The Colors of Love

by Grant, Vanessa

  He'd been stunned. He'd been thinking of his juvenile diabetic treatment center, on the edge of believing that he would succeed, that he would be able to keep his vow to himself. He'd been working so hard, for so long, that he hadn't even thought of her as a woman.

  No, that wasn't right. He'd noticed her affection with her children, the quiet womanly look in her eyes, but he hadn't been thinking about sex, about her. Not because she wasn't attractive—she certainly was—but because he had no space in his mind for anything but work.

  His beeper sounded before he could answer her invitation, and he'd left, saying, "I wish I could stay," not knowing for certain if it was true. He needed time to think about it, time to think about her as a woman instead of a colleague who shared his dreams.

  He must already be missing Diana, he decided as he exited the freeway. That's why he felt this odd reluctance to return home, although Diana's condo wasn't a lot better than his. If they married, they'd find somewhere else, perhaps the house on Bainbridge Island he'd always wanted.

  He laughed at himself. He hadn't decided if he wanted to take the woman to bed, and here he was laying down plans for the wedding.

  He pulled into his garage and let himself into his condo. Inside, he put on a pot of coffee and let it drip while he listened to his messages. Just one message, his mother's melodic voice saying, "Alexander, call me right away."

  He jotted down the unfamiliar number she gave—a New York area code—dialed it and listened to a computerized voice telling him the number was not in service. She must have given him a wrong number. It wouldn't be the first time.

  He checked his call display, but the most recent call read private—no number available and no way to find it out. He shrugged, knowing that eventually she would call again. Meanwhile, he had work to do.

  He studied the papers spread out on his dining room table—estimates of patient numbers, costs, and revenues. He fired up the computer, grabbed the first page, and began to work.

  Three hours later he hit the print button and realized he'd developed a raging headache, and that he'd never gotten around to pouring the coffee he'd made. By the time he swallowed a Tylenol and poured a cup of the coffee, the printout was ready. He bundled it up with the other papers and slipped everything into an attaché case, grabbed his mug, and headed for the car.

  He'd deliver it all to Dennis now, tonight, instead of tomorrow morning as they'd scheduled. That would leave him an extra few minutes tomorrow morning to call the social worker and get an investigation started into Sara Miller's circumstances.

  He frowned as he pulled out of the driveway. When he'd said good-bye to her, Sara had confided that she would be visiting Miss Ferguson and Squiggles after school.

  What was Wayne Miller thinking of, letting his daughter go to some stranger he knew nothing of? Jamila Ferguson was far too irresponsible and immature to have the care of a child.

  As Alex drove through the dark Seattle streets, he organized his thoughts for the call to the social worker the next morning. Check out the baby-sitter... check out Jamila Ferguson... find out if the cat had ever been to a vet.

  He found the windows of his sister's Laurelhurst house dark, and no car in the drive. They were out somewhere, might be home in five minutes or five hours.

  He used his key to let himself in their front door. He set the attaché case containing his papers on Dennis's desk where his brother-in-law would find them when he got home. Meanwhile, he'd return home and read for a while. If his beeper went off, he'd head for the hospital; otherwise he'd have a quiet night at home with a book.

  He drove to the corner and signaled for his left turn, then changed his mind and turned right instead.

  Sara Miller planned to visit Jamila Ferguson on Wednesday afternoon. Maybe the social worker would have checked Jamila out before then, and maybe not. Alex wasn't going to leave it to chance.

  Chapter 4

  When Alex turned his headlights off, Jamila's house disappeared into the shadow of the abandoned warehouse next door. No porch light, no illumination streaming from those two small windows. If it weren't for the aging car parked in front, he'd believe she was out somewhere.

  Could she possibly be in bed at eight-thirty? Unlikely, he decided, considering the way the air around her seemed to vibrate with energy. Jamila Ferguson wasn't a go-to-bed-early type of woman.

  Last night, he'd had the impression her house was arranged to face onto the water, so he felt his way carefully along the side of her house. Yes, lights streamed out from her front windows over the water.

  He returned to the darkened door, couldn't find a buzzer, so he knocked.

  No response.

  He gave her sixty seconds, then knocked again, more loudly. From inside, he thought he heard music.

  He turned his back to her dark shadowy door, wondered if squatters inhabited that abandoned warehouse next door. The shipyard on the other side might be a hive of activity in daylight, but right now it radiated quiet, ghostly emptiness. No dark shadows hurrying home on this street, because hers was the only house in the area. What the hell was she doing living in an industrial area, with no neighbors, no street light, and no light on her back porch?

  He turned back and ran his hands over her door. No peephole to give her a glimpse of who was knocking, no light to allow her to see whom she opened a door to, no neighbors to call for help. He hammered on her door again, too loud. Not only did she have no security measures at all, but she didn't even know when someone was knocking.

  The door opened as he dropped his fist.

  He opened his mouth to say something scathing, but he could only swallow. She wore a long shirt that brushed her thighs in a swirl of reds and browns. Below the shirt, her legs were shapely in tight black leggings. Light surrounded her, throwing her face into shadow.

  The music was Chopin, he realized, a light, moody piece that somehow drew a line between them—Jamila in her wildly colored shirt on one side of the door, a stilted Alex on the other.

  "Don't you ever look before you open the door?" he demanded harshly.

  She stepped back. An invitation? He wasn't sure, couldn't see her face, but stepped inside anyway.

  "I knew it was you."

  "The hell you did. There's no light out there."

  He closed the door behind him, shutting out the darkness, shutting himself inside with her. Right here, he thought. Last night, he'd kissed her right in this spot. Her lips had been soft and curious, the kiss light enough to make the taste of dark temptation shocking.

  "I need to talk to you."

  Her lips parted slightly, her eyes wide and serious as she studied him. Then, abruptly, she turned away. "You may as well come in. You'll have to talk while I work. The porch light must have burned out."

  Work?

  He followed her down a narrow corridor. She moved carelessly, gracefully, like a dancer offstage. She had music playing. Was she dancing, practicing for a stage role she'd never get?

  "You should change the bulb."

  "Later," she said, brushing the porch light aside with a wave of her hand as she stepped into a large, bright room.

  If the room hadn't been almost bare of furniture, he would have called it a living room. Several canvases rested against the wall to his right, while a wheeled cart dead center in the room held tubes of paint, bottles of unknown compounds, and several paintbrushes. Beside the table stood an easel bearing a large canvas.

  Another easel stood near glass patio doors at the far end of the room, where two rattan chairs bracketed a small coffee table—the only conventional furniture she seemed to own.

  Jamila crossed to the easel beside the cart and picked up a paintbrush.

  "You're an artist." In profile, he saw her eyes narrow as she studied something on the canvas. An artist. Yes, of course.

  "You make it sound like a crime," she said absently as she dabbed her paintbrush in a smear of rusty-colored paint on her palette.

  He watched her apply a succ
ession of rapid brush strokes to the canvas.

  "Do you have something against artists?" she asked.

  He didn't answer and she seemed to have forgotten she'd asked the question. She dropped her brush into a jar filled with liquid, then picked up a tube of paint and squeezed red onto her palette. Two more tubes—blue, then white—and she picked up a palette knife to swirl the colors together.

  Wayne Miller had a talent for picking inappropriate caregivers for Sara. First, the woman downstairs, then Jamila, the artist who forgot she wasn't alone when she picked up a brush.

  Here in Jamila's house, Sara might easily wander into the kitchen and get into anything. The artist would never notice.

  Putting his theory into practice, he turned and walked toward what he guessed was the kitchen. He stepped through the door, looked back, and saw Jamila grasp the paintbrush, a frown on her face.

  He turned on the kitchen light, illuminating heavy yellow cupboards with wooden pulls also painted yellow. Someone had renewed the paint job recently, but the texture of the paint revealed many previous applications, reminding Alex of the series of apartments he had lived in as a child, of bright yellow kitchens painted blue, and blue painted white.

  He pulled open the door beneath her sink, found drain cleaner, oven cleaner, bleach. She hadn't followed him, probably didn't know he'd left her. Of course, Sara wasn't likely to swill down drain cleaner or spray oven cleaner on her face. She was past the age where children put everything into their mouths without regard to taste or texture, but the point was, whatever Sara did, Jamila Ferguson wasn't likely to notice.

  He closed the cupboard doors, opened the two doors over the sink, and found a plastic coffee mug from a donut shop, a small Thermos, and a box of lightbulbs. He removed one of the bulbs.

  Would she even notice if he changed her bulb? Probably not, he decided. Calling the social worker wasn't enough. He needed to have a personal talk with Wayne Miller about trusting his daughter to irresponsible women.

  When Alex walked through the living room carrying the lightbulb, Jamila was frowning at the canvas, one hand rubbing her chin while the other held a paintbrush in midair. The look in her eyes reminded him of his mother studying a passage of music. There'd been a time when he'd watched his mother's absorption with his own fascination, believing that somehow her wholehearted concentration created the magic of song when her voice opened up.

  He jerked away, not making any effort to walk quietly as he retraced his way to her entrance. He flicked the switch beside the door to the off position.

  She probably changed the bulb without checking that the switch was off—if she changed it at all. With the door open, the light from inside streamed out without illuminating the overhead fixture, but he found the fixture by feel and unscrewed the old bulb, replacing it with the new.

  A flick of the switch illuminated her porch—actually a landing with five stairs to the ground and no rail, an oversight he suspected was contrary to the building code. A child could go tumbling over that edge, smashing into the hard pavement headfirst.

  And what about Jamila's car? When had she last had the brakes checked on that old green beater? Did she intend to transport Sara in that monstrosity?

  "Alexander?"

  He jerked around, almost sending himself off the edge of her landing. She stood in the doorway, her hair capturing the light from overhead, flashing copper and gold. She seemed to be smiling slightly, though her eyes still held a faraway look.

  "We can talk now," she said, then turned and disappeared back into the house.

  He followed, irritation growing with each step. It would have been better to confront her in the morning, with the sun outside and her eyes unfocused from sleep.

  She'd be a woman accustomed to sleeping late, and he'd ring her bell early, on his way to the clinic.

  Actually, he'd knock on her door. She didn't have a bell.

  Something had gone awry when she opened her door in the midst of an artistic trance. He'd lost the upper hand, and now he was following her again, watching the way her loose shirt hinted at the movement of her hips. She was slender almost to the point of thinness, yet when she moved the sensual curves—

  Stop it!

  He followed her into her kitchen, wearing a frown he could feel.

  "Tea?" she asked, picking up a stainless steel kettle.

  "No. Are you ready to talk?"

  A smile curved her parted lips as she turned to the sink. "I'll make enough for us both, in case you change your mind."

  He watched her fill the kettle and turn on an element. At least she had an electric stove; gas would be just one more hazard inviting her carelessness. She lifted a teapot from the counter, opened the lid, and tossed in a teabag from a ceramic container on the counter.

  "You're supposed to warm the pot with boiling water."

  "I know." She flashed him a smile he refused to return. "But I can't tell the difference, and this way seems quicker, less fuss. Why don't you sit down?"

  Sitting across a table from her would be a bad idea, he decided. He started to stuff his hands into his pockets, then realized he was still holding the dead lightbulb from her porch fixture.

  She reached up and began unbuttoning her blouse.

  "What are you—Jamila—?"

  The big blouse came off in a swirl. He gulped and reached for the kitchen chair closest to her. Underneath the blouse, she wore a black stretchy garment that hugged her curves closely, a leotard—he grasped at the word, as if naming her garment could reduce its effect.

  "A smock," he said. When she'd unbuttoned her shirt, his heart had stopped. "You wear that for painting?"

  "Hmm," she agreed, hanging it on the back of a chair.

  He jerked a chair out and sat down. This wasn't going the way he'd planned. "We have to talk about Sara," he said grimly.

  "Let me get the kettle first."

  She turned away, her hips clearly outlined by the stretchy black fabric. He couldn't see the line of her underwear, cursed himself for looking. Clothes like hers should be banned from public wear. There wasn't a curve he couldn't see, and he ached to see her without the stretchy covering of black fabric, to know if her skin was as soft as he'd dreamed. To know if...

  Damn it! He wasn't a horny teenager. He was a man, and he wasn't looking for a woman. He had Diana, a woman he knew he could trust, a relationship building toward intimacy, perhaps permanency.

  If he were looking for a woman, Jamila would be the last one he'd choose.

  As she lifted the kettle and turned to pour boiling water into the teapot, the line of her breast firmed. She couldn't possibly be wearing a bra, that soft curve...

  She turned to the cupboard and reached down an earthenware mug, her buttocks bunching to seductive firmness as she stretched up onto her toes.

  Christ!

  "I'll have some," he growled. "Tea." He needed something to grip in his hands. Even more, he needed to get out of here. Five minutes, he promised himself. He'd accomplish what he'd come for, and get out.

  She carried two mugs to the table, placed a warming pad, and then set the teapot on it.

  "Tell me about Sara," she said, sitting on the chair with one leg curled up under herself. She placed her chin in her hand and focused green eyes on his face. "There isn't—is something wrong?"

  "I have concerns." He settled his elbows on the table and realized once again that he was still holding her blackened lightbulb.

  "You changed my bulb." Her laugh stopped short of her voice, a breath of amusement. She half stood and stretched one arm across the table to take the bulb.

  He forced himself to hold his eyes on her face, knew he mustn't let himself see, really see, the soft rounding of her breasts inviting him to reach out, to take the weight of seductive softness into his hands.

  He dropped the bulb on the table and announced, "I'm concerned about Sara."

  She grasped the bulb and retreated to her side of the table. "She's sick? There's something wrong
? Some injury?"

  "She seemed perfectly healthy when I discharged her." That was good, he decided. He sounded like a professional now, not a man at the mercy of irrational hormones. "My concern is that she's a seven-year-old child whose father isn't very discerning in selecting caregivers."

  Jamila nodded. "The woman downstairs," she said, "the babysitter. Why wasn't she in the apartment with Sara? That's bothering you, isn't it? It bothers me, too."

  "I didn't come to discuss Mrs. Davis."

  Her eyes widened, the green glowing brilliantly.

  "You've asked Sara to visit?"

  "Yes, she can visit Squiggles here." She laughed again, that almost-laugh that was more breath than sound. "I guess I'm Squiggles's foster mom ow. Isn't that a crazy name for a cat, but you see, Sara—"

  "When's she coming?" His voice echoed harshly against the soft breath of her dying laughter.

  "Wednesday afternoon." Her green eyes narrowed, as if she finally sensed that he wasn't here as a friend.

  He should have done all this at the door, demanded answers standing outside her threshold. How had he ended up sitting at her table with a teapot between them, trying desperately not to notice how tempting she looked in elasticized black?

  He cleared his throat. "Wayne Miller has no business sending his daughter off for an afternoon with a woman he knows nothing about."

  She settled back into her chair, her arms wrapping her midriff protectively. He felt a moment of guilt, pushed it away.

  Sara was his concern, not Jamila Ferguson's possible sensitivity to criticism.

  "You're here to check me out?"

  "Exactly."

  She pushed her chair back as she stood. "Are you going to question me? Ask for references?"

  He stood to face her with the table between them. "You have dangerous chemicals under your sink, and a front porch without a rail—that's a contravention of the building code, by the way. You don't even have a living room, just a painter's studio filled with poisonous substances. Where is Sara going to be when she visits? What will she do when you get a fit of inspiration and start painting—when you forget she's here?"