to the doorway through
which Ellen had just left. "What is she up to?" I mused.

"Maybe she thought you were lonely," Becky
said.

I blanched. "I'm not lonely."

"Well, no. I guess you have Blake and Robbie
for company now, but before…"

"Or maybe she wants to discuss some things
with you about Blake," Cleo said quickly.

I pulled a face. "I hope not."

"You don't want to talk about him?"

Becky kicked her sister under the table, not
at all surreptitiously. Cleo glared back.

"I don't want to talk about him," I said,
grinning at their antics.

"It's good to see you smile." Cleo rested her
hand over mine and smiled back.

Ellen returned and Cleo and Becky had to
leave. I made my excuses too, but Ellen asked me to wait a moment.
"Blake wants some things from his room."

"He does? Then why doesn't he come and get
them himself?"

"He's busy. Now, most of his belongings are
in storage, but there are a few personal items he can't bear to be
without that he brought here. If he's staying any length of time
with you, he might as well take them."

"He won't be there much longer."

"Oh? The police know where to find that Skull
character?"

"Er, they're close."

She scowled and I doubted she believed me,
but I wasn't going to tell her that we hadn't even called the
police. She would only worry about Blake.

Speaking of worrying about him, I was glad
that we had a chance to talk privately. As we headed to his
bedroom, I asked her if she knew anything about his time in the
Special Forces.

"Not a great deal," she said quietly. "He
doesn't speak of it. Why?"

"It seems to trouble him. Some of things he's
seen have affected him, but I get the feeling he needs to talk
about them."

"Has he talked to you?"

"Yes, but maybe he needs professional
help."

"I can't force him to see someone if he
doesn't want to."

"All I'm suggesting is that you and Harry
should keep a close eye on him. If you think he's not coping then
maybe you can encourage him to see a therapist. I'm sure the army
can recommend someone."

"I don't know why you think Harry or I have
any sway over him. Besides which, you see Blake far more than we
do. If
you
think he needs to see someone, then
you
must encourage him, Cassie. He'll listen to you."

I stared at her back as she walked off,
unsure of how to take her attitude. She didn't seem particularly
worried. In a way it eased my mind. If anyone knew Blake it was his
own mother. Despite her lack of maternal instincts, she and Harry
were never neglectful. They cared deeply about their sons and she
wouldn't be so offhand about his mental state if she thought he
wasn't managing civilian life.

I followed her along the eastern corridor
that led to the boys' old bedrooms, including Blake's. Her steps
were brisk, her back ramrod straight. It was time to broach my next
subject.

"Ellen, why did you want me here today?"

Her pace slowed but didn't stop. "We've been
neighbors your entire life. I knew you well as a child, but I admit
to not knowing you very well as an adult."

"And you think you should? Why?"

"Because my son is in love with you."

I stopped walking, stopped breathing. It was
one of those moments in which time seemed to stand still. Ellen
must have realized and stopped walking too. "He…you think…" I
couldn't spit it out. Couldn't fathom it.

She leveled her gaze with mine. "He has
always loved you, Cassandra. It's clear to me that he still does.
But don't take my word for it. I'll show you."

She opened the door to his old bedroom and I
entered ahead of her. There was nothing of the young Blake Kavanagh
in the simple gray bedspread, the plain off-white walls and the
single frameless painting on the wall. My gaze skimmed past it then
flicked back again. I knew that painting. It was one of Becky's
that she'd done in the studio. It was of a woman's face and
shoulders, her red hair falling down in bright waves, her dark
lashes lowered.

It was a painting of me.

'The things he couldn't bear to be without,'
Ellen had said.

I felt a little winded, like the time I'd
fallen off the swing as an eight year-old and the breath had been
knocked out of me. I concentrated on expanding my lungs, on not
letting the sudden and violent onset of emotions take over. It was
hard, but I kept my tears in check.

"I remember when we hung it for the show," I
murmured. Ellen stood behind me, but she might not have even been
listening. It didn't matter whether she was or not. "It was held at
my friend Stephanie's gallery. Reece came. It was the first time he
and Cleo met." My voice sounded far away, disembodied, as if
someone else were speaking the words. "We put all my students'
pieces on the gallery's website and some were purchased pre-show.
This was one of them. In fact, it was the first to sell. The
gallery handled all the sales and Steph never told me who bought
it. I never asked."

"Rebecca captured you well." Ellen's voice
startled me. She had been listening.

I nodded. "She's very talented."

"Now do you see what I mean?"

"Pardon?"

"He loves you. This proves it."

"Purchasing a painting of me doesn't mean he
loves me." But it was a hollow protest. We both knew Blake wasn't
the sort to randomly purchase artwork. He'd specifically gone to
that website and bought only this painting. Then he'd taken it from
one house to the next and hung it on his wall where he would see it
every day.

Ellen lifted the painting down and handed it
to me. "This is the item he wants."

"He asked you for it?" I doubted that. He
never mentioned it to me.

"He wants it, Cassie."

"That's not the same thing."

She let go of the canvas and I had to tighten
my grip to stop it falling. Next thing I knew I was standing alone
in the bedroom holding the painting as she walked off. Ellen had a
knack for getting her way.

I took the painting home and rested it
against Blake's bedroom door. It still blew me away that he'd had
it all this time and I didn't know. It shocked me to my core to
think that Ellen might be right and Blake loved me. I still didn't
know if she was right, or whether it was the memories of a more
innocent time that he loved.

I remained in the main house and spent the
afternoon preparing dinner for the three of us. I called them in at
six. Robbie declared he was starving and shoveled in his food.
Blake sat silently, watching me with a curious expression.

"Everything okay?" he asked as we washed the
dishes together afterward. Robbie had disappeared back to the
summer house to continue working while there was still enough
daylight to see by.

I nodded and handed Blake a plate to dry.

"You've been very quiet," he went on.

"Have I?"

"Did my mother upset you?"

I smiled. "No."

He blew out a breath. "That must be a
first."

"She gave me something to give to you."

"What is it?"

"A painting."

He stopped drying then started again,
slower.

"The painting from your bedroom. She said you
probably wanted it since you didn't put it in storage with your
other things."

"You brought it home with you?"

"It's upstairs now." I pulled the plug out
and watched the water drain then dried my hands on the cloth he was
using. I lifted my gaze to his. He'd stopped wiping and watched me
warily, as if he was expecting a bomb to explode in his face but he
couldn't move away.

"Blake…come upstairs with me to hang it."

He swallowed loudly. Nodded.

I took his hand and together we went up to
his room in silence. He picked up the painting and I removed one of
Gran's embroideries from the hook opposite the bed. He hung the
painting then stepped back to admire it.

"I wish I'd painted it," he said, turning to
me. He touched a curl of my hair and wound it around his finger. "I
want to paint you, Cassie."

It took me a moment to realize what he meant.
When I did, I smiled. "Yes."

CHAPTER 9

I found the paint I once used on a model and
returned to Blake's room. He stood waiting for me, naked, his cock
semi-hard.

"You're ready," I teased.

"Always, for you."

I handed him the paints, pallet and brushes
and held up the drop sheet. "Where do you want this?"

"On the bed."

I laid it over the bedcovers then undressed.
"I'm ready to be positioned, master painter."

He looked up from the palette. The heat in
his gaze rolled over me, warming my skin, making every inch of me
feel alive, desirable. It was as if he were taking in every
contour, every freckle, and noting the colors, the shadows, and the
places he wanted to lick or touch. I wanted him to lick and touch,
but not yet. First, I wanted to know what it felt like to have the
brush caress my skin.

"Lie down," he said, his voice throaty. I did
as told and lay on my back, my left leg slightly bent, covering my
sex. "Arms above your head, hands in your hair." I did, arching
myself for good measure. "God damn," he whispered. "Perfect. Now
close your eyes."

I wanted to keep them open to watch him, but
did as commanded. Waiting for the first stroke of the brush was
exquisite torture. I expected it to be on my nipple or thigh, but
it was my foot. I gasped as the cool paint slicked across my skin,
up my ankle to my knee in long, sweeping stokes.

"Okay?" he asked, husky.

"Yes. It tickles a little."

He chuckled. "Just let me know when you want
to stop."

No way did I want him to end it yet. After a
few more strokes, the brush no longer tickled. It was like a lover
caressing my skin, exploring my body, learning its secrets. Like
Blake the very first time we'd made love.

He painted circles on my stomach and around
my breasts, careful to leave my nipples uncovered. Then he licked
one, making me writhe as heat rippled through my body, arrowing
down to my groin. Then he gently parted my thighs and exposed me.
Cool air licked my hot core, sending me into partial meltdown. I
wanted to feel his hands there, or the brush,
something
. It
was like a drug I craved, driving me mad with the need for it.

"Touch me, Blake."

The soft bristles of the brush on my clit
sent a wave of pleasure through me. I gasped at the heat spiraling
up and moaned when he withdrew the brush. "Don't…stop."

My lover the brush obliged and made love to
me. It stroked my tender clit and dipped inside to use my juices as
paint. I was dripping wet, my body on fire from the sensations
overwhelming me. The brush was slow. Too damned slow. I wanted it
inside me.

I wanted Blake's cock, his body, his tongue
and hands. But he didn't join me on the bed, leaving me with a
strange mixture of agony and ecstasy, both vying for supremacy. I
writhed and clutched my hair to stop myself reaching for him and
dragging him on top of me.

"You're amazing, Cassie," he said thickly. "I
can't get enough of you."

The feeling was mutual, but damned if I could
talk. He'd removed the brush entirely, but I was still no closer to
release. I was searching for my voice to utter a protest when his
weight depressed the bed and he was suddenly on top of me. He took
my nipple into his mouth and I realized why he hadn't painted it.
So he could brush it with his tongue.

He pressed his hard length to my opening and
thrust himself inside to the hilt, groaning loudly. I was slick and
took him completely. I was too far gone to take it slow anymore and
make the moment last. I wanted to come
now
. As if sensing my
need, or maybe it was what he needed too, he picked up the rhythm.
He circled me in his arms and held me as we came together, then
rode the waves until we were both spent.

We fell asleep like that and woke up in the
middle of the night to make slow, easy love, spooned together in
his bed.

The following day, he brought me breakfast in
bed and I didn't freak out. The morning after that I brought him
breakfast and he insisted on thanking me by making love to me in
the shower. For an entire week we spent almost every moment
together, either in bed or working at the summer house. Robbie took
the change between us in his stride, making no comment when Blake
kissed me out of the blue and I let him.