by Nora Roberts
"Let me give you a hand with those."
"Thanks." Grateful, Savannah passed the three wrapped bundles over. "I've got more in the car."
"I'll just put these down and help you bring them in."
"No. No use both of us getting wet." She took a quick scan of the freshly painted teal-colored walls, the deep mauve settee and the leather library chairs. "Coming along."
"You're telling me." Sissy set the paintings down on the coffee table. "I feel like I've been working in a box and someone just opened the lid and let in air. Let me get you an umbrella, at least."
"I wouldn't be able to hold it. Besides, I'm already wet. Be right back."
Savannah dashed out and sprinted the half block to her car. It was a hard, driving rain, but at least it was warm. No one seemed to be worried about a spring drought anymore—as Mrs. Metz had been happy to inform her when they ran into each other at the post office this morning.
The weather, however inconvenient at the moment, was causing Savannah's flowers to thrive.
By the time she got back in with the last of the paintings, she was soaked to the skin and squishing in her shoes.
"Is the boss in?" She set the paintings down, then took off the cap to run her fingers through her damp hair. "He might want to take a look before I hang these."
"He's with a client." Sissy flashed a smile. "But I'm dying to take a look.'' She snatched scissors off her desk. "Okay?"
"Sure. You've got to live with them, too."
"I can't believe how fast all this has moved." Quickly she cut the twine on the top bundle. "Once the boss makes up his mind, he moves. No fiddle, no faddle, no— I love this!" She ended on a high tone of enthusiasm as she pulled back the heavy paper.
It was a street scene, and the people in it were splashes of vivid color and movement. The buildings were jumbled, giving it a carelessly cheerful theme, and they were awash with lacy balconies, alive with trailing and spreading flowers. On closer inspection, Sissy picked out a toe-tapping fiddler, an enormous black woman in a flowing red caftan, three small boys racing after a yellow dog. She could almost hear the shouts and the music.
"It's wonderful. Tell me this one's going out here."
"That was the idea." Surprised and flattered by the reaction, Savannah dragged a hand through her hair again. "It's New Orleans. The French Quarter. I thought it would liven things up a bit in the waiting area.''
"I can't tell you how tired I was of looking at pale pink flowers in a gray vase. I kept hoping I'd come in one morning and they'd have died during the night." Sissy chuckled to herself. "Now this I could look at forever. Did you take art in college?"
The innocent question had Savannah's smile freezing. "No. No, I didn't go to college."
"I had one semester of art," Sissy went on cheerfully, holding up the painting. "And was told I had absolutely no sense of perspective. Squeaked by with a C."
When the phone rang, she huffed a bit, then tilted the painting against the table and went back to her desk to answer it.
Foolish, foolish, Savannah told herself, to feel inadequate. No, she hadn't gone to college, but she knew how to paint. Hadn't Sissy's reaction just proven it?
Odd, Savannah thought, that she should still be nervous after her work had been viewed and appreciated. For most of her life she'd had to convince herself that painting was—could be—nothing more than a hobby. A personal indulgence, those times when she'd had to choose between buying paints and having lunch.
Paints had usually won.
Those days were over. Long over. She'd been incredibly lucky with her illustrations, and enjoyed doing them, intended to continue. But the paintings were her.
Selling bayou scenes and charcoal sketches to tourists was a far cry from selling something that had meant something to her when she saw it, when she painted it.
Smiling and damp-palmed, she dug through the tote she'd brought along for her hammer and measuring tape. She'd already measured the wall on an earlier trip, and now she found the center, marked her spot lightly with a pencil. And waited for Sissy to hang up the phone.
"Should I wait, or can I pound this in there now?" She held up a hanger.
"Now. I'm dying to see it up."
With brisk efficiency, Savannah hammered in the support. The frame was a simple natural cherry—Regan's choice. Savannah had to admit, as she adjusted the painting on the wall, that it had been a good one.
"Bring the left corner up just a tad... Yeah, good." Hands on hips, Sissy nodded. "Good. Perfect. It's about time this place started looking more like the boss and less like..."
"His ex-wife?" Savannah finished, with a glance over her shoulder.
Sissy wrinkled her nose. "Let's just say she was very low-key. The kind of woman who never has a hair out of place, never raises her voice, never chips a nail."
"She must have had something to have attracted Jared."
Cautious, Sissy cast a look up the steps. "She was beautiful, in that don't-touch-me-I've-just-been-polished sort of way. Very classic, sort of Grace Kelly without the warmth and humor. And she was brilliant. Really. Not only in her profession, but she spoke perfect French, and played the piano beautifully. She read Kafka."
"Oh." Savannah struggled not to frown. She wasn't entirely sure she knew who or what Kafka was, but she was sure she'd never read it.
"In her way, she was admirable. But about as entertaining as a dead frog in a millpond." Sissy beamed at Savannah. "No one can accuse you of that," she said, and, with a quick laugh, picked up the ringing phone.
No, Savannah mused. No one could accuse her of that. Not of being polished or brilliant, or of reading Kafka. She could speak a little French—if you counted the Cajun variety.
Refusing to be intimidated by the image of the woman Jared had once chosen for his wife, she unwrapped the next painting.
She hung a trio of small still lifes in the entranceway while Sissy went back to work. While the rain pounded outside and Sissy's keyboard clattered, Savannah began to enjoy the simple pleasure of decorating, of choosing a space and bringing it to life. By the time she'd gotten to the second floor, she was humming under her breath.
Unwilling to hammer there while Jared was with a client, she leaned paintings against the walls she'd chosen for them, moving down the hallway and eventually into the office across from Jared's.
The former office, she thought, of the former Mrs. MacKade. No, she remembered. Not Mrs. MacKade. Jared had said she hadn't taken his name.
The walls here were a deep rose, the trim almost a jade, reversing the theme from the lower office. Regan had turned it into a comfortable and efficient sitting room. There was a desk, of course, but there were cozy chairs, tables, books. And, when she poked into a cabinet, a coffee maker, cups.
Here, Savannah supposed, Jared could entertain or interview clients in a less formal atmosphere. Or perhaps he could use it to relax, unwind. Or maybe he was considering taking on an associate.
It occurred to her then that she knew very little about his work, or his plans, or what his workday was like.
She'd never asked, Savannah reminded herself— and why should he discuss cases with her? She knew nothing about the law except the problems she'd had with it, fighting to stay one step ahead of the system and keep her child.
He would have discussed them with his wife, she thought, then cursed herself for falling into that typical and pathetic mind-set.
Setting her thoughts on the job at hand again, she stepped out into the hall just as Jared's door opened.
"I'll have a draft of the contract sent out to you in a couple of days," Jared was saying. Then stopped, looked, and smiled. "Hello, Savannah."
"Hello. I'm sorry. I was arranging the paintings."
"You going to introduce me to this beautiful young woman, Jared, or do I have to make my own moves?"
"Savannah Morningstar, Howard Beels."
"Savannah Morningstar. That's a name that suits you." The big, barrel chested man of abo
ut fifty shot out a hand the size of a small ham and gripped Savannah's. His eyes, a twinkling blue set in pockets and folds of creased skin, were alight with male admiration. "You working for this shyster?"
"In a manner of speaking." Savannah recognized the look, the squeeze. She'd seen and felt it hundreds of times before, and after a quick survey she judged Howard Beels as harmless. She let her smile warm, because she knew he would take it home with him and sigh. "You hire this shyster, Howard?"
He gave a gut-rattling laugh. "A man needs a clever lawyer in this dirty old world," Howard told her. "Jared here's been mine for, what is now? Five years?"
"Just about," Jared murmured, intrigued by the easy way Savannah handled, and entertained, one of his top clients.
"What do you do, Howard?"
"Oh, a little of this, a little of that." He had yet to let go of her hand. And he winked. "I'm a dabbler. How about you?"
"I'm a dabbler myself," Savannah told him, and made him laugh again.
"Savannah's an artist," Jared put in. "The next time you come in, Howard, you'll see her work on the walls."
"Is that so?" His sharp eyes homed in on the painting leaning against the wall behind her. "That your work there?"
"Yes."
He released her hand to cross to it. Despite his size, he hunkered down easily to study it. "It's right nice," he decided, liking the way the colors flowed and the way the flowers she'd chosen to paint seemed crowded together, more alive than perfect. "How much something like this go for?"
Savannah shifted her weight to one hip. "As much as I think I can get," she said dryly.
Howard slapped his knee appreciatively before he straightened. "I like this girl, Jared. I'm going to give you my card, honey." He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled one out. "You give me a call, hear? I think we could have ourselves a negotiation over a picture or two."
"I'll do that Howard." She glanced at the card, but it gave no clue to his profession. "I'll be sure to do that."
"Don't let any grass grow under your feet, either." He gave her a last wink before turning to Jared. "I'll expect those papers."
Savannah smiled at his retreating back. "Quite a character," she murmured.
"You sure handled him," Jared observed.
"I'm used to handling characters." She tucked the card away. "I've finished downstairs. If I wouldn't be in your way, I could finish up here."
"Sure."
He leaned against the doorway, watching her as she lifted the painting behind her. "A little more to the right," he suggested. "Howard's got an eye for the ladies."
"Yes, I gathered that." Satisfied, Savannah set the painting down and prepared to hammer in the hanger. "And I'd venture to say he's been faithful to his wife for... oh, twenty-five years."
"Twenty-six in May. Three kids, four grandchildren. He has an eye for the ladies," Jared repeated, "but he's one of the shrewdest businessmen I know. Real estate, mostly. Buys and sells. Develops. He owns a couple of small hotels, and the lion's share of a five-star restaurant."
"Really?"
"Hmm... He's on the arts council, works with the Western Maryland Museum."
As the card in her pocket suddenly took on more weight, Savannah nearly bashed her thumb. "That's interesting." Carefully, she set down the hammer. "It looks like I was in the right place at the right time."
"He wouldn't have told you to call him if he didn't mean it. I'm not sure how an artist might feel about having her work in hotels and restaurants and law offices."
She closed her eyes a moment. "I'd feel fine about it." She hung the painting, stepped back to study it. "I'd feel just fine."
"No artistic temperament?"
"I've never been able to afford artistic temperament."
"And if you could?"
"I'd still feel fine about it." She turned then to study his face. "Why wouldn't I?"
"I suppose I'm wondering why you wouldn't want or ask for more."
She wasn't sure it was only art that he was speaking of now. But the answer had to remain the same. "Because I'm happy with what I've got."
His lips curved slowly as he reached out to touch her face. "You're a complicated woman, Savannah, and amazingly simple. It's a fascinating mix. Why don't I take you to lunch?"
"That's a nice offer, but I want to get this done. If you're going, I could hang the pieces in your office while you're out."
"Why don't I stay, and we can order in? I'll watch you hang the pieces in my office."
"That would work." She tucked her restless hands into her pockets, then pulled them out. "Actually, there's something I'd like you to see. You didn't pick it, but I thought if you liked it, you might want it in your office."
Curious, he watched the nerves jitter in her eyes. "Let's take a look."
"Okay." She walked down the hallway to where she'd left the painting, still wrapped. "If you don't like it, it's no big deal." She shrugged and shifted past him to carry it into his office herself. "Either way, it's a gift." She set it on his desk, stepped away, jammed her hands into her pockets again. "No charge."
"A present?" He stroked a hand over her shoulder ,ts he went to the desk for scissors to cut the twine.
The idea of a present from her delighted him. But when he folded back the protective paper and saw it, the quick smile faded. And Savannah's heart sank.
The woods were deep and thick, filled with mystery and moonlight. Black trunks, gnarled, burled, rose up into twisted branches that held leaves just unfurled with spring. There were hints of color. Wild azalea and dogwood gleamed in that ghostly light. The rocky ground was carpeted with leaves that had fallen the autumn before, and the autumn before that, a sign of the continuous ebb and flow of life.
He could see the trio of rocks where he often sat, the fallen trunk where he had once sat with her. And in the distance, just a hint through the shadows, was a glow of light that signaled his home.
For a moment, he wasn't sure he could speak. "When did you do this?"
"I just finished it a few days ago." A mistake, she thought, cursing herself. A sentimental, foolish mistake. "It's just something I've worked on in my spare time. Like I said, it's no big deal. If you don't like it-"
Before she could finish, his head came up, and his eyes, swirling with emotion, met hers. "I can't think of anything I've ever been given that could mean more. It's the way it looked the night we made love for the first time. The way it's looked countless times I've been there alone."
Her heart stuttered, then crept up to lodge in her throat. "I was going to paint it the way it would have been in autumn, during the battle. But I wanted to do it this way first. I wasn't sure you'd... I'm glad you like it."
He reached out, cupped her face in his hands. "I love you, Savannah."
Her lips curved under the gentle caress of his, then parted, heated, as he steadily deepened the kiss. His fingers tangled in her hair, still damp from the rain. Her arousal was slow and sweet.
"I should hang it for you."
"Mmm..." Quite suddenly, as her body pressed to his and her mouth began to move, he had a much better idea. He tucked an arm around her to hold her steady and reached over his desk to pick up the phone. "Sissy? Why don't you go to lunch now? Yeah, take your time."
Savannah's gaze followed his hand as he replaced the receiver. Then her eyes shifted blandly to his face. "If you think you're going to seduce me here in your office, have me rolling over your fancy new carpet with you while your secretary's out to lunch..."
Jared walked over, closed the door. Locked it. Arched a brow. "Yes?"
She tossed her hair back, leaned a hip on the desk. "You're absolutely right."
He shrugged off his jacket, hung it on the brass coat hook by the door. His tie followed. Keeping his eyes on hers, he crossed back. One by one, he loosened the buttons of her shirt.
"Your clothes are damp."
"It's raining."
Very slowly, very deliberately, he peeled the bright cotton away.
His eyes never left hers as he slipped a finger under the front hook of her bra. Never left hers when he felt the quick quiver of her skin and heard the little catch in her breathing.
"I want you every time I see you. I want you when I don't see you." With a flick of his thumb and forefinger, he unsnapped the hook. "I want you even after I've had you." Lightly he traced his fingertips over the curve of her breast. "You obsess me, Savannah, the way no one and nothing ever has."
She reached out for him, but he shook his head and lowered her arms to her sides again. "No, let me. Just let me."
His thumbs brushed over her nipples, his eyes stayed focused on her face. "I lose my mind when I touch you," he murmured. "This time I want to watch you lose yours."
Fingers, thumbs, palms, cruised over her. Rough, then gentle, tender, then demanding, as if he was refusing to let any one mood rule. Driven, she pulled at him, tried to tug him closer. But each time she did, he stopped, patiently lowered her arms until she had no choice but to grip the edge of the desk and let him have his way.
No one had ever made love to her like this, as if she were essential, as if she were all there was and all there needed to be. As if her pleasure were paramount. Pinpoint sensations percolated along her skin, chased by others, whisper-soft, then still more that seeped slyly through flesh to blood and bone.
She arched back on a keening moan when he closed his teeth over her, shot her to some rugged ground on the border between pleasure and pain.
"Just take me." Her arms whipped around him, her body straining, pulsing.
But he took her hands, locked them to his as he kissed her toward delirium. Her mouth was a feast, full of hot flavor and a hunger that matched his own. But this time he wasn't content to sink into it, or her. He used his teeth to torment, his tongue to tease, until her breath came in tearing gasps.
"Let me touch you," she demanded.
"Not this time. Not yet." He closed her hands over the edge of the desk again, held them there while his mouth raced to her throat, down her neck, over those tensed and beautiful shoulders. "I'm going to take you, Savannah." He eased back, because he wanted her to see his face, and the unshakable purpose there. "I'm going to take you inch by inch. The way no one ever has."