The Colors of Love

by Grant, Vanessa

  Northern Images. In the window, a painting of an old man standing on the back deck of a fishing boat evoked images of a lifetime spent laboring over nets through all the moods of the ocean. Above the painting, a banner announced, "Introducing Jamila—a strong young Northwestern talent."

  He opened the door and stepped inside, immediately aware of a hushed atmosphere, as if he were in a museum or library. Carved wooden beams and walls draped with neutral wall hangings provided a unique setting for each painting. A carved oak sign directed him upstairs to the exhibition of Jamila's work. A dark red runner carpeting the mahogany stairs swallowed the sound of his shoes as he climbed.

  At the top of the stairs, he found hardwood floors leading to a series of alcoves. A tall blond woman in her forties appeared, exuding expensive subtlety.

  "Make yourself at home," she invited in a low, pleasant voice. "If you haven't seen the exhibit yet, may I suggest you begin here." She gestured to Alex's left. "I'm available if you have any questions."

  He had intended to ask for Jamila, but found himself turning instead to his left as she'd suggested.

  He had called Jamila an hour ago and been frustrated to get her machine again. Was she home painting, ignoring the phone? He'd hung up and had driven to her house, only to find her drive empty. Had she returned home late last night and gone out early? Or had she stayed out with her unknown lover?

  Did she have another man? She'd said she intended to be Alex's lover, but did that mean there was no one else in her life, that he would be simply one of many?

  He had no intention of being anything to her, Alex told himself grimly, but he couldn't leave things as they were. As the counselors would say, he needed completion. At the very least, he needed to explain and put things between them on a rational basis.

  So he'd come to the gallery, telling himself it would be better to find her somewhere neutral, somewhere public, where they could talk without heat. Instead, he found himself captured by her paintings. He stared at a picture of a young girl skipping rope on a sidewalk and saw the woman she would become.

  Ten feet away, a boy sat cross-legged in front of a closet where a litter of puppies scrambled for their mother's teats. The boy's motionless face reflected dreams of running with the puppies as they grew, playing ball with a Daddy who wasn't there to play.

  Alex shook himself, stepping back from the painting, trying with distance to see how she could create images that weren't even there.

  These images were different from the one he'd seen on her easel, but no less effective. Concrete images of people, so that he would swear he'd know the old man from the fishing boat downstairs, the children up here. He moved slowly through the exhibit, seeing the world through her eyes.

  The harbor at dawn, fishermen stirring while the world slept... the lighthouse sending warmth to the unseen pilot of the tugboat passing by... the same lighthouse, an anchor as nature raged over the water, tossing white foam angrily across deadly, jagged rocks.

  As he turned from the second lighthouse, he heard voices, low and feminine.

  He crossed the carpet, drawn to the sound. He could see no sign of the gallery's owner, but he heard Jamila's voice and followed it until he came to an open doorway. Through the door, he saw a lushly carpeted office where he suspected sales were closed. Jamila sat on the edge of the desk, speaking to the gallery owner, who seemed to be studying her with concerned gray eyes.

  "Three so far," Jamila said, speaking quickly. "The third is acrylic. They're all dry, so I've crated them up and I want to get them—" She broke off and turned her head, as if she sensed Alex watching.

  He said her name, but she seemed frozen, motionless. Then she swung her legs around and slipped off the desk, fumbling for a moment before slipping into her shoes.

  "Did you have a question?" asked the gallery owner.

  "He's here for me."

  Jamila crossed the carpet to Alex and stood just out of his reach. He wanted her closer, to touch her cheek with his fingers, but his feet seemed frozen to the carpet. She tilted her head back and her eyes narrowed. He searched for anger in her face, her eyes, but found wariness instead.

  "What do you want?"

  "Talk." His eyes flicked to the woman named Liz, found her watching with a frown. He forced a smile, said quietly to Jamila, "I need to talk to you."

  "Talk?"

  He spread his hands, dropped them when he saw her flinch. "Let me take you out for a coff—a cup of tea," he corrected, remembering her grimace as she'd sipped coffee at Paula's. "We'll talk."

  "We've talked enough." Her voice was flat, emotionless, and he realized he had no idea how he could get her to listen to him if she wouldn't come now.

  He felt an unwilling understanding of men who dogged a woman's life because they couldn't accept that it was over. Not that it had even started. Nothing had happened, only sparks, fire—nothing he could call a relationship.

  He didn't want a relationship. He didn't know what he wanted, only knew he needed to be free of this tangle of emotions that had begun Saturday night—early Sunday morning—when he first saw her in the ER.

  "I want to apologize."

  Her eyes widened, but the flash of emotion quickly disappeared. She slipped her hands into the pockets of her canvas slacks and he wondered if she'd made the motion to conceal some sign of her own feelings. He couldn't read her at all in this instant and he felt uneasy, uncertain whether more words, or fewer, were needed to persuade her.

  "Liz," she said. "Can we use your office for a minute?"

  Chapter 10

  Jamie walked away from Alex, and didn't turn back to face him until she stood behind Liz's desk.

  He had stepped inside the office, moving to one side to let Liz leave. When the older woman had gone, he reached out to shut the door.

  "Leave the door open, please." She saw a muscle jerk in his jaw, but he left the door and crossed to the desk.

  "Sit," she said, gesturing to the two leather chairs on his side of the desk. She'd known that it wasn't over. She was glad he'd found her here, because she would be more in control of her emotions here, knowing Liz was close by, knowing there could be no repetition of that shattering kiss here in the gallery.

  If he didn't touch her, she could get through this.

  "I'll stand," he said, "unless you're going to sit?"

  She shook her head, managed to swallow without gulping, and successfully fought the urge to pull her hands out of her pockets and wrap her arms protectively around herself.

  "Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. "You weren't home last night, or this morning."

  "You said you wanted to apologize."

  "Yes," he agreed, cramming his hands into his pockets.

  Jamie knew him well enough to know he must hate the turbulence she saw in his eyes. She wondered what her own eyes showed, what she would paint in them if she took up a brush and made this into a picture. She thought of the way she'd blithely announced to Liz that she intended to have this man as her lover, believing she could take a lover with passion and lust, yet without risking herself.

  She hadn't understood, hadn't known he could get under her skin, hadn't realized how it could hurt. Knowing, understanding that his power would only increase if she let it go on, she understood that she could not afford an affair.

  "Jamila—" One of Alex's hands escaped from his pocket to make a gesture she measured as frustration. "You're right, I've been unfair to you. I—you have this effect on me." He brushed his hair back impatiently, and she knew the risk was at its worst now, because he was going to be honest.

  "What effect?"

  He couldn't seem to stay still, began pacing the carpet. "You were right about Paula."

  "You wanted to show me how a real woman cares for a child, how unsuitable I am to care for Sara?"

  "You have this effect on me, have from the first moment I saw you. It's a chemical effect, and I—Somehow, I'm not rational around you."

  "...and you're a m
an who hates being irrational."

  "Yes, damn it!" He stopped pacing and faced her across the desk. "Taking you to Paula's was—I think I did it to knock sense into myself. To—" His hands traced a ragged shape in the air. "To talk myself out of you."

  She told her heart to stop pounding, but her throat still felt choked. "What do you mean?" she demanded, but she understood exactly. "You wanted to contrast me with a woman you approved of, show yourself how unsuitable I am?"

  His hands dove into pockets again, his eyes intent on hers. "You said it Thursday night. I was a bastard. I didn't want to be involved with a woman like you, didn't want to want you."

  She'd sensed his unwillingness, at first, and it was a challenge. When she decided he would be her lover, she supposed that she'd planned to use whatever power she had over him—power she could feel when he was near—to draw him beyond unwillingness and into her arms.

  "You don't know me," she said.

  "I've had... unfortunate experiences with artistic people. Out there—" He jerked his head to indicate the gallery outside the office. "Looking at your pictures, I realized—You're right, I don't know you. I've no rational reason to believe you're in any way unsuitable for Sara to visit you. My prejudices got away from me. I'm sorry."

  Her well-imprinted party manners told her she should tell him she forgave him, or accepted his apology. She was strangely unwilling to say any such thing, but he stood there, waiting, and finally she said, "I said some things I didn't mean, too."

  He laughed then, and she smiled before she could tell herself not to. "I think you should go, Alex."

  "Come to lunch with me, or at least coffee—tea for you."

  "I have things to do here." She gestured to the papers on Liz's desk. "Besides, I don't think it's a good idea for us to see each other."

  "You thought differently the night I took you to dinner. You said you wanted an affair." His eyes wouldn't let hers free.

  "I changed my mind."

  When he moved as if to step around the desk, she held her hand out to stop him.

  "What's different, Jamila? What's changed?"

  "I have work, a fall showing to prepare for. I don't have time to play."

  "You took last night off. Wherever you were, you certainly weren't at home painting. Surely you could take an hour."

  "Why? What's the point?"

  He ran his hand roughly through his hair again. "I'd like to get to know you, without the arguments. Come out for a drink. Spend the afternoon with me, the rest of the day."

  He smiled and she knew it would be madness to let him persuade her. He would never never really understand her, and she knew now that it mattered.

  "We'll always argue," she said soberly. "You want to get to know me without arguments, but we're too different. Everything you disapprove of is at the heart of who I am. You know what you want, Alex, you were very clear about it the night you took me to Eduardo's. You want a certain kind of woman, a suitable woman. Her name's Diana."

  He reached across the desk with one swift hand and captured her wrist. "I should want Diana, but all I can see is you. I need to find out what this is."

  "But I don't." She wanted to tug her hand away, knew she'd risk losing the thin veil of control over uncertain emotions if she did. She forced her arm to relax in his grip, forced herself to concentrate on his eyes, to forget his fingers touching her.

  "What are you afraid of?" he asked softly.

  "Not you," she said, and knew she lied.

  "Spend the day with me."

  "I don't want you in my house, and I won't go to yours. I don't want an affair."

  "Tea. You must want tea, even if you don't want a lover."

  "Tea," she agreed. "Only tea."

  Mercifully, he released her hand before he noticed that she'd begun to tremble. Sex, she'd told herself, lust, and it had seemed a game, one she'd never played before. Perhaps the antagonism had made her blind to the risks, but Liz had been right to worry when Jamie announced her plans so confidently.

  She was in danger of beginning to like him very much, perhaps more than like. If they did have an affair, she'd better make certain she didn't fall in love with him, because she could never turn herself into a Diana, and would destroy herself if she tried.

  "Shall we go?" he asked. "Are you done here?"

  "For the moment."

  When she picked up her purse from the edge of Liz's desk, he stepped back with formal good manners to let her precede him from the office. They found Liz adjusting a wall hanging in an alcove near the stairs.

  "I'm going out for tea, Liz. I'll be back later."

  "Take care," said Liz, and Jamie flushed because of course Liz would realize this was the man Jamie had talked about. She started down the stairs, telling herself Liz wouldn't say anything about that in front of him, surely she wouldn't? She was five steps down when she realized Alex had remained behind. She turned back and heard him tell Liz he wanted the boy with the dogs.

  "You bought one of my paintings?" she demanded when he joined her at the bottom of the stairs. "Why?"

  He held the door for her, but she balked when he led her toward his car.

  "There's a deli on the corner. They have all sorts of teas, coffee too. Good coffee."

  He shrugged and let her have her way, taking her arm as they walked to the corner.

  "Why did you tell Liz you were buying the puppies?" she demanded when they were seated in the little deli.

  "Why not? It's a gallery, they sell paintings."

  The server appeared at their table wearing an apron over jeans and a T-shirt. "Tea, Jamie?"

  "Thanks, Jen. And my friend wants coffee, that dark French roast."

  "Coming right up," she assured them.

  "I don't have a problem with you buying a painting," she hissed when they were alone again. "I just—no, that's not true. I do have a problem with your buying one of my paintings."

  "Why?"

  "Because I don't know why you're doing it, and I can't help wondering if you're going to use it against me."

  "Against?" He looked astounded. "How could I use a painting against you?"

  "Promise me you won't."

  "I won't," he assured her. "I wouldn't." He picked up a creamer from a small dish on the table, then put it down again. "I was a bastard," he said in a low voice. "I would never use your painting to—I liked the boy, that's all. He reminds me of my brother."

  "I guess I'm not sure if I trust you. Actually, I don't trust you." She had trusted him in the beginning, but now—"Why aren't you with Diana today?"

  "She's in Venice."

  Was that why he'd been attracted to her? Because his girlfriend was away. "When will she be back?"

  "Five weeks. Four weeks now."

  He didn't like talking about Diana, she could tell, so perversely she didn't change the subject. "Is that how long you've scheduled for us? Four weeks, then you can take up where you left off with Diana?" She forced her eyes to narrow, said, "I'm not sure it will last four weeks. We've nothing in common."

  Anger flashed in his eyes. "I don't think either of us will be bored."

  "Coffee," announced Jen as she delivered a mug to Alex, "and a pot of tea for you, love."

  "Thanks, Jen. It smells lovely."

  "It does," agreed Alex, sniffing his strong Java, and Jen went away with a smile. Alex leaned forward, the mug between his hands. "I told you, Diana and I do not have a committed relationship."

  "You also told me that you will probably marry her."

  "It's true. I expect I will marry Diana, or someone like her."

  She carefully poured tea from the earthenware pot into her cup. "Before you do, you want me?"

  "There's not much doubt about that." His comment was a low growl, and she couldn't stop her face from flaming at the memory of his hands on her, of the passion that had raged through both of them, especially when he added, "You can't deny it's mutual."

  No, she couldn't stop her heated memory from s
howing in her face, but she could hold his eyes without pulling her gaze away. If she were wise, she would take an easel, her paint box, and a trunk full of canvases, put Squiggles in his cage, pack everything in the hatchback. She'd head south to paint those massive rocks that threatened the coast of Oregon, the sandy curves of the Pacific Coast Highway. If she went now, right now, as soon as she got home, she could escape.

  "Yes," she said, "it's true that I want you."

  * * *

  "It's a good day for the water," Alex said as they emerged into the sunshine. "Spend the day with me, Jamila. We could pick up something to eat, catch the ferry to Bainbridge Island for a picnic lunch."

  "I can't. Sara's coming."

  "She can come too."

  "No." Jamie stopped at her car and turned to face him. "This afternoon is Sara's. I'll go out with you tonight if you want."

  "Seven o'clock?"

  "Yes."

  She thought he meant to reach for her, here in the street, perhaps to give her a light kiss of good-bye. To avoid his touch, she stepped back and onto the street. Then, with her car between them, she felt safe enough to say good-bye.

  Somehow, she got home without smashing into anything, but she had to work to keep her attention on the road. Then she remembered that she'd told Liz she would come back to the gallery, but it was too late now. In half an hour Sara would arrive.

  She checked the cat food in the dish—Squiggles had lots, but he wound himself around her legs, begging for the coveted tuna.

  "Soon," she promised. "I'm going to let Sara give it to you."

  Squiggles wasn't interested in waiting, but when he realized she wasn't going to give him anything but what was in his dish, he disdainfully picked up a piece of dry food and crunched it before stalking away.

  Sara arrived wearing a bright red dress and a wide smile. "Where's Squiggles? He's still here, isn't he?"

  "In my bedroom," said Jamie. "Go find him."

  Sara returned with the cat in her arms, and once the ritual of feeding him was complete, she settled in the basket chair with him. Half an hour later, when her excitement over Squiggles had died down, she wandered over to the easel and stared at the painting.