This Heart Of Mine

by Susan Elizabeth Philips

  Her fingers twitched in her lap as a rush of energy shot through her. She needed her sewing basket and her box of fabrics. She needed them now. If she had them—if she had them right now!—she could find the path that would unlock who she was. She jumped up from the chair. “I have to go.”

  He’d been completely absorbed in his work, and for a moment he didn’t seem to comprehend what she’d said. Then something that almost looked like pain twisted those craggy features. “Oh, God, you can’t.”

  “Please. I’m not being difficult. I have to—I’ll come right back. I just need to get something from my car.”

  He stepped away from the canvas. Left a smudge on his forehead as he shoved a hand through his hair. “I’ll get it for you.”

  “There’s a basket in my trunk. No, I need the box that’s with it. I need—We’ll go together.”

  They ran across the catwalk, both of them on fire to get this done so they could return to what was essential. Her breath came in little gasps as she raced down the steps. She looked for the purse that held her keys but couldn’t find it.

  “Why the hell did you lock your car!” he roared. “We’re in the middle of godforsaken nowhere!”

  “I live in L.A.!” she shouted back.

  “Here!” He snatched the purse from beneath one of the tables and began rummaging through it.

  “Give it to me!” She grabbed it away and dug herself.

  “Hurry up!” He seized her at the elbow, shoved her toward the front door and down the steps. On the way she found the keys. She broke away from him and flicked the remote that opened the trunk.

  She nearly sobbed with relief as she grabbed her sewing basket and pushed the box of fabrics at him. He barely glanced at it.

  They fled inside again, rushed up the stairs, raced across the catwalk. By the time they got to the studio, they were both struggling to breathe, more from emotion than exertion. She collapsed into the chair. He rushed toward the canvas. They gazed at each other. And both of them smiled.

  It was an exquisite moment. One of perfect communication. He hadn’t questioned her urgency, hadn’t shown the slightest disdain when he’d seen it was only a woman’s sewing basket that had made her so frantic. Somehow he understood her need to create, just as she understood his.

  Content, she bent to her work.

  Gradually it grew dark outside. The studio’s interior lights came on, each one exquisitely placed to provide illumination without shadow. Her scissors snipped. Her needle flew in the broad basting stitches that would hold the fabric together until she could get to her sewing machine. Seam met seam. Colors blended. Patterns overlapped.

  His fingers brushed her neck. She hadn’t realized he’d left his canvas. A streak of scarlet smeared his black silk shirt, and a smear of orange clung to his expensive slacks. His crisp, graying hair was rumpled, and more paint smudged his hairline.

  Her skin prickled as he touched the top button on her gauzy, tangerine blouse. Gazing into her eyes, he slipped it free of its buttonhole. Then he opened the next one.

  “Please,” he said.

  She didn’t try to stop him, not even when he slipped one side of the blouse down. Not even when his square, paint-smeared fingers brushed the front clasp of her bra. Instead, she bent her head to her sewing and let him unfasten it.

  Her breasts spilled free, so much heavier than they’d been when she was younger. She allowed him to arrange the gauzy fabric of her blouse as he wished. He slipped one sleeve down her arm until it caught at the crook. Then the other. Her breasts rested in the nest of fabric like plump hens.

  His footsteps tapped the limestone floor as he returned to his canvas.

  Bare-breasted, she kept to her sewing.

  Earlier she’d believed that her quilt would be about nurture instead of seduction, but now the astonishing fact that she’d allowed him to do this told her the meaning was more complex. She’d thought the sexual part of her had died. Now the hot ache in her body made her understand this wasn’t true. The quilt had just unlocked one secret of her new identity.

  Without disturbing the drape of fabric at the crook of her arms, she dipped into the box at her side and found a soft piece of old velvet. It was a deep, sensual crimson shaded with darker hues. The color of dark opal basil. The secret color of a woman’s body. Her fingers trembled as she rounded the corners. The fabric brushed her nipples as she worked it, making them tighten and bead. She dipped into the box again and found an even deeper hue to serve as the secret heart.

  She would add tiny crystals of dew.

  A muffled curse made her look up. Liam stared at her, perspiration glistening on the rugged planes of his face. His paint-streaked arms hung slack at his sides, and a brush lay at his feet where he’d dropped it. “I’ve painted a hundred nudes. This is the first time…” He shook his head, looking momentarily bewildered. “I can’t do this.”

  A rush of shame filled her. Her quilt piece fell to the floor as she leaped up, grabbed her blouse, pulled it closed.

  “No.” He came toward her. “Oh, no, not that.”

  The fire in his eyes stunned her. His legs brushed her skirt, and he plunged his hands inside the blouse she’d just drawn closed. Gathering her breasts in his hands, he buried his face in the swells. She clutched his arms as his lips closed around a nipple.

  Their explosion of passion should have been reserved for youth, but neither of them was young. She felt his hard, thick length. He reached for the waistband of her skirt. Sanity returned, and she pushed his hands away. She wanted him to see her naked as she’d once been, not as she was now.

  “Lilly…” He breathed her name in protest.

  “I’m sorry…”

  He had no patience for cowardice. He reached beneath her skirt and snagged her panties, then dropped to his knees and drew them off. He pressed his face into her skirt, against her… His warm breath seeped between her legs. It felt so good. She separated them, just a few inches, and let his breath touch her secret heart.

  He pulled her down beside him on that hard limestone floor. Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her. The deep, experienced kiss of a man who knew women well.

  Together they fell back. Her skirt tangled at her waist. He ran his hands along her legs and pushed them far apart. Then he buried his face between them.

  She drew up her ankles, let her knees fall open, and reveled in his lusty, vigorous feasting. Her orgasm was fierce and strong, taking her by surprise. By the time she’d recovered, he was naked.

  His body was powerful and fine. She opened her arms, and he plunged inside her. With her fingers curled into his hair, she took his deepest kiss, wrapped her legs around him. Her spine dug into the hard floor beneath. She winced as he plunged again.

  He stopped, stroked more gently, then turned them so his body took the punishment of the floor. “Better?” He reached up to cup her breasts as they swung before him.

  “Better,” she replied, finding a rhythm that pleased them both.

  As they moved, the paints on the canvases seemed to swirl around them, the colors growing brighter, turning liquid. Their bodies worked together, awash in hot sensation. Finally neither of them could bear it any longer, and all the colors of the universe shattered in an explosion of bright, white light.

  She came back to herself slowly. She was lying on top of him, her blouse and skirt bunched at her waist. She’d fallen under a spell. The man had cast a spell over her as surely as his paintings had.

  He groaned. “I’m too old for floors.”

  She leaped off him, scrambling awkwardly to cover herself. “I’m sorry. I’m—I’m so heavy. I must have crushed you.”

  “Not this again.” He rolled to his side, winced, and slowly rose to his feet. Unlike her, he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get his clothes back on. She refused to look. Instead, she pushed her crumpled skirt down, noticing at the same time that her panties lay on the floor at his feet. She couldn’t manage her bra, so she pulled the front of
her blouse together, only to have him catch her hands and still them over the buttons.

  “You listen to me, Lilly Sherman. I’ve worked with hundreds of models over the years, but I’ve never had to stop painting to seduce one of them.”

  She started to say that she didn’t believe him, but this was Liam Jenner, a man with no patience for niceties. “It’s—it was crazy.”

  His expression grew fierce. “Your body is magnificent. It’s lush and extravagant, exactly the way a woman’s body should be. Did you see the way the light fell on your skin? On your breasts? They’re outrageous, Lilly. Big. Fleshy. Bountiful. I couldn’t ever get enough of painting them. Your nipples…” He settled his thumbs over them, rubbed, and his eyes burned with the same passion she’d seen when he painted. “They make me think of showers. Showers of rich, golden milk.” She shivered at the intensity she heard in his husky whisper. “Spilling to the ground… turning into rivers… sparkling, golden rivers flowing to nourish continents of parched land.”

  Such an outlandish, excessive man. She didn’t know what to do with a vision so outrageous.

  “Your body, Lilly… don’t you see? This is the body that gave birth to the human race.”

  His words ran counter to everything that the world she lived in preached. Diets. Denial. An obsession with female bone instead of female flesh. The culture of youth and thinness.

  Of stinginess.

  Of disfigurement.

  Of fear.

  For a fraction of a moment she glimpsed the truth. She saw a world so terrified of Woman’s mystical power that nothing would do but to obliterate the very source of that power—the natural shape of her body.

  The vision was too foreign to her experience, and it faded. “I—I have to go.” Her heart hammered in her chest. She leaned down and grabbed her panties, threw them into her sewing basket, snatched up her quilt pieces. “This was… this was so irresponsible.”

  He smiled. “Am I likely to get you pregnant?”

  “No. But there are other things.”

  “Neither of us is promiscuous. We’ve both learned the hard way that sex is too important.”

  “What do you call that?” She jabbed her hand toward the floor.

  “Passion.” He nodded toward the quilt pieces spilling from her basket. “Let me see what you’re working on.”

  She couldn’t imagine permitting a genius like Liam Jenner to see her simple craft project. Shaking her head, she made her way toward the door, but just before she got there, something made her stop and turn back.

  He stood watching her. A smudge of blue paint marked his thigh near his groin. He was naked and magnificent.

  “You were right,” she said. “I’m fifty!”

  His soft reply followed her out of the house and down the road.

  “Too old to be such a coward.”

  Chapter 17

  Daphne packed her most necessary things: sunblock, a pair of lollipop-red water wings, a box of Band-Aids (because Benny was going to camp, too), her favorite crunchy cereal, a very loud whistle (because Benny was going to camp, too), crayons, one book for every day she’d be gone, opera glasses (because you never knew what you might want to see), a beach ball that said FORT LAUDERDALE, her plastic bucket and shovel, and a great big sheet of bubble wrap to pop if she got bored.

  Daphne Goes to Summer Camp

  By Tuesday, Molly was worn out from the ups and downs of working on Daphne Goes to Summer Camp as well as trying to keep Kevin entertained. Not that he’d asked to be entertained. In fact, he’d turned surly after their Saturday-night dinner and gone out of his way to avoid her. He even had the gall to behave as if she were imposing on him. She’d had to threaten to go on strike to get him to come with her today.

  She should have left him alone, but she couldn’t. The only way she could make him change his mind about selling the Wind Lake Campground was to convince him that this was no longer the boring place of his childhood. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to convince him of a thing so far, which meant it was time to make her next move. Resigned, she forced herself to her feet.

  “Look, Kevin! In the trees over there!”

  “What are you doing, Molly? Sit down!”

  She gave a jump of excitement. “Isn’t that a Kirtland’s warbler?”

  “Stop!”

  All it took was one more small jump and the canoe tipped.

  “Aw, shit!”

  They tumbled into the lake.

  As she went under, she thought about the earth-shattering kiss they’d exchanged three days ago. Ever since then he’d kept his distance, and the few times they’d been together, he was barely civil. Once she’d told him she wouldn’t sleep with him, he’d lost interest in her. If only…

  If only what, you dope? If only he were banging his fists on your bedroom door every night begging you to change your mind and let him in? Like that would ever happen.

  But couldn’t he look as if he were suffering from a little of the lust that had her tossing in her bed the last three nights until she thought she’d scream? It had even affected her writing. This morning Daphne had told her best friend Melissa the Wood Frog that Benny was looking particularly sexy that day! Molly had thrown down her notebook in disgust.

  She felt above her head for the capsized canoe’s gunwale, then swam beneath it. With a kick she came up into the air pocket beneath the hull, which was just big enough for her head. This drowning thing was going to turn her into a prune.

  She knew it would be easy to regain his attention. All she had to do was undress. But she wanted to be something more to him than another sexual fling. She wanted to be…

  Her mind balked, but only for a moment. A friend, that was it. She’d just begun to value their friendship when he’d grown surly. There wouldn’t be any chance of reestablishing that relationship if they went to bed together.

  Once again she forced herself to remember that Kevin wouldn’t be much of a lover. Yes, he was a great kisser, and yes, he’d been asleep during their brief, ill-fated sexual encounter, but she’d already observed that he wasn’t really a sensualist. He never lingered over his food. He didn’t savor the wine or take the time to appreciate the presentation of the meal on his plate. He ate efficiently and his table manners were flawless, but food wasn’t anything more than body fuel to him. Besides, how much energy did a gorgeous multimillionaire pro athlete really need to invest into developing his skills as a lover? Women lined up to please him, not the other way around.

  Face it: The sex she wanted to have with him was romantic fantasy sex, and she wasn’t willing to sell her soul for that. Despite three nights of tossing and turning, despite the embarrassing heat that made her knees turn goofy at the most inopportune moments, she didn’t want an affair. She wanted a real relationship. A friendship, she reminded herself.

  She’d just begun to imagine how a pair of dripping bunny ears would look peeking out from beneath a capsized canoe when Kevin’s head surfaced next to her. It was too dark beneath the hull to see his expression, but the anger in his voice came through loud and clear.

  “Why did I know I’d find you here?”

  “I got disoriented.”

  “I swear, you’re the most uncoordinated person I’ve ever met!” He rudely grabbed her arm and yanked on it, pulling her back underwater. They resurfaced in the daylight.

  It was a beautiful afternoon on Wind Lake. The sun shone, and the gem-blue water mirrored a single fluffy cloud floating in the sky above like one of Molly’s meringue cookies that hadn’t gotten burned on the bottom. Kevin, however, looked more than a little stormy.

  “What the hell were you thinking of? When you blackmailed me into coming out here, you told me you knew all about canoeing!”

  As she treaded water, she was glad she’d remembered to leave her sneakers at the dock, which was more than he’d done. But then, he hadn’t possessed her insider’s knowledge of where they’d end up.

  “I do know about canoeing. My last summe
r at camp I was in charge of taking out the six-year-olds.”

  “Are any of them still alive?”

  “I don’t know why you’re being so grouchy. You like to swim.”

  “Not when I’m wearing a Rolex!”

  “I’ll buy you a new one.”

  “Yeah, right. The point is, I didn’t want to come canoeing today. I had work to do. But all weekend, whenever I tried to get something done, you’d decide a burglar was trying to break into the cottage, or you couldn’t concentrate on cooking unless you went cliff diving. This morning you nagged me into playing catch with your poodle!”

  “Roo needs exercise.” And Kevin needed someone to play with.

  He hadn’t been able to sit still all weekend. Instead of giving in to the spell of Wind Lake and reconnecting with his heritage, he was working out or trying to pound away his restlessness with hammer and nails. Any moment she expected him to hop into his car and drive off forever.

  Just the thought of it depressed her. She couldn’t leave here, not yet. There was something magical about the campground. Possibilities seemed to shimmer in the air. It felt almost enchanted.

  Now he swam toward the stern of the capsized canoe. “What are we supposed to do with this thing now?”

  “Can you touch bottom?”

  “We’re in the middle of a frickin’ lake! Of course I can’t touch bottom.”

  She ignored his surliness. “Well, our instructor once taught us a technique to turn over a canoe. It’s called the Capistrano Flip, but—”

  “How do you do it?”

  “I was fourteen. I can’t remember.”

  “Then why did you mention it?”

  “I was thinking out loud. Come on, I’m sure we can manage.”

  They finally righted the canoe, but their technique, which was based mostly on Kevin’s brute strength, left the hull full of water and partially submerged. With nothing to use as a bailer, they were forced to paddle back that way, and Molly was gasping for breath by the time she’d finished helping him haul it up onto the beach. She’d never been a quitter, though.

  “Look over to the right, Kevin! Mr. Morgan’s here!” She hooked a lock of wet hair behind her ear and gestured toward the slightly built, bespectacled accountant setting up a chair in the sand.