by Laura Moore
“And we’ll probably be so tired . . .” She sighed softly.
“Oh, I can think of a couple of activities that will reenergize us.”
“Hmm, sounds interesting. What kind of activities?” she asked, rising on her tiptoes and draping her arms around his neck.
His blue eyes flared with desire. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun by telling,” he murmured, pulling her closer to his solid strength. “Let’s just say that they involve lots of hands-on learning.”
“Gosh, I didn’t know you brainy finance types went in for that kind of thing,” Gen teased breathlessly.
“Uh-huh.” Alex nodded. “It’s right up there with team-building. I’d say you and I make a pretty good team, Monaghan.”
And so they did, Alex found himself thinking again and again over the course of the next few days as he and Gen, with occasional and much appreciated assistance from Aunt Grace, fell into a routine that began as soon as the kids scrambled out of bed. They worked well together. But in Alex’s opinion, it was thanks to Gen that the twins’ stay went so smoothly. She possessed a real knack for figuring out how to keep Jamie and Sophie entertained and absorbed. For instance, it was she who calmly suggested one morning that they go to her studio and draw when Jamie and Sophie succumbed to another bout of homesick-ness. “That’s what I do when I’m sad. I make things, I make pictures of the things I love and the people I love. It helps me feel better,” she told them with a simple honesty that had him tumbling that much more in love with her. “I have some paper and colored pencils you can use.”
“At home we have markers,” Jamie said with stubborn despondency.
Alex watched Gen bite back a smile as she reached out and ruffled Jamie’s hair. “Trust me. These are way better than markers. Come on, I’ll show you,” she said, ushering them out of the kitchen.
Rising from his chair, he laid a hand on her arm. “Are you sure they won’t be interrupting your work?” he asked.
She shook her head and smiled. “No, I have a feeling these kids have the same kind of focus as their uncle Alex. You know, intense and with an unflagging attention to detail.”
“I hadn’t realized you’d been observing me so closely.”
“Intimately,” she replied, her voice just husky enough to make the blood pound in his veins. “Besides,” she added, “I bet you could stand to get a spot of work done on that software company you and your partner Glenn Powell were talking about at the party. Go on, hole up in your study for a while. We’ll be fine.”
She’d been right about that too. Alex and his partners had decided to open negotiations with the software company I.Com. Alex’s IT expert, Glenn Powell, had been impressed with the Internet programs they were developing. As timing was crucial in the IT sector, the Miller Group would have to act fast. He hoped to set up a deal by the end of next week. Following Gen’s suggestion, he spent an hour on the phone with his partners, discussing what I.Com would require in terms of management support, the kind of time projections they were thinking of, and what would be the Miller Group’s optimal exit strategy for both them and I.Com.
After he’d finished, Alex, curious to see how Gen was making out, wandered over to the studio. Classical music poured out the studio’s open windows to drift on the salty air. Mozart’s Figaro, he thought, smiling unconsciously. The volume was loud enough to muffle the sound of his approach. Not even Murphy, happily gnawing on one of his beloved bones, glanced in his direction. That suited Alex fine, allowed him the chance to observe the artists at work.
Sophie and Jamie were lying on the floor, elbows propped, pencils clutched between their fingers, drawing with total concentration. Scattered around them were sheets of paper filled with bold figures and rainbows of color. Meanwhile Gen was ignoring them— that is, letting them create their drawings in peace, without interfering comments or suggestions. Her back to him, she was working on the painting for the hospital. Alex watched, feeling a thrill of pleasure that he was there, witnessing her bring life to the painting. Though there weren’t many details in the lightishbrown drawing she was sketching on the white-gessoed surface, from where he stood, it appeared as if three figures, one large and two smaller ones, were grouped closely together. From the low horizon dividing the canvas he guessed that the scene was set out of doors. He was about to take an unobtrusive step closer when Jamie jumped to his feet, drawing in hand.
“Here, Gen, look at this one.” At the sound of her name Gen turned around, a smile on her face. “I made a picture of you and Uncle Alex and Murphy. It’s for you,” he said, thrusting it at her.
“For me? Oh, Jamie, I’m so touched,” she said, in a voice that wobbled. Dropping to her knees, she enveloped him in a quick, fierce hug. Releasing him, she cleared her throat and said, “I need to take a look at this.”
“I want to look too! Can I, Jamie?” Sophie asked, already clambering to her feet.
“Yeah, I guess.”
For several seconds, the three of them, heads bent, studied Jamie’s drawing. Then Gen said, “It’s a wonderful drawing, Jamie. I’ll treasure it forever. Thank you. Can I put it next to the painting I’m working on, so I can look at it whenever I want?”
“Sure. That’d be okay. Now I’m going to make one for Uncle Alex,” he said, racing back to his spot on the floor. Alex saw Gen smile, then brush a hand over her eyes, wiping away the telltale moisture.
To avoid the risk of Gen catching sight of him and realizing that he’d witnessed her and Jamie’s exchange, Alex stepped forward, saying, “Wow, this looks like a real artists’ workshop here.”
His voice broke the spell of intense concentration, but not the twins’ enthusiasm. They sprang to their feet, words tumbling from their mouths as they rushed to tell him about their drawings. And for the rest of the week, it seemed there was always some point during the day when Jamie and Sophie would wander into Gen’s studio, head directly to the area where she’d laid aside a supply of paper and colored pencils specially for them, and settle down to work.
There was, however, one major drawback to the twins’ weeklong stay, one that Alex hadn’t anticipated. Gen and he were forced to spend their nights apart. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, but nevertheless had to respect, she absolutely and adamantly refused to sleep with him in his bedroom. And in all good conscience, he couldn’t chance Jamie or Sophie awakening in the middle of the night in strange surroundings and his not being there. Though they managed, after putting the twins to bed, to steal away to the studio for a few hours and lose themselves in the passion of their lovemaking, it was when Alex returned to his large, empty bed that he apprehended what it was he truly craved. What he missed, what he ached for: the sweet and profound joy that flowed through him when he held Gen in his arms.
Alex had arranged with Cassie that he would fly with the kids back to Virginia so that she and Caleb could drive with their partner, Hank Sawyer, and help with the horses on the return trip. When the day came for the twins to leave, Gen had to blink back tears as she crushed first Sophie and then Jamie tight against her. It was so hard to say good-bye. “You two keep drawing, okay? I want to see those ponies you told me so much about and that pond where the frogs live, and, well, everything you can think of,” she said with a shaky laugh.
“Okay. And maybe you’ll come and visit us. Then Murphy can play with Radar and Belle and meet Topper and Pip, too,” Sophie said enthusiastically. “Uncle Alex can bring you. He knows where we live.”
“I’d like that very much,” she whispered, in a voice thick with emotion. It was amazing how quickly these two children had found their way into her heart. With a final hug she straightened and met Alex’s warm gaze. His mouth was curved in a tender smile. What would it be like to carry Alex’s child, to share with him the wonder and magic of bringing a life into the world with him? At the thought, a longing so acute pierced Gen, she had to bite her lip, stifling her cry.
As Jamie and Sophie climbed noisily into the backseat of the Aston, Alex
reached out to stroke her hair. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you all right?”
Nearly undone by the gentleness of his touch, she pressed her lips together and nodded. When he continued to look unconvinced, she confessed tremulously, “I’m lousy at saying good-bye, that’s all. I’m going to miss you.”
His hand slipped down her back and drew her close. “You mean, maybe more than just a ‘wee bit’ this time?” he teased, before pressing a kiss to her forehead.
Lord, if he only knew. Her throat was tight, clogged with emotions; she forced them back. There’d be time to tell him all she felt. “You’ll be back the day after tomorrow?”
“Yeah. You know, I can easily switch my flight.”
“No, no.” Resolutely she shook her head. “Jamie and Sophie have been talking all week about jumping over those whatchamacallits.”
“Crossbars,” he supplied helpfully.
“Right. Crossbars. You need to see that feat. And I’ll be able to get a lot done on the painting.”
“And when I get back, I’ll have you all to myself.” As if sensing that she desperately needed levity to lighten the moment, he gave her bottom a playful swat, grinning wickedly at her squeal of surprise. “Get lots of rest, Monaghan,” he advised. “I promise you, you’ll need it.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Gen spent the remainder of the day immersed in her painting. Spread over the worktable were dozens of drawings, all of Jamie, Sophie, and Alex captured in various poses. Yet she painted without even glancing over at them once. She didn’t need to; their features were etched in her memory.
There were certain moments, rare and fleeting, when Gen created that she felt a wondrous synergy of mind, spirit, and body. Suddenly forms and lines flowed without hesitation or uncertainty from her hand to her brush. As she worked on the painting for the Children’s Hospital, she experienced more than the glorious certainty of her artistic vision or the thrilling excitement of creating. This time love flowed from her. A love that filled her heart and that she poured onto the canvas. Hours passed and Gen painted.
The ringing of the phone broke her concentration. Thinking it might be Alex calling again, she snatched up the receiver without waiting for the answering machine to kick in. “Hello,” she said breathlessly, as hungry for the sound of his voice as she’d been the first time when he called to tell her that he and the twins had arrived safely in Charlottesville.
“Genevieve, it’s Jiri.”
“Jiri?” she echoed in astonishment as she glanced out the window. The sun was setting. “Isn’t it horribly late in Prague?”
“Yes.” He laughed. “But I am in New York now. Don’t you remember? I told you last time we talk on phone.”
“Of course, I just lost track of the days,” she fibbed, unwilling to admit that their conversation had flown straight out of her head. “So you’re in New York? That’s great. Have you seen your dealer?”
“Tomorrow,” he answered. “Then I come see you. Gen, I have big surprise.”
“Uh, Jiri, I’m out on Long Island. In the Hamptons.”
“So?” She could practically see Jiri giving one of his eloquent, signature shrugs. “I rent a car.”
“No, no,” she said hurriedly. Jiri was one of the worst drivers in the world. The thought of him loose on the Long Island Expressway was enough to make her blood run cold. And then, if he managed to make it out to East Hampton without causing a major crash, there’d be all those Rollerbladers and joggers tooling down the roads, unaware their lives were in imminent danger. “Really, Jiri, you don’t have to go to all that expense. There’s a bus, the Jitney, which you can take. It’s much cheaper. You can get on in midtown and go straight out to East Hampton. I’ll meet you at the bus stop.”
“Okay, I take a bus, you pick me up, I tell you big surprise,” he said so agreeably that Gen found herself staring in baffled wonder at the receiver in her hand. This didn’t sound like the Jiri Novak she knew. Jiri had always been the kind of person who was happiest when he was making the decisions, no matter how minute. Maybe his position as director of the academy had given him a new appreciation for flexibility.
After agreeing that he’d call her once he knew which bus he was taking, he said, his accented voice gruff, “It will be good to see you, Genevieve. I have missed you in my life.”
Touched, she smiled into the receiver. “Oh, Jiri, that’s sweet. But it’ll only take you about three minutes to remember how contrary and infuriatingly stubborn I can be. Of course, it works both ways. I’m so happy about seeing you, I’ve clean forgotten how aggravating you are.”
With a laugh he said, “I will be on my best behavior. Then we shall see, no? Good night, Gen.” She heard the soft click of the line disconnecting.
Smiling she shook her head and replaced the phone in its cradle, jumping in surprise when it rang beneath her hand. “Hello?”
“Hi.”
Gen’s smile turned dreamy at the sound of Alex’s low voice. “Hi,” she replied softly. “How are things?”
“Well, they’d be great except for the fact that I’m here and you’re there. Which significantly downgrades the whole experience.”
“Wow, that sounds like a real drag. Kind of like being stuck in economy class,” she teased.
His quiet laughter rumbled in her ear. “Ahh, Gen, you’re a tough woman to woo. Okay, how’s this for a sweet nothing? What if I tell you that I’m going quietly mad because I want you so much? That these ten hours have dragged like ten years? That I’m sitting here with a goofy smile on my face because I’m finally hearing the sound of your voice?”
Closing her eyes at the delicious tingling sensation coursing through her, Gen gripped the phone tighter, lest it slip from her fingers. “That works,” she breathed.
“Good. Now, what are you wearing?”
Her eyes popped open in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“Something incredibly sexy, right? Something that’s going to drive me right over the edge. No, don’t tell me,” he said. “Let me guess . . . ripped blue jeans and a T-shirt, right?”
“Right,” she echoed and then laughed when Alex gave a low groan.
“Ahh, Gen, you’re killing me. Want to take ’em off real slowly?”
“Idiot,” she accused, laughter still threading her voice. “Your aunt’s about to walk in here; we’re going to the movies in Sag Harbor. As liberal-minded as she is, I think that might shock her, seeing me buck naked having phone sex with her adored nephew.”
“Damn,” Alex said heavily.
She smiled, foolishly, gloriously happy to be having this ridiculous conversation. “Tell you what, Miller. Now that I know how much you appreciate this outfit, I’ll be sure to wear it when you come home.”
“Mmm.” Alex’s voice was a sexy rumble of approval. “And then I can be the one to take it off real slow.”
“Whatever your heart desires,” Gen said softly.
“That’s a promise I’ll hold you to.” The teasing note was gone from his voice. Then, hearing Murphy burst into a loud canine welcome, he said, “Give Aunt Grace a kiss for me.”
“I will. And what do I get?” she murmured provocatively.
“Me,” he answered before hanging up.
Gen was only too happy to let Mrs. Miller drive. Still under the sway of Alex’s effortless seduction, she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to find Sag Harbor. It was only later, when she was sitting down in the dimly-lit movie theater beside Mrs. Miller, a tub of buttered popcorn between them, that she realized she’d forgotten to tell Alex about Jiri coming to visit.
Gen left for East Hampton early the next afternoon, so she’d have plenty of time to find a parking space in the busy town. From her various sorties and shopping expeditions, Gen had decided that East Hampton epitomized what made the Hamptons alluring to so many. It was simultaneously a picture-perfect, carefully preserved town that also happened to offer the height of consumer chic. One could stroll past a graveyard whose tombstones dated from t
he seventeenth century, lovely, gracious shingled homes and white-steepled churches, and then duck into Ralph Lauren, Coach, or David Yurman and do some serious credit card damage. Even East Hampton’s smaller boutiques catered to bulging wallets; their prices left Gen reeling with sticker shock. She was obviously in the minority, though, because she’d never driven to East Hampton without seeing the sidewalks crowded with well-heeled tourists and locals alike streaming in and out of the shops.
Fortunately Gen had gotten to know her way around the town and turned onto a side street where she found a space for the Yugo. She made her way back to Main Street and sat down on the wooden bench that marked where the Jitney stopped.
Jiri was the first to step off the gleaming black coach bus. The sight of his tall frame, his lean, ascetic face, his brown hair threaded with gray just a little shaggier than she remembered, had her face stretching into a grin. “Jiri,” she called.
He dropped his black messenger bag and spread his arms wide. “Genevieve, my lovely Genevieve.” He laughed, hugging her tight. Then relaxing his arms, he stepped back. “Let me look at you. The rich sea air must be good for you, Gen, you are looking lovelier than ever. And more of those charming freckles,” he teased, touching the tip of her nose.
“You’re looking fine yourself, Jiri. That’s a fantastic shirt,” she said, lacing her arm about his terra-cotta shirtsleeve.
“You like?”
“I like.” She nodded. “It’s very chic. Armani?” she guessed, knowing his passion for the Italian designer.
“Very appropriate, very Hamptons, I thought,” he said, picking up his messenger bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
“Absolutely. Come on, I’ll take you back home. We can have tea in my studio. Murphy’s going to be overjoyed to see you.”