In Your Eyes

by Laura Moore

  “And a good thing, too, Bruno. Donna might get a little put out.” Turning to Alex, she explained, “Donna is Bruno’s wife,” and pointed to a bunch of color photographs taped to the front of the cash register. “That’s Donna and that’s their four beautiful kids. Bruno, I’d like to introduce you to my friend Alex Miller.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Bruno said, eyeing Alex from head to foot with an expression that told Alex he wasn’t overly impressed. “You an artist?” he asked in a skeptical tone.

  “No, ’fraid not.”

  Bruno grunted. “You know anything about art?”

  “Enough to know that in five years, ten at the outside, artists around the world will be streaming in through these doors, like pilgrims visiting Mecca, because they’ve heard that Genevieve Monaghan will only buy her supplies from you.”

  Gen made a strangled sound of embarrassment at Alex’s answer, but Bruno laughed, loud and heartily. “Damned straight they will be.” Grinning he added, “You seem pretty smart for a suit.”

  “Thanks,” Alex replied dryly.

  “So, Gen, where have you and Murphy been hiding yourselves?” Bruno asked. “My dog biscuits have gone stale.”

  Her face still warm from Alex’s outlandish praise, Gen was only too happy to switch the focus of the conversation to her dog. “I don’t think Murphy worries about such niceties, Bruno. We’ve been on Long Island, working on a commission for Alex.”

  “A commission, huh? What sort of commission?”

  Alex felt Bruno’s dark eyes slice into him with renewed suspicion. He didn’t mind Bruno’s protective attitude toward Gen—not as long as Bruno was married with a passel of kids. “It’s for a hospital in Boston,” he replied. “The Children’s Hospital.”

  Bruno’s expression relaxed. “All right then. You bankrolling?” he challenged with a grin that Alex was beginning to recognize was very much part of his character.

  Alex nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “All I need is some paint, Bruno,” Gen interjected quickly.

  Both men ignored her comment.

  “This is your lucky day, sweets. I got some new linen canvas that’s going to make you flip. Come and take a look,” Bruno urged over his shoulder, already heading down the crowded aisle.

  Gen instinctively laid her hand on Alex’s forearm. He stopped and looked at her. “Alex, I really don’t need a lot—”

  “Oh, yeah, you do, and I want to give it to you,” he said, his smile slow and wide and so beautiful she lost herself in it. He moved his arm so her hand slipped into his. Opening his fingers, he laced them about hers. “Get whatever strikes your fancy, Gen. Who knows where your explorations might take you or how they might inspire you?” His hand, warm and strong, squeezed hers gently.

  And with that simple, most basic of caresses, Gen recalled all Alex and she had done together, all they’d shared, all they’d discovered. It would take gallons and gallons of paint, yards upon yards of canvas, for Gen to express what she felt for him.

  Her heart fluttered when he dipped his head and caressed her lips in a feather-light kiss. “I like doing things for you,” he whispered coaxingly, then with a wry grin added, “Besides, I don’t want to annoy Bruno and wind up on his black list.”

  Alex needn’t have worried about that, Gen thought an hour later when the three of them were back at the cash register. Bruno, busy ringing up item after item, was acting a whole lot friendlier toward Alex, having discovered that in addition to championing Gen’s artistic career, the two of them shared yet another mutual passion: those damned Yankees.

  While Alex and Bruno indulged in a brag fest over the Yankees’ chances for stealing the World Series again this year, Gen did her best to look anywhere but at the green numbers illuminated on the cash register’s display. She was afraid she’d faint from shock if she saw how much money Alex had spent. Still, the thought of all those glorious colors and the rough-textured weave of the canvas she’d be laying them on made her feel as if Christmas and her birthday had been rolled into one.

  She couldn’t wait to get back to the studio and begin painting. Alex’s niece and nephew were coming the next afternoon. She’d begin sketching them, working out the poses she wanted for the hospital painting. And when the light was gone, there’d be Alex, she thought with dreamy happiness. Alex, who made love like an artist.

  Just then, something Bruno said filtered through her reverie. She frowned, sure she was hearing things.

  “Sorry, Bruno, did you say something about Jiri just now?”

  “Yeah. Jiri.” He paused importantly. “Your Jiri. He called and placed a major-league order.”

  Gen’s face split into a grin. “Wow,” she chuckled. “Jiri really lucked out. The academy must have deeper pockets than we thought. Why, the shipping alone will cost a small fortune.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. You’d have to be named Onassis to afford it. But I’m not shipping the order to Prague.” His dark eyes gleaming with the excitement of one imparting key information, he said, “Jiri said he’ll be picking up the entire lot in a couple of weeks. Personally.”

  Mystified, Gen murmured, “How very strange. Why in the world would Jiri be coming back to New York so soon?”

  Bruno’s thick eyebrows disappeared beneath his curly black hair. “Maybe ’cause he realized he needed something else besides a dozen or so cases of oils and gesso.” His sharp gaze slid to Alex. “I’d keep a close eye on her, Miller, if I were you,” he advised. “Else that rascal Czech might just spirit her away.”

  “Have you been sniffing Elmer’s glue again, Bruno?” Gen teased. “It’s far more likely that his gallery has snagged a prospective patron who’s so eager to meet the renowned Jiri Novak, he’s willing to foot the bill for a round-trip ticket.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like Novak’s style,” Bruno conceded with a shrug. “But then again, the one doesn’t necessarily preclude the other, now does it, sweetie?”

  After a brake-slamming halt in the traffic, Alex glanced over at Gen, and his mouth softened in a smile of amused tenderness. Dead to the world, she hadn’t even stirred. They’d hardly made it out of the Midtown Tunnel before she’d succumbed to sleep. . . .

  Just as she’d warned him.

  They’d been standing with their bodies folded over the open trunk of his car, shoving the last of the boxes from Pearl Paint to make room for the final item: a thick roll of linen canvas. She’d turned to him with that little smile he’d come to love and said, “Alex, there’s something I should tell you. Just so you don’t take it personally or anything.”

  “Yeah?” He smiled, already intrigued by the possibilities.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “It’s like this. In addition to arriving late for just about everything, I’m utterly incapable of staying awake in a car—or a plane, bus, or train, for that matter.”

  His smile became a laugh. “I’ll try not to be offended. Actually, I’m relieved. I thought it was a damned effective ruse on your part, falling asleep on the way into the city. A neat variation of the silent treatment.”

  “Sorry, no. I’m not that cunning. Or clever. It’s just something about the rocking motion when I’m sitting in a vehicle.” She sighed and gave the plastic wrap protecting the canvas a final fond pat before stepping back so that he could slam the trunk shut. “No, the only way I can keep my eyes open is if I’m actually behind the wheel. Driving. So . . .” Letting the word dangle suggestively, she sent him a coy look and stretched out her hand, palm upward, her fingers wiggling.

  “Nice try, Monaghan,” he’d said with a wry shake of his head. He wished they were somewhere more private than double-parked outside Pearl Paint, so he could wrap his arms about her, taste her unforgettable sweetness, and then lower her down onto the warm shiny silver of the Aston’s trunk. “Sleep away,” he said, tossing the keys in the air and catching them easily. “You’ll definitely need the rest, as I intend to provide hours of profound inspiration later tonight.”

 
; “Hours, huh? Then I really should drive—it seems to me it’s you who’ll be needing the sleep.”

  “Oh, I’m more than up to the task, I promise,” he’d drawled huskily. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll have Murphy to keep me company. I’m sure we’ll have a long, heart-to-heart talk.”

  Of course, Alex thought, when another deep, whirfling snore emanated from the backseat, Murphy, too, was asleep—though not quite as sweetly as his mistress. Once again Alex’s eyes strayed to Gen. She’d tucked a hand beneath her cheek, and her dark hair framed the delicate contour of her cheek. When she exhaled, an errant wisp danced over the tip of her nose. She looked so impossibly lovely that he was filled with an urge to clasp her tight and never let go.

  He was stunned by the strength and urgency behind the impulse. Why did it feel like he was whisking a fairy princess off to his castle, where none could enter without his leave?

  Unbidden, a name without a face popped into his head. Jiri Novak. Alex’s lips flattened into a hard, determined line as he considered what he’d do if the artist made a move to get Gen back. No, there was no damned way Jiri Novak was going to get another shot at winning her. Novak had had his chance—and he’d blown it.

  Of all the solutions to the potential reappearance of Jiri Novak, Alex’s favorite was the one in which he squashed Novak flatter than a Long Island potato bug. The only problem with that particular scenario was, Alex knew how fiercely loyal Gen could be, and how impetuous, too. He didn’t want to do anything that might drive her into Novak’s arms.

  Besides, what if the Czech was merely a self-absorbed artist, whose ego more than matched his prodigious talent? What if he contacted Gen solely to crow about some recent sale or brag about his position as the director of the National Academy? Sharing ideas and talking about the subject she loved most was an important part of Gen’s life as an artist. Alex could never deny her that pleasure.

  Which stuck Alex with a wholly unsatisfying option. It seemed that the only thing he could do was follow old Bruno’s advice: if Jiri Novak did come sniffing around, he’d definitely be keeping a very close eye on Gen.

  In the meantime, however, Alex intended to do everything he could to make Gen understand that she was his. Quickly he checked his rearview mirror—no, there were no lunatics about to ram him—then, leaning over sideways, he placed a kiss on her lips. They parted on a happy sigh.

  Her eyes opened a fraction. “Mmm, I love the way you kiss me,” she murmured with a sleepy smile. “Do it again later, ’kay?” she suggested before snuggling deeper into the seat and drifting off.

  Shaking his head, Alex caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. He was grinning from ear to ear, the joy that was Gen easing the tension that had gripped him.

  EIGHTEEN

  Alerted to their return by Murphy’s exuberant barking, Aunt Grace came outside to greet Gen and Alex. “Yes, yes, Murphy, I missed you too,” she said affectionately as the dog gamboled across the lawn to squirm in ecstasy before her. “Although I wasn’t expecting you back this soon.”

  “Soon?” Gen replied, giving the older woman a hug. It was shortly after 7 P.M. and the evening sky was awash with bold magenta and lavender streaks. “It feels as if we’ve been gone for days rather than mere hours. Come and look at the treasures in this trunk, Mrs. Miller.”

  Alex had backed the Aston so its rear end faced the studio. Aunt Grace peered into the open trunk. “My, you two have been busy.”

  “Yes, very busy,” Gen echoed in a voice tinged with self-consciousness. She wondered what Mrs. Miller would say if she knew precisely how busy Alex and she had been—and doing what. Would she be pleased that she and Alex were together? Gen doubted Mrs. Miller would remain in the dark very long—she was far too perceptive. Then a sudden and horrible thought flashed in Gen’s mind: perhaps Mrs. Miller would think she’d deliberately stolen Alex from Sydney. Would she be upset?

  Quickly Gen ducked her head into the trunk and grabbed hold of a carton filled with tubes of acrylics and lovely new Grumbacher brushes and palette knives, all purchased by Alex. She swallowed and offered a silent plea: Please, Lord, don’t let Mrs. Miller think I’m some shallow fortune hunter.

  Hefting the carton in her arms she turned around and nearly plowed into Alex, who was back from his first trip to the studio and ready for the second haul. “Oh! Sorry!” she stammered, acutely aware of Alex’s aunt watching them.

  “Careful there, Rip,” he cautioned, the husky timbre of his voice fueling Gen’s uneasiness.

  “Rip?” his aunt repeated, openly curious.

  “Hi, Aunt Grace,” he said, grinning. “Yeah, Rip. As in Van Winkle. I think Gen could sleep from here to California if given the chance.” His grin became a smile, warm and intimate, as he returned his attention to Gen. “Here, let me take that.”

  She clutched it tighter. “No, that’s okay, I’ve got it. I, um, need the exercise.”

  With a low rumble of laughter he stepped forward and lifted it out of her arms. “Save your energy for later,” he advised in a soft undertone. Then without warning, he angled his head and planted a kiss just beneath her ear. One kiss became another as he leaned into her, his firm lips moving lazily, deliciously. . . .

  A familiar thrill sped through her. Nerve endings sizzling, she shivered, only to stifle a groan of dismay when Mrs. Miller said, “Alex, do stop nibbling on Genevieve. Otherwise I’ll never get to see what’s in all those boxes.”

  Alex’s sigh of resignation fanned the shell of her ear. “Very well, Aunt Grace,” he said, stepping back. “Though ‘Man doth not live by bread only.’ ”

  “I don’t believe you’re in any danger of starving,” she replied tartly. “Which makes you a very lucky young woman, Genevieve,” she added with what could only be described as a sly wink.

  Gen smiled weakly in return. So much for Mrs. Miller remaining in the dark.

  Okay, so maybe Alex’s aunt wasn’t overly upset by the new role Gen had assumed in her nephew’s life. Either that or she was far too well bred to show it.

  Gen didn’t know why she was feeling so insecure. The three of them had just shared a delicious, thrown-together dinner. Alex had whipped up three fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth Swiss-cheese omelets that were seasoned with a hint of nutmeg to tease the taste buds. While Alex had whisked, poured, and flipped, Gen had toasted thick slices of whole grain bread and made a tomato and basil salad. Mrs. Miller, who had no culinary ambitions whatsoever, contented herself with arranging a wide ring of cherries around the leftover lemon pound cake Gen had baked yesterday.

  The dinner conversation had been relaxed, without a single pointed remark to justify Gen’s current unease. After they’d finished off the bottle of wine, Alex had helped with the washing up and then excused himself to check the e-mails from his office and call his sister to reconfirm her and the twins’ arrival tomorrow. He would join Gen and his aunt out on the porch for a grappa as soon as he was finished.

  Mrs. Miller was already out on the porch, eager to watch the stars come out. The kettle had whistled shrilly, yet Gen lingered by the stove, as if the chamomile blossoms for her tea could steep only there.

  What was the matter with her? Why was she feeling so anxious? It was completely out of character. If she brooded and obsessed, it was about her art, not her life. But here she was, wracked with worries. Of course, she reminded herself, she didn’t often have days like this one, either. A day, which now that she stopped to think about it, had had the kind of astonishing and surreal momentum of a tossed snowball that triggers an avalanche: a blink of an eye and the entire mountainside is transformed.

  She’d awakened this morning as one person. By this afternoon she’d become a different one, fundamentally changed by Alex’s lovemaking. Yet the earth-shattering experience of sharing her body with him wasn’t the cause of her distress. All she had to do was look at him, hear his low voice, feel his body near hers, and she went tingly, her heart expanding until she felt as if she were floating o
n a cloud of happiness.

  But what Gen hadn’t realized or anticipated— because she’d never expected any of this to happen— was that being involved with Alex would entail so much more than simply being with him. And that was why her stomach was twisted in painful knots.

  The rest of Alex’s family was arriving tomorrow. His sister, Cassie, might not be nearly as warmhearted as Mrs. Miller. She knew how jealous sisters could be when it came to their older brothers.

  Then there was Alex’s social and professional world, she thought, and the specter of his upcoming party rose ominously in her mind. It had been off-putting enough imagining herself mingling with the wealthy movers and shakers when she was just Genevieve Monaghan, the artist from Boston. Being scrutinized as Alex Miller’s newest girlfriend was a thousand times more intimidating. They would no doubt expect to meet someone as polished and poised as Sydney. . . .

  No, don’t even go there, Gen told herself. She was not going to start comparing herself with Sydney. Nor was she going to start worrying about other people’s expectations. And enough with the moping about. She was acting like a pathetic ninny and Mrs. Miller was probably wondering what was keeping her.

  Gen closed the lid of the teapot. The tea was probably stone cold by now, she thought with disgust. Picking up the tray, Gen pinned a cheerful smile on her face and vowed not to think about how much she wished she and Alex were still in his apartment and that the rest of the world was far, far away.

  Gen had poured Mrs. Miller’s grappa and settled onto the cushioned wicker settee with her tea between her hands when Alex came onto the porch. By the soft golden light of the hurricane lanterns, she saw his smile widen as his eyes met hers.

  “Is everything fine with Cassie and Caleb?” Mrs. Miller asked.

  “Yeah. Cass sounded a trifle harried. It seems that since the twins lost their campaign to bring the dogs to New York, they’ve decided they ‘absolutely need’ the rest of their worldly possessions, which is a bit more than can be crammed into two suitcases. But the flight’s unchanged. The plane gets in at two-thirty at JFK. So with luck we’ll be back here by five.”