by Laura Moore
Jiri groaned. “My new shirt will not survive a reunion with that beast.”
“Oh, don’t worry. He’s gotten much better behaved.”
“That would be a miracle.”
They chatted about this and that, with Gen occasionally pointing out some of the famous houses—or people who lived in them—as they drove the four miles back to Georgica. But when she pulled into the driveway that led to Mrs. Miller’s house, Jiri went quiet. He climbed out of the car and walked toward the house, its graceful lines bathed in the afternoon light. He stopped, and then turned in a slow circle. Gen knew he was taking in the ripples playing over Georgica pond, the different greens of the vegetation, the shimmering blue of the ocean. Still looking, he nodded and said quietly, “Okay, now I understand what brought you here. And you have studio, too?”
“Mmm.” Gen nodded, pleased by the sincere appreciation she’d heard in his voice. “It’s right this way. But let’s make some tea first. And then I want to hear all about your upcoming show.”
As they drank tea and ate slices of a raspberry loaf Gen had baked with Sophie and Jamie, Jiri kept rising from his stool to walk over and study her painting.
Standing before it now, he said, “Your colors have changed, Genevieve.” He took a sip of black tea from the mug cradled in his hand and pivoted, looking at her quizzically as if trying to solve a puzzle. With his free arm he made a sweeping gesture. “So, this place, it has made you see differently?”
Gen smiled and shook her head. “No,” she said. “Though it’s beautiful here, and I love it. I’ve met someone, Jiri.”
“A man?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.” She met his dark gaze. “I don’t know how to explain it except that he’s changed me.”
Jiri regarded her in silence and then turned once more to the painting. “The subject . . . well, it should be trite.” His shoulders lifted in a heavy shrug. “But somehow it’s not. You’ve succeeded where others would have failed, Genevieve. This work is strong and powerful and immediate. It has the joy and wonder of Marc Chagall. You feel these children’s happiness, their pleasure in their creation. And this man, he’s—” Jiri stopped and lowered his gaze to the floor. For a second he stood, head bowed. Then slowly his gaze returned to the figure of Alex. “This man, he’s the one.”
“Yes.” Gen smiled softly. “He’s the one.”
Jiri came back to the table and sat down. “And it is he who commissioned the painting?” At her nod, he raised his eyebrow and smiled. “A rich man, then.”
Gen laughed and shook her head lightly. “Alex could live in a tent and I would feel the same way about him.”
The corner of his mouth lifted and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, I suppose you would. Ah, Gen, I am happy for you.” Reaching across the worktable, he took her hand in his. “You know, I had hoped . . . Well, maybe when you hear my news, it changes something in you, too,” he joked.
Hoping to dispel the awkwardness between them, Gen squeezed his fingers briefly. “So tell me everything. You’re going to have a show?”
His smile broadened, full of pride; suddenly he looked more like the Jiri she knew so well. “Berlin. Major retrospective, Genevieve . . . drawings, paintings, sculpture—Alles!” he said in perfect German. “Everything! They schedule it for late next year.”
“Oh, Jiri, that’s fantastic! Congratulations.”
“Yes, fantastic. And fantastic for you, too. Listen, Genevieve, the National Museum in Praha, as soon as they hear about Berlin exhibit, they jump on—how do you call it?” Jiri paused, searching for the word. “Ahh, yes, bandwagon. They call me at academy and say they would like to have exhibit, too.”
“You mean the retrospective would travel from Berlin to Prague?”
“Yes.” Jiri nodded. “But as I am now director of National Academy, the curators say, Why not include artists I have taught, let public see contemporary dialogue of art and ideas. So, first name I give them is Genevieve Monaghan.”
Gen laid a hand to her chest. “Oh, my God, a museum exhibit in Prague? This is incredible. I’m—I’m simply overwhelmed,” she stammered.
“It’s good, no?” He grinned back at her. Leaning forward, he took her hands in his. “Gen, I buy big apartment, right on the Vltava. Beautiful gardens five minutes’ walk. Perhaps I stay at academy two years, three, tops. After that, Paris, London, we go where we want—even come back to New York, if you like. What we had together, Gen, even when you behave as stubborn as a rock—it was important.”
Gen felt her heart wrench at his words. “It was important to me, too, Jiri,” she said softly. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you want me to come . . . but I can’t.”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “No, don’t say it. When I go back to Praha, I wait and I hope.”
The light of the Aston’s beams fell on his aunt’s station wagon, and then picked up the space where Gen habitually parked her rusty Yugo. It was empty. Frowning, Alex pulled the car in beside it and killed the engine. He leaned over, grabbed the weekend bag he’d tossed onto the passenger seat at the airport, and slammed the car door shut behind him. He strode toward the house, its illuminated windows shining against the darkening sky.
Aunt Grace was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as she talked into the phone. At the sound of the door opening, she turned with a squeak of fright. “No, no, Tilly, it’s all right, just Alex giving me the scare of my life. Yes, I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll finalize the plans. And congratulations again, dear,” she said before hanging up and scowling at Alex. “Good Lord, Alex, you nearly gave me a heart attack! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to come back tomorrow.”
“Nice to see you, too, Aunt Grace,” he said, dropping his bag by the door and coming forward to kiss her cheek. “If you ever bothered to use the security system I had Sam install, I wouldn’t have been able to get within a mile of this place without you knowing it.”
“Hmphh,” his aunt replied testily, clearly not yet over her shock. “So, you didn’t stay to watch Sophie and Jamie jump?”
“Cassie decided to move the twins’ riding lesson to the early morning,” he said and grinned, recalling how Caleb had informed him that Cassie had decided to take pity on her older brother and get him on the first flight back to Gen. He’d send her a big bouquet of flowers tomorrow. “After the jumping session, I hightailed it to the airport and here I am. I thought I’d surprise you.”
“You succeeded,” she said dryly. “And how did they ride?”
“If they keep at it, I think Cassie’ll have some stiff competition in a few years. They’re fearless, those two.”
“The Miller courage,” his aunt said fondly and they exchanged a quiet smile.
Alex cleared his throat. “So, uh, is Gen out somewhere?”
His aunt gave a tiny laugh. “I was wondering how long it would take you before you asked—about a minute and a half. Yes, she’s having an early dinner with Jiri Novak before he heads back to New York.”
Alex’s smile died as jealousy, sharp as a knife, stabbed him. Aware that his aunt was watching him closely, he carefully schooled his expression. “Really? When did he come out?”
“This afternoon,” she replied, crossing the kitchen. Opening the wooden hutch she pulled down a bottle of wine and held it up inquiringly.
“Whiskey, I think,” Alex answered.
She carried the bottles over to the counter while Alex got down two glasses and rummaged for the corkscrew. After he’d poured her glass of wine, his aunt chose to resume the conversation. “Jiri’s a charming man, I must say,” she observed mildly.
Alex downed half his whiskey. “So you met him?” She nodded. “Yes, when I came back from the Baroque concert at the church. He had the most wonderful news for Gen. She was positively glowing.”
Upon hearing that the man Alex considered his rival could make Gen so happy, the knife twisted mercilessly in his gut. Jaw clenched he asked, “So what is this big news?”
With an insouciant wave of her hand, she said, “Oh, I’ll let Gen tell you herself.” And Alex bit back a growl of frustration. “In the meantime, I have some news of my own.” She smiled at him expectantly.
As distracted as he was, thinking about what Jiri could have possibly said to Gen, it was a while before he took the hint. “And that would be?” he asked finally.
“Tilly’s daughter has given birth to a little girl, Lucy Catherine. Mother and daughter are both doing fine,” she announced happily. “I’m going to Connecticut tomorrow so I can give my baby present in person and see Tilly’s new granddaughter. She’s reserving a room at the local inn for me.”
“How long are you going to be away?”
“A week or so. I have some old friends who live nearby whom I’d like to visit.” She took a sip of her wine and set it down on the butcher-block counter. “My only worry is that I’ll be leaving Gen alone here. I wouldn’t want something to happen to her with only Murphy for company. Intelligent though he is, I don’t see him picking up the phone and calling nine-one-one.”
Alex spared a passing thought for how alike Gen and his aunt were: both were fiercely independent women who worried more about others than themselves. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” he replied casually. “I was thinking I’d stay out here while I ironed out the wrinkles of the deal we’re negotiating with the software company I.Com. We have a meeting with them next Monday.”
“Good.” She smiled brightly. “And perhaps by the time I return you’ll have used some of that indomitable Miller courage and told the girl how you feel.”
Being told that he was basically a chickenshit by his aunt hadn’t exactly improved Alex’s mood. Especially since on the heels of that remark, she’d said she had to pack a suitcase for her trip to Connecticut and had left the kitchen before Alex could formulate some appropriately righteous retort. His aunt’s observation was just a little too close to the mark.
But hell, he thought, jealous and annoyed, how was he supposed to tell Gen how he felt when she was off with Jiri?
Moodily, Alex nursed his whiskey. At least he had one friend, he thought, nudging Murphy’s warm, snoring body with his bare foot. After changing into a pair of jeans he’d gone over to the studio. As he opened the door, Murphy had leapt out, dancing with happiness, overjoyed that Alex had sprung him from the confines of the studio. Deciding that such unswerving canine loyalty deserved a reward, he’d made them both steak sandwiches and poured himself another whiskey. Then they’d come out here, to sit on the front stoop and await Gen’s return.
He heard the tinny cough of the Yugo coming up the driveway even before its lights penetrated through the dense foliage bordering the driveway. Murphy, recognizing the sound, jumped up, but Alex grabbed his collar before he could rush out in front of the approaching car.
Alex sat, tension coiled like a spring within him, and waited.
Gen’s reaction eased some of the jealousy gnawing at him. She didn’t even bother to park. The moment the headlights picked up the gleaming silver of his car, she slammed on the brakes. The engine was still dying a loud death when the door flew open and Gen scrambled out and started running toward the house.
He stood as she rushed toward him. “Alex,” she breathed, ignoring Murphy’s tail-wagging presence. He caught a glimpse of the gold-flecked sparkle of excitement in her hazel eyes and then she was launching herself at him, laughing as she flung her arms about his neck. He hauled her close, feeling whole once more as her supple body molded itself against his length. Her touch unleashed a maelstrom of desire in him. His mouth seized hers, kissing her ravenously. His hands swept down and grabbed the backs of her thighs, lifting her off her feet. Unhesitatingly, she wrapped her legs about his hips, and the feel of her open and warm and pressing against his erection had him groaning low in his throat. Holding Gen tight, his plundering mouth never leaving hers, Alex carried her to the studio.
It was only when they’d crossed the threshold that Gen tore her mouth from his. “Wait,” she panted, squirming in his arms. Unwillingly Alex let her slide to her feet. “You’ve got to close your eyes,” she said in a breathless voice.
Even as he obeyed, his brows drew together, disliking the coolness of the air as her body moved away from his. His remaining senses heightened, he heard the snap and rustle of fabric and then the sound of her footsteps again. Suddenly he caught the tantalizing, flowery fragrance of her scent as she drew near. His nostrils flared; he breathed deeply and shuddered as her lips lightly touched his.
“It’s all right. You can open them now,” she whispered against his mouth.
Curious, he did so, and saw that the Indian-print bedspread she used on the futon was now draped over the canvas, hiding it. “It’s almost finished,” she explained in answer to his silent query. “But I’d like to wait and show it to you then.”
“So what’ll you show me now?” he asked, his voice low and intense. The need to possess pounding with each beat of his heart.
Their eyes locked.
“How about this?” she murmured. Lifting the hem of her cotton shirt she pulled it up and over her head and tossed it on the floor. His mouth went dry as he watched her breasts rise and fall to the rhythm of her ragged breathing, her nipples tight, straining points against the thin cotton of her bra.
“That’s a nice start. Go on.”
Her eyes widened at the husky command. Then with a coy smile, she opened the front clasp and let the bra fall open. “Mmm, even nicer,” he whispered, fisting his hands at his sides so he wouldn’t reach for her . . . not yet, at least. “Got anything else to show me?”
Fire shot through his veins when her tongue swept over the lush curve of her upper lip. “I’ve been saving the best for last.” Sweat trickled, pooling at the small of his back as she worked the buttons of her jeans. Baggy as they were, they slid unimpeded down her narrow hips and long slender legs. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
His heart thundering, Alex fixed his eyes on her panties. He took a step forward, backing her up against the wall. “Take ’em off,” he growled softly.
She gave the tiniest shake of her head. “I was hoping you might like to do it for me. Would you?” she asked.
Gen’s smile, as beguiling as a siren’s, annihilated the last vestiges of his control. He dropped to his knees before her, his hands reaching and dragging the pink cotton down, then racing up her silken limbs to hold her quivering body as his mouth found her. She was wet and slick and exotically delicious. Greedily his tongue licked and probed and plundered even as she came, convulsing, her hands fisting in his hair, her cry of “Alex” echoing in the room. Nearly crazed with need for her, he rose, tearing at the front of his jeans. Reaching for her, he lifted her, pinning her to the wall. Helpless whimpers fell from her lips as he wrapped her slender legs around him, positioning the blunt tip of his straining shaft at her slick entrance. Capturing her lips, he drove his body deep into hers. Sheathed to the hilt, he knew at last he was home.
It wasn’t until much later, hours, in fact, that Gen recovered enough breath to speak. Alex had been relentless. Wonderfully so. He’d made love to her again and again, as if he were claiming her body and her soul. Helpless to do otherwise, she’d given them freely, along with her heart.
Lying with her body draped over his, she lifted her head from his chest and gazed at his face. He looked sleepy and sated and simply wonderful. “Hi,” she said.
His lips twitched. “Hi, yourself.”
“I guess you missed me.”
“Mmm,” he said, his fingers lazily tracing the length of her spine. “I guess you could say that. ’Course, from that very fine welcome you gave me, I’d say the feeling was mutual.”
“Mmm, I guess you could say that,” she parroted, receiving a pinch on her butt for her efforts. “Ow!” she protested, laughing as she swatted his hand and missed. “You should treat artists on the brink of international recognition with more respect.”
“What?” He shifted, pulling himself and her farther up the pillows, so they were half reclining. “What’s this about international recognition?” he asked.
Excitement energizing her, she sat up, tucking her legs beneath her as she faced him. “That’s right,” she said, and her face split into an ear-to-ear grin. “I, Genevieve Monaghan, am going to have my paintings exhibited at the National Museum in Prague, so please handle with care.” A delirious giggle burst from her. “Can you believe it, Alex? The museum is doing a retrospective of Jiri’s work—and they want to devote part of the show to other artists he’s influenced. He came out on the Jitney today to tell me about it. Apparently mine was the first name he suggested. I, Genevieve Monaghan, am going to be gracing the walls of the National Museum in Praha,” she crowed, leaning forward to kiss him smack on the lips, laughing when his arms encircled her and tipped her back onto his chest.
“That’s pretty damned fantastic,” Alex said as he hugged her close.
“Damned right it is,” she whispered in his ear, so happy to be sharing this moment with him. Playfully she nipped his lobe and smiled as he shivered beneath her. Sitting up, she straddled his hips, her hands idly stroking the contours of his tanned chest as she continued. “Jiri said the curator, Tomas Kucera, is coming to New York next week and will be contacting me. Alex, I showed Jiri a transparency of Day One. He really liked it. He was wondering whether you’d consider lending it to the exhibit—if the museum people like it too, that is.”
“Is that all Jiri wanted?” he asked.
Startled, she glanced at his face. His gaze was intense and unwavering.
“Ah, so Novak would like more than just paint and canvas to come to Prague,” Alex said softly.
Gen felt her cheeks flush uncomfortably. “It’s nothing. Jiri’s just fixated on the idea that I go and work in Prague with him—he’d regret it five minutes after I’d moved in,” she added hastily.
“And what did you say to his idea?” he asked, ignoring her disclaimer.
She bit her lip. How should she answer Alex without making him believe that she was already planning their future together? What if he wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. “I told him I was touched.”