by Laura Moore
Alex was willing to bet his bank account she wasn’t even seeing it. “Why is it I don’t believe you’re telling the whole story?” he asked.
Startled, Gen looked up, surprise widening her eyes. And in them, Alex read the answer. “Ahh, I get it,” he said, the strange tightness in him easing. “So Jiri wanted to sleep with you but you refused.”
Her lips pursed in irritation. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. I would have slept with him if I’d felt like it. I just didn’t. Jiri understood.”
“I’ll bet,” he murmured under his breath. Then, more loudly, he said, “So he’s in Prague? No plans to return?”
“I can’t imagine why he would. Being the director of the National Academy of Art is a pretty prestigious deal. He did call the other day but I was out. We keep playing telephone tag.”
There was a short silence while Gen worked, totally absorbed in her drawing, and he sat, totally consumed by her relationship with Jiri Novak. “Do you miss him?” he asked abruptly.
“Hmm, what was that?” she asked.
“Do you miss him?” he repeated with a touch of impatience.
“Who, Jiri? Of course. I love him. He’s an extraordinarily gifted artist. He was a fantastic teacher. Incredibly demanding,” she added, her eyes still trained on her drawing. Finally, with a last critical look, she set her pencils aside. “There. I’m done.” She closed the drawing pad. “You can relax now.”
Alex straightened and slipped off the stool, shaking his hands out. But he was feeling far from relaxed. Hearing Gen say she loved Jiri had unleashed a storm inside him. He wanted to grab her and tell her she couldn’t possibly love Jiri because . . . because . . . Alex’s thoughts balked at supplying a reason. He didn’t know exactly how deep his feelings for Gen went. But he knew he wanted her with a reckless need, and the thought of her with someone else was enough to make him gnash his teeth.
Alex took a slow, deep breath and told himself to relax. First of all, he was here, and Jiri, the genius artist, was way across the Atlantic in Prague.
And second, Gen hadn’t given herself to Jiri.
Though she might refuse to acknowledge it, to Alex it was a revealing fact. No matter how wonderful an artist and teacher and friend Gen claimed Jiri was, something in their relationship was keeping her from taking it to another level. She must have sensed that what she felt for Jiri wasn’t what she was searching for.
Which meant that Alex had to show Gen that the passion and joy inside her sprang from more than just her love of art. She’d said Jiri was a demanding teacher. Well, he would be an ever-so-generous one, Alex decided.
He looked at Gen, who was in the midst of putting her pencils back in their box. Feeling the weight of his gaze, she lifted her head and with a smile of thanks said, “That was great. Do you think you’re up for doing more tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’m definitely up for it,” he replied, biting back a grin when her eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning.
“The poses won’t be difficult,” she assured him. “I just need your back and your, uh,” she cleared her throat delicately, “your chest.”
“Whatever your heart desires.”
Whatever your heart desires.
Alex’s words, spoken in that low-timbred, sexy voice, teased her, slipping slyly into her thoughts when she least expected them . . . though perhaps, in all fairness, she’d invited them. They were as seductive as the rest of him.
The drawings she’d done of him were before her. Studying them, she worried that she hadn’t done a good enough job. Had she conveyed the strength and sensitivity in those elegantly tapered fingers?
She flipped to the following page and there was his face. She hadn’t told him about that—that she was also sketching his face—worried he might freeze up on her, like someone posing for a picture, staring rigidly into the lens of a camera. She hadn’t even decided if she would use Alex’s face in the painting; the sketch had been pure impulse, her hungry artist’s eye drawn to the sensuous line of his lips, the sloping angle of his nose. Once started, she couldn’t stop herself from faithfully recording his slanting cheekbones, broad forehead, his mesmerizing eyes. . . .
Alex had been an excellent model. She’d sensed he would be. There was such a deep, watchful quality about him. He was a man who knew how to wait and control his impulses. He’d been remarkably good at keeping his hands open and relaxed throughout the session. There’d only been that one moment when he’d tensed in reaction. What had they been talking about?
Oh, yes, she thought, Jiri drawing her. She’d modeled for Jiri many times, sometimes in the nude, sometimes clothed. Neither way bothered her. Gen’s parents had raised her to view the human body as a thing of beauty, never of shame. But baring her body was an entirely different matter than offering it in love.
Jiri hadn’t understood the distinction, why she repeatedly declined his overtures. Finally, she’d seized upon the excuse that she was saving herself for her husband. Interestingly enough, Jiri had accepted that explanation—and for several weeks he’d amused himself by calling her his “chaste temptress.”
Gen didn’t regret that she’d lied to Jiri. Well, partially lied to him. She hadn’t made any solemn vow to hold off on sex until she married—if she ever married. She just knew that when she made love, it would have to be with someone who made her feel truly special. Someone who understood her heart and soul.
The next morning, Gen whipped through the preparations for Mrs. Miller’s breakfast, then carried the tray up the stairs with the finished portrait of her tucked under her arm. Mrs. Miller was already awake and had drawn the curtains so the morning light filled the bedroom. “Good morning, Genevieve.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Miller, it’s a beautiful day.”
“Yes, I’ll have to take my walk early. Now that the weather has turned warmer, the beach gets crowded on the weekends. I much prefer it when I can pretend it’s my own private realm. What have you got there?” she asked, nodding at the drawing under Gen’s arm.
“A present for you.”
“What a lovely way to start off the day. May I see it?”
“Wouldn’t you like your breakfast first?” Gen smiled.
“Certainly not. Art is food for the soul.”
Setting the tray on the captain’s sea chest at the foot of Mrs. Miller’s ornately carved four-post bed, Gen placed the drawing in her outstretched hands.
She studied it in silence. “Genevieve, this is wonderful. I love it. I feel as if this is really me, my personality, from the crook of my wrist as I lift my cup of hot chocolate to the angle of my quite stubborn chin.”
“I’m glad you like it,” she replied self-consciously.
“My dear, I love it. As a matter of fact, I’ve just had an idea. I know you’re caught up thinking about the composition for the hospital, but I was wondering whether you might be willing to do portraits of Sophie and Jamie when they come.”
Gen barely stopped herself from dancing with excitement. How perfect. She’d been planning on doing sketches of the children on the sly. But this way, she could pull out her pad and pencils and draw them in a dozen different settings. “I’d be delighted, Mrs. Miller. Now let me give you your breakfast. I’m working on your nephew today. He’s agreed to sit for me.”
Mrs. Miller smiled as she poured the rich dark cocoa into her cup. “Did he now? Well, he’s quite an impressive specimen, don’t you agree?”
“He puts Michelangelo’s David to shame,” Gen said. “Sydney’s a lucky woman.”
“You think?” Mrs. Miller murmured into her raised cup.
Gen had told Alex that he could come whenever it suited him; her schedule was flexible. But his bedroom door had been shut when she’d brought Mrs. Miller’s breakfast, and remembering the big box of papers he’d been carrying with his computer, she assumed he was still asleep. So when Alex’s long shadow darkened the concrete floor of the studio a short time later, she glanced up in surprise from the sketch
she was doing of a cluster of seashells and driftwood. “Oh, hi.”
“Hi.” Alex straightened from scratching Murphy’s massive head. “That’s some bone Murphy’s got,” he said, propping his shoulder against the doorjamb.
“I discovered the pet store in Bridgehampton. Like everything else in the Hamptons, they cater to outrageous appetites, Murphy’s included.” She nodded at the bone. “Anything smaller than that is gone in an instant.”
“I came by to see whether you want me now.” There was a slight pause, then Alex added, “For the sketch.”
“Uh, sure. Now is great.”
But when Alex walked into the studio, and Gen got a good look at him, she suddenly wasn’t so certain this was a good time after all. He’d just come back from a run. His light gray T-shirt clung to the muscled contours of his chest in dark patches. Sweat had turned his hair into a helmet of dark sculpted curls, reminding her of a bronze sculpture she’d seen of a Greek warrior. He had the same powerful beauty— virile, elemental, and irresistible.
He came over to her worktable and the large studio seemed to shrink in size. Gen could feel the heat rising from his body, feel the very air stir with his breathing. Drawing a steadying breath she caught the musky male scent of him. Her pulse began hammering at the base of her throat.
“Is anything wrong?” Alex asked. His blue eyes glittered, intense and compelling, and very, very close.
Hastily she rose from her stool and moved so it stood between them. “No, no, I was just deciding where I want you,” she said, using the first excuse that popped into her head. “Over here by the light.” She gestured to the window. “The morning sun will highlight your skin’s texture nicely,” she said then bit her tongue before she could babble any other inanities.
He smiled, as if he could tell exactly how nervous he was making her. “Well, that’s good to know. So do you want me standing or sitting?”
“I’d like to do a few short poses of you standing, then a longer one of you sitting.”
“Fine.” His broad shoulders shrugged beneath the clinging T-shirt.
Imagining the play of muscles beneath the thin cotton had Gen’s throat constricting. She swallowed hard. “Um, would you mind taking off your shirt?” she asked, appalled at the betraying huskiness of her voice.
He grinned mischievously. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, he slowly began peeling it off his torso.
Riveted, Gen watched as inch by inch his tanned body was revealed. Slick with sweat, it gleamed like gold in the morning light. Unconsciously biting her lip, she let her gaze travel up the thin path of dark blond hair to the shaded indentation of his belly button.
His stomach was all muscled ridges.
The shirt rose, revealing more damp, male skin. Avidly Gen drank in the faint lines of his ribs, the swell of his pectorals, the dark circles of his nipples, the muscled breadth of his shoulders.
The T-shirt slipped over his head and dropped to the floor, leaving Alex naked except for his black running shorts.
He was beyond anything she’d imagined.
Beyond beautiful.
Mere beauty had never made Gen feel this intensely, as if a fire were melting her insides, turning them into a liquid heat that pulsed low and deep inside her, beating in sync with the memory of his words, Whatever your heart desires.
Every thought flew from her head, except how his bare flesh would feel beneath her hands, hot and supple, and how she yearned to reach out and touch him, press against the warm resilience of his muscled flesh, and taste its slick saltiness on her lips and tongue. Worship it.
A soft, helpless moan escaped her.
At the sound, Alex’s eyes, ablaze with a searing blue fire, locked with hers. She stared. He looked strong, predatory, and hungry. For her. He took a step toward her.
Some very remote region in Gen’s brain ordered her to run for her life. Her rebellious body ignored the command; her feet remained rooted to the spot. Yet an iota of self-preservation remained. With a superhuman effort Gen managed an agitated flap of her hands. “I think this is a bad idea,” she whispered. “A really bad idea.”
Alex’s smile widened and the pulsing heat inside her quickened. “Have I told you yet that you’re a rotten liar, Genevieve Monaghan? This is the best idea either one of us has ever had,” he murmured as his hands reached up to frame her face. This close, his eyes were hypnotic, the caress of his fingers on her skin mesmerizing, and the warmth of his breath carrying with it a hint of mint, delectable. Aware only that she was breathless with desire, breathless for him, Gen’s lips parted.
He lowered his head, mouth hovering, his lips almost brushing hers. Softly he commanded, “Kiss me, Gen.”
She never even thought of resisting as his mouth touched hers, settled, and lay claim in a kiss that was unlike any she’d ever experienced. . . . Indescribably delicious. That first touch, that first slide of lips learning and testing, was all it took for Gen to tumble headlong into a sea of need and want that only Alex could satisfy.
And satisfy he did. He seemed to know exactly how to kiss her, how to touch her. Every shift of his mouth, every thrust and parry of his tongue against hers, every glide of his hands over her body, thrilled, triggered brilliant fireworks of hot pleasure within her.
Caught in the fevered passion he aroused, she strained against him, the need to touch him consuming her. Her hands moved over his heaving chest. His skin was like satin warmed by fire. Beneath her open palm, his heart pounded. Wanting to feel that violent thudding against her lips, she pressed her mouth to the hard point of his nipple. His ragged groan of pleasure flowed through her like molten heat. And when his mouth descended to explore the sensitive region behind her ear, she went weak-kneed. Moaning, she clutched his shoulders for support.
God, he loved the sounds she made, the little whimpers that fell from her lips when he stroked her, learning the delicate curves of her body. The sweetness of her response scared him—he wanted her so damned much. And although he was trying to go slowly, to prolong their pleasure for an eternity or more, each cry, each shudder of pleasure had him shaking with the need to make her his.
Alex rocked his hips against her, letting her feel what she did to him. Her gaze flew to his. Her spectacular eyes were enormous. He imagined himself falling into them, drowning in their depths while he was deep inside her, touching her very womb, while she dissolved around him. His hands tightened, urging Gen closer still—only for them both to jump the proverbial mile when, from behind, there came the sharp rap of knuckles on the screen door, immediately followed by Murphy’s signature bark. Added to the cacophony was the crash of the easel falling as Alex stumbled into it and the horrified gasp that came from the now opened door, filling the studio in a dreadful surround sound.
Oh, shit, Alex thought when he saw Sydney standing in the doorway. It was obvious she’d seen them locked in a fevered embrace. Even from here he could tell that she was trembling violently. What to say? Nothing, except that he was sorry that it had come to this.
“Sydney—” he began but before he could continue, Sydney raised her hand. Her shoulders heaved as she struggled to compose herself. “I brought the seating arrangement for the party. No one answered at the house, so I thought I’d try here—” her voice cracked in sudden anguish. Uttering a cry of “Oh, God!” she turned on her heels and ran from the studio.
Alex instinctively made to follow her, to ensure she was all right—hell, even offer to hold her while she cried or pummeled him until her anger and hurt were finally vented—but he hadn’t counted on Murphy. With a loud, ringing “woof,” the dog was off, chasing after Sydney. Beside him, Gen gave a stricken cry of “No, Murphy, no!” and dashed forward.
Alex grabbed her arm. “Gen, wait. I’ll go.”
Gen turned back toward him and his gut twisted. Her lovely, fine-boned face was pale, leached of color, and her eyes, which minutes ago had been bright with desire for him, were now glazed with shock. “No, I’ll get him—he won’t do an
ything but Sydney’s afraid of dogs and she’s been hurt enough; besides, it’s all my fault,” she choked out before wrenching her arm free and rushing outside.
What in God’s name did she mean it was all her fault? Alex started after her, nearly breaking his neck when he tripped over the upended easel. Regaining his footing he ran out of the studio.
“Gen!” he called, looking wildly about the sun-drenched yard.
“She headed that way, down to the beach, hard on the heels of Sydney and the dog,” a male voice answered, bringing Alex up short. He turned and saw Harry Byrne sitting on Aunt Grace’s garden bench.
“Byrne,” Alex exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I came with Sydney. I was just finishing a phone call when she ran out. She looked upset.”
“Yes, she was.” Alex regarded him curiously. What the hell was going on? Why didn’t Byrne seem more concerned about Sydney? Why hadn’t he gone after her?
“From Sydney’s expression I’m guessing this means it’s officially over between the two of you.”
“It’s been over for a while,” Alex answered impatiently. “What matters is that she’s all right.” He started to turn away.
Harry’s voice stopped him. “Syd needs some time alone right now. She’s like that. I’ll take care of her when she comes back.”
Something in his tone caught Alex’s attention—the mixture of tenderness and calm determination. The possessiveness when he mentioned her name. For a long, silent moment, Alex looked at Harry, who leaned back on the garden bench, returning his stare blandly.
Sudden comprehension dawned, bringing with it an awesome sense of relief. “Jesus, I hadn’t realized,” he said quietly.
Harry gave a negligent shrug. “You weren’t alone.”
“No hard feelings?”
“No—not anymore, at least. Although I admit there was a dark period where I was seriously contemplating adding one more homicide to New York’s crime stats.”