Dream Breakers, Oath Takers

by Jacqueline Jayne

  Yes, Cowboy could break her heart. Unless she maintained the front. Or took a chance and let go. Truth be told, she wanted at least a taste of his lips before he boarded the next plane. Maybe more than a taste.

  The corners of his mouth lifted along with this eyebrows. He awaited a reply.

  “Didn’t you claim to be humble?” Hands anchored on her hips, she challenged his rebuttal.

  He chortled. “Yes, ma’am. Humble.”

  “You’re wrong about the secret,” she lied easily. “But you’re right. I keep people at arm’s length. For personal reasons. I’m sorry I gave you a hard time. You’ve been exceptionally—”

  “Charming? And unexpectedly cultured?”

  “Yes,” she groaned out, façade in place again.

  “Well, don’t hurt yourself.” He placed Henri on the path, and the little troublemaker had the nerve to whine for Zane. “Sit,” he ordered, and the dog hovered his butt above the hard path, tail wagging furiously. “You’re wound too tight, Cutoffs. To be honest, I thought you were going to beg off by last night.”

  She lowered her eyes.

  “See. I knew it.” A gentle knuckle chucked her under the chin, and he nudged her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “But fact is, you didn’t. And why, you ask?”

  “Do you even need me for this conversation?”

  “Two people will slow me down, and you need to hear the rest of what I have to say.”

  He sidled a little closer, and her breath froze in her chest. The heat suddenly seemed oppressive, making her woozy. It took all her composure not to wrap her hands around his waist and hold on.

  “It’s because you wanted to be with me.” He grinned. “I intrigue you.”

  Heat crept into her cheeks, but she fought against it. “Again I say, humble?”

  “I’m not like anyone else you’ll meet in Paris. Or New York City. Or anywhere else, I like to think.”

  “And talk.”

  “Yes, and talk. I’ve monopolized the conversation so far, but over supper, it’s your turn. I want to know the woman inside the rockin’ body. I’m betting you have strong opinions on everything. In-depth discussion outside of work is something I rarely get.”

  Unsure if he was done, she didn’t respond immediately.

  “I’ll let you off the hook. I’m no beggar. But I think we’d have a great evening if you’d let us.” He took a quick breath and leaned close. “But if you leave now, no kiss.”

  Like a gentleman, he offered her an out, and like a devil, dangled temptation. She wanted that kiss more than food. To devour his lips with hers and linger while her hands mapped the contours of his muscled shoulders. Based on experience, she’d not have to run the conversation. No real danger of saying too much.

  “Depends.” Her gaze met his and held it. “Where are you taking me for supper?”

  Henri barked.

  “I mean us. Where are you taking us?”

  “Chez Steak.”

  “That’s not the name.”

  “But I’m pretty sure that’s what it means. When I walked by it, I got dizzy from the glorious aroma of charred meat. You in?”

  The dog barked again.

  “If you won’t go for me and you won’t go for you, have pity on the dog.”

  “Pity on the dog?”

  By now he’d looped her hand through his arm. One-handed, he rewound the nylon lead around his palm, and Henri scurried along beside him as they meandered past the Marble Gallery.

  “Let’s skip the rest of the tour. I’m about starved.” He grinned at her, pleased to have gotten his way with so little effort. She liked that smile in spite of herself. “I warn you, if you thought I could talk, you haven’t seen me eat. You’ll be free to relay your full biography while I destroy a steak.”

  She stiffened at the thought.

  “Relax, Cutoffs. I don’t want to hear how you got shitfaced as a teenager and wound up arrested for drunk and disorderly. I want to know what inspires you? How you started drawing? Where you went to school?”

  “Okay.” Delphine released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Okay. But I’m not special. I’m not Camille Claudel.” Caught up in her thoughts, she hadn’t realized they were headed toward the Rue De Varenne.

  “You are whatever is in your heart. There’s no doubt that your blood runs thick as paint.” Without warning, he stopped walking, his gaze raking to the right. “Ah! Rodin’s greatest masterpiece.”

  “That is a matter of opinion.” She grimaced at the monstrous sculpture with its figures writhing in agony. A chill shot down her spine the way it always did, even if she only caught sight of it in her peripheral vision. She extracted her arm from his.

  “What? The master worked on this for thirty-seven years. It was his greatest commission.”

  She flat out refused to look at it head on and turned with a shudder to avert her gaze away from The Gates of Hell. “And creepiest. With all the beauty Earth has to offer, why would the Directorate of Fine Arts request such an aberration? And why would Rodin accept it?”

  “I wouldn’t argue with that logic, except that Rodin is particularly skilled at depicting suffering souls. Life isn’t easy, and the shitty parts shape us as much as the good parts do. Whether we like it or not, we all experience the agony of failure, fear, and sin.”

  “Some more than others.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s true.” Again, he spoke with impressive passion. “Look, turmoil and drama will find us no matter what. No matter how good or careful we are. The measure of a person is how they weather the hard times. How we help others navigate their struggles. The struggle is the very seed of what it means to be human. I think that’s why it took Rodin so damn long to finish what should have been done in five years. For every figure he sculpted, his understanding of people deepened. So did his understanding between Heaven and Hell. Stands to reason since so many of his stand-alone works originated from this very project.”

  That last part was true. Even The Kiss, which was one of Delphine’s favorites, had originally been part of The Gates, depicting the adulterous lovers Paolo and Francesca from Dante’s Divine Comedy.

  Turmoil and drama. She had to agree, there’d be no hiding from her troubles. But when would troubles take a vacation and stop ruining her life? Her mother sat locked in a mental institution indefinitely. Nightmares far too real plagued Delphine no matter how carefully she guarded her thoughts.

  Didn’t she deserve some happiness?

  Never once had she acted on impulse for fear of inviting more trouble. Never once had she given in to spontaneity. Never once had she been happy.

  “Ready?” Zane slowly walked back toward the Rue De Varenne exit, waiting for her to catch up.

  And that was exactly what she was going to do.

  Catch up. With life. Just this once. Nightmares be damned. No planning. No hiding. Just living.

  “Yes!” she yelled more forcefully than she’d expected. But her energy was fueled by unaccustomed joy.

  He stopped, his hand extended.

  “Yes,” she repeated, a little breathless and latching onto his proffered hand.

  “Yes, what?” he said with a grin so broad his dimples sank deep as buttonholes.

  And she wouldn’t let them disappear this time.

  His thin T-shirt stretched across what seemed like a mile of chest muscle. The outline of his well-defined pecs and sharp points of his nipples showed as clearly as if he was shirtless. She couldn’t blame him for dressing light in this heat. And she couldn’t blame herself for the longing the cowboy inspired.

  Don’t think. Act.

  She flattened a palm over his heart and leaned into him. Sticky with perspiration and solid as marble beneath her hand, his All-American masculinity inspired her newfound courage. The spicy sweetness of failing deodorant and manly sweat rolled off him in waves, jumbling together in a concoction that made her think of discarded sheets and cozy nights. She rose up on tiptoe, and Z
ane spread his strong, Henri-free hand over the small of her back, clutching her against him. An electric charge fired inside her core.

  “I’m likin’ where this is goin’, but I have to ask again. Yes, what?”

  She drank in his low voice, drawing the warm tones down deep before answering. Arched back with her face inches from his, her gaze drifted to his lips.

  “Yes, I’ll call you Cowboy. Yes, we’ll go back to the museum. As many days as you like. Yes, you can lecture until we’re both blue in the face.”

  One corner of his mouth turned up and then faded. He tilted his head to the side, and his mouth drifted closer to hers. “Anything else?” His breath fluttered over his lips.

  Like a favorite song, when he spoke, she stirred from a place that couldn’t be touched by a hand. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  “Yes, I’ll have dinners with you.”

  His defined lips scarcely grazed hers. Like a gentleman, he waited for her to finish.

  The anticipation of his kiss unbearable, she concluded all at once. “Yes. Everything.”

  Tenderly Zane melded his mouth to hers. His lips caressed and teased to the music of Henri barking and horns blasting along the Rue De Varenne.

  She didn’t care if all of Paris watched them. Bliss swirled in her head until she turned dizzy.

  No longer the polite cowboy, Zane deepened their kiss, his tongue demanding her lips part while he tightened his hold on her back.

  In response, she met him with equal fervor, their tongues swirling, eager to explore. The abandon of sexual desire raced through her as free as an exposed current. Until Zane, she hadn’t realized how much desire, how much life, she’d been denying herself.

  That single thought sobered her. Pulled her out of the best kiss of her life.

  She’d be denied again once he returned to Philadelphia. Her heart already ached. She pushed against his chest, extracting her lips from his and then leaned back.

  Brows drawn, Zane looked at her quizzically and shook his head. “What’s wrong? Too fast?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe.” Her breaths shallow and quick, she met his eyes. “I said yes to everything, but I didn’t mean that. I have one condition.”

  “Don’t call you Cutoffs?” He offered her a wan smile, but there was tension in his jaw.

  She shook her head. “You can call me Cutoffs. But please, don’t tell me when you’ll be leaving.”

  Chapter Ten

  “How was your date, dear?” Mamie turned off the television and sat up straighter on the sofa of pure white velvet. “Like I have to ask. Your face is glowing.” She patted the cushion next to her, and Henri leaped onto the couch.

  It wasn’t like Delphine ever thought the invitation was meant for her. The dog completed three circles, making cute piggy grunts, and then settled against Mamie’s leg.

  “My date was fine,” she said as nonchalantly as possible and then flopped down in the chair upholstered in a cubic pattern of bright blue and orange angled on the other side of her grandmother. She sighed, exhaling an invisible cloud of sheer delight. Her mind wallowed dreamily in the still warm memories of conversation over a late supper and their final kisses good night. No invitation to his hotel room, but they’d steamed up the lobby downstairs. And the elevator. And outside the door, before he reluctantly left.

  Mamie gave her granddaughter the do-tell eye. “That sigh says it was more than fine, yet here you are at home. And it’s not yet dawn.”

  “It’s nearly midnight, and Zane is here on business.”

  The dog yipped.

  She pointed a finger at Henri. “From now on, you stay home.”

  Her grandmother issued a warm chuckle and scratched Henri behind the ears. He nudged into her thigh. “A second date? So, he either didn’t finish the deed or wants more.”

  “Mamie,” she futilely admonished her grandmother. “As you so aptly pointed out, he has good manners and—”

  “Is rugged like a mountain. Even nice young men like to sweep a woman off her feet and then perform unspeakably pleasurable acts of—”

  “Mamie.” The heat of a blush warmed her face, though she didn’t know why. By now she should be used to her grandmother’s open views on everyone’s sexuality. “I like that he didn’t rush me. In fact, it turns out he’s less cowboy and more professor. He’s very educated and talks almost constantly.”

  “Talks?” Her grandmother huffed.

  “Yes. Conversation,” she said, enjoying the memory of his burning a trail down her throat while he compared her neck to the figure of Adele in Eternal Springtime.

  “With a man?”

  “Yes. I happen to think talking is sexy. And he’s inspiring—artistically, that is. Not just because he’s handsome, but because he’s fully formed as a person.” She could almost feel her fingers sketching before even picking up pad and pencil. Gloriously relaxed, she felt more like her old self than she had in a couple of years. “What do you think, pencil or maybe charcoal?”

  “Talking? Drawing?” Mamie pressed an open palm below her clavicle. “I adore art, but if I’d spent the night staring at nude statues with a handsome cowboy, my hands would be itching to do something else. While wearing his hat.”

  Delphine pointed an accusing finger at Mamie, feeling every bit the parent to the aging teenager. “You are incorrigible.”

  “And you must seize opportunities, Delphine. Life is too short. Trust me, I know.” Her grandmother smiled sweetly and stood. Henri jumped down, ready to follow her to bed. “At least Mr. Gideon will keep your mind occupied in one way or another. But don’t stay up all night working. Get some sleep. Dream about a cowboy.”

  And that was exactly her plan. To work until she was used up and then take Mamie’s sedative and pass out. She was going to outsmart those nightmares once and for all.

  Or at least tonight.

  »»•««

  Sleep ended less abruptly as if the nightmare decided to let her go instead of Delphine struggling to run away. Fear branched off of her spine, wrapping her body, squeezing hard enough that her back and neck ached.

  “Ugh.” Both legs cramped from odd twisting. So did her arms. Eyes too heavy to open, she wiggled her toes and fingers first. Her fingers felt damp and sticky. She gasped, terrified she’d wet the bed. She’d never done such a thing in all her life. Not even as a child.

  She forced one eye open. A wave of vertigo and nausea overwhelmed her, strong like standing on the deck of a boat in a rough sea. The kitchen cabinets tilted, and the tiled floor seemed to yaw forward. A blurry glimpse of her feet and calves covered in grayish mud swung into view. Then her head lolled against a hard wooden surface, and the overhead light scorched her eyes.

  Involuntarily, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she gratefully squeezed them shut.

  The kitchen? What the hell was she doing in the kitchen?

  The answer? She wasn’t at all. “Not real. Not real,” she chanted. “Not. Real.”

  “I’m afraid it is very real, Delphine.”

  Her grandmother’s calming voice came from her right. She turned her head and slit an eye wide enough to be attacked by bright sunshine. It hurt like a needle was being jammed into her tear duct. Through it all, she could see Mamie sipping a cup of tea.

  “What happened?” Her throat was dry, and the words croaked out.

  “What’s happened is that I’ve finally come to my senses. I have to tell the truth. About you. About your mother.”

  Head still foggy, Delphine tried to shake herself awake. “Truth? What truth?” She rotated her shoulders, setting off aches in every part of her body. Shielding her eyes with a heavy arm, she turned her head away from the window and opened them.

  She truly was sitting smack in the center of the kitchen floor, soaked and smeared with more of the gray mud. Queasy from the sensation of head-to-toe sticky, she rubbed her fingers together and then recognized the smooth consistency.

  Clay.

  By the looks
of the mound between her knees, she’d used every single block she’d bought last week. Several bowls that must have contained the water sat at her left. Empty.

  Nightie hiked up to her thighs, she straddled the makings of a bust—the face turned away from her. But it didn’t take a genius to realize by the shape of the back, she wasn’t going to be pleased with her work. Work she obviously spent all her sleeping hours creating.

  Delphine gripped the base, heart in her throat. She slowly worked the mountain of clay until she could view the profile.

  One glance had her screaming and on her feet.

  Twisted as if trying to break its own neck, the face contorted in agony. Mouth agape with the full lips downturned and the tongue curled under, she could almost feel the bursts of breath on her face, almost hear the screech fill the room. A scream—like the fresh one building in Delphine. She’d sculpted the eyes closed tight below a creased forehead. Pixie cut hair stuck up in a jangle of spikes. Small nose. Sharp cheekbones. Soft jawline. A woman.

  Yet not.

  At each temple, a horn protruded, delicate and narrow and long enough to curl in three-quarters of a circle in on itself.

  Bare feet slipping on the wet floor, she struggled toward the doorway, ready to run right into the shower, the need to be clean overpowering.

  Mamie blocked her exit. A hunched dynamo leaning on her cane, her eyes uncharacteristically hard.

  “Please, I can’t be in the same room as that.”

  Mamie gripped her hand hard, her gaze searing. “You can and must.” Her grip tightened, frightening Delphine like her mother sometimes had when she was a child. “This is all my fault. By keeping the secret. By denying the past, I thought I could kill it. Protect you. Heal your mother. But no one can avoid destiny.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said in a wavering voice. She pulled her hand free, but with lightning reflexes, her grandmother fastened her other hand around Delphine’s wrist. “Let me go!” Deep-rooted fear coursed quick and hot through her veins. She didn’t want to hurt her grandmother, but her need to escape escalated.