"You think I need a subsidy?" She remembered the flaming battle that had ensued when she'd told her father her decision to quit and go to art school. She put her roll aside and leaned closer to Alex, her arms resting on the heavy linen of the tablecloth. "You don't think much of me, do you?"
He watched her warily, as if she belonged to a strange and dangerous species. Why had he asked her out, she wondered with sudden anger, if he regarded her with such suspicion?
"Tell me what you think of me, Alex."
He picked up his knife and placed a precise amount of butter on his roll, spread it evenly over the surface. "You're impulsive," he said flatly. "Passionate, artistic, beautiful, charming, selfish, irresponsible, and shortsighted."
She pushed herself away from the table until she was pressed back against her chair. She gulped for air, found anger instead.
"My turn now. You're handsome, intelligent, conventional, judgmental, and cold. Look at the way you handle your dinner roll. You don't tear it apart; that would be too impulsive, too uncontrolled. You might actually feel the texture of the bread. You cut it precisely, coldly. That's how you deal with life, with reason and formal intent. Instead of living, you handle life; instead of feeling, you judge."
"Is your way better?" he demanded. Tearing things apart without thinking first?"
She picked up her roll, noted the uneven distribution of the butter with a perverse pleasure. She could have told him that she had a showing at Northern Images right now, that she'd earned enough last weekend to keep her for a year. As thrilling as her success was, this was a familiar battle. Her father had so often dragged the god of practicality into their arguments. She'd never succeeded in fighting his logic to the ground, yet couldn't give up now.
"I'm an artist because it's my passion, but if you believe you're a doctor because it's practical, you're lying to yourself."
"You know nothing about me."
"Right back at you, Dr Kent. You watch me tear a dinner roll, and to you it's evidence that I'm destructive, even dangerous. When did you first want to be a doctor, Alex? How old were you?"
"Twelve," he said.
"Why not a CPA, since we're speaking of my father—or we were. A doctor earns good money, but there's always the risk of being sued, all that life-and-death stuff happening. A CPA can get filthy rich—my father did—but nobody dies. Wouldn't it be more practical to be a CPA?"
When he leaned forward, for a crazy second she felt fear.
"You haven't a clue in hell what you're talking about," he said harshly. "When I was twelve years old, my brother died of insulin shock. I'd have done anything to save him, and there's no practical way in hell that a CPA could have done anything but count the cost of the medical bills."
"I'm—Alex, I—"
"He died because the people around him were careless of his welfare—just as you're careless with that dinner roll, with Sara herself." His eyes were hard walls of anger, his voice so controlled she reached to touch his hand.
"It wasn't your fault," she said impulsively. "You were a child. It must have been terrible to lose your brother at that age."
The trauma must have formed the part of him that became a dedicated pediatrician. She wanted to touch him, but his hands had disappeared from the table. Suddenly Eduardo's with its generously sized tables seemed the wrong place, and she wished they'd gone somewhere smaller, more intimate, with undersized tables where a hand could stretch out and touch warm flesh.
"Here's our salad," he said, as the waiter appeared.
With two plates of salad between them, conversation seemed impossible, but she asked, "Why did you bring me out to dinner if you dislike me so much?"
He didn't reply.
"You said I was selfish, impulsive—I didn't know impulsive was a sin, but to you it must be. Why did you want me to come out to dinner with you?"
He speared a piece of lettuce with his fork. "Are you always so intense?"
"Another characteristic you disapprove of? Yes, I am intense. Why did you take me out?"
"We need to talk about Sara."
"No, we don't." She matched his action in spearing a tomato wedge. "We could have talked about Sara at my house. There's no practical reason for us to have dinner together when you don't approve of me. If you really thought I was incompetent to care for a child, you'd have turned up this afternoon while Sara was with me. You'd have watched, looking for signs of my unfit nature while I talked to her."
His eyes flared with an intensity that brought heat to her cheeks, then it was gone and his eyes were only brown, the color so deep it showed nothing. Like a black hole, she thought. She could fall into it and never escape. Swirling, brown deep into black.
"The world doesn't center around you, Jamila. I was with a sick child."
"That's a line designed to put me in my place."
Suddenly, she felt exhausted by their struggle. She wanted to ask about the child, but his eyes forbade it. She'd felt so close to him, but he had told her so little. He'd mentioned his brother's death, but he regretted sharing that. Conventional, she'd called him, and of course he was.
"Jamila—"
"Don't call me Jamila. It's Jamie."
"You told me your name was Jamila."
"It is, but I never use it, except professionally. It's the name I sign on my paintings." Her earlier anticipation was gone. She wanted out, away. She stood abruptly. "Excuse me, Alex."
He rose when she did, his manners faultless. She grabbed her purse and hurried away to the ladies' room, determined not to look back. If she had any sense at all, when she came out of the washroom, she'd head for the door instead of returning to his table.
Chapter 7
Why the devil had he told Thurston they were discussing a patient? It was true, or almost true, but Alex knew he'd sounded as if he were hiding something, as if this dinner with Jamila were somehow deceitful.
As if he were cheating on Diana, the widow of Thurston's grandson. Not that he and Diana were a couple in that sense—at least, not yet, although Thurston evidently believed they were.
Why had Jamila told Thurston she was an artist? Damn the woman! He hadn't once managed to see her without his agenda for the meeting going all to hell.
Sara, he reminded himself. This was about Sara, not about Jamila. Not about the stupid attraction he couldn't seem to suppress whenever he thought of her. Was she ever coming back from that washroom, or would she disappear, leaving him with two dinners coming and his guest nowhere in sight?
Yes, he thought, she would.
Perversely, she appeared just as he settled into anger over his certainty that she'd walked out on him. Not that it mattered, he'd told himself. Better if she left, better if he never saw her again. He could watch Sara from a distance. He certainly didn't need to take Jamila to dinner to keep an eye on the kid.
Jamie. Ridiculous name, as if she were ordinary, tame.
Jamila...
When he spotted her, she was walking slowly, almost hesitantly, her skirt swaying as she glided down the stairs. Her hair seemed to give off energy as the red curls brushed over her shoulders. That green dress, something silky, slipping over her skin so lightly, leaving his heart pounding in his mouth.
He saw the moment when she became aware of him. He couldn't see her eyes, but knew they narrowed as her step quickened and the subtle sway of her silk skirt became more brisk.
She reached their table and he stood to pull out her chair. Her hair brushed lightly over his hands when she sat, sending tension straight to his gut.
"I thought you weren't coming back."
"I considered leaving."
"Why did you come at all?"
Her eyes met his, and he wanted her against all reason. He lifted his glass and sipped the water, working for common sense. He would finish this dinner and take her home, shut her door behind her, and keep himself firmly outside. He would remind himself of everything he wanted, and all the things he didn't want.
Then, if
he had any sense at all, once he had the pro forma statements in the bag, he'd clear the rest of the week and fly to Venice. Diana hadn't suggested it, and he hadn't thought of it until just now, but it made sense. Diana made complete sense, a woman who knew his goals and sympathized with them, who would stand at his side as a partner, and work with him to achieve everything he'd ever dreamed.
"I came here tonight," Jamila said, "because I believed we would be lovers."
He choked on his water and set his glass down sharply. At her throat he saw a pulse beating and fought a sudden hunger to touch it with his lips. Damn the woman!
"That's before I realized you were married."
"Married?" He twisted and found himself staring right at old man Thurston. Could Thurston hear any of this? Jamila's voice was clear, not loud, but it could easily carry. "What makes you think I'm married?"
She gestured toward Thurston's table. "You looked guilty when he saw you here. You tried to pretend we were talking about a patient."
"We are. We're here because of Sara." What was it about Jamila that always left him feeling he'd lost control without really knowing how? "I'm not married," he said, "but I am seeing someone."
"A woman."
"Of course, a woman."
His eyes were glued to the black lace that peeked out from her dress at the bodice, the way the sensual fabric moved on her flesh with each breath. His mind filled with fantasies of touching that lace, tracing the soft border between flesh and fabric. She would breathe in sharply with sensation when his finger slipped under the edge of the lace, seeking deeper, sinking into her softness.
He cleared his throat abruptly. "Her name's Diana."
"Diana," she echoed, and he saw her breasts rise. "Mr. Thurston told you to say hello to Diana when you talk to her. When will that be?"
"Tonight." It would be morning in Venice when he got home, or perhaps early afternoon. He'd have to check online to figure out time zones, but tonight he needed to talk to Diana and remind himself of everything Jamila wasn't.
"Where did you study art?" It help to remind himself that she was an artist.
"What makes you think I studied?" Her green eyes had cooled. "Perhaps I just chucked everything and bought a paintbrush to commune with."
I came here tonight because I believed we would be lovers.
He mustn't think about that, and he wouldn't. "You're skillful. I expect you studied somewhere. Your father probably insisted; probably paid."
"My father believed I was throwing my life away. He said if I wanted to become an artist, I was on my own."
"But he buys you lunches?"
"Yes, do you think I'm taking advantage?" The tension seemed to leave her as quickly as it had come, and she said, "I studied at the Emily Carr College of Art and Design. Scholarships, loans that I'm still paying off. I worked in an art gallery to help pay the bills. I do know about bills, and believe it or not, I pay mine on time."
"I didn't say—"
"Yes, you did. Irresponsible and self-centered. If you'd thought about it, you would have assumed I'd be negligent with my bills."
He wondered what would happen if he actually shoved the table aside and took her shoulders between his arms, if he shook her... kissed her.
"Tell me about school," he muttered, determined to get through dinner with his sanity intact.
"I took business admin before art school."
"Business? But—Why?"
"Because it was practical. Because my father expected it of me and I love my father, although I've wanted to be an artist since I was twelve years old." Her smile was quick, flashing and gone too soon. "Odd that we both fixed on our passions when we were twelve years old. Mine was also because of a death."
"Tell me."
"My mother died just before my twelfth birthday, and I—thanks to a friend, I discovered art. I believed that somehow, if I could create pictures like those I saw in Liz's gallery—it seemed as if my mother would be back with me. You'd label that irrational, but it felt very real to me. But of course, I couldn't paint like the artists I saw hung in the gallery."
"So you did your best to please your father." He'd seen enough adolescents in his practice to understand how losing her mother at the age of twelve could leave a young girl rootless, unable to find herself.
"I hit the honor roll, got into a good college, graduated with honors—but in the end I couldn't do it." She smiled and brushed the emotion in her voice away with a light gesture that sent her curls tumbling on her shoulders.
"Does Sara remind you of yourself as a child?"
"Perhaps, a little. I would never hurt Sara, Alex."
Perhaps she thought she wouldn't, but one day the passion for Sara would be gone, like the passion for a painting once it was finished. Then Sara would be abandoned by this woman whom she might be foolish enough to try to put in her mother's place.
Across from him, Jamila picked up her fork and twisted a piece of fettuccini around it. He picked up his knife and focused on the steak.
... I believed we would be lovers.
Whatever happened, they weren't going to talk about that.
* * *
An hour and a half later, driving her home in the quiet of Seattle's Wednesday night streets, Alex was amazed they'd found so much to talk about. From the social value of art to the duties of a pediatrician, from the new mayor's policy on the homeless to the latest best-selling political expose, they'd discussed everything with an energy that left him both exhausted and content.
She was quiet now, her lively opinions silenced as they rode with the sound of Chopin surrounding them.
He turned the corner to her street and stopped in front of her house. He hoped she would invite him in, and knew he must refuse if she did. She opened her eyes and smiled, then opened her door before he had a chance to get out and do it for her. He got out of the car and reached for her keys.
They'd survived dinner nicely, and it was time to say good-bye. He unlocked the door and held it open for her, but she didn't step inside.
"Tell me about Diana," she asked. "Are you committed?"
"No," he said, although it would be wiser to lie.
"Lovers?"
"Not yet."
She tipped her head back and let her eyes become shadows while the porch bulb he'd replaced bathed her cheeks and throat with pearly light.
"Diana was a Roman goddess, beautiful and swift, Diana the huntress."
He fought to remember how perfect Diana was, found his gaze tangled in the soft curve of Jamila's cheek and his hand clenched, resisting the need to glide along the side of her throat and feel her pulse.
Lovers, he thought.
"Diana," he said desperately, reminding himself. "I intend to marry her. She's exactly the wife I want."
"Practical?"
"Yes."
"Not selfish, impetuous, or irresponsible?"
"Definitely not." He wanted to list Diana's virtues, but the fresh softness of Jamila's skin filled his nostrils and his mind.
"Alex, kiss me again before you go back to Diana. I want to remember."
She filled his arms and he struggled once for something, breath or sanity, he wasn't certain which, then surrendered to the pulse throbbing in his body and buried his mouth in hers.
Soft, he felt softness, lips shaping to his, the fragile narrowness of her waist under his hands, the pliancy of her body as he drew her so close his own heartbeat echoed in her body.
Then she opened her mouth fully, and the softness shifted and flamed into thirst raging in the desert. He gasped and pulled her tight against him as he plundered her mouth. She responded, her tongue dancing with his in the rhythm of dark desire.
He needed her closer, harder, knew he must taste the pulse at her throat or he would never know... twisted and pressed her against the door of her own home, and tumbled inside as the door swung open against their weight, hungrily seeking the taste of her flesh.
She smelled warm and exotic, perhaps a perfume
she'd touched to her throat or her own seductive heat. He felt her fingers in his hair, her hand against his heart, his own body rigid with hunger that pulsed and ached to thrust deep inside her.
Soft, so hot. He growled something, some sound, as his mouth found the pulse at her throat. It wasn't enough, could never be enough. His arm slipped down and shaped her hips, a sigh or a moan, something from her throat... or his. Her waist felt fragile above her hips, her ribcage flaring in a sweet feminine curve as he traced it with one hand.
She twisted against him, coming closer, pulling away—he wasn't sure, only that her movement set loose something wild inside him, deep inside, and his body clenched and struggled against hers, while his mouth seeking more, more.
He found her mouth open, avid, greedy with passion as he drank, feeding his own dark desire. His hands sought and found her breasts, sinking in with a groan. Her nipple peaked against his palm and he found the nub with his thumb, drawing a deep moan from her. More... closer... deeper. He brushed buttons aside and shoved the silk of her dress away, bent and fastened his mouth hungrily on the soft free curve of her breast through the black lace.
She cried out and he reared back, staring at her through narrowed eyes, his gaze blurred with passion, her head thrown back, the long white line of her throat exposed to him. The bodice of her dress was open to the waist, pushed back over her shoulders, pinning her arms, her breasts soft seduction encased in black satin. Over one breast, he saw the moisture of his own mouth, heard his own harsh breath tear open the silence of the night. Lace, black lace, with a ribbon threaded through.
Her eyes opened and she stared at him, green fire in her eyes.
He knew he'd be mad to let this go any further, yet his fingers fastened on the ribbon threaded through her lace undergarment and he pulled, slowly unraveling the bow, exposing the precious white of her breast. He didn't realize he was trembling until he watched his own hand brush the satin away from her breast.
"Jamila..." His lips were millimeters from her soft flesh when the deep sound of an engine shattered the night, reminding him of the open door, the world outside.
The Colors of Love Page 8