Holiday Loves
Page 36
The skinny shoulders from his past were now broad and strong. Lines cut across his torso, and his stomach rippled where his muscles flexed. His gaze was possessive, and my body answered with feelings I’d never had before.
When I was younger, he’d saved me from dangers I understood.
This was new and intoxicating.
It drew me to him like the ocean to the moon.
We kissed for the first time that night. We shared all my firsts that summer, and when he tried to slow us down, I learned my power over him.
Gray might have told me I was too young to decide, but I’ve been his since the day he carried me out of that brush…
* * *
The game room is cooler than the crowded upstairs. It’s dim, and the only light is from the neon-blue Pabst Blue Ribbon sign over the pool table and the lamp post outside on the pier.
He sits on a barstool, reclining with his elbows on the leather edge. A casual grin is on his lips, but his steel-blue eyes are so intense, so heated as I walk through the door. “Hey, Drew-poo. How’s high school?”
His manner, using my brother’s silly nickname, it should put me at ease, but his eyes contradict all of it.
“I hate that nickname.” I try to be sassy, but my voice comes out soft and high. “Anyway, I graduated.”
“That’s right.” He sits up and smiles, but no dimple appears. “You’re headed to State with Ruby.”
“How did you know?” I walk slowly toward him.
He shrugs. “Word gets around.”
My fingers play with the hem of my skirt. “How’s your uncle?”
“Same as always. Ornery. Complaining that he’s tired all the time. Wanting to know when I’m coming back to work.”
“But you got your degree.” I don’t want to disparage his uncle, at the same time...
“Yeah.” He looks down, inspecting his palm. “Guess I’m too smart to be a mechanic now.”
“I just meant you’re good at so many things.” Like saving me, comforting me, touching me, kissing me…
He straightens on the stool, sliding his palms down the tops of his thighs. “Got any new freckles for me?” The teasing is back, but the hurricane is still brewing in his eyes.
“I didn’t think you cared.”
“Why would you think that?”
“You didn’t come to the house.”
“Danny said to meet him here.” His eyes flicker to my fingers, toying with my skirt, up my arm to my bare shoulders. My nipples tighten, tingling for his mouth. Last summer he would kiss them, suck on them. I would come so fast. “I figured you’d be busy.”
“I’m not busy.” I take another hesitant step forward.
“As pretty as you are?” Another fake smile. “You’re not dating somebody?”
“I never wanted to date anybody.” But you…
“Well, college is different. You’ll have more options.”
Did he have options? The thought makes my head hurt.
As pathetic as I sound, I can’t help asking. “How many options did you have in college?”
Whatever the answer, I will not cry. Oh, God, don’t let me cry…
He shifts on the stool again. “I was more… focused on my classes.”
Nodding, I close the distance between us. “Danny said you graduated cum laude. So you didn’t date?”
He shrugs. “Dating costs money.”
He’s not looking at me now. Where did Mr. Cocky go?
“Were you lonely?” Did you miss me as much as I missed you?
His hands tighten on the tops of his thighs. Strong hands. Strong arms. Broad shoulders and full lips. Dark hair that touches the top of his collar. I know how soft his hair is. I know how it feels to fall asleep in his arms.
I know so much I can’t let go.
“Maybe.” His blue eyes are focused.
Gray can be so focused.
The space between my thighs is hot and slippery. I can’t wait any longer. I reach out and put my purse on the bar beside him. Then I place my hand on his.
He flinches as if shocked by the electricity humming through my skin. He turns his hand over and our fingers thread, pulling me closer, between his knees.
I step all the way into his chest, and my eyes close at the scent of warm cedar, fresh soap, leather, and Gray.
His voice is thick and rough when he speaks again. “I told you to find somebody closer to your age.”
“No, thank you.” I move my hands to his waist, slipping my fingers under his tee so I can touch his hot skin.
His breath quickens, and I’m buzzing with the heat surging between us. Lifting my chin, I place my lips against his muscled neck. The ice is melting. He’s coming home to me, and when he speaks, it’s a husky whisper.
“You need to find someone who deserves you, Drew-baby.”
My chest squeezes. That’s the nickname I love.
“I found him.”
Gray has been my hero since I was four. Now he’s going away so everyone else will see him as a hero. I just want him to stay here and be my man.
Large hands trace my waist, sliding along my hips. I lean back so our eyes can meet. “Kiss me, Gray.”
Blinking slowly, I’m drunk on his presence, on being exactly where I’ve dreamed of being all those nights. The muscle in his jaw moves, and the struggle in his eyes is clear.
But I know something else. He won’t tell me no.
Leaning into his chest, I ask one last time. “Kiss me.”
And my wish is granted…
* * *
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Mortal Veil
Vanessa Fewings
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* * *
Advertencia Antipirateria del FBI: La reproducción o distribución no autorizada de una obra protegida por derechos de autor es ilegal. La infracción criminal de los derechos de autor, incluyendo la infracción sin lucro monetario, es investigada por el FBI y es castigable con pena de hasta cinco años en prisión federal y una multa de $250,000.
Image Copyright 2013
Used under license from Shutterstock.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of
the author.
* * *
I’D SWIFTLY COME to the conclusion that the only way to cure this tedium was to hurl my body on a samurai sword.
Yes, being impaled would be less painful than this.
“What’s the issue again?” The bank teller flipped over my debit card and punched the numbers onto her keyboard and viewed the computer screen.
Peering through the bulletproof plexiglass, I kept my gaze fixed on the brown eyes of the twenty-something teller, straining to ignore her low cut (and far too shiny) gold chemise blouse.
“I was just outside,” I said, “withdrawing twenty pounds from the ATM, but my receipt has the wrong balance on my account.”
She narrowed her stare. “It says here you have five hundred thousand, three hundred and fifty pounds and twenty-four pence.�
� She didn’t even twitch. “Minus the twenty pounds you just withdrew.”
“Half a million pounds?” I said, amused.
“Just over, yes.”
I glanced at the queue of customers to my right, all waiting for their turn to speak with the male teller one row over, hoping they’d not overheard. I leaned closer to the glass. “I should only have three hundred and fifty pounds. Where did the five hundred thousand come from?”
Her frown deepened. “The money was deposited into your account yesterday.” She clicked away, deftly working the mouse. “Transferred from a Swiss bank account.”
“I don’t know anyone with a Swiss account.”
“Well, someone apparently knows you.”
I rubbed my right temple. “Look, this is obviously an error on the bank’s side. I’m not angry. I’m just doing the right thing and reporting it.” I gave a confident smile. “This is not a complaint, more of an FYI.”
“Our system doesn’t make mistakes.”
“Well, the fact that I have half a million pounds in my account . . .” My voice was raised, and I flinched realizing it. “I need to speak with a manager.”
“Of course.” She typed away and then said, “How’s Monday at ten?”
“Can’t I speak with him now?”
“Ms. Lee’s appointments are fully booked, I’m afraid.”
“Can you make a note I came in? That I alerted you to the fact that there’s money in my account that isn’t mine?”
“You can fill out a form.” She rifled through a stack of papers to her right.
My fingernails dug into my scalp. “I have a class in twenty minutes. I’m a student at UCL. If I don’t leave now—”
“Shall I make that appointment?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.” Feeling decidedly guilty for something I hadn’t done, I tried to stroll out of the bank without drawing any more attention.
I unlocked my bicycle chain and hopped on, dodging the early morning commuter traffic back toward Gower Street, reassuring myself it was a clerical error that would soon be resolved.
Once inside the lecture hall, I found it hard to concentrate on Professor Ballad’s presentation. Slide after slide flashed on the screen before the class and yet I couldn’t say what they’d been of. Ballad’s keen stare settled on me and was so unnerving that it forced me to refocus onto what he was actually saying about Samuel H. Kress’s rendition of Raphael.
The hairs prickled on the back of my neck, and I turned slightly to see a pretty brunette six rows back staring right at me. I soon realized she was probably staring at me because I’d turned to look, so I shot round to face the front, cursing my awkwardness and returning my focus back on Ballad.
A new slide appeared and an enormous self-portrait of painter Antony Van Dyck lit up the far wall.
“What is historically relevant about this artist?” Ballad asked, peering at each of us and waiting patiently for a response.
I raised my hand.
He peered over his metal-rimmed spectacles. “Please proceed, Mr. Harris.”
I shuffled in my seat. “Van Dyck’s work was quite possibly responsible for dwindling Rembrandt’s popularity.”
“Go on.” Ballad gestured.
“The mid-sixteen hundreds saw a desire for brighter palates?” My answer sounded more like a question.
“How fickle the public’s mind can be,” Ballad added. “Just as it happens today, one is fashionable one moment and out of favor the next.”
“Perhaps the brighter images reflected people’s hope for a brighter future?” I said. “So the public turned away from his work not necessarily through a shift in their taste but for a genuine desire for change.”
Ballad gave a nod toward the back of the class. With a quick glance, following where his attention had fallen, I recognized the pretty brunette. Her hand was up.
“Yes, Ms. Rivers?” asked Ballad.
She raised her chin and offered confidently, “Van Dyck was also one of the first painters to introduce watercolor.”
“And how is that relevant?” Ballad asked.
She hesitated and her cheeks blushed.
I answered for her, saying, “Because it showed Van Dyck’s ability to adapt and not be stuck with contemporary techniques.”
“Progress.” Ballad nodded in agreement. “One’s ability to adapt is what keeps us relevant.” Ballad flicked off the slide. “That’s your homework. Write an essay reflecting how you see yourself adapting for the duration of this course.”
Groans came from the other students around me as I jotted down the subject on my notepad. The familiar hustle and bustle of students flocking out of the hall for their next class ensued.
As I rose, I had the distinct feeling of being watched again and I turned quickly, only to bump right into the pretty brunette whose question I’d answered.
She was ridiculously gorgeous, with cascading dark locks over slim shoulders; she had intense green eyes.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Thanks for bailing me out just then.”
I ripped my gaze from her lips. “No problem.” I became painfully self-aware of my awkwardness, caused by her closeness. “Ballad can be really hard on students,” I added. “Didn’t want that to happen to you.”
“You’re the amnesia guy everyone’s been talking about, aren’t you?” She plopped her gigantic bag onto the desk beside her, right on top of my textbook. “I’m Feebs.”
The amnesia guy? That’s what I’d been reduced to? I was aware a select few, mainly my tutors, knew of my current condition but I was hoping she wasn’t one of them.
I eased her bag aside. “Or you could try calling me Zach. I’m much more responsive to that, Phoebe.”
“No one calls me that.”
I shoved my textbook into my satchel. “Point made, I believe.”
She repositioned her bag on her shoulder. “Where are you going now?”
“Why?” I lifted my satchel off the floor and shoved my notepad inside.
The edges of her lips curled into a smile.
“How come you know who I am?” I asked.
She lowered her chin. “Foreign students stand out. So how are you finding this lovely country of ours?”
“Just dandy.” I smiled, trying to hide the effect she was having on me.
“How long have you been in London?”
“Four years.”
“Where’s home?”
“Louisiana,” I answered.
“How are you finding our English food?”
“Nothing quite like a cucumber sandwich.”
“You guys all have perfect tans,” she said.
“Well, we have something called the sun. You guys have endless rain.”
Her expression changed.
“Though personally, I find women more attractive with porcelain complexions.”
“Good save.” She sat on the edge of my desk and her brunette locks tumbled over her shoulders. She seemed to like me studying her. “What did you think of the lecture?”
“Ballad’s passionate about sixteenth century art, so I’m transfixed by his every word.”
“You really do love art history, don’t you?”
“Well I—”
“Do you have French ancestry?”
“Don’t tell me, the hooked nose gave it away.” I threw in a smile.
“Very regal.” Feebs twisted her mouth, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Do you remember anything?”
This was the last conversation I wanted to have, and silence persisted as I searched for an answer.
“How many years can’t you remember?” she pushed.
“Three. I remember everything before that and everything after. Look, I really have to go.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but aren’t you intrigued by what you were up to during that time?”
My expression must have been incredulous.
Her attention slid to my left inner forearm. “That a raven?” She w
as pointing to my tattoo.
“Yeah.”
“What does it mean?”
I shrugged. “To be honest, I have no memory of getting it.” I stared at the inked rendition of the intricate black bird standing atop a fine circle.
“You mean you got it during the time—”
“I lost my memory, yes.”
Together we started toward the door and I kicked myself that we were discussing my awkward past; this should have been a different conversation. Running a couple of scenarios through my mind I turned to face her—
“Zach!” Professor Ballad’s harsh tone came from the doorway. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere?”
A wave of panic came over me that he might just reveal where that place was. With a quick nod, I headed toward him.
“I’ve seen that exact same raven before,” Feebs said, hesitating in the doorway, ignoring Ballad and keeping her gaze on me. “Let’s continue this later?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve got something you have to see,” she said.
“Um, okay.”
“The library? Seven?” She waved her insistence. “Don’t stand me up. I’ll track you down.”
My gaze stayed on her all the way down the corridor until she disappeared from sight, my mind racing with the thought of meeting her later.
“I sincerely doubt Ms. Rivers even knows where the library is,” said Ballad with a scathing look.
* * *
DR. ELLIOT’S OFFICE reflected a kind of organized chaos, with numerous textbooks stacked high on overfull shelves and in no particular order, tilted black frames upon the walls--within them certificates confirming his status of psychotherapist--and papers strewn across his desk, all waiting to be filed away.
Having written several books on the subject of counseling, Elliot had a reputation for having a great deal of passion for his work and I’d soon discovered that despite his disheveled appearance and his tea stained ties, he had a razor sharp eye and even sharper mind.