PaintedPassion

by Tamara Hunter

  “You didn’t.” He averted his attention, certain if he kept staring at her, he’d self-combust. “Lie down until the food’s ready.”

  She closed the door. “I’m not tired.”

  He quirked a brow as he washed his hands in the sink.

  She sighed. “All right, I’ll admit it’s been stressful coming back here.”

  “I’ll call you when everything’s ready.”

  She stared at him for a few seconds before nodding. “Don’t let bossing me around become a habit.” She smiled, a faint sparkle appearing in her eyes. “You’re a good person, Carlos.”

  Happiness erupted in him, causing a grin to find a home on his face. After she left the room, he prepared the steaks and potatoes for the indoor grill then washed lettuce and vegetables for the salad.

  While the steaks sizzled, he searched on the computer for more information on the IWP, but everything he discovered praised its success. Whatever had been glaringly obvious to Louis eluded Carlos.

  The phone rang, and he kept working. On the second ring, he surmised Trella must have answered, since the ringing abruptly stopped.

  When the food was ready, Carlos switched off the stove. He still had his touch, although these days, he did more eating at casino buffets.

  “Trella!”

  She didn’t respond. His heart paused for a second before pounding in triple-time. He dashed from the room. Muttering curses, he checked rooms downstairs. No sign of her. He sprinted up the stairs two at time.

  Hearing the sensuous cadence of instrumental jazz and a soft, melodious voice humming, he paused on the landing. He followed the sound into the spacious master bedroom.

  He averted his gaze from the king-size bed, but he couldn’t stop staring at an open dresser drawer filled with lace bras, panties and black silk. A sheer triangle of pink caught his eye. His mouth dried faster than a raindrop in a sandstorm. Images of her dressed in the colorful pieces of material assailed his mind, causing his thickening flesh to throb against the zipper of his jeans.

  Beyond the bedroom, open bi-fold doors revealed a sitting room Trella had converted into a studio. She sat in front of an easel, her back facing him.

  Glass doors led from the sitting room onto the terrace. The partially open doors allowed the spring breeze to ripple through her hair. He moved closer until he peered over her shoulder, admiring her work as her hands moved confidently across the canvas. He recognized the Phoenix metro area, also known as the Valley of the Sun, below.

  “Beautiful.” He froze as the word left his lips. He hoped she’d assume his comment was directed at her work rather than at her.

  She turned, smiling at him. “I never get enough of the view.”

  “You were supposed to be resting,” he admonished.

  She returned her attention to the canvas. “Painting relaxes me.”

  “Not the same thing.”

  “Yes, it is. Besides, my gallery showing is a month away.” She brought the brush down the canvas, leaving a trail of blue in its wake.

  “Do you always work up here?”

  She giggled. The sound warmed him, and he knew he wanted to hear it again. “No. This property had two guest casitas when we bought it. Miguel is staying in one, and the other is my main studio.”

  He watched the scene below take shape as she worked her magic with the paint. “Who was on the phone?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. The person hung up.”

  Strange…first a wrong number, now a hang-up call. Concern ricocheted through him. “Have you received a lot of these calls?”

  She rose from the stool. As she stretched, the orange and white striped tank tightened across her abundant breasts with the movement. Her nipples pushed against the fabric, taunting him.

  His mind yelled at him to leave, but his feet, weighted with indecision, refused the command. She lowered her arms, and he tracked the movement before returning his attention above her neck.

  She sighed. “Someone’s probably trying to reach the person who had the number before me.”

  Perhaps, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He picked up the receiver from the phone on her nightstand and activated call return.

  “Well?” she asked as he returned the receiver to its base.

  He shook his head. “Private number.” He made a mental note to initiate a trace on her phone line. “Food’s ready. Come down when you’re ready.”

  The spell broken, Carlos returned to the kitchen as if El Diablo himself chased him. He still had the numbers of a few females he used to hook up with. He’d call one and see if she were up for a quickie. He needed to release the tension being around Trella induced within him.

  She strolled in a few minutes later. He fixed their plates before sitting on an adjacent stool. She poured lemonade into two glasses. Determined to keep the conversation light, he asked about her parents and laughed with her as she regaled him with stories of her time abroad in Paris.

  The satisfying sound of her throaty laughter sent a trickle of pleasure down his spine, gripping him in its hold and leaving him wanting more. Another hour of conversation with her and he’d need a cigarette—and he didn’t smoke.

  “Since you cooked, I’ll clean,” she announced.

  “And since it was your food, I’ll help.” He stacked the dirty dishes in the sink then opened the dishwasher.

  “Not there.” She stopped him. “I prefer washing by hand.”

  He’d never met a woman who hadn’t praised the appliance. He eased the door shut, eager to hear her reasoning. “Why?”

  “Washing dishes gives me time to think about my day, what I’ve accomplished.” She pulled her bottom lip between even white teeth. “Sound crazy?”

  A little. “No. You wash, I’ll rinse.”

  Not wanting to interrupt her mental musings, he stayed silent, concentrating on the task at hand. His day hadn’t consisted of much else except driving, so acknowledging the day’s accomplishments didn’t take a lot of time on his part.

  She handed him the last dish, her fingers brushing his. He tensed as a spark soared through him.

  Shit. His skin warmed, and he tightened his grip on the plate to keep from dropping it. He swallowed hard, unable to stop wondering how her hands would feel on his chest, on his back and in his hair.

  While she wiped the countertop, he picked up his glass, draining the lemonade in one gulp. Yep, he needed to leave before he lost what little remained of his common sense.

  “Stay the night,” she whispered.

  Commit me now. I’m hearing things. “What?”

  “After Louis…I never spent a night in this house alone.” After a second, she waved the words away. “Never mind. Forget I asked. It’s not as if you probably don’t have other people to visit.”

  “I don’t.” The words rushed out before he could stop them.

  “Are you sure?”

  What happened to hooking up with an old friend? “No bother.”

  Her features relaxed into a smile. “The memories—”

  “I understand.”

  Her small hands gripped the sides of his shirt. “Thanks.”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders as he held himself stiff to keep from drawing her closer.

  “Park your Jeep in the garage. I don’t need to be the subject of my neighbors’ morning gossip sessions.”

  She shifted, sending her sweet scent flowing into his nostrils. His body relaxed in response. Carlos lowered his hands to her waist, wrestling with the overload of sensations. He knew he should stop touching her, but his body wasn’t obeying his mind.

  “I’ll open the garage for you.”

  Hands off now. He stepped back, releasing her from his hold.

  She walked away. He forced himself to remain where he was, determined not to turn around and stare at her delectable rear view.

  “Carlos?”

  He looked over his shoulder.

  “Are you coming?”

  Jaw tightening, he nodde
d. He could make it through the night in the same house with her without giving in to his lustful thoughts. Couldn’t he?

  Chapter Two

  Hector swiveled in his chair to face the painting gracing the wall behind his desk. The artist had bestowed the name Sweet Honey on the rendering of a young woman dressed in lingerie, the pale yellow of the lacy bra and slip highlighting the woman’s honey-toned skin. Half the time he swore the painting depicted a woman dressing for a date. The rest of the time he deduced she was undressing.

  He closed his eyes, pretending the woman in the painting was his fantasy woman. She’d undress for him, tease him with her hands as she prepared to take him into her body. Her skin would be soft and fragrant when he touched her.

  The hot suction of the mouth on his cock fueled his imagination, and instead of the straight hair of the young female whose face was between his thighs, it was hers, her thick waves flowing below her shoulders.

  His cock swelled. He tangled his hands in her hair, tugging her closer until she swallowed all of him. As his seed spewed from him, he was seeing her on her knees, accepting his gift.

  * * * * *

  Was she out of her mind? Arms full of white linens, Trella shut the closet door with her foot. She entered the guest room, piling the linens on the nearby nightstand. The man was dangerous to her peace of mind, and she invited him to spend the night.

  She slid the fitted sheet over the pillow-top mattress. She stared at the center of the bed, seeing instead the man with dark-chocolate eyes who towered over her.

  When she’d opened the front door and saw him standing there, she couldn’t stop herself from seeking warmth inside his arms. Her fingers itched to roam through the thick, rebellious waves of midnight-black hair. For one crazy, irrational moment, she wanted him to kiss her, to feel his lips on hers—a connection to another person she hadn’t experienced since Louis.

  She smoothed the cool Egyptian cotton. Her dear, sweet husband. Theirs had been a marriage filled with laughter and friendship. Louis had been a tender lover, but they never had passion between them. Which was fine with her. She had no desire to love someone so completely she risked neglecting her own life.

  But even while she sensed the impetuosity of passion lurking beneath Carlos’ quiet surface, she’d been unable to resist its call. The brush of their fingers in the kitchen had turned her insides to liquid heat, leading her to do something stupid—like asking him to stay.

  She slid two plump down pillows into pillowcases. Thankfully, she wasn’t Carlos’ type. Every woman she’d ever seen him with was tall and slim.

  Carlos walked into the room, jeans hinting at the muscles of his powerful thighs. “You didn’t have to dress the bed for me.”

  Dragging her attention from his body, she noticed the black overnight bag he carried in one hand. “You’re providing peace of mind.” She shrugged. “We’re even. Towels are in the bathroom.”

  He set the bag on the floor, the form-fitting white t-shirt straining against his biceps with the movement. “What type of alarm system do you have?”

  She frowned as her mind made the leap from his biceps to formulating a response to his question. “Um, a standard one.”

  “Does it cover windows, too?”

  “Only doors, I think. This was Louis’ domain. He just gave me the code, and I was happy.”

  Carlos nodded. “You need to take a more active approach to your safety, Trella.”

  She sighed, sinking onto a black leather bench at the foot of the bed. “Sometimes, it’s hard to think about things Louis handled.”

  He put a large hand on her shoulder. “I’ll help you.”

  She glanced down, noticing his clean nails. A tingle went through her, and she wondered why he’d never married. He certainly had plenty of females to choose from.

  Catty much? She squared her shoulders, and his hand fell away. She rose to her feet.

  “The remote for the TV is in the top drawer of the nightstand.”

  “Thanks, Trella.”

  She left the room, praying her lapse of common sense was temporary.

  * * * * *

  Groaning, Carlos tossed under the sheet, unable to relax enough to sleep. He’d tried counting sheep, but they morphed into tantalizing images of Trella in white jeans. Despite how badly he wanted her in his arms, yielding to temptation included a one-way ticket to hell.

  Thrusting the cover off, he climbed from bed and strode to the window. He stood there, watching the lights of the Valley in the distance. Sleep in the same house as Trella? Impossible.

  He left the room, wandering down the darkened hallway toward the kitchen. Spending the night equaled utter stupidity. One whiff of the woman and his common sense evaporated like steam.

  He needed something to occupy his mind, such as figuring out why Louis worried about her safety.

  He entered the kitchen as a beam of headlights cut across the wall. He stooped, senses keen and ready. Crouched low, he eased his way to the window. Avoiding the swath of light, he straightened until he saw the dark outline of a vehicle revealed by landscape lighting.

  After a moment, the car continued around the circular drive and back onto the street. He made a mental note to have cameras installed. The house needed an extra layer of security beyond a standard house alarm system.

  Concern drove him to check every door and window downstairs. He paused in the doorway of the laundry room. Trella’s orange tank lay atop the washing machine. He stared at the fabric, remembering how her nipples had strained against it. He didn’t recall walking farther into the room, but seconds later, he stood in front of the machine.

  He picked up the cotton, soft to the touch. He raised it to his nose, engraving the soft light floral scent into his brain. Before the idea of taking it overwhelmed him, he replaced it then retraced his steps to the bedroom.

  Carlos climbed under the sheet and lay on his back, praying for sleep. Thirty minutes later, he remained wide awake.

  He stalked from the bed, returned to the laundry room and snatched up the tank top.

  Yes, Sister Mary Frances, I’m in hell.

  * * * * *

  Early the next morning after completing her morning workout, Trella knocked on the guest bedroom door. Not receiving a response, she eased the door open.

  The bed was empty, the covers askew. She’d taken two steps when Carlos, singing an off-key rendition of Santana’s Black Magic Woman, opened the bathroom door.

  She gasped as her gaze roamed the expanse of golden tan skin, his wide chest. Muscular abs tapered to toned thighs and legs. Reversing direction, she stopped at his midsection as his manhood thickened, hard and fast, as if glorying in her perusal.

  He was a living piece of art. Her nipples tightened, and tingling expanded through her from low in her belly. She stepped closer, driven by the urge to feel the planes and valleys of his torso beneath her hands.

  “Go back to your room.” Carlos finally spoke, his delicious baritone rolling over her heated skin like a refreshing summer rainstorm with a hint of thunder.

  Shaken from her daze, she struggled to recall her purpose. “Um…coffee.”

  He snatched the sheet from the bed. He wrapped it around his middle, his erection tenting the material beneath his waist.

  His hand touched her arm, scorching her skin. Someone moaned. Did she make the wanton sound? Despite the fact her mind shouted how wrong this was, her nipples tightened in anticipation.

  “I’m having cameras installed today.”

  She blinked, struggling against the sensations buffeting her body. “What?”

  His hand fell away. “A security camera system. You need an upgrade.”

  Pull yourself together. He was Louis’ friend who cared about her safety, and she was two minutes away from begging him to do her. “Very…uh, good. Thank you.”

  “You mentioned coffee?”

  “Coffee? Yes. In the kitchen.” Somehow, she managed to wade through the thick haze of lust and regain her
composure. “I’ll let you dress.” She left, closing the door behind her with a definitive click.

  Trella slumped against the wall. The man deserved to be in a magazine or a calendar. She’d love to paint him. Defined yet not overly muscular, his body promised sheer strength.

  She peeled herself from the wall and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. In the kitchen, she poured a cup of coffee, grabbed a bagel and her sketchpad then darted to the patio. Why are you running away? At this point, she required sanity, and that meant distancing herself from Carlos.

  Trella sat on one of the half-moon benches that curved along the concrete walk. A gecko scurried past her feet, probably intent on discovering a place to hide.

  She sipped her coffee. She had to put this thing with Carlos into perspective. If she didn’t pull herself together, she’d embarrass them both. He was an exemplary friend. Always had been. Her reaction to him was nothing more than a case of ridiculously inappropriate lust.

  Sure, she could rationalize her behavior, but how to explain his? She tapped a pencil against her bottom lip. As much as she wanted to flatter herself into believing his reaction to her was something more, his physical response to her in the bedroom a few minutes ago was probably the effect of having a woman stare at him.

  She needed to clear her thoughts of him if she wanted to accomplish any work today. Opening her pad, she allowed the memory of a naked Carlos to fill her mind. One look at him and her nipples responded as if he’d palmed them with his large hands. She smiled as the charcoal pencil brought him to life on paper.

  Thank goodness he was leaving today.

  * * * * *

  Carlos stared out the kitchen window as Trella worked, seemingly oblivious to the stirrings of the morning around her. Dressed in clingy black pants and a white t-shirt, she sketched furiously, as if getting rid of extra energy. He knew the feeling. A breeze ruffled her hair around her shoulders. She didn’t appear fazed by the heat, while unfulfilled desire burned him up inside.

  When she’d surprised him in the bedroom, his brain had shut down, and not from the rush of blood flowing below his waist either. He’d been afraid she would notice her top lying amid the pillows.