by Vicki Hinze
He kissed her cheek. “It’s kind of flattering that it’s this important to you. But I hate to see you down.”
She started to correct his misconception, to tell him the truth, but Tony had explicitly warned her not to do it. Doing so anyway could cause MacGregor more trouble, more pain. She didn’t want to cause him trouble or pain. No, it was kindlier not to tell him, kindlier to let him believe a lie, than to know the truth. He’d again lose his faith in womankind. He’d be devastated that his judgment had again proved faulty. And it had. Because he couldn’t trust her and he had. She’d stepped over the line and become a manipulating liar... just like Carolyn.
He rubbed Maggie’s neck with the tip of his nose, his breath warm against her skin. “Wanna watch me try to paint?”
Her heart hurt. His request had been made simply enough, but she sensed the cry for support in it. Saw that he was leaving himself wide open, trusting her to witness his possible failure. He was living his promise to her.
Too moved to speak, she nodded.
He pressed a fingertip to her chin to force her gaze to his. “If I fail, honey, I want you to know that it won’t be because I’m not trying.”
“I know.” She kissed his forehead, the edge of his brow, the tender skin beneath his right eye. “Have faith in you, Tyler. You can do this.”
He gave her a bittersweet smile that had her heart wrenching as if it were being squeezed in a vise. She sat still, watched him set up the easel, lift the canvas to it, then begin preparing his palette. Oh, how she prayed this worked. He’d lost so much already. To lose his art, too, seemed so cruel and unfair.
Life isn’t fair, Maggie.
Tony? What are you doing here?
Helping. It’s obvious I’m needed.
She frowned, not at all sure MacGregor needed this kind of help. Okay, so help him—but not as you have been. I don’t want to hear that life isn’t fair, Tony. That isn’t what MacGregor needs.
What does he need, then?
She paused for a mere twinkling. Unconditional acceptance—success or failure. He needs his work. He loves it. And he deserves better than he’s gotten so far with this guilt business about it, too. He deserves... a lot better, and a lot more, Tony. So much more.
I think what he gets depends on him, doesn’t it?
Ultimately, yes. But he needs support. He needs to know—
What?
I don’t know. She really didn’t and that had her frustrated, searching. He just needs, Tony. That’s all. He... needs.
Liar.
Her temper flashed and she spoke before she thought. Okay, so I’m lying. MacGregor needs faith. He needs support and loving and trusting and approval. He needs understanding. He needs all that and more. But I need this lie, damn it. I’ve lost a lot, too. And I will not risk losing anymore.
Think about what you just said, Maggie, mmm? Just... think.
T.J. watched Maggie from under his lashes, sitting on the blanket as stiff as a board, encouraging him by saying nothing at all. He fell into the old moves—squeezing the paint tubes, laying out his brushes, blending his prep colors—familiar moves, as natural to him as drawing breath.
He wanted to do this painting. He’d done it a thousand times, in his mind. Maggie. Laughing. Her head back, her eyes sparkling joy as they had the day he’d first crossed the boundary line and not blacked out.
He’d never do her justice, and he knew it. But he would pay her tribute.
Mentally seeing the blend of colors, the intrigue of shadows and shapes and planes, he felt the fire inside him ignite. His adrenaline started pumping hard, and he reached for a brush.
His stomach twittered, then flipped, and his chest went tight. Nerves. Pure and simple. He looked at Maggie. She hadn’t moved so much as a muscle. Only nerves.
Are you sure you want to do this?
T.J.’s mouth went dry. Was it his own voice, or the entity’s? He couldn’t be sure.
Are you? Your gift has cost you everything. Your parents. Carolyn. You could lose Maggie, too...
He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. She meant too much to him. He said he trusted her, now he had to prove it. She wanted him to paint. She realized how much he needed to paint. And he realized that without it he’d never feel fulfilled. His soul wasn’t content, and likely it never would be. This gift was as much a part of him as his heart. She’d been right. He had to at least try.
So go on, Tyler James. Paint.
He fumbled the brush. It fell to the ground and the blue paint on it splattered across the brown grass. Glancing at Maggie, he reached down and retrieved it. She still hadn’t moved.
Go on, you persistent, selfish bastard! Go on, do it! You killed all the others because you had to have your gift. Go on now, kill Maggie, too!
“No!” T.J. squeezed his eyes shut. “No. I... can’t.”
Do it!
I can’t! I love her, damn it! I... love her.
Warm breath fanned the back of his hand, then tender lips brushed against his skin. T.J. opened his eyes and looked into Maggie’s.
She held his gaze, kissed each of his knuckles, the valleys between each of his knuckles, the top of each finger holding the brush, her own hands calm and steady, soothing. “You can do it, Tyler,” she said softly, confidently. “I know you can.”
“Maggie, I—”
“I know you can.” She cupped his jaw in her hand, smiled a serene smile that took the breath out of him. “I believe in you.”
A surge of warmth spread through his chest then burst like an explosion. His heart beat hard, his blood gushed through his veins, throbbed at his temples. Dear God, this couldn’t be. But it was. It was!
The magic was back.
She guided his hand to the canvas, then released it and stepped away, returning to the rumpled quilt. “You’ve got to believe it, MacGregor.” She cupped her fingers and tapped them against her chest, over her heart. “You’ve got to feel it in here.”
MacGregor not Tyler. She did believe. Feeling slugged, and gifted with a long-sought-after treasure, he stared at her. Watched her sit back down on the checked blanket, so calm and collected and at ease. She tilted back her head and looked up at him—and he nearly came undone.
His Maggie, his adored Maggie who didn’t cry, sat there with unshed tears shining in her beautiful eyes. They weren’t sad tears, they were joyful ones, celebrating his victory. How he knew that he had no idea, but he did know it. And then she smiled.
His own eyes blurred at the show of emotion and support. Neither had been easy for her. Any easier than her dragging him back onto Seascape land. Yet, once again, she’d done it. His throat constricted nearly shut, blocked by a wealth of feelings that sprang from his heart which he could never adequately verbalize. He dipped his brush into cerulean blue, his favorite emotion color, then tapped the left edge into alizarin crimson—a touch, no more than a touch—then dragged the entire edge through yellow ochre. He glanced at Maggie one last time and, far too emotional to speak, he smiled then set to work.
The first few strokes were unsteady, uncertain, and unsure, but within minutes, he settled into the old pattern, working furiously, slapping paint onto the canvas then brushing furiously to smooth it into the images and shapes and shadows he saw so clearly in his mind. Every few moments, he paused and studied Maggie. She remained sitting there statue-still, her beautiful smile never wavering.
He understood now what she’d meant by his trust being a big responsibility. Her support was a big responsibility, too, and he didn’t want to let her down. He wouldn’t let her down.
And then the art claimed him, and he worked like a man possessed, his focus total and complete. And in his heart, he felt the old, creative joy well.
The moment his love for his work overtook him, Maggie sensed it. And she used the break of showing unwavering support to have a long-overdue, deep and serious discussion with her conscience. One she’d hoped to avoid, for obvious reasons, but one she’d known the minute MacGregor had t
old her that he trusted her, she couldn’t avoid any longer.
Okay, Maggie, here’s the deal. You’re in love with the man, and that’s a factor. You’re also in a lose-lose situation here, and that also is a factor. Combine the factors, and what you’ve got is nothing. There it is. He doesn’t really love you, just thinks he does, and there’ll never be anything more for you here. There is no relationship. There is no happily-ever-after. There is no love.
True. She choked. All true. So what now?
Now, you tell the heart to quit aching and the regret to take a flying leap. You’re no dreamer. You knew better than to ever expect the kind of love Cecelia and Collin, or Tony and Hattie, shared. So there’s no great surprise in that you won’t ever have it.
No, no great surprise. She plucked up a bit of dead grass and worked it between her finger and thumb. But there is disappointment. I never dreamed of that love, but I sure wouldn’t have minded it.
It hurts like hell—even if you didn’t lose your head and dare to dream, like Miss Hattie told you to do—but you’ll survive. You always have, and you’ve never had love like that, right?
Right. But it would’ve been
Forget would-have-beens. They’re like almost and also ran. Worthless. And forget that business that it was okay to know you wouldn’t have that rare kind of love before MacGregor came along because you didn’t know what you were missing, and now that he has come along, and he’ll be going along without you, the knowing has left a hole inside you. It just isn’t so, Maggie. You still don’t know what you’re missing because you’ve never trusted MacGregor. Right now, right this second, you still don’t trust the man.
So now what? I just end up empty and alone?
That’s up to you. You now have the bottom line. You’re going to lose him either way—if you tell him, or you don’t. So the question is, do you lose him by becoming like Carolyn? Or do you lose him by being honest and retaining at least an atom of your self-respect and dignity? The choice is yours.
Some choice. Maggie fingered the nubby blanket, stared at the dancing shadows where sunlight spilled through the curled, crisp leaves on the trees and dappled the quilt. It sounded so simple, so easy. But it wasn’t simple or easy. It was damn hard. To keep her self-respect, she had to go toe to toe with Tony, who’d expressly warned her against telling MacGregor the truth. She had no idea what he would do. But if she had to lose MacGregor, which seemed inevitable, then she should at least be permitted to retain what was left of her dignity and self-respect. True, after her shoddy treatment of him, both were pretty tattered, but they were all she’d have left. Tony had said he’d brought her here. MacGregor had been secondary, and she felt certain Tony wouldn’t hurt MacGregor—thank God for that. Because Maggie feared she would hurt him plenty by herself. But Tony well might hurt Maggie for defying him. Who knew what a ghost would do? Yet, to ever meet her own eyes in the mirror again, regardless of what Tony did to her, she had to tell MacGregor the truth. And that was the final, bottom line. She had to tell him the truth. Today.
Her choice had been made.
Breathing hard, MacGregor dropped down beside Maggie on the quilt. Sweat beaded at his brow, his shirt clung to his chest and back, his damp hair curled at his temples and nape, and his eyes were alight with pure joy.
Swallowing hard, Maggie brushed away an errant lock of damp hair hugging the shell of his ear. And some thought art wasn’t physical.
“I thought you’d gotten a little glassy-eyed on me.” He dragged a fingertip that smelled of paint down the slope of her nose. “You awake in there?”
Maggie laughed. “I’m awake.”
“Then kiss me, Maggie.” He rolled over her, and she lay back on the quilt and looked up at him. “We’ve conquered the demon.”
“We have?” The sea. Warm, earthy man. God, but she loved the smell of him.
“Yeah.” He grinned.
“I want to see it.” She tried to get up.
He held her down with a hand to her shoulder. “Nope, not until it’s done.”
“But, MacGregor.”
“Not negotiable.” He slid his hand over her hair, smoothing it back from her face. “Now where’s my kiss? And don’t even think about welshing. I’ve earned this one.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She curled her arms around his neck, pulled him to her, and parted her lips to receive his kiss.
Sensations bombarded her. This was no gentle kiss. It was intense, long and hard and deep. Rather than physically depleting and emotionally draining him, working seemed to invigorate, enliven, energize MacGregor. Like a master of sensuality, he rubbed their lips, tangled their tongues, and shuddered enthusiastically under her roving hands in ways that left her aching, longing, and aware. So very aware. She tasted his happiness, grew giddy with it, and shared in his celebration, promising herself that, yes, oh yes, she would tell him the truth. Today. But after the celebration. He’d waited two long years for this moment, and she wouldn’t rob him of this pleasure, too.
Be honest with yourself, Maggie.
Tony. Go away! Don’t you see that this is it for me? This kiss, this time with him, now, before I tell him and he hates me—it’s all I’ll ever have. It has to last a lifetime. Please, Tony. Please, don’t begrudge me this. Please don’t take it away from me.
Tony kept talking.
No! I won’t let you do this. I won’t. I need, Tony. I need! Maggie blocked Tony out, focused all her thoughts, her energies, her feelings, on MacGregor. On the heat, and the passion and the desire in his kiss, his embrace. Sensing every vibration in his throat, hearing every low and guttural, sexy sound he made, feeling every expansion and contraction of his lungs, every brush of his fingertips gliding over her hips, her breasts, her thighs. She took it all in, everything in, and held it close in her heart so that later in the years to come she could recall it in detail again and again and never forget all the wonderful feelings of being loved.
It could have been different.
Her conscience. Thank God, her conscience. It could have been, she agreed, but it isn’t. Her heart ached and, driven by desperation, she clutched him to her, became the aggressor, telling him with her hands, her mouth, her body, all the intimate longings, the lover’s secrets usually whispered deep in the night, the love words spoken in tender tones and gentle words that he would never hear because she would never say them.
He kissed her back with equal ferocity, openly, lovingly, touching her in ways so achingly tender it shattered her heart. His arms trembled and he raised up onto his elbows, then looked down at her, naked desire glazing his eyes. “Maggie,” he whispered, his voice husky and intense. “I want you.”
Just this once. Before she lost him forever, couldn’t she have him just this once?
It won’t be right. You haven’t told him the truth.
I need him! He needs me! It will be right. It will! She damned her conscience. Damned it, and reached for the buttons on MacGregor’s shirt. “I want you, too.”
It hadn’t been right.
Sitting on the dilapidated pier, Maggie propped her elbow to her knee and stared out to sea, waiting for Aaron. As the minutes passed and the trees’ shadows stretched longer on the stony ground, she grew more and more anxious. She’d made a promise to herself and she meant to keep it. But she didn’t have to like it and she hated, positively hated, wrecking MacGregor’s celebration. For the first time since she’d known him, the man was over-the-moon happy. He’d waited two years for this day. Two years. So while she would tell him, she just couldn’t tell him yet. Not so soon. Not after he’d waited such a long time for this. Hadn’t he said that he’d really missed the creative outpouring of losing himself in his work? Hadn’t he said that he’d come to terms with his losses and accepted that they’d been caused not by his work, but life? Hadn’t he said that for the first time in two years, he felt complete and content and in harmony with himself? He was at peace. If she told him about her lies now, he sure as hell wouldn’t fee
l harmony or peace anymore. And he might go right back to blaming his art. She couldn’t take the chance. Or the responsibility for that.
He might. And that she wouldn’t let happen—she couldn’t, not and live with herself. So she’d forfeit her self-respect and the little dignity she had left—for him, for today. She wouldn’t ruin this for him. And if nothing else good came out of all this, at least she could take solace in that. She’d erred, but she’d also shown compassion.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” she said, losing the battle to curiosity. “Hot water for just a peek.” She nodded toward the canvas.
“No way, honey.” He set the canvas down, propping it against the picnic basket. The front of it faced the ocean, the back was stretched canvas and wood, and she couldn’t see through it. “I’ve made deals with you before. You welsh.”
He looked rather pleased at that. Should she be pleased or offended? “It’s heartless of you not to at least let me get a glimpse of it, MacGregor.”
“Nope.” He walked over, bent down and tweaked her nose. “Not until it’s done.”
She stood up. “Why not?”
He smiled, looking pleased with himself. Or maybe with her, for showing such interest.
“Anything worthwhile is worth waiting for. My bath with you in the garden tub, for example.” He pulled her into his arms. “I can’t have you thinking I’m heartless, though. How about a little compensation?”
The clock was ticking. It had to be almost five. Aaron would be here any moment, and she had to get the truth told to MacGregor so he’d have time to calm down on the boat. Once they hit shore, he’d take off like a shot, and she’d never get him to listen. Captive on the boat, she could explain her reasoning to him anyway. It wouldn’t change anything, didn’t mean he’d hear her, but at least she’d have the satisfaction of knowing she’d tried to make him understand. And maybe—please God, maybe—he’d only hate her a little. “What kind of compensation?”
He lifted his brows. “A kiss?”
“You get as much out of a kiss as I do, MacGregor. That doesn’t seem fair.”