by West, Cara
Megan followed Sandra into her private sanctum and sat down anxiously in front of Sandra's desk. Together they studied the county's appraised value of the property, as well as an independent realty appraisal. They decided to offer a sum that split the difference between the two evaluations.
While Sandra went out to confer with Lynn, Megan sat back in her chair trying to catch her breath.
She was as nervous as she'd been when she'd flown off three years ago into the wild blue yonder.
Which was only natural, she realized. Today she was embarking on an adventure more exciting than any European sojourn. It was risky. It was frightening. And it was as exhilarating as sex.
Sex. Nate. Nate. Sex.
These days she couldn't keep from making the connection. And thinking about both of them much too often. Dangerous thoughts. Thoughts that undermined her initial resistance.
The first week, she'd been furious with him and with herself. Damn it, she'd worked hard to overcome her hopeless passion. Perhaps she'd been naive about the platonic nature of their current relationship, but she'd hated to see all her efforts go to waste.
Yet they hadn't really. She'd slowly come to understand that. In Europe she'd engaged in—although to a much lesser degree—the kind of dalliances known to be his specialty. And lately she'd been thinking a lot about dallying. Thinking. Imagining.
As a teenager, she'd carried a gauzy image of what it would be like to kiss Nate. Now she thought of making love with him with heated specificity. Often these past few weeks she'd wondered what Nate would be like as a lover. Accomplished surely. But could he offer more than technique?
She was curious to know. She was more than curious. And, after all, why shouldn't she go to bed with the man? She saw him clearly. She had no illusions. She wasn't in love with him, for heaven's sake, so she wouldn't be in danger of getting hurt.
An affair between them needn't distract her from her goals and ambitions. After they'd had their fill, they could continue as friends. And if they decided that discretion was the better part of valor, no one else in the family need be the wiser. Why should she deny herself what so many other women had enjoyed?
Megan moaned in frustration and jumped up from the chair. She glanced around for something—anything—to distract her. That was when she noticed the painting.
How could she have missed it? she wondered. The three-by-five oil on canvas demanded close attention.
A suburban landscape, it seemed to represent tranquillity. The casual observer saw a spacious, well-appointed home framed by a manicured lawn. Not an unlikely choice for a realtor's office. Yet this was no generic work chosen by a decorator to fit in with the room.
This painting had been done by a first-class artist. The brush strokes were delicate, the detail masterly. It had the clarity and precision of a photograph. But a photograph couldn't have communicated the sense of loneliness Megan felt when she spied the figure of a woman sitting under a tree to one side.
Even though the lines of the house had been precisely rendered, the woman's face and figure were indistinct. Yet, somehow, Megan knew the woman was Sandra. The artist had delineated the lines of her body, the particular way she held her head.
What fascinated Megan most was that the figure was both part of the scene and yet detached from it. This wasn't the quietude Megan had first supposed. This stillness conveyed a dark intensity, in spite of the bright clear colors the artist had chosen.
The painting made a statement of profound ambivalence. Was this a home Sandra had wanted and sold?
A wave of intense feeling washed over Megan, and when she looked down at her arms, she saw she'd broken out in goose bumps. She took a deep settling breath and turned to a second painting on the opposite wall.
It was by the same artist. An interior of the same home, Megan guessed. Again, superficially it was the perfect decoration for the modish office. Again, when Megan studied it, she realized a story was limned within the frame.
The room had been etched in precise detail and rendered in that same sterile elaboration.
How could a room look so busy and yet so cold? On this canvas no figure was depicted. Megan got the impression no one lived in this room. The colors were pure and clear as a rainbow, but the atmosphere was as opaque as unconscious desire.
The moment Sandra walked back in, Megan asked, "Who painted this interior and landscape? They're incredible."
"Do you think so?"
"Did you do them?"
"Oh, no." Sandra waved a self-deprecating hand. "I can barely draw a stick figure. Betty did them."
"The woman who's staying with you?"
"Yes."
"She's good."
"I think so."
"I mean really good, Sandra. First class. Her craftsmanship alone... But it's not just craftsmanship."
Sandra stared at Megan as if she wasn't sure what to say.
"Does she have any more?" Megan asked urgently.
"They're all over my house. I've set up a studio for her. Ever since she left her husband, she's been painting up a storm."
Megan sank into her chair. "I'd like to see them. Today, if possible. That is, if you don't think she'd mind."
A long moment passed before Sandra answered. A moment she took to close the office door. Walking back to her desk, she seemed to be framing an answer.
When she finally did, it came as something of a surprise. "I'm not sure it's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"I don't want Betty hurt. Not that you mean to hurt her. But, well, she's... had a difficult time. Ken, her husband, abused her. I don't mean physically so much. Although he did blacken her eye when she told him she was leaving. She's beaten down emotionally."
Megan nodded her understanding.
"She's fragile, you could say."
"I promise to be tactful. But this kind of talent..."
"She's never sold a painting."
Megan's mouth dropped open.
"Ken said they were insipid. He said he could find better art in a motel room."
Megan let out an incredulous whistle. "Well, I can't judge on just two paintings. But if her other work is..."
"You caught on to them, didn't you?"
"Well—"
"That's my home, did you know?"
"I realized after a moment that was you in the landscape."
"My house has always been for show. I've never really lived in it. Betty saw that immediately."
"Just as important, she was able to communicate it."
Sandra's smile held a hint of irony. "Most of the people who notice the painting say, 'What a pretty picture.' They think the interior is out of House Beautiful."
"I want to see what else she's done. Are you telling me no one in the art world has seen her work?"
Sandra shook her head. "No one. She paints because she has to, not because she believes her efforts have any commercial value."
"Then it's doubly important I have a look at her work. This woman is a legitimate artist, and my profession is to work with artists. Just as selling real estate is yours. I may be young—''
"No, no, that's not the problem."
But something was, and it was more than Betty's fragility.
Megan could feel Sandra working through her reluctance.
Finally she seemed to come to a decision. "Let's get this offer signed and delivered. After that, we'll drive out to the house."
WHEN MEGAN and Sandra entered Sandra's home, they found Betty painting in her improvised studio. In contrast to Sandra's regal glamor, Betty was small, a bit mousy and nondescript in old blue jeans and a faded plaid shirt. She showed surprise and some alarm at having a visitor, but smiled in pleasure when Sandra provided Megan's name.
"So Sandra showed you the house," Betty said. "Didn't you love it?"
"I've put in a bid. We're waiting to see if they'll accept."
Betty clapped her hands delightedly. She had a childlike quality that bore little relation to her age, whi
ch was probably fifty-something. Megan had often seen the same in artists she'd worked with.
What she hadn't seen was work of this caliber. She let her eyes drift around the room as casually as she could.
"Sandra told me you painted," she said. "I saw your canvases in her office. They impressed me. Do you mind if I look around at what else you've done?"
Another look of alarm flitted across Betty's face. At that moment she reminded Megan of a frightened sparrow. Her eyes sought reassurance from Sandra, who smiled at her tenderly and gave a slight nod.
"Sure. If you want to. I'm not a real artist. I just dabble a little. It... it's always provided me a way to escape... I mean, to enter a different world. Ken, my, uh, my husband, says I'm a dreamer. I did take lessons for a while, but my art teacher said he couldn't do anything with me. I'd already developed a style of my own. Besides, Ken decided it cost too much money."
Megan listened while Betty rambled on, insecurity and timidity coloring her voice, even as the paintings all around seemed to glow with their own radiance. Megan had the most extraordinary feeling she'd remember this moment all her life.
This woman, this extraordinary, exceptional, timid little woman, had no idea of her own talent. As Megan went from painting to painting, she found it hard to catch her breath. Finally she turned to Betty and found Sandra hovering protectively.
"Betty, your work isn't dabbling. It's art. You're an artist. I'm not sure even I know how good you are. But I know craftsmanship and creativity when I see it. Your teacher was right. Your style is all your own. I want to hang your work in my gallery. I'd like to represent you. I'm not sure I can do you justice, but I certainly want to try."
Sandra let out a sigh of relief and squeezed Betty's hand before releasing it. Betty looked up into Sandra's face with dazzled wonder.
They stood side by side, partners against an uncertain world.
And that was when Megan knew Sandra and Betty were lovers. She couldn't help wondering whether Nate had any idea.
CHAPTER FIVE
NATE STARED at the numbers on the screen, trying to maintain his concentration. These particular figures should have absorbed him, since they represented profits from the last three quarters. According to the data in front of him, Grant-Kittridge Engineering was enjoying a very good year.
They'd had to hire two more engineers to assist Sam in the already scheduled upcoming projects. Not only that, Nate's research had shown that the market looked promising for innovative machines that could custom-manufacture nonfrozen confections. The company was about to branch out in a new direction.
Yet Nate found himself unable to keep his mind on business. Images of Megan dominated his mind. He closed the program, turned off the computer and gave in to the temptation to lean back in his chair and recall the past few weeks.
Before that day at Lake Travis, he'd reached a level of frustration that had made it dangerous to be in Megan's company. He'd known a showdown was coming between them, even before she'd goaded him with past affairs and stirred an unfamiliar jealousy. When she'd assured him she was cured of her grand passion, he'd felt intense regret and dismay. When she'd airily dismissed the possibility of any future involvement, he'd reacted instinctively, needing her to admit the feelings smoldering between them.
Yet ever since the confrontation, he'd been content to move at a leisurely pace. To savor their mutual awareness and to enjoy every detail of their evolving attraction.
Megan wasn't some female to be maneuvered into quick and meaningless sex. In fact, the thought of her in bed with any man, even himself, still provoked his protective instincts. Besides, he didn't want a shallow liaison with Megan. This was the girl he'd cherished from the day she was born.
And now, after twenty-six years, he'd fallen under Megan's spell. She had become his own personal enchantress.
The way the light danced in her hair held infinite fascination. All the ways she smiled, her laughter, tumbling in his mind. The way she pounced on a couch or chair, a graceful whirlwind of movement. The tempting angles of her body as she reclined. The settling of her breasts when she folded her arms in displeasure. He wondered if she had any idea of how sexy she looked when she was angry.
He knew how hard it was for her to accept her parents' difficulties. Megan had always charged through life. She wasn't used to helplessness or impotence. She couldn't know how often he'd longed to hold her to his heart as he had that first night at the hospital. He was sorry that the old comforting Nate wasn't available any longer.
But the situation between them had changed. This new awareness of each other was risky for both of them. And neither could go back to the safe old ways.
He should distrust his newfound bemusement. No one had ever controlled his emotions and his senses this way. It should have scared the hell out of him.
It did.
But, oh, the feeling was so good.
He hoped Megan was experiencing the same pleasure.
He'd watched her initial defiance soften into sensual curiosity. There were questions in her mind. Questions he'd asked himself. About how their bodies would heat and flow together in passion.
But passion could wait. No need to rush things. At this stage, Nate was feeling absurdly romantic.
He felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Romance and he were virtual strangers. Yet, for the first time, he felt younger than springtime—tormented and tender and deliciously tentative.
He wanted the sun, the moon and the stars for Megan. But more than anything, he wanted to woo her in a way no one else ever had.
He'd been thinking it was time to begin the active wooing. Anticipation made his pulse thrum in his ears.
A dinner date. He realized they'd never shared a meal alone, except during the frantic flight home.
Suddenly he asked nothing more of life than to see Megan's face cast in the glow of candlelight.
He picked up the phone and dialed her parents' number. She answered the phone on the second ring.
"Megan—"
"Nate."
The pause grew breathless.
"Have dinner with me tonight."
He heard a mocking sigh. "I thought you'd never ask."
"Are you complaining?'' He couldn't help grinning.
"I never complain," she retorted in a provocative voice. "I was just wondering when you were going to tire of playing 'old friend of the family.' I mean, after that kiss, I expected some action."
His response was silky. "I find it more rewarding to do the unexpected. Which reminds me, may I make a request for tonight?"
"Depends on what it is."
"Wear your dark blue silk. I want to imagine the texture of it against your skin."
"Oh. Well... I guess I can manage that."
He'd flustered her. Good. He'd hate to be alone in his confusion. "I'm asking, you understand, as an old friend of the family."
"Can we still be friends?"
"I'd like to be—and more."
"As friends," she said, "we have something to celebrate."
"Your father?"
"No." The animation left her voice. "I'm afraid he's no better."
"Then what's the celebration?"
Her tone grew smug. "You'll find out tonight."
"Why keep me in suspense?"
"Why can't I have my surprises? Besides, it won't do you any harm to be frustrated occasionally."
"More than occasionally these days," he reflected darkly.
"Yeah." There was a hitch in her voice before she continued, "You talk big, but I've decided you're bluffing."
It was his turn to take a steadying breath. "Complaining again? Or is that a challenge?"
"Maybe."
"You don't like my pace?"
"It's driving me crazy," she muttered,
"The feeling's mutual. Be ready by seven-thirty. And remember—the blue dress."
Nate suspected he was still wearing a fatuous smile when Sam walked in carrying a batch of computer printout
s.
"What are you grinning about?" Sam came around the desk to show Nate something. "I haven't seen the third-quarter figures. Are they that that good?"
Nate mumbled an appropriate response.
Sam went on, his mind on his business, "Look. We've got a glitch in the design of Project 234. Fixing it's going to add a hundred thou to the estimate."
Nate got himself in hand. "You do what you need to do, and I'll work up new figures. I can present them in Minneapolis when I fly there next month."
"Good." Sam spared a moment from his absorption. "You want to come to dinner tonight? It's Caroline's fifteenth birthday."
"Fifteenth—?"
"Month," Sam explained as if Nate were a little slow. "You celebrate the months until their second birthday."
"Oh, I see." Nate said the next regretfully. "Tell Jenny I'm sorry, but I'll celebrate next time. I, uh—" he cleared his throat "—I'm b-busy tonight."
Sam stepped back to survey the man he'd known for more than thirty years. "Ahhh. Now I understand the grin. Who is she this time? Anyone I know?"
Nate hesitated instinctively.
Sam held up a hand. "No, don't tell me. It's too tiring to keep up with them. I was beginning to think—'' he studied Nate over the bridge of his glasses "—that age was slowing you down. I haven't seen you with anyone since—what was her name? Gretchen?"
Nate felt his back stiffen with hostility. "Maybe I've become more selective.''
"You couldn't get more selective than Gretchen. A PhD psychologist and ex-Miss Texas. Your problem, partner, is that you bore too easily. You're going to wear out before you get too old."
"Thank you very much for your free analysis. Gretchen usually charged a night in bed for hers."
"Got too close, did she? Women can do that if you let them."
Nate responded rudely.
Sam took the hint and moved to the door before turning to ask, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah."
"I just wondered. You're not usually this touchy. And you don't usually stutter." Speculation warred with skepticism on Sam's face. "Does it mean I should make a point of meeting this one? On second thought, I don't want to. I always end up feeling sorry for them, especially when they get a dewy look in their eyes."