The Rose of Blacksword (71 page)

“Welcome.”

Jamie spun in surprise. She searched the recesses of the store for the source of the man’s voice, but jumped nonetheless as he
stepped out of the shadows. He was a tiny old man with a mane of white hair and a knowing smile. “Good evening. I’m so glad you’ve come.”

She nodded. “I bet you don’t have many customers on a night like tonight.”

“It only takes one. The right one,” the man replied, a glint in his eye.

Taken aback, Jamie quickly shook her head. “Oh, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. I don’t want anything.”

“Don’t you?” He held her eyes. “Oh, I think neither of us is going to be disappointed this evening. Come over here. Look what I have for you.”

She hesitated, frowning. Living in Georgetown, she was used to meeting the occasional odd character, but she had the strangest feeling about this man—

Squaring her shoulders, she strode across the store. “What is it you’d like to show me? I really don’t need any jewelry, and I don’t collect antiques.”

“Nevertheless, these are for you.” Reaching down into the dusty case, the man drew out an old, handpainted box. The hinge squeaked as he lifted the lid. Inside were two neat, perfect rows of paints, twelve tubes all tightly capped, all waiting to be used.

Without thinking, Jamie ran a fingertip along the top row, slowly, sensually, in wonder and delight. The tubes felt warm, alive, as if transmitting some strange energy. Biting her lip, she was already imagining how it would feel to squeeze the paint onto her palette, dip in the curved sable of her brush, draw that first magical stroke across a white and empty canvas.

Suddenly she yanked her hand back. “What makes you think I’d be interested in these?”

“Aren’t you?” The old man gave a Cheshire-cat smile.

“I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. But you didn’t answer my question.”

He shrugged, lowered his eyes, and busied himself with a tray of glass beads. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps instead you’d like to browse—”

“No, I’ll take the paints,” she answered, shutting the box top with trembling fingers. “Yes, I’ll take them. How much are they?”

“One dollar.”

“What?” She laughed, caught by surprise.

“One dollar. A special for the woman who says there’s nothing she wants … because she doesn’t know what it is she needs.”

“Now wait just a minute—”

“Take them,” he interrupted imperiously, then bobbed his head up and down, becoming again just a smiling old man. “Take them. You’d be doing me a favor. Now they’re fresh and bright, but they’ll just sit here on the shelf and dry up, all their possibilities gone to waste. Certainly you can make better use of them than that.”

“Yes,” Jamie said softly, eager to hold them in her hands. “But can’t I pay you a fair price? I feel like I’m cheating you.”

“No, my dear, you are pleasing me. Think of them as being meant for you.”

He was working as he spoke, wrapping the box in brown paper, tying it with twine. He handed it to her, and again she caught that glint of mischief and mystery in his eyes.

Jamie felt her cheeks flush. Holding the package to her chest, she handed him the dollar, then hurried to the door. “Thank you,” she whispered with a quick glance back over her shoulder. “Thanks.” Then she stepped out into the rain.

One stop at the store on the corner for more candles and she was back at the loft.

Fitting the key into the lock, she pushed the door open into darkness.

“Let there be light!” she quipped, striking a match.

Around her, piles and stacks and walls full of canvases took shadowy form. She set a candle on the windowsill, one on the kitchen table, one on her night table. Then she sat down and unwrapped the package.

The box itself was old, the wood worn to a smooth, polished veneer; the painting on the lid was faded and dim. But inside, the twelve perfect tubes of paint lay fresh and shining, each wrapped in shiny white paper, foreign words labeling them in a tiny, perfect hand. She couldn’t read their message, but that didn’t matter. One twist of their tops and the paint would spill out: ocher, burnt umber, cerise, cadmium yellow, saffron, Prussian blue, lamp black, white … each one more beautiful than anything real. As beautiful as dreams and wishes.

Her heart pounding with anticipation, Jamie put a fresh canvas on the easel. She would start now, right now. She wouldn’t waste a moment, not a second. This time she’d get it right. She would.

As she opened the paints light and shadow flickered in her imagination; images she had never considered came together. Rather than planning a design, she could feel it emerging, gathering form and power, racing from her
brain to her fingertips like some irrepressible impulse.

Brush in hand, she made one sure stroke. Another. Letting the paint take her, she seemed almost to dream the form, the images of the painting she’d make. It was like entering into a trance: letting go of reality and slipping into another state, another consciousness … moving deeper and deeper toward some mysterious destination. Her hand moved of its own will. Colors appeared. Shapes blurred and shifted. The paint flowed, caressing the rough texture of the canvas. The canvas warmed, coming to life beneath the kiss of brush and paint.

And then a yawn shook her, and another right behind it. Glancing at the clock, Jamie couldn’t believe what time it was! She’d been painting for hours without stopping, almost without breathing. Suddenly she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Her eyelids were heavy; even her eyelashes felt tired. She cleaned her brushes, blew out the candles, and fell into bed. And for the first time in longer than she could remember, her sleep was free of nightmares.

The next evening, far across town, Edward Rockford stood in his bedroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Something seemed to hold him there against his will. He knew it was crazy but he had the strangest feeling that a shadow, an image, had flickered there behind his own,
within
his own.

“Damn.” The muttered curse escaped through clenched teeth. His jaw ached with tension. Scowling, he shook his head to clear his thoughts, but they remained as dark and brooding as they had been for months, for years. It seemed like forever.

And tonight? He did not want to be going out tonight. He didn’t think he could endure another meaningless society event, another stifling room filled with chattering people. Just thinking of it made him tug at the knot of his tie, the top button of his starched shirt. His dark eyes flashed with anger and frustration. There would be no companionship there, nothing of any substance. It would merely be another evening spent among strangers, filled with hollow laughter and shallow talk. It was driving him crazy. Crazy! He could feel his passion, his true self, stretch and circle in its cage, pace the narrow limits, strain against its confines. He could feel its claws pierce his heart, his soul.

But no!

Staring straight ahead, holding his own dark gaze, he fought the passion down. Stilled it. Lashed it tight to the bars of his muscle and bone, the cage he had forged out of will and despair.

Why go? Why bother? I’ll stay here. Pour a drink. Read. I won’t go.

But something drove him on, restless, seeking. And tonight that feeling was stronger than ever, fierce and compelling. But to what? What hope? What dream?

Fool!

He smiled a cold, bitter smile, a mocking smile so chilling it would have raised goose bumps on the arms of the women waiting for him in the car downstairs.
If
they had seen. Which they never would.

“Never,” he whispered, erasing all emotion from his face, all feeling from his dark, dark eyes.

And, looking as cool and soulless as a painting, he shrugged into his jacket and left.

At that same moment the phone rang in Jamie’s silent loft. It made her jump. Brush still in hand, she walked over to where the
phone lay on the floor next to the bed. “Hello?”

“Jamie? Hello, this is Kent. From next door?”

“Yes, hi. How are you?” She shifted from one foot to the other, impatient already.

“I’m great. And I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse. My friend’s got three tickets to the opening tonight at Lupercine. It’s their photography show. Great stuff! So you’re coming with us. Be ready in an hour.”

Jamie shook her head. “I can’t. Thank you but—”

“No ifs, ands, or buts. You’ll love it, and you can’t play the hermit forever. Say yes.”

“No, I really can’t. I’m in the middle of painting and I don’t want to stop. But it was very nice of you to think of me. I appreciate it.”

“Sure. You know what? I’ll just slip the extra ticket under your door. Use it if you can. Bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Jamie stared at the receiver for a moment, then set it down, frowning. She had been painting all morning and afternoon, caught in the same trancelike state as the night before, and this interruption annoyed her. The last
thing she needed was some enamored neighbor lurking at her door. As if she was anticipating his unwelcome appearance in that very spot, her gaze swept the room.

She gasped, her eyes flying wide.

Across the room, her canvas looked gorgeous, vibrant, alive with a shimmering light that seemed to come from within it, from the paint itself. She stood dumbfounded, transfixed.
That
was the light she’d imagined, the light she’d seen before only in her dreams. There … there in
her
painting!

Unaware of her own movement, she took one step closer. Maybe it was only a trick of light coming in through the windows, some crazy mix of smog and sun. Maybe she was dreaming it now. She rubbed her eyes, getting paint in her hair and on her forehead, but she didn’t feel a thing. The light remained. A beautiful light, a perfect light …

But a
landscape
.

On the canvas, unforeseen and unplanned, a scene was taking shape: a sweep of hills, trees, a building of some kind hinted at by sharp, dark strokes of umber. It seemed barely hidden beneath her usual abstract style. The brush strokes were hers, as familiar as her own signature. The colors were hers, her characteristic
overlay of thin layers of bright hues. But … a landscape?

She hadn’t painted a landscape since her first formal art class when her father had walked into the studio, glanced over her shoulder, and passed judgment: “Well, you don’t have much of an aptitude for that technique, do you?”

That had hurt. It still did. So she certainly had no intention of painting a landscape now … or ever.

But is it possible to paint something you don’t even know you’re painting? she wondered. Goose bumps rose on her arms.

She approached the easel warily. She drew a deep breath.

Biting nervously at her lower lip, she reached for the brush. But suddenly it felt cold and dead in her hand and her hand was shaking. It took all her energy just to screw the caps on the tubes of paint and to clean her brushes. And soon the loft would be dark.

Maybe she
should
go out for a little while. A bath first, a bite to eat, and then the opening. Suddenly it seemed like exactly the right thing to do. Hurrying into the bathroom, she ran the water good and hot, added some bath salts, and then sank through the cool bubbles into the heat and comfort with a sigh. Closing
her eyes, she kept her mind carefully empty. No thoughts. No fears. No dreams. Nothing.

So she was completely unaware of what was about to begin … or had already begun.

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Read on for an excerpt from Gayle Kasper’s
Tender, Loving Cure

ONE

Joel gave the exercise bike in the hospital fitness room extra leg action. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was what had his heart rate soaring, or if it was the tempting beauty doing her noon-hour workout in stretchy blue gym garb opposite him.

With blatant interest he watched her trim bottom move up and down as she worked out on the stepper, each well-formed buttock flexing in tempting sync, in perfect rhythm. Up, down. Up, down. Up—

Get a grip, Benedict, he told himself. There were any number of other women in the room, but for some reason he didn’t follow their movements as avidly. What was it about
her?

He pumped faster as she raised a hand and lifted her wild mane of curls off her neck to cool herself, then let it fall again, tumbling to her creamy shoulders in a spill of red-gold color. The action was sexy, and totally unconscious on her part, which made it all the more provocative.

Joel was certain he’d never seen her around the hospital before. Where had she come from? he wondered with definite curiosity.

He’d bet big money the sexpert teaching that seminar Lydia expected him to take didn’t look anything like this woman. He’d managed to successfully sidestep the class by assigning one of his first-year residents to sit in on the sessions that started the next day.

Priding himself on his quick thinking, he went back to enjoying the view in front of him. Poetry in motion. His gaze swept down her petite, curvy frame, then slowly back up. Wispy spiral curls framed her dewy-damp face, and a hot blush heated her cheeks. Her mouth was generous,
kissable
, her eyes big and brown and earthy.

He sucked in a breath as she moved off the stepper and bent to dig in her gym bag for a towel. Yes, one damn sexy derriere, he thought.

She straightened, and with the towel blotted the rosy skin above her breasts.
Those
were nice, too. A ripe handful.

With a groan he moved from the exercise bike to the rowing machine, where she would no longer be in his direct line of vision. A few more moments of watching her and he’d have to head for the showers—to take a cold one.

He squeezed off a half-dozen pulls, his shoulder muscles flexing and bunching, his thighs tautening and relaxing. He was just getting into the rhythm when the hospital intercom spewed out a series of pages. The first one was for him, the last one for … Margaret Springer.

By the time he got to the phone to take the page, the tempting beauty in the stretchy blue gym garb was there ahead of him, her hand on the receiver.