Beauty and The Best (Once-Upon-A-Time Romance)

by Fennell, Judi

  “What?” was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

  “My Jolie,” he murmured again. This time there was no mistake.

  The blanket slipped from her fingers and Todd nestled into it.

  The man was dreaming of her?

  ***

  Jolie tried to rein in the bounce to her step as she skipped up the stairs to the studio the next morning. It was entirely possible he wasn’t awake yet, but her? She’d been awake for what seemed like hours, after a tough time falling asleep. Heart kept wanting to re-examine the meaning and ramifications of him talking in his sleep about her. And that oh-so-significant “my” before her name. Even though she’d ordered every hormone, every emotion, every nerve cell in her body not to overreact, Heart was break-dancing in her chest like it was Valentine’s Day.

  She looked in the window. He was just starting to stir. She knocked.

  Green eyes lit up when he lifted his head. And so did her heart. It had to have been a good dream for him last night.

  He shuffled to the door, all rumpled and sleepy-eyed, and that curl was back on his forehead. He ran both hands through his hair, then brushed the shadow on his jaw and gave her a one-sided grin as he opened the door. “You really haven’t seen me at my best in the mornings.”

  “That is a matter of opinion,” said Jolie, not Naughty Girl. She brandished the plate she’d brought. “Breakfast is served.”

  “Are you and Jasmine trying to keep me locked in my tower? I swear, I think I’ve had the last five meals in here.” The supposed lock-down didn’t seem to have any effect on his appetite, shoveling in the fried-eggs-over-easy, Canadian bacon, and whole-wheat toast as he was.

  “Perhaps you should think about coming up for air, then.” She locked her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels.

  The eyebrow went up again. “Are you kidding? It’s flowing, Jolie. It’s working. All of it. Light, perspective, shadows, depth, you… It’s as if I’ve never stopped, yet I’ve never painted like this before.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  He scooped up another piece of egg, downed the entire glass of o.j., used the napkin she’d provided and nodded. “Better than a good thing. I didn’t really think it’d happen like this. I started this to see if I could do it. Now, I’m inspired. I want to try all sorts of things, super-imposed images, sepia tones, black and white, profiles, the list is endless.”

  “So I’ve outlived my usefulness, then?” She was glad for him. Truly, but if he was so inspired, he could paint anyone.

  He set the plate on the floor and when he stood, he was six inches closer and had hold of her hands. “Outlived it? I don’t think so.” He took another step closer. “If anything, you’re more important than ever.”

  She tamped down the surge of hope. “More important?”

  His eyes caressed her face. “Definitely.”

  A silence so fraught with unspoken words swirled around them, stealing her breath.

  Todd squeezed her hands. “Which is why I was thinking… ” He exhaled.

  “Of?”

  He closed his eyes for a second, then shook his head. “I want to paint all of you.”

  “Um, how much ‘all’ are we talking about?” She snaked her hands from his into her pockets.

  “Not a nude, Jolie.”

  She wasn’t sure if she was happy with that or not. “What do you have in mind?”

  He slid one of her hands from her pocket and cradled it in both of his, running those long strong fingers across the tips of hers. “Just you, as you have been these last few days. The essence of you, your grace and energy, the fire just beneath the surface. All of this I’ve found in your face, but there’s so much more. I want to capture the you I’ve seen on the sofa. Dreamy, soft, enticing, someone a man can dream of, would die to call his. I want to do justice to all of you.” He pulled her un-protesting body against his.

  Someone a man could dream of. An essence, grace and energy. Fire beneath the surface. And Todd holding her.

  There she went melting again.

  ***

  He stared down into that face he’d come to know so well over the last few days. It wasn’t much effort to see past the skin to the woman beneath.

  Todd’s throat tightened, amazed that this was happening. Amazed he could feel again, feel this again. Desire for her, and for his craft; two things he would’ve bet he’d never want or need in his life again.

  But Jolie had changed all that.

  And now he couldn’t stop the feeling. Didn’t want to. He wanted to be with her and look at her, and yes, paint her. There was magic between them, just as there’d been with Trista.

  Jolie inspired him in so many ways.

  But today was all about the painting, so he stepped back. “Can we do the drop cloth again? I want to drape it over you as if you’re not wearing anything.”

  “You want me to take off my top again?”

  In more ways than one. But this was about his art. But about them, on the other hand… Well, the truth was, his body was letting him know loud and clear he was ready to move forward. Just the thought of her taking off her top was enough to make him hard. But this was about the painting. It had to be. “I promise I won’t look.”

  “I’m leaving my shorts on.”

  “Are you saying that for your benefit or mine?”

  She stuck out her tongue. “Turn around and I’ll strip down.”

  He groaned and headed back to the canvas, loving that she was comfortable enough to tease, but it didn’t help when he was trying to see her through an artist’s eyes yet all he could see was a desirable woman.

  But he tried. Over and over again, he drew the curve of her jaw, then smudged it out and tried again. He tried to detach himself from seeing the soft blush on her cheek as anything other than another color he had to capture. To not notice how dilated her pupils were from any perspective other than having to recreate them with a brush.

  Or how the light rippled over her skin, smooth and unmarred, bathing it in warmth, the scent of her soap reaching him—

  “I can’t do it.” Todd threw down the charcoal.

  “Do what?” Jolie sat up, clutching the drop cloth to her chest like the heroine on the cover of some romance novel.

  Yeah, don’t start thinking about that, Best.

  “Um, your hip. There’s something wrong with it.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my hip. Is this like the lines?”

  “What?”

  “The lines. Beneath my eyes? Remember?”

  Ah. He chuckled. “Yeah, I remember the lines, but, no, this isn’t like that. I wanted those lines. Your hip has bumps and I can’t figure out where the actual curve of it is.” But his fingers were more than up for the chance.

  Oh, hell. How was he going to get through this? Maybe painting her like this wasn’t such a good idea since he couldn’t seem to get beyond the physical. Her physical.

  “First of all, my hip does not have bumps. It’s probably just this stupid drop cloth.” She pulled it tight.

  Double hell. It outlined her breasts and followed where her waist dipped and her hips curved, and his salivary glands went into action.

  “Oh, pooh. You’re right. There are bumps, but they’re from my shorts.”

  He raised his eyebrows, incapable of speech at the moment.

  “I’m taking those off too, aren’t I?” She sighed.

  “You’ll remember later that it was your suggestion?” Whose benefit that question was for was a toss-up.

  Speaking of… she tossed a pillow at him. “Trust me, I’ll remember.”

  “It was not my idea.” That was definitely a reminder for him.

  “I know, though it’s not as if I can resist a temperamental artist flinging his charcoal to the floor in disgust. Turn around.”

  He was more than happy to. While she did some adjusting with the cloth and her shorts—don’t think about them hitting the floor and what that means—he di
d some adjusting of his own, amazed his libido had recovered so quickly when he’d thought that part of his life was over.

  “Ready,” she said.

  He almost groaned. The word took on new meaning with his new thoughts.

  He turned around. Oh, yeah. She was ready.

  And so was he. “Ahem, yes, well, that’s better.”

  “Glad you approve.”

  He grabbed the charcoal and set to work. Line, curve, shadow…

  “So, Todd… ”

  “Hmmm?”

  “What was it like when you sold your first painting?”

  A good memory. “Unbelievable. We were so poor.”

  “You were?”

  “Well, I guess poor is a relative term. Trista came from money, but when she married me her parents cut her off, hoping to spite her into running home.” He remembered those days only too well.

  “Obviously she didn’t.”

  “No, she didn’t. But we had to really watch our money. I remember we used to have thirty-five dollars every other Friday for groceries. Luckily, a buddy of mine worked in a butcher shop and could help himself—with the owner’s permission—to a few of the lesser-quality cuts. He’d drop some off every now and then so we didn’t have to buy that. But we really had to stretch those thirty-five dollars and do some major coupon shopping.” Especially when they’d spend ten percent of that paltry budget on a cheap bottle of champagne. Ah, the memories of those nights—when they’d lived on love and not much else.

  “One of Trista’s girlfriends came to visit and you should have seen the disgust on her face at our apartment. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it was clean and well-cared for and we tried to make it homey. But Sheila was used to better; used to seeing Trista in better. So when Sheila saw my paintings and found out that I was trying to break into the art scene, she insisted on having one. I knew right away, of course, what she was doing and I refused to take any money from her. Charity was the last thing I wanted.”

  A flash of something crossed Jolie’s face, pain perhaps. Ah, yes, she didn’t “do” charity. He understood.

  “Anyway, thank God for Sheila because she was a true friend. Still is, though I only get the requisite Christmas card from her now. She and I kept each other propped up at the funeral and I think it’s just too hard for us to see each other without the memories.”

  Usually it was even hard for him to remember Sheila without the memories flooding back, but now, today… Nothing. A quiet remembrance, but no gut-wrenching sadness.

  “Anyway, she shopped that picture around behind my back until the manager of one of the galleries downtown saw it and contacted me.”

  “And you sold your first one. Todd, that’s fabulous. How nice it is to have such a good friend.”

  “Yeah. She’s a special lady. And, oh the celebration we had that night, Trista and I. A fancy dinner at The Mid—at our favorite restaurant, champagne, I bought her flowers and she went shopping for a new dress… ” He smiled, remembering her excitement. And his.

  “The best part was watching Trista’s parents eat crow. And not for my sake. They owed her an apology big time. And she deserved it because she…” The memories were soft and sweet. For the first time in two years. “She never gave up on me.”

  She never had. She’d believed in him and had given him the courage and strength to take a shot at it. All his success had been because of her. All his drive had been because of that faith she’d had in him.

  That was why he’d thought he’d never paint again.

  But along came Jolie, with her chatter and her optimism and her sunshine—things she’d be fully excused for not feeling with her hard life—and she’d shared that with him. Made him remember how it could be. Let him see the possibility in the future.

  Dear God. Could it be… was he was falling in l—

  “I always thought it’d be cool to be famous. To have everyone know who you are and make lots of money.” Jolie hiked the drop cloth and adjusted her seat on the sofa.

  No. He couldn’t be falling. It was too soon. Too fast.

  Physical. That was it. That was all. And the need to rise above his sadness that she did so well.

  “Fame’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Jolie.” How well he knew that. He captured the play of her forearm as her fingers flexed on the cloth with the charcoal. “The money is nice, sure, and my in-laws suddenly found me worthy, but when Trista died it was hell. All the cameras, the reporters, the invasion of my privacy—I just wanted everyone to leave me alone, let me heal in peace. I don’t think I can ever go back to that.”

  “But you’re painting again now.”

  “I know. Because of you.”

  “Me?” She looked utterly adorable.

  “Yes, you. You pushed me just enough—”

  “I didn’t push.”

  “Okay, nudged then. Painting’s a part of me, of who I am, how I see the world. Always has been. A compulsion that made me feel alive. That’s why I couldn’t paint after Trista died. I wanted to die, too.”

  “But now that you are painting again, does that—”she licked her lips—“does that mean you want to live again?”

  Oh, hell yeah, he wanted to live again. And he was kidding himself sitting here trying to sketch her. He didn’t want to sketch her.

  He wanted to kiss her.

  “Yes, Jolie, I do want to live again. And I have you to thank for it.”

  He set down the charcoal and walked over to her.

  “Me?” Her eyes, big and violet and—yes—hopeful followed him all the way over as she scooted against the back of the sofa to give him room.

  “Yes, you, Jolie.” He sat next to her. “It was your happily-ever-after speech that first day, mentioning sixteen-year-old unwed mothers and the mother who couldn’t spell your name right, and I saw you.”

  “Me?”

  “You.” He tucked a strand of her soft silky hair behind her ear, trailing his fingers over the rest of it, imagining it caressing him. “There’s so much life in you, so much fire, the desire to not let anything bring you down. And I thought to myself, how amazing it is that this woman who claims nothing and no one, goes on, driving ahead to carve out her place in this world, the past be damned. Nothing’s going to stop you from getting what you want, Jolie, and that invigorated me. It inspired me. And it awed me. It does that still. You do that still.”

  “I do?”

  He smiled, recognizing that it was all true. “You’re parroting me again.” He traced her lips. “I know one way to stop that.”

  “You do?”

  “Uh hmmm.”

  He had to kiss her. Just had to. One soft kiss to capture this tenderness, this new, raw emotion. He cradled her head and brushed the barest of kisses on her soft lips.

  She returned it tentatively. He understood. She’d been let down in the past; he’d been hurt. Two scared, battered people coming together.

  He slid his fingers into that curtain of hair by her temples, angling her mouth to fit against his and he tasted the seam of her lips.

  Desire shot straight to his groin, hot and fierce. She gasped against his mouth, opening, her tongue meeting his with the same intensity, and, in a second, the kiss changed.

  Heat flooded him, his blood pounding in his ears, his cock standing to attention, and suddenly he had to get closer. He pulled her against him, but pain sliced down his spine.

  “Jolie.” He pulled away. “My back. It doesn’t want to angle this way. Hold on.” He shifted on the narrow sofa, trying to pull her onto his legs without dislodging the drop cloth—more for her modesty than anything else—when Jolie put a hand on his.

  “Todd.” Her voice, low and throaty, conjured pictures of her naked and sated.

  “Yes?”

  Jolie licked her lips. Quickly, unconsciously, her eyes staring into his, the tempo of her breathing matching his, her fingers trembling against the thin barrier between them.

  It could have been an hour that they stared at each oth
er; it could have been a lifetime. He’d never know. But it was as if they stood on a precipice, wind howling around them, a band of angry thieves rushing toward them, then—

  Jolie lowered the drop cloth.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  She was beautiful. But then he’d known she would be physically because she was in every other way. “Jolie, are you sure?”

  “I’m in l—I’m sure, Todd. The question is, are you?”

  A gift. He’d been given a gift.

  For the second time in his life.

  He turned around on the sofa, his hip next to hers, and stretched out beside her, his eyes never leaving hers. He slid one hand beneath her to caress the soft skin at her waist; his other hand found her cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. Her breath caught just as he leaned in to kiss her eyes closed. “I’m sure,” he whispered against her lashes.

  That was all it took.

  Her arm went around his neck and he pressed her to him, her breasts crushed against his chest, their lips finding each other. Tongues meeting, stroking, Jolie groaned, the sound reverberating along his nerves and suddenly he couldn’t get enough of her mouth. He couldn’t get enough of her. It was as if a dam had burst. All this long-denied feeling, the desire for her, came pouring out of him, and he wanted to wrap her in a cocoon of aching need and want.

  He threaded his fingers through her hair, fanning it over them, feeling the soft strands on his arms, imagining it raining down on his chest. He fisted some of it, tugging her head back, allowing him to trail kisses from her mouth over her jaw and down the long, graceful line of her neck. Her pulse fluttered against his lips; he could feel her shallow breathing as her breasts rose against his chest, and he wished he’d had the forethought to rip off his stupid t-shirt.

  He cupped her, grazing the nipple with his thumb, desire tightening his balls as it pebbled for him. Her head fell back more, this time through no effort on his part, and he traced her collarbone with his tongue, kissing the soft hollow at the center. Her skin smelled of lavender, a soft sheen gliding against his cheek as his lips sought her.

  “Jolie… ” He breathed in her scent, kissing every inch of her breast, mouthing the soft flesh down to the nipple. Rock hard, it perked upwards as if begging for his attention. He groaned, taking it into his mouth, and Jolie called out his name.