by Anne Mather
‘Funny. Suddenly I’m not hungry any more. Not for food anyway…’ he drawled softly. Megan had never been seduced by a man’s voice alone, but she was now.
Dragging her gaze away from him, she nervously crossed her arms in front of her chest—blazingly self-conscious of the silk halter-neck she was wearing and the way it emphasised her cleavage. What had seemed like a good idea, or at least a daring rebellion against her usual conformity, she now saw could be badly misinterpreted as a deliberate ploy to arouse his interest. If that was what he thought, then she wished the ground would open up and swallow her.
‘You don’t think this is too much? Oh, never mind. Forget I asked.’ Angry with herself for yet again searching for approval, she walked awkwardly past him to the counter on the other side of the cooker, where she switched on the already full kettle to boil. Her movements were clumsy and ill-co-ordinated, her face flaming almost the same shade of red as her ill-chosen top as she fussed with cups and saucers from the cabinet above, instead of the usual mugs.
‘Megan?’
At the low rumble of his voice she stopped what she was doing, wincing at the suddenly loud clatter of a cup put down too hastily onto a saucer, and ventured a sidelong look from beneath her velvety black lashes. His brooding sculpted features—hard to ignore at the best of times—seemed even more sharply defined now, when he was regarding her as if he’d like to forget about breakfast altogether and concentrate on feeding appetites of a totally different kind.
‘Yes?’ Was that barely discernible rasp really hers?
‘Just so that you’re aware, I have a bit of a problem with my blood pressure…’
‘Oh? Is it serious?’ Megan frowned, natural concern rushing to the fore, then saw that he was smiling—grinning from ear to ear like a cat who’d got lucky with an extra bowl of cream.
‘Only since you walked into the room wearing that outfit.’ He blew out an exaggerated breath, then shook his dark head from side to side, his grin even wider when he saw how perturbed she looked.
That was the trouble, Megan thought with discouragement, she always rose to the bait. When God was handing out sharp wits she had obviously been at the back of the queue. As for smart rejoinders to put someone squarely back in their place—forget it.
‘Very funny,’ was all she could manage. Then, deliberately turning her back, she crossed the room with as much dignity as she could muster—which, taking her limp into consideration, was not the easiest undertaking.
As she moved away in a huff Kyle was left staring at that slim, sexy back, her tiny waist and the mouth-wateringly seductive curve of her hips in the flowing wrap-around skirt. Her hips weren’t the only asset the material emphasised, he thought wryly. If he wasn’t mistaken she had a derriere worth writing sonnets to as well…
In an instant he’d framed the picture he had in mind of her: nude, perched on a chair, her back to him as sunlight streamed in from an open window in front of her, one slender hand lifting that gorgeous mass of silky dark hair off of her nape…
He was aroused and enthralled in equal measures, and in agony because of both. There was no question in his mind that he had to paint her and, perhaps more urgently, no question that he had to seduce her—sooner rather than later. Before his seriously inflamed libido made thinking about anything else completely impossible…
Chapter Six
IN THE park where they’d gone to sketch, they sat side by side on the grass in a shady spot beneath an impressively towering oak that stood guard duty, the scent and signs of spring bursting forth all around them. From the pretty yellow and purple crocuses dotting the lush grass to the enchanting haphazard bunches of bluebells growing wild, stirred into a dance by the warm breeze, there was a new optimism in the air that Megan couldn’t fail to pick up.
Fingering the good-quality sketchpad Kyle had collected from home on their way over to the park, she picked up her pencil, rolling it around in her hand purely to enjoy the sensation. Touch had always been one of Megan’s favourite senses. The texture of a material, the feel of clay between her fingers, the poignancy of a child’s small hand clamped in yours—touch revealed so much, yet was seriously underrated in her opinion.
Her gaze drifted idly across the smooth ivory page of the sketchpad, then made a helpless little foray across to Kyle. With his long legs stretched out on the grass beside her, his eyes closed, his back against the sturdy, indomitable trunk of the tree, it was as if the two were silently communing. Two unvanquished spirits locked in mutual admiration and respect.
Megan couldn’t help but sigh out loud at her own fanciful notion.
‘What is it, Miss Brand? Are you at a loss to know what to do, or was that breathy little sound just then a ploy to get my attention?’
His eyes most definitely open now, Kyle was lazily looking her over, amusement and appreciation lurking equally behind his smile.
‘I was just thinking…’ She flushed, mortified that he might believe she was sighing simply to get his attention—even if it was just a little bit true.
‘Is it a private thought, or are you going to share it with me?’
‘I was just thinking about how wonderful trees were.’
Picking up the walking cane that lay between them on the grass, which Megan had reluctantly brought along in case she got too tired walking around, Kyle examined the little bumps and knots down the length of it, his attention caught suddenly by some runic symbols carved into the wood.
‘This is from a yew tree, if I’m not mistaken,’ he mused thoughtfully.
Megan beamed, thrilled that he recognised the fact. ‘It was made by a white witch called Dusty Miller. He carved it specially for me.’
‘Dusty Miller?’ A corner of his mouth twitched upwards.
‘He’s a white witch…from a family of white witches. Pagans, I suppose you could call them. Anyway, they do a lot of good to help the environment.’
‘So you have an interest in magic?’ Kyle ran his thumb lightly across the symbols, glancing up to smile into Megan’s sparkling brown eyes—wondering if it was really only last night that she had put the fear of God in him with her unexpected phone call.
Today she was a different girl. Out here in the open, sitting on the grass with her long black hair tumbling down her back, wearing her pretty red top and hippy skirt, her long graceful arms bare in the sunshine, he could easily imagine that she hadn’t a care in the world. Only Kyle knew different. Behind the bright, almost child-like smile lay a wealth of pain and hurt that he couldn’t begin to imagine. Only the thought of losing his sister Yvette in that terrible car crash came close…
‘It’s good magic,’ she said lightly, carefully dislodging a stray blade of grass from her sandal. ‘It’s all to do with being in tune with nature. The runic writing is for my protection, so that whenever I use the stick I’ll be safe.’
Was she frightened that she might not be safe? The thought left a hollow feeling in the pit of Kyle’s stomach. He carefully laid down the stick and dusted his hands.
‘Why don’t you try sketching some trees?’ he suggested gently. ‘How about this one for starters?’ He got to his feet, moved a few feet away, then stood looking down at her with his hands planted firmly either side of his hips.
Megan’s mouth went dry. When he’d stopped off at his house on their way over to the park he’d also changed his clothing and had a quick shave. Not surprisingly, his hazel eyes still looked a little sleepy from his disrupted night coming to her rescue, but just the same his broodingly handsome face was a picture of fierce male beauty and almost wicked sensuality. Practically every time she glanced at him it was like seeing him anew, and the surprise and sheer excitement of it made Megan feel like a schoolgirl hoping for her first kiss from a boy she had long admired.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked shyly, her hand fluttering to the vee of her halter-top where she saw his glance was lingering.
He grinned, then jerked his head towards a group of boys kickin
g a football around nearby. ‘Play a little soccer if they’ll have me on the team,’ he told her.
Privately she thought, Who wouldn’t want this man on their team? But aloud she said, ‘Fine. Go and enjoy yourself.’
‘Sweetheart, if I really wanted to enjoy myself I’d stay here and just gaze at you for the rest of the afternoon…but as that would probably put you off your stroke, so to speak, I think I’ll go for my second option. Take your time…that’s unless you had other plans for later on?’
A flash of doubt crossed his face and Megan realised he really did want to spend time with her. She was touched and exhilarated at the same time—not to mention a little unravelled by his previous comment.
‘I’ve made no plans for anything,’ she said honestly, dark eyes wide as she met his unwavering gaze.
His sensual hard mouth visibly relaxed. ‘Good. I’ll see you in a while. Draw the tree. Show me what you can do.’
Megan didn’t move her pencil for what seemed like a very long time. As she watched Kyle’s tall athletic body jogging effortlessly across the green to the boys playing football she was gripped with such a feeling of intense longing that for a while she couldn’t think of doing anything else but looking at him. The boys welcomed him gladly into their game and within seconds he was moving round the field like a born athlete, displaying a natural skill and dexterity with the ball that drew effusive shouts of encouragement from his recently acquired team members…
It seemed he did everything with consummate ease and skill. Would he make love like that, too? Megan shivered at the silent question. She had no business even going there. She had nothing to offer such a vital, dynamic man. Nothing save her love and passion for art—that was the only passion they were destined to share. Anything else was pure fantasy on her part. Because sooner or later cold, hard reality would rear its ugly head and she’d be left facing the fact that, with her injury and her questionable ability to ever bear children, she’d be a poor proposition for any man looking for a partner.
Deliberately snapping herself out of such unhappy reverie, Megan told herself she’d better start applying her pencil and sketch before Kyle came back to see that she’d accomplished nothing. She wanted him to know she was serious about working at her craft. She didn’t expect an easy ride just because he’d told her she was talented. And her old skills were bound to be rusty and a little frayed round the edges. The sooner she started to do some real work, the better.
The afternoon drifted by in a pleasant haze, the air permeated every now and then by birdsong or a buzzing insect, along with the unexpectedly comforting sound of children’s laughter. Engrossed in her drawing, Megan glanced only occasionally across the grass to where Kyle played his energetic game of football with the boys, content to see him enjoying himself, apparently in no great hurry to pack up and go. The afternoon sun played warmly on her bare back as she drew, and it was a surprise to realise she was the most at ease that she’d been in a very long time.
‘How’s it going?’
Glancing up with a start, she found Kyle staring down at her, hands on hips, a little winded from his game, a sheen of sweat beading his smooth tanned brow.
‘Fine…I hope.’ Self-consciously hiding her sketch with her arm, she held up her other hand to shield her eyes from the sun’s bright glare.
‘Let’s see.’ He dropped down beside her, speared his fingers through his waving damp hair, then lifted the sketchbook off her lap.
Satisfaction—along with a building excitement, intense and deep—pulsed through him as he contemplated Megan’s drawing of the huge oak. He had rarely seen such raw, almost effortless talent—not even in some of the brightest students he had taught in the past—and Megan had done nothing for ten years!
If he had to apply just one word to her drawing of the majestic old tree, it would have to be ‘sublime’. Not only had she captured the living physical embodiment of the tree, she’d also managed to endow it with immense grace and presence—a feat not easily accomplished. He should know. Astonishingly, she seemed to possess that extra something that gave her a distinct edge over the competition. He knew he hadn’t been wrong about her. That painting she’d done in his studio had been no fluke—not that he’d believed it had. Still, it was a stunning thought to contemplate what a burgeoning talent he had on his hands. He wondered if she had any idea of where it could potentially take her?
Handing back the sketchbook, Kyle casually drew his knees up to his chest and locked his arms around them. ‘You say you’ve done nothing in ten years?’
‘Only the odd sketch for my own amusement.’ Megan shrugged as if it was of no account.
‘And did you keep those sketches?’
‘No. I—I threw them away.’
Deliberately skirting the laser-like beam of his searching gaze, she anxiously flipped the cover of the book down over her sketch. Almost reverently she laid it to one side on the grass. Flicking her long hair over a silky smooth shoulder, she stared hard into the distance, noting the boys still playing football, a couple sitting close together on a bench—the young woman gigglingly sharing her apple with her partner as if neither of them had a care in the world.
She didn’t want to spoil the day by telling Kyle what had really happened to her precious sketches, but she could tell almost instantly by the sudden stiffening of his shoulders that he knew something was amiss.
‘You threw them away? Why?’
‘Nick didn’t want them in the house.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding? I already gathered that he was a poor excuse for a husband—I didn’t know he was an idiot as well!’
‘He was jealous.’
Her brown eyes focused on him at last, on the barely controlled anger simmering beneath the tightly drawn features of his face, on the Adam’s apple that bobbed in the strong corded column of his throat.
‘He didn’t want me to have any other interests outside the home…outside of him. I tried to hide them in my wardrobe, but he found them. Then in a temper he ripped them up and threw the pieces into the wastepaper bin. He had no remorse about it. He thought his behaviour was perfectly rational.’
Her throat almost closed over the last few words as with a toss of her head she tried in vain to shake away yet another painful reminder of the hell that had been her marriage.
‘Yeah,’ Kyle said disparagingly, ‘it would be if you only possessed one or two brain cells at most.’
‘You won’t get an argument from me.’
‘And what about when he pushed you down the stairs?’
‘What about it?’
‘I presume you called the police?’
The question made her stomach jolt sickeningly. Unable to duck the accusation in his eyes, Megan miserably shook her head.
‘I didn’t get the police involved. They’re not interested in what they call “domestics”. Besides, Nick was distraught when he realised what he’d done…genuinely distraught.’
It took just one nervous glance at Kyle to know that he didn’t believe that for a second.
‘He just reacted out of pure temper. He was absolutely terrified when he saw how hurt I was. He begged me not to tell anybody. Only Penny knew what really happened. I got Nick to phone her—he was in too much of a state even to call an ambulance for me. I think he was afraid of what might happen to him if anybody found out. It certainly wouldn’t have done his career any favours. Anyway, Penny came straight over and took care of everything.’
Megan paused to tug a blade of grass out of the earth, then stared at it blankly. How did you explain to someone who hadn’t lived through such a terrible event the devastation and hurt that crashed in on you, robbing you of everything you ever believed in? Faith, hope, love—not to mention dignity and self-esteem—all had been stolen from her with that one violent act of spite.
His body still and unmoving, Kyle’s expression was nonetheless dark with silent rage. ‘Had he hurt you before that night? Physically, I mean?’
&nb
sp; ‘Generally his cruelty was of the mental variety.’ Her mouth thinning, Megan stared off into the distance once more, but all the colour had drained from her face, leaving her looking like a lost and frightened little girl.
For a moment, Kyle didn’t know what to do. He wished with all his heart he hadn’t brought the subject up, but the idea of the man ripping up all her work as well as subjecting her to physical and mental torment was almost too much to bear. Yet he had to know the extent of the wrong that had been perpetrated on her. He had to know truly what she had been through before he could even begin to understand how he might help her…
‘So when did he leave? When you went into hospital?’ he asked quietly.
A slightly more inclement breeze drifted past just then, lifting a few strands of Megan’s glossy dark hair, teasing them across her face. As she brushed them aside, she regarded Kyle with a surprisingly steady gaze.
‘I was in hospital for a long time. When I came out he was still living at the house and Claire—my one-time friend—had already moved in with him. I was too shell-shocked to think about doing anything about it right then, so I moved in temporarily with Penny. At least, it started out that way. I never meant to stay so long. I thought I’d get my share of the house and buy a small place of my own, but things got…complicated. Nick and Claire had been having an affair for months, and as far as Nick was concerned the house was his to live in or dispose of as he saw fit. A fortnight after I’d moved in with Penny I got a letter from Nick’s solicitor informing me he wanted to sell.’
‘But surely you owned the house jointly?’ Kyle stared at her in disbelief.
Megan swallowed with difficulty. ‘It was in Nick’s name from the beginning. I never pressed him to put my name on the mortgage. I’m afraid I wasn’t very sensible about things like that. I know it probably sounds terribly naïve, but when I got married I—I really thought it would be for life.’
Seconds ticked by. Kyle neither moved nor spoke. Megan shifted uncomfortably, her insides churning at the thought that he might judge her a gullible fool. Even if he did, she thought despairingly, she could hardly be angry with him for being right. As far as her relationship with Nick Brand was concerned, she’d been a damn fool about almost everything—and there was no harsher critic than herself.