She glanced at him curiously but made no comment. He went through the kitchen, family room, and laundry room, and upstairs to more bedrooms and what he euphemistically called a playroom, and the entire glass-enclosed third floor, which was his study. Barbara exclaimed wonderingly, "This you call a cabin? I'd like to see one of your mansions! What does a bachelor like you need all that space for?"
He frowned a little and admitted, "I guess maybe I did make it a little too big. That's probably why it seems so empty."
She supposed that, being accustomed to designing luxurious houses, he had probably borrowed ideas that appealed to him from other plans, thus accounting for the nursery and other rooms for which he could have no possible use. And she was certain the place would have an enormous resale value, which had also probably been in the back of his mind when he designed it. Still, she teased him, "Did the world-famous architect make a mistake?"
He looked at her very seriously. "I hope not," he said. He dropped the pencil to the desk and looped both his arms around her, and his eyes were a very deep green. "What do you say, Bobbie?" he inquired softly. "Would you like to live there?"
For a moment she was stunned. His eyes said he was serious, but the question was so preposterous that her heart actually missed a beat in anticipation and confusion. Finally she managed, flustered, "Kyle, what a question!"
He began to laugh softly, and he buried his face in her breasts with a sigh. "You're right," he admitted, shoulders still shaking with quiet laughter. "I guess you've made me a little crazy. I haven't even gotten to first base with you and already I'm wanting you to move in."
She was relieved to discover that he was not entirely serious. She murmured, bending her face to his hair, "Oh, I think you've gotten to first base, all right, if I remember my high school terminology correctly."
He looked up at her, and though his eyes were still bright with the residue of laughter, she could sense a tensing within him as he lifted his hands to her face. She stiffened quickly and placed her own hands on his chest as though to ward him off. "Kyle," she said a little breathlessly, her voice high and nervous, "you promised… not during business hours…"
He looked at her for a moment, and then agreed, "You're right." He shifted her weight and stood up. Now he was definitely all business. "I think this will go faster if I dictate and you type. Let's try to get another chapter of text done today. We still have a lot of pasting-up and editing to do on this first part."
She sat down at the typewriter, and there she stayed for another four hours.
Kyle had not been joking when he had warned her he was a slave driver. He worked as hard as he played, and when he was working, he was almost a different person. There was no room for distractions and no time for breaks. This was her first full day working with him and she was amazed by what a stern taskmaster the pseudoplayboy could be. The hands of the clock slipped past twelve, and then one, and Barbara, who had not had any breakfast, complained, "Don't you ever get hungry?"
He only came over to her with a question about where to insert an illustration, and she did not bring it up again.
The telephone rang, and Barbara leaped for it, glad for an opportunity to get out of the chair. But Kyle pushed her down again, gestured that she should finish typing the sentence, and answered it himself. It was just as well, because it was for him.
From his side of the conversation Barbara gathered that it was not his lawyer, but someone with another problem concerning his work. He groaned once or twice, ran his fingers through his already rumpled hair, and paced back and forth to the length of the telephone cord. At last he said, "Listen, can't you work around it? I just can't break away right now. The thing is, I just got out of the hospital… Yeah, yeah, I know. But I'm in the middle of a book… Not reading it, thank you, writing it… No, I can't, and I'm not interested in your opinion of my literary abilities, either." Another long pause, and Barbara, who had abandoned typing for the welcome break, listened with interest. "Okay, I'll tell you what I'll do," he offered at last. "No, I know that, but I'll work something out. Don't expect me for six weeks, at least… I told you, I'll work something out. I'll call you back tomorrow morning, I promise."
When he hung up, he looked at Barbara bleakly and explained, "Problems with one of my buildings. In Canada." He turned away from her abruptly, leaning his palms on the desk, and hissed an oath so unpleasant that Barbara looked up, startled. "I'm sorry," he offered in a moment, turning back to her. "It's just that I just got back. Damn!"
"Canada isn't so far away," she offered sympathetically.
"I know, it's just that I could be tied up for weeks." After a moment he shrugged, and some of the misery on his face began to fade. "Oh, well," he said. "At least I put them off for a few weeks."
"I don't understand," she pursued. "I thought when the blueprints were finished, an architect's job was done. Why do you have to keep chasing around the world following up on the work?"
He gave her a wry smile that was mostly self-deprecating. "I make myself too damn available, that's why," he answered. Then, brusquely, "All right, let's get this finished up." And suddenly he looked up at her, puzzled. "Did we have lunch?" he inquired.
She laughed helplessly.
Barbara brought sandwiches and iced tea to the desk and he dictated between bites, sitting on the edge of the desk and sketching out illustrations and diagrams all the while with his free hand. Barbara was amazed and fascinated that anyone could work so hard and so steadily—only another facet of the ever-enlarging personality of Kyle Waters she could not have imagined before. At five o'clock he left her with enough work to keep her busy until midnight, telling her absently that he had to go work out something on the Canadian project before the entire structure caved in. For a time she stared rebelliously at the stack of papers he had left for her to edit, retype, and proof before they began anew in the morning. She wasn't even getting paid for this job! And he hadn't said a word about dinner.
But then she was stricken with remorse. It was Kyle who had worked like a maniac all day, all she had done was type, make a few suggestions, and edit his wording as she went along. He had done all the thinking, arranged the technical data, and drawn minute-detail inserts of graphs, diagrams, and illustrations. And he had done an entire chapter before she had even arrived.
With a sigh she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down to it. It was, after all, a labor of love.
At seven o'clock she broke down and pushed the intercom, asking Kyle if he would like her to fix dinner. The groan on the other end was of genuine chagrin. "I didn't even realize it was that time," he confessed. "I'm sorry, Bobbie. I've worked you like a hired hand all day, and if anything, I should be fixing dinner for you—or take you out at least. But I swear it's the truth, I just don't have time to eat tonight. I've got to get this thing finished up before morning, and even then it doesn't look as though I'll be able to get out of going up there to supervise the whole thing myself."
She felt a strange sort of disappointment tighten her throat. "Oh? When are you leaving?"
"Well, I've got to get this book done, and I think I can put it off until after Kate's party. But I'll probably have to leave that week, maybe the very next day." A pause. "Are you mad at me?"
She laughed. How could she be mad at Kyle? He was so unpredictable, so filled with delightful contradictions and moments of unexpected thoughtful-ness that no one could possibly hold a grudge against him.
"No," she told him, "I'm not mad. But you should eat something."
"There's probably something in the refrigerator up here. I'll look into it later."
"Well, I won't keep you. I've got to get back to work myself."
He seemed to be suddenly stricken with an attack of conscience. "Listen, you don't really have to do all that tonight."
She retorted, "Oh, yes, I do, if I expect to be able to keep up with you tomorrow. Besides, it's good for me." She had no doubt she would fall into bed exhausted. No bad dreams tonight.
"We'll slow down in a couple of days," he promised her. "I'll take you out and we'll do the town."
She gave a mock groan. "If I'm still able!"
She heard his soft release of breath. "Bobbie," he said, "I'd really rather be with you tonight."
The smile that came automatically to her face was tender and knowing. "Good night, Kyle," she said softly.
She did stay up to finish the work, but she awoke the next morning refreshed and well rested. She was surprised when she came downstairs to find the house empty, but then she supposed it was Kyle who had overslept this morning. She made coffee and drank a cup, and it was getting near nine. She decided to take the papers to him and invite him for breakfast.
There was no answer to her knock, or even to her call. She tried the door and found it unlocked, but then she hesitated, wondering how Kyle would react to being awakened by her. But then she shrugged and stepped in. After a bad start yesterday morning she was determined to show him that she was as conscientious and as hardworking as he was.
The unmade bed and the sound of the shower told her immediately why he had not answered her knock, but that was not what captured her attention. She caught her breath as she looked about the room.
Of course, the last time she had seen it he had still been unpacking, and now the room looked more like a home with his stereo system in place and his drawing board set up before the huge glass wall. But that was not what stunned her. In the center of the room was an easel, near it a table filled with tubes of paint and brushes and palettes, and on every available surface—the walls, the tables, even stacked up on the floor—were what she at first glance took to be exceptionally well-executed photographs. But as she walked over to one picture of Jojo, she saw that it was actually an oil painting on canvas, so lifelike and so perfect that only the touch of the canvas assured the eye that a human hand had produced the image and not the lens of a camera. There were others: pictures of the house and front lawn at high noon with every shadow and lacy leaf faithfully reproduced, Kate sunbathing on the beach, Michael mowing the lawn, Jojo swimming in the surf. There was a breathtaking seascape at sunset and even a black-and-white reproduction of Michael at the typewriter, which could have credibly been used on the cover of one of his books, except that the artist had captured him in a real moment of concentration, his face in shadow, his mouth grim, his fingers in action. She tried to take them all in at once, then go back and examine each one in detail, but being surrounded by such genius made her feel very small, insignificant, and rather worshipful.
"So." She heard Kyle's voice behind her, and she whirled. "You're here."
He was wearing a short brown velour robe, rubbing a towel through his hair, his legs and his wrists still gleaming with steamy moisture. The expression on his face was tight and not at all pleased, and there was a reserve in his eyes she had never seen before. But she ignored all this as she exclaimed, "Kyle, they're marvelous!" She made a sweeping gesture to include the entire room. "I've never seen anything like them! Did you—"
"Back in a minute," he said suddenly. "Got to dry my hair." He closed the bathroom door and she heard the blow dryer going.
She was still holding the papers she had brought. She placed them on the bar and helped herself to a cup of coffee, still marveling over the portraits as she came back into the living area to sit on the sofa. She thought his reaction was a little strange, but probably he was just shy about his talent—for no good reason, she thought incredulously. Was there no end to the man's genius? Was it possible that such a perfect body could shield a mind of such extraordinary abilities? He was simply too good to be true.
He came back into the room, his hair fluffy and dry. He had pulled on jeans and a blue chambray shirt but had not buttoned it. He went over to the bar and poured himself a cup of coffee, watching her covertly.
"Kyle," she accused, twisting to look at him, "you told me you were an architect, not an artist!"
He shrugged and made a negligent gesture toward the walls, not looking at her. "That's not art."
"Well, I'd like to know what you call it, then!" She jumped up and took the picture of Jojo in her hands. His glossy brown eyes and his lolling tongue were so real she expected him to jump up at any moment and start licking her face; the painting was perfect to the last detail, even the minute lettering of Hartz inscribed on his flea tag.
"Katie liked that one," he commented as he passed. "She wanted to hang it in the living room."
She looked at him, now definitely sensing something strange about his reaction. "Why don't you let her?" she inquired.
He shrugged for an answer and lounged back on the bed, crossing his feet at the ankles and watching her with a strange, almost uneasy expression. She came to stand before him and demanded, "Why didn't you tell me you were so talented?"
He dropped his eyes to study his cooling coffee and replied, "Because I'm not."
She made an impatient sound. "Did you or did you not do these paintings?"
"I did," he admitted, as though it were a crime— or at the very least immoral.
"Then," she demanded again, "why keep it such a secret? You act as though you're ashamed of it!"
"It's just a hobby."
She spread her arms helplessly. "This," she declared, "is the work of a genius! I can't believe you call it 'just a hobby'."
He gave her a lopsided grin. "Come on, Bobbie, you're embarrassing me." But she thought he was only half joking. He looked at her, and there was still that reserve in his face as his eyes flickered over hers nervously. "You remember that first day we met, you talked about not liking artistic types? I was afraid you would take my little hobby too seriously and pin a label on me—and a handicap."
She stared at him incredulously. "You're always quoting back to me things I've said," she accused.
"I have a photographic memory," he admitted frankly and gestured again vaguely to the paintings. "As you can see. It's a curse."
She laughed suddenly and that seemed to relax him. "Does that mean I'm forgiven for being a 'creative type'?" he inquired. "I'm not really, you know. I'm not moody or self-absorbed or egotistical, at least not to excess. And there's certainly nothing creative about those. That's why it's not really art."
She took up her coffee again and sat down on the sofa, frowning in puzzlement. "I don't understand what you mean."
"Art," he explained, "is creative interpretation. An artist uses all his senses, plus his emotions. I just use one—my eyes. That's why every painting turns out like a photograph. They're flat."
She thought they were anything but flat and she countered, "But that's just what makes them special. They're so real; they let the viewer see exactly what you saw, exactly the way it was. It takes an extraordinary talent to be able to do that."
"There's a technical name for it," he agreed halfheartedly. "I guess there are two or three men around the world who are starting to get some recognition in artistic circles for this kind of work. But it's still considered a bastard art form. Especially when the artist can't paint any other way."
"Have you ever considered giving a show?" she said seriously.
He laughed, but she could tell her remark had touched a deep responsive note in him. He stretched his hand out for her, and she came to sit beside him on the bed automatically, gladly, happy just to see him happy. "Oh, Bobbie," he said softly, looking into her eyes with undisguised tenderness and welcome. "You are good for me." He squeezed her fingers tightly, and she tingled all over with pleasure.
"As a matter of fact," he said, sipping from his cup as he still held her hand securely and warmly in his, "I've wanted to paint since I was a kid. My father insisted on mechanical drawing instead of fine arts when I was in high school, and in college I began to see what I've just told you: that what I do is not art. I became an architect to make a living, and it's not that I dislike it. I'll probably never get over the thrill of seeing my blueprints take on life and spring up out of the ground." He sighed. "It's
just that lately all the travel has gotten to me, and even the amount of time it takes to get the building on paper from first concept to last detail… I've been thinking, I'd like nothing more than to retire to my cabin in the woods and paint a little here and there, maybe sell one or two a year. Take time to discover the more important things in life."
"Why don't you?" she insisted. "I'll bet there are plenty of galleries all over the country that would be glad to display your work!"
He looked at her. "Don't have the courage, I sup-pose," he replied. "And maybe—" now his look became deeper, more meaningful "—not the motivation. I told you, that cabin is awfully lonely."
His eyes examined her face slowly, leisurely, resting on her lips, moving to her eyes with the hint of a question. With an imperceptible motion he set his coffee cup aside and she felt his hand caress her shoulder. She began to tremble with wanting and the pure sensation of his touch. There was no way it was going to end with a kiss here, not on this sleepy summer morning on Kyle's rumpled bed. Her chest tightened as his face moved toward hers.
She stood abruptly. "We'd better get to work," she exclaimed brightly. "The morning is half gone!"
He did not move, only lay there for a time, watching her with gentle scrutiny. Her nervousness mounted.
Then he smiled lazily. "Slave driver," he retorted.
Chapter Seven
The next weeks followed a furious pattern. Kyle kept up a frantic work pace that allowed little time for anything else. Barbara had to force him to eat breakfast and remind him to have lunch—and when she remembered the voracious appetite he had displayed when he had first arrived, that in itself was incredible. Dinner was usually late, both of them pitching in in the kitchen or sometimes going out for pizza or hamburgers. After dinner Kyle crossed the lawn to his own apartment, and although Barbara usually did not stay up much later, his light was always burning when she went to bed. She wondered if he was painting late at night or simply sitting up brooding. She thought of him brooding a lot.
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