"We'll have heat in a minute," he said.
The cat in her arms began to meow plaintively. "Easy, Squiggles," she murmured. "I'll have you home in five minutes, then I'll wrap you in a big towel and get you dry."
She was the one who needed a big towel, thought Alex as he pulled out of the parking space. Unfortunately, his imagination immediately provided a vivid visual and tactile image of wrapping a naked Jamila in a giant, absorbent towel, then gently rubbing and stroking her soft flesh through the towel until she was completely dry. Until she breathed his name with desire as he—
"Darn," she muttered. "I left the tuna in the alley. Can you drive around?"
"What?" Bloody hell! He had to stop this. She was soaking wet, her passionate hair hanging in dripping ringlets around her face, her green eyes a dark mystery in the muted light from his dash, and for once he couldn't seem to smell the scent that had stirred him so easily earlier. So why the hell couldn't he stop thinking about touching her?
"It'll take only a minute," she said. "Just around the corner."
The car was a mistake. Alone in the car with her, it was worse, far worse. He pulled a U-turn in the empty intersection and headed for the Ballard Bridge, telling himself grimly that he should have used his cell phone to call a taxi for her. He should have—
"You missed the turn! The tuna. I don't want to litter the alley. We'll have to drive over to Twenty-eighth Avenue now and loop back."
"You're going home."
"We can't leave it there. I don't want to litter the—"
"We're not stopping." He heard the fury in his voice and deliberately calmed himself. What was it about this woman that seemed to erode his sanity? "You're cold. You're wet. You need to get dry." He needed to get her out of his car, into her own home and behind a locked door.
"But I—"
"For—Let's try this conversation without the argument. Who used to manage you, Jamila?"
"Jamie. Everyone calls me Jamie."
For some incomprehensible reason, Alex felt an insane urge to stop his car and shake her. It must be chemistry, basic incompatibility. She certainly wasn't his type, but some sadistic trick of nature made her stir his hormones although she was everything he didn't want in his life—impulsive, careless, undependable.
Alex made certain he always knew what he wanted, and exactly how he intended to get it. When it came to women, he preferred his relationships slow and calm, giving him plenty of time to evaluate. But tonight, with this woman—
"Dr. Kent?"
He swallowed hard and fought off the image of his name, Alex, breathed from her lips in passion.
"What?" His voice came out as a growl where he'd meant it to be neutral, detached. This had to stop. He had to stop it. He was a mature man, not a randy teenager. He had years of discipline and control, and he could damned well manage one temporary, insane reaction to one inappropriate woman.
Think of Diana, he ordered himself but her image wouldn't come. He softened his voice, offering, "I'll go back and pick up the empty tin later."
"Thanks." She shifted, somehow snuggling deeper into the seat.
He should have offered her his jacket for warmth, hadn't thought of it. Too busy imagining her naked, he thought grimly. That made him the sort of man the nurses complained about over coffee in the hospital cafeteria, and it made less than no sense. He'd been seeing Diana for weeks, was drifting toward an intimate relationship.
He needed more than a rest. A vacation, maybe a month in the sun, somewhere he'd never been before. Tahiti, or Paris.
Jamila said, "The officer who took my statement said you planned to talk to the social worker about Sara."
"If that were so, it would be confidential information."
Just ahead on the right, he saw an all-night convenience store. If he didn't stop to get litter and cat food now, he'd end up getting it afterward, then bringing it back to her. She'd be wet from her shower, or perhaps from a hot bath. She would open the door wearing something colorful around her nude body, a thin robe with splashes of color, tied with its lapels crossed to leave the beginning of her cleavage visible to stir his imagination.
Christ! His imagination was doing fine without help! He swung the wheel and stopped his BMW outside the front door of Harry's 24-Hour Mini-Mart.
"Cat food," he said.
"I'll get it."
"No. Stay with the cat."
The kitten in her arms lifted his head and let out a plaintive meow, and she said, "I'll give you money. My purse—Oh, damn! It's in my car."
"Don't worry about it," he said, keeping his voice deliberately cold, reminding himself they were strangers, thrown together for an hour because of a child's worry about a stray kitten. "It's my donation to Sara's stray waif cause."
She smiled, but he didn't return it. He opened the door and slid out, then he shrugged out of his jacket.
"Take this," he said. "Wrap it around yourself."
Then he escaped into the convenience store.
* * *
Jamie's shirt clung to her shoulders and back damply, and every few seconds a bead of rainwater trickled from her scalp, down her neck and under her collar. She hadn't minded the rain when she was busy looking for the kitten, had told Dr. Kent the truth when she said she liked it. Rain created such interesting shadows. Painting rain was always an interesting challenge, creating motion on canvas, nature freshening the world with falling water, the mystery of everything that could be concealed or muted by falling rain.
Now, sitting in his car, she felt cold despite the warm air blasting from his heater. Under the wet folds of her clothing, her skin twitched with a discomfort his jacket wasn't going to help unless she stripped off first. If she put it on, the fabric would compress her wet shirt against her body and she'd soak the inside of his jacket.
She folded the jacket and placed it on the seat beside her. Squiggles had subsided again, might even be sleeping. Through the car window, she saw Dr. Kent inside the store, his white shirt showing wet spots from the rain as he talked with the man behind the counter. The man laughed, and the doctor smiled as he turned away. Then he was through the door, striding to the car carrying a plastic grocery bag.
When he opened the back door of the car to put the bag in, Squiggles leapt for freedom, digging a sharp claw into Jamie's forearm as she clutched the squirming cat.
Dr. Kent slammed the back door, then opened the front and slid into the driver's seat.
"Thanks for the jacket," she said, "but with my clothes so wet, I don't think—I'll have a hot bath when I get home."
His eyes flicked to her face, a hard glance filled with something deeply uncomfortable. She felt her face flush and swallowed a mouthful of dryness.
"You could wrap the cat in my jacket. I see you're having a struggle with him."
"We're almost at my place."
Mercifully, he looked away and started the car. Then, moments later, they crossed the Ballard Bridge and she was giving him instructions to her house. He followed the twists and turns she directed him through, then pulled the car up at the small, low, one-story house crowded between a waterfront warehouse and a shipyard.
"Thank you," she said, gripping Squiggles more tightly before she reached to open the door. "I'll visit Sara in the morning, and—"
But he'd already opened his door and was stepping around the front of the car, his umbrella open over his head. He caught the door as she opened it, so that she stood up into the shelter of his umbrella.
"I'm already soaking wet, I don't need—"
"Forget visiting the hospital. I'll tell Sara the cat's been found, that he's safe." Before she realized what was happening, he had grasped her elbow and steered her toward her front door. "I'll call you and let you know when I've made arrangements for the kitten, then I'll come pick him up."
She opened her mouth to speak, couldn't find words for a brief second, then managed, "I'm looking after the cat. Squiggles is staying with me. Sara can visit. She can—"
"You think I'll throw the cat out?"
"I think you're feeling guilty because you hit a little girl with your car."
"Well, of course I am, anyone would. I want to help Sara, to—"
"You want to appease your uncomfortable guilt, but after a day or two Sara and her cat will become a chore. She doesn't need you in her life, making promises you don't mean, then disappearing."
"What gives you the right to—"
"Give me your keys. Let's get that door open before Squiggles escapes, then I'll go back and get your purse out of your car."
"I don't need you to get my purse. It's perfectly safe, locked in my trunk."
"Stop arguing."
"Stop trying to manage me," she snapped. He reached for her keys and she jerked her hand back. "I don't know where you get off with this patronizing attitude, but you're way out of line. I'll be going in to see Sara, and I don't need help with either the cat or my purse."
As she jammed her keys into the lock, the seemingly acquiescent Squiggles suddenly jerked into motion and fought for freedom. Jamie grabbed for the cat, missed, and grabbed again as he leapt for the ground. Then, somehow, Squiggles was twisting and squirming in Dr. Kent's hands, the open umbrella rolling on its spokes on the ground. Jamie saw the doctor shift and grab the cat by the scruff of the neck.
"Get the door open," he ordered.
She twisted the key in her lock and opened the door. As it swung open, he pushed her inside and stepped in with her, then slammed the door behind him.
"I don't—"
"Shut up. He scratched you."
"It's nothing."
"You'd better clean it, get some antiseptic on it. Where's your bathroom?"
She felt weird, rattled, as if something inside were urging her to scream... or to run. "Look, I'm fine. I'll wash the scratch. I'll put tea tree oil on it."
He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind.
"I'm okay. I'm fine. You can let the cat down now. There's nothing he can hurt here, and he can't get out."
Released, Squiggles leapt to the floor and prowled his way to the straight-backed chair beside the telephone table.
"Get into the bathroom," ordered the doctor. "I'll clean that scratch, then you're going to have a hot bath. Is that your bathroom?"
She grabbed for his shirt as he stepped toward the door halfway down the hall. She knew she had to stop him before he walked right in and took over her life. Insane though it was, she felt that way, as if this man could just walk in and nothing would ever be the same again.
He jerked around when she touched him, then suddenly they were only inches apart, her fist clenched in his shirt. Jamie felt a shiver of cold sweep over her skin. When she felt his heartbeat, wild purple panic welled up in her veins.
"I'll look after the scratch." She meant the words to sound cool, but they came out of her throat breathless. "Thank you."
"What for?"
"For the ride, for helping me with Squiggles. You—it's—you'd better go."
Her heart pounded in her ears so that she could hardly hear her own voice telling him to leave. His eyes were dark, fixed on hers, and the air was all hot swirls of red. She saw his lips move, couldn't take meaning from his words.
"Yes," he said. "Good night."
But he didn't move, and she couldn't. She was frozen, staring up into his eyes. She could drown, she thought, with echoes of his voice in her ears, his magnetic eyes holding her. No wonder Sara had calmed with only a few words, a tender look from those deep brown eyes.
It wasn't tenderness in his eyes now.
"I can't go," he said. "You're holding on."
She swallowed hard, staring at her own fist, at the trapped folds of his shirt. One of his buttons had come undone.
What kind of madness was this? She needed to let go. She wanted...
"Damn," he breathed, a low curse that left his midnight black eyes fixed on hers.
Held in his gaze, she felt like a deer in the glare of headlights. She felt his hand brush her throat, her jaw... and she knew...
His lips were cool, slightly parted as they covered hers. She breathed him in, surrendering to dizziness at the touch of his palm against her cheek, then falling slowly into his kiss.
Cool, she thought, ice blue cool, warming even as the image formed. Under her flattened palm, his heart beat strongly. His pulse throbbed in their joined lips, in his hand as it slid to her neck, fingers angling her head back... dizzy, spinning red swirls in her eyes as she drowned in the rhythm of his heart.
Fire licked along her veins, burning as his tongue probed. His lips scorched need into her bloodstream, his hand blazing against the naked flesh of her throat. Heat drew a silent moan from her, and the overwhelming desire to sink down, to draw him deep inside.
"I..." Her voice caressed his lips and she fought to anchor herself. "I can't..."
The world stilled, even the rain outside held its breath. Then, abruptly, her hand that had pressed to his chest clenched empty air and she stared up into his unreadable eyes, residual madness pounding in her bloodstream.
"I didn't intend to do that," he said grimly. "I apologize."
When he turned and opened the door, she didn't protest, not a whisper. The last thing she saw was his hand, his fingers on the door as he shoved it closed, trapping her inside. Alone. She stared at the door, her mind spinning with his scent, her lips tingling with the memory of his mouth.
When he knocked on the door, only seconds later, she gasped.
"Jamila? I've got your I—the cat's litter."
Jamie opened the door and found no trace of the kiss they'd shared in his eyes. She held out her hand and took the plastic bag.
"And your keys. You left them in the door." He dropped them into her hand without touching flesh. "Good night. Be sure to have a hot bath."
His words brought the uncomfortable dampness of her clothes shivering to the surface of her skin. She wanted to say his name, but she wasn't going to call him Dr. Kent when she could still feel the imprint of his lips on hers, the memory of his tongue drawing her deep into seductive need.
"Good night," she said with remarkable steadiness. "Please tell Sara I'll be in to see her."
Chapter 3
Jamie fought her way out of a deep, tangled sleep that clung to her eyes as she pushed jumbled covers aside.
At the foot of the bed, the fluffy cat intently licked streaked orange fur. Last night Squiggles had been a bedraggled waif. This morning he appeared soft, fluffy, and angelic.
She'd stumbled to bed at three-thirty after setting up a cardboard litter box and filling two cereal dishes with cat food and water. She'd tried to dry Squiggles with a towel, but he'd struggled and escaped under her bed.
She'd left him there, deciding it was best to give him time to adjust. Then she'd slept, a heavy sleep that left her mind tangled with dream echoes... staring out the window of Liz's gallery, eyes breathlessly locked with a man from Seattle's rainy streets... his fingers touching despite the window between them... caressing her dream-naked shoulder.
Dr. Kent.
She pushed the blanket aside and scooped up the cat. Ridiculous that a man she knew only as Dr. Kent had kissed her mindless last night, then done heaven-knew-what to her in dreamland?
Squiggles curled against her shoulder, apparently content to ride there as Jamie padded barefoot through the living room she'd converted into a studio.
The phone book wasn't on the small table that held her telephone and an assortment of bills and receipts. Where the devil had she left it?
Later. No time now.
She carried Squiggles to the kitchen, checked to be sure he had food and water. The kitchen clock said six, which meant she had four hours until ten, when she imagined hospital visiting hours might begin.
She finally located her phone book on the kitchen table, set Squiggles down at the food dish, and flipped through the book until she found him in the yellow pages
: KENT, A.M.
He was a pediatrician with offices on Madison Street and no first name, only initials.
A... Andrew? Alistair? Allan?
She hurried into the bathroom and brushed her teeth, then grabbed a paint-spattered blue shirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door. In her studio, she pulled open the drapes on a brightly overcast Seattle day. The skylight above her easel allowed the heavens to pour light directly onto her canvas.
She lifted the white canvas off her easel and sorted through a stack of prepared canvases against one wall, found the one she'd prepped with a pale gray wash. She placed it on the easel and, using light strokes with charcoal, sketched in the outlines of buildings, a rainy street, and the form of a man hurrying through the rain.
Last night she'd imagined that anonymous man hurrying home to an imagined wife and child. This morning, on her canvas, his eyes were the color of warm, dark mahogany as he hurried to meet her—Jamie.
* * *
The frenzy drained abruptly, leaving Jamie holding a brush loaded with acrylic paint the color of rain.
Something... something about the rain-swept street... the way the parked car—
She stepped back, forcing her eyes to refocus, letting the details blur into areas of color. The man was perfect, hunched against the weather, sheltering from the rain yet a part of it, hurrying home.
The car was wrong. At least—ah, the license plate! Too real, too distinct. She picked up another brush and approached the canvas. Here, and here. Yes.
Enough now.
She loved the way the colors of rain blended with the colors of man, car, and pavement. Now, with the discipline she'd learned over the last six years, she knew it was time to stop, to let go until she could return, her eyes cold and critical.
She turned away, forcing her eyes to break contact with the canvas. As she carried her tin of solvent and brushes into the kitchen, she heard a soft thud, turned, and remembered Squiggles with a sense of pleasure.
The Colors of Love Page 3