Waiting for Magic (23 page)

Sex, probably. He was a guy. She’d never even had sex with anyone and she was nearly twenty-three years old. Not much chance, what with Papa Dearest keeping everyone locked up at the Breakers. Could she be a real artist if she hadn’t had sex?

She picked up the towel and wrapped it around herself.

Maybe that was the problem. She sloshed one more jigger of tequila and downed it. They were really going down easier now. Maybe she was so hung up on Devin because she’d never had sex. And it might be the reason she couldn’t connect to her painting too. That was a revelation. It was all mixed up together. She should have seen that before.

But what to do about it?

Kee started to breathe harder. She was frozen in the center of her room, bottle of tequila in one hand and shot glass in the other. She realized what she was going to do, as though she stood outside her body watching the decision happen. She was going to take this new bad-girl Kee out for a spin. She couldn’t be a real artist unless she experienced everything, unless she knew herself through and through. And how would she know herself? By having the courage to embrace her darkest parts.

She was going to embrace the dark and ugly emotion inside her. Part of her was screaming “No!” But that was the part that had kept her being a good girl who
m nobody ever obsessed over, the middle, virgin, vanilla child who was a competent copyist.

She was done with that.

She opened the door, and stalked, barefoot and wrapped in a towel, holding the tequila and the shot glass, down the hall, her footsteps muffled by the Chinese runner.

She’d never be able to say she didn’t know what she was doing. She knew exactly. It was wrong on so many levels, she couldn’t enumerate them. But she did anyway. He was her brother. He didn’t feel the same way about her. He was dating someone else. So she wasn’t going for the lifetime commitment. She’d be moving on to her one true love and her magic, after all. The poor Surfer Girl wasn’t even around to fight for what she no doubt considered hers. And the worst was that part of Kee wanted to show Devin what he was missing. Jealousy, anger, and the new-found power of knowing who she was created a whirlwind of emotion inside her. She might not have him forever, but she was sure as hell going to try to have him tonight.

She stepped carefully down the stairs. She was a little lightheaded. He’d probably reject her. How icky was it that his sister was coming on to him? But she didn’t care. If he rejected her, she’d at least know she’d tried to grab life like the artist she wanted to be. No, the artist she
was
. And if she did it, and it created a bite out of her heart she couldn’t heal, so be it. Healing was not in her future anyway if she never found her destiny and her magic. She imagined herself a sought-after
artiste
, living alone, having liaisons as she pleased but never giving her heart because of the great sorrow in her past. And her paintings would be in demand by the finest collectors and museums because they reflected the suffering, the wisdom that the sorrow in her tragic past had given her.

At the very least she wouldn’t be a virgin anymore. And who better to take care of her the first time than someone she trusted more than anyone else in the world?

Here came the proof of premeditation. She passed Devin’s room and went to Kemble’s. He had better not be up. She could hear a gentle snore inside. She opened the door quietly and slipped into the room. His draperies were open to the rain slashing against the windowpanes. He was a huge lump under the blankets in his bed. She moved to the open bathroom door. Kemble left a nightlight on, thank goodness, so he could find his way to the bathroom she supposed. Or maybe he was afraid of the dark. That almost made her giggle. He also kept the only supply of what she wanted in the house right now. She knew that because she’d come in to borrow some ibuprofen once, which had entailed a search. What she wanted was in the right-hand bottom drawer. She set her bottle down next to the sink and slid the drawer open silently. She fumbled around a little until she found the box, then held it to the dim light. Yup. Good old Trojans. She gathered up her bottle and her pirated booty and made a tiptoe exit, closing the door softly behind her.

Now she was ready.

She stopped outside Devin’s door. She could feel him in there. The torment of her need soaked her thighs. The person who had been Keelan Tremaine a week ago would never have done what she was about to do. But that person was dead.

She put the Trojan box under her arm, poured another shot of tequila, downed it, and opened the door.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Devin put the glass down on his bedside table next to the empty decanter. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the light. Darkness was just fine with him. It matched the blackness in his soul. He was three sheets to the wind but he still wasn’t drunk enough. Kee had come out of her garret. That was good. Maybe.
He could now feel where Kee was as precisely as Michael probably felt Drew. She sat in the living room for a while, he thought. That was too close. His genitals ached and throbbed like he hadn’t had a single drink. Guess his effort to numb his attraction to her wasn’t working. His thoughts were muddy enough. Was that because he couldn’t decide what to do, or because he was drunk? He wasn’t sure. Kee went back upstairs, thank God. But it didn’t help. All he knew was that his jeans were killing him. He’d taken two cold showers tonight, and they hadn’t helped.

He got up off the bed and unzipped his jeans. He wasn’t wearing underwear, so his erection sprang free. He slid them off and tossed them in a corner. Then he collapsed back onto the bed, his cock stiff against his belly. There might be no choice but to leave the Breakers if he went around with a raging erection all the time. He’d tried taking care of himself several times in the last couple of days, just to make his cock stand down. But it hadn’t seemed to help at all. Weren’t
guys supposed to see a doctor if these things went on too long? Maybe he had some kind of a disease.

Yeah. The disease was named Keelan Tremaine and it might be fatal.

If only he could sleep. But drunk or not, he was wide awake. What did it mean that Kee had emerged? Maybe she just couldn’t stay away from Museum Guy any longer and was going to sneak out, or maybe let her lover in. That thought tortured him. He hated that guy. Who had a name like Christian and didn’t call himself Chris? The lavender shirt? And that little silver bracelet with the Celtic design. It was like he was pretending to be English aristocracy or something. He didn’t deserve Kee.

But he did. The Tremaines were aristocracy around here, and Christian was from some big east-coast family. Museum Guy deserved Kee more than an orphan from New Zealand who belonged nowhere. He hadn’t even retained his accent, unless you listened hard.

Devin sat up with a jerk. Kee was coming downstairs again. He felt her crossing the living room and heading into the Bay of Pigs. She was moving fast.

No. Please don’t,
he wanted to beg. His erection couldn’t swell any more, but it did. He felt her move past his door. What the hell was she doing in Kemble’s room, rooting around to wake the dead? Sweet Jesus, she was so close. He grabbed for the bedspread just as she opened his door.

She stood there, a blacker silhouette against the faint light from the hall. She had a towel wrapped around her body and one wound around her head. She smelled like the vanilla-mint stuff she used to wash her hair. That and tequila. Yep, she had a bottle in her hand. His senses had apparently kicked up a notch when it came to Kee. She stood there for a minute, as he clutched the bedspread to his waist in a giant fisted knot. It wouldn’t pull up any more or he would have pulled it up to his neck. Could she see him in the darkness?

She shut the door and stalked over to stand above him. He could smell the fact that she was wet between her legs. Her woman’s musk seemed to permeate the room.

She took in a huge breath. “Scotch?”

“Yeah. Tequila?” Just so she’d know he wasn’t letting her skate. She was as weak as he was. The difference being that she was having wet thoughts and drinking over Museum Guy and he was having wet thoughts and drinking over her. If she wanted to talk about Museum Guy and her newfound love, he wasn’t sure he could do it.

But that was just the bitch of the whole situation. If Kee needed to talk, even if it was about Museum Guy, he’d let her talk. He always had. He was like the rock against which her wave could crash. He couldn’t change that. He would always be there for her, no matter how painful it was.

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Let me get my jeans on.”

“You don’t need your jeans,” she whispered.

He blinked, trying to figure out what she wanted as she put down the tequila, a shot glass, and a box on the nightstand. She sat on the edge of his bed. It only sagged a little. Kee was slight, though she’d always had good-sized breasts. A fact of which he’d been very aware of late. And aware of her slender, artist’s fingers, and her thighs, so white in her summer swimsuit.
Don’t go there,
he warned himself. But it was too late.

She ran her palms over his chest.

His heart stuttered and then galloped on. He’d never been so surprised in his life. Not even when Brina said she was taking him home. Was Kee…? Did she want to…? His nipples puckered in sensual awareness. His cock bobbed under the bedspread as it filled even further. He’d never been this hard, or this attuned to another human being.

“Kee,” he said, not sure whether it was a protest or a plea.

“Shhhhhh,” she said, putting her finger to his lips. She traced them gently with one finger. It made him shiver. “You’re good at silence. That’s a gift.” She popped a finger into his mouth. He couldn’t help himself. He sucked on it, and the sensation shot straight to his groin. He’d never experienced anything that arousing.

“Mmmmmm,” she murmured, shuddering a little herself. She leaned over and replaced her finger with her lips. They were so soft. His body was suffused with sensation, like in the cab the other night, but worse. Or better. How many times in the last six months had he had dreams at night of Kee’s lips on his? How often
had he been ashamed at waking to a sticky release on his sheets? Maybe this was a dream. Maybe he was so drunk he’d passed out. Her tongue smoothed its way around the inside of his lips and he knew he was lost. He didn’t know what was right or wrong anymore and he didn’t care. His thoughts were a muddy maelstrom, worse than the L.A. River had been. Dream or real, he couldn’t push her away. He wanted to open himself to her in every way possible. He’d think about what to do after that tomorrow.

His hands seemed to belong to someone else as they abandoned their defensive maneuver and stole around her back as he deepened the kiss. She responded instantly, pressing her breasts against his chest. The rough terrycloth dragged across his skin, which was so sensitive it was almost painful. He couldn’t help his groan. She tore herself away from his kiss, gasping for air like a drowning person and sat up.

“Let me see you.” Her whisper was hypnotic in the dark room.

He made himself let go of the knotted spread and gripped the blankets at his side instead. She was an artist. She wanted to see him. That was the way she experienced the world. And he wanted to give her whatever she needed. She pulled the spread down. He could only dimly see her smile.

“Beautiful, just as I thought.”

She was the one who was beautiful. He wanted to see her too, but he didn’t dare ask. She wanted silence from him and he’d never just grab the edge of the towel where it was tucked in under her arm. If he did the wrong thing she might disappear in a wisp of smoke, or he’d wake before he saw the end of this dream he’d dreamed for so long.

But she herself unwrapped her body.

Her breasts were a revelation. Not that he was surprised that they were so beautiful, the skin glowing pale in the darkness, the dark smudges of her aureoles surrounding nipples that were small and perfect in silhouette. But seeing them, after imagining how they’d look for so long, seemed to change the way he would see the world around him forever. He made himself fist the blankets more tightly so his hands wouldn’t be tempted to wander over those breasts. That would frighten her for sure.

She pulled the towel out from under her beautiful, tight little butt, like a teardrop on his bed, and tossed it into the corner. When she lifted her arms to undo the towel that bound up her hair, it lifted her breasts. He made a little sound. He couldn’t help it. She tossed that towel too and shook her head to let her hair cascade over her pale shoulders in damp ropes.
Why are you here?
some part of his mind asked.