The Colors of Love

by Grant, Vanessa

  "Weird," said Sara. "Is it all just colors and stuff?"

  Jamie studied the painting, wondering what name she would give the work she'd created after dining with Alex's family. "It's about being angry, and being sad at the same time."

  Sara cocked her head to one side. "If you painted me, would you make me mad and sad?"

  "I'd paint you happy, wearing your beautiful red dress. Would you like me to make a drawing of you with Squiggles, so you can take it home with you?"

  "Yes, please, Jamie." She twisted away, calling for the cat. "Squiggles, come on! We're going to be in a picture!"

  Predictably, the cat twisted out of Sara's arms when Jamie suggested they sit together in the chair. "It's all right," said Jamie. "I'll do you first. Squiggles will come back and sit in your lap later and I'll get him then."

  "My daddy says Mrs. Davis isn't going to baby-sit anymore," Sara announced. "He says we'll get somebody better."

  "Do you like Mrs. Davis?" asked Jamie, sketching rapidly. She wondered if the change in baby-sitting arrangements had resulted from Alex reporting his concerns to the social worker.

  "She's kind of grumpy," said Sara, "an' Daddy says this time we'll pick real careful, but we gotta pick somebody soon because he's off for seven days, then he goes back to work a bunch of nights."

  "I hope you get somebody very nice," said Jamie, using charcoal to capture the look on Sara's face as she spotted Squiggles prowling back toward her.

  "Here, kitty... over here."

  Jamie added the line of Sara's arm as the girl reached for the cat, then quickly sketched the outline of kitten and girl as they poised on the brink of touching.

  Shortly afterward, Sara became too restless to sit, but by then Jamie had the details she needed, and she worked on transferring the image to canvas while Sara followed Squiggles into the bedroom. Then she used pastels to color the original sketch, sprayed it with fixative, and presented it to an excited Sara.

  When Wayne came to pick up his daughter at five-thirty, Sara threw herself into her father's arms. "Squiggles is way bigger, Daddy, an' he ate a big bunch of tuna, an' I got a picture—My picture! With Squiggles!"

  "She's a live wire," said Wayne. "I hope she didn't bother you too much."

  "I enjoy her. I could pick her up from the school next Wednesday. It's no trouble."

  They agreed on a time, and Jamie gave Sara a quick hug. Then they were gone, leaving Jamie with a canvas containing the outline of a child and a kitten, and over an hour left before Alex would come to pick her up.

  She was nervous, too nervous to start working on the painting of Sara, which she planned to give the girl for her birthday in seven weeks' time. And jumpy, she realized when she sat down in the chair.

  If she went out with him tonight, there would be no turning back. She might have told herself earlier that she wouldn't let herself get in too deep, but she knew better. Whenever she got near him, her emotions went haywire. Without arguments, he'd said, but the arguments were the only thing that allowed her to keep any distance at all from him. And in any case, they boiled up without her will.

  She was in serious danger of falling for this man big time, and if she went out with him tonight—well, there wouldn't be any more chances to back out. They might become lovers tonight.

  She stared at the acrylic painting she'd done Thursday night. Family at Dinner, she'd called it at one point in her frenzy of painting, but Sara hadn't recognized people in the shapes. When Jamie painted it, she'd been aware of anger and frustration, but now, looking at it, she saw the pain under the anger.

  A cautious woman would back off right now.

  She walked into the bedroom, opened her cupboard, and pulled down her suitcase. Four pairs of jeans, underwear, shirts. She'd grab canvases, easel, paints and kitten, then leave a note on the door: Sorry, Alex. Called away unexpectedly.

  She'd always wonder, though, what it would have been like.

  She remembered the day she'd made her decision to apply for art college, to leave her job. She'd been terrified then, too, and it hadn't been easy, but would she ever go back?

  But this was different. She'd always backed off when it came to intimacy with men, had always feared that if she became involved, a partner's demands could endanger her commitment to her painting.

  She wasn't sure why she hadn't been afraid, at first, with Alex. Perhaps because he was so obviously not interested in her, because he had another woman he planned to marry.

  Well, that hadn't changed. He still had Diana coming back in four weeks. His ideal woman. So Alex Kent wasn't a threat to Jamie as an artist. But she was feeling so much more than she'd expected, and it had hurt so damned much when he took her to his sister's, intending to show her how worthless she was. He had a thing about artists, he'd said, a negative thing. That made her safe, didn't it? Because however tempted she might be, it would never be more than an affair.

  * * *

  Alex wanted to take Jamie dancing, but realized he'd better opt for something that would keep more distance between them. He was a grown man, a disciplined man, but he had an abysmal track record for self-control around this one woman.

  If they were going to have an affair—and the way his body throbbed at the thought of her naked in his arms, he knew damned well they were—he wasn't going to dive into it like a randy teenager. He'd go in slowly, carefully, and at the end, he'd make sure he could walk away.

  So he'd take her to dinner again, but not dancing. He thought briefly of Eduardo's, but didn't want to run into Thurston again. Not that he was hiding anything, but he didn't want misunderstandings when the Foundation's decision might be only days away. He didn't want Diana upset by gossip either. When she returned, he'd tell her about Jamie. By then it would be over.

  It might disturb Diana to know he'd had an affair while she was gone, but although there had been an implicit understanding that they would become lovers soon, it hadn't happened yet. Diana, a rational, levelheaded woman, would realize it wasn't disloyalty when there'd been no promises between them.

  After he'd told Diana about Jamie, with the treatment center on its way to becoming reality, he'd make some time to take Diana out. Not just the working dinners they'd had so many of over the last few months, but real dates. They'd get to know each other and maybe, by this time next year, they'd marry.

  Alex tightened his tie and examined it critically in the mirror. He felt better, having sorted Jamila and Diana into appropriate places in his mind. Jamie had accused him of planning everything, but he didn't see that as a liability. A man needed to know where he was going or he'd get nowhere.

  He slipped his cuff links in, nodded at himself—mostly in approval of the calmness he felt—then turned and left the house, walking faster than usual.

  Nothing would happen tonight, he told himself as he started the car. If he made love to her tonight, it would be too soon, too uncontrolled. They'd eat dinner and talk calmly, without arguing. They'd talk about—well, something, it didn't matter. Then he'd take her home and leave her outside her front door with a light kiss.

  Better not to risk the kiss. He'd brush her cheek with his fingers instead, a personal good night gesture, then he'd ask her to come out tomorrow, Sunday. Out on the water, he thought, in a boat.

  An image of Jamila lying on the deck of a boat in a sinfully brief bikini had him swallowing and losing track. Sunday, water—No, not water. What the hell could two people do on Sunday, besides tear their clothes off and find bliss in each other's arms?

  "Get it together, Kent," he muttered. He was behaving like an alcoholic who couldn't stay away from the bottle. What did the alcoholics say? One day at a time. One day was all he could handle when it came to Jamila. He'd get himself through tonight, prove to them both that they could talk without shouting, that they could say good night without losing control.

  He took her to a small, elegant dining room on the waterfront. He'd been there once before, remembered quiet music but no dance floor, and a
spectacular view of the water. If nothing else, they could admire the sunset.

  As the maître seated Jamila at a window seat, Alex realized he'd already made one mistake. There was a dance floor, tucked away behind the tiny performers' area.

  "Nice," Jamila murmured as he sat down across from her. "I've never been here before."

  Behind her, the wall held images of massive exotic leaves in a darker green than the soft filmy fabric that caressed her shoulders. He wasn't sure what her dress was made of—something silky, satiny, wispy, something sinful that draped in soft swirls over the creamy white of her skin.

  "Harbor view," he said, gesturing. "I thought you'd like that."

  Her smile stopped his heart, left him fighting for air. "I love the water," she said, and when she leaned forward, that soft green fabric shifted yet again.

  Damn! Her dress wasn't clinging, or even technically revealing, but it had been created with sorcerer's magic to stir a man's pulses.

  "Tell me what you love about the water," he demanded, fighting for sanity.

  She turned, resting her chin in her hand, her lovely face pensive, her hair burnished copper in the early evening shadows. Soon a waiter would appear to light candles at their table, and her skin would shine with the unearthly glow of deep ocean pearls.

  "The water," she mused. "It's always different, though of course that's true of everything." Her eyes swung to meet his. "Take the street outside Liz's gallery. It's a hundred streets, a thousand... a man hurrying home, ducking against the crowded raindrops... a lineup of well-dressed people strung out toward the deli, talking art and money... an empty wasteland Sunday morning."

  "Tell me about the harbor," he invited, and was rewarded by her quick smile.

  "Well, Sunday morning Seattle harbor is sports fishermen cranking up their powerboats, making work of their fun, piling the supplies in, cranking engines to the max. The Bainbridge Island ferry, back and forth all day, a highway on the water, people streaming on and off. Everything on the water has a touch of special magic, essence of dreams. See that little trawler disappearing under the bridge?"

  "The white one?"

  "Yes. It's called Plan B. Just a name, but can't you just imagine, looking at it, what Plan A would have been? It's just a name, yet it tells a story of compromise, acceptance, love of the water."

  He reached across to catch her hand as she gestured, felt warm fingers return the pressure of his. "I didn't know you were a philosopher and a poet."

  She laughed and he felt the vibration in her fingers. "Everyone's a philosopher and a poet, given the right subject. Tell me what you care about, Alex." Her hand turned in his, fingers threading through. "Tell me about that treatment center your sister mentioned."

  He wanted to withdraw, to pull his hand away, but somehow the need produced no movement in his muscles. "Just a project I'm working on."

  Her smile grew sober. "A secret project?"

  He drew his hand away as the waiter appeared at their table. He watched her decide to have a light white wine, then ordered club soda for himself because he needed every bit of control he could get.

  He really didn't want to share this dream with her, yet found himself saying, "Diabetic kids live with conditions that severely restrict their choices. In an ideal world, parents shelter and care for their children."

  "But this is far from an ideal world," she said softly.

  "True. Some parents aren't interested in the job, while others care, but can't seem to pull it off. The kids often sabotage themselves. There's this kid I discharged on Friday. It's a matter of life and death for him to look after himself, but he thinks he's immortal and his parents either can't or won't control what he eats."

  "And your center will change that?" She studied him intently, her eyes mobile in her still face. "How?"

  "With education, combined with careful monitoring. I've been trying everything to get through to this kid—Jason. He was admitted with insulin shock the other day and I had to send him home yesterday, but I think he still believes he's immortal.

  "With a free access treatment center, I'd have a better chance. Despite the fact he's only got minimal medical coverage, he'd be able to check in for two weeks, live in an environment that models good diabetic care, meet other kids in various stages of success and failure. The basic message he needs to learn is that he's responsible for himself, for his life—or his death.

  "The center would give all kinds of expert care—medical, nutritional, psychiatric, and peer support. Once the kids check out after the residential period, they'd be able to return for medical outpatient care, support groups, counseling sessions."

  "It sounds expensive," she said, the green in her eyes glowing by reflection from the candle the waiter had just lit. "Will the Thurston Foundation come up with the money? That's the business you had with Dennis the other night, isn't it? Thurston would want paperwork, pro forma financial projections, needs analyses."

  He hadn't expected her to be on speaking terms with phrases like needs analyses. "You must have picked up a fair amount of financial lingo growing up as an accountant's daughter."

  "A bit. Actually, I—"

  "I've been working for this for a long time. At first, I thought I needed to train the parents, but even with better parenting, the kids need to know how to look after themselves."

  "And Jason? How will you get through to him?"

  "I don't know. I've tried everything."

  "Did you tell him your brother died of insulin shock?"

  "No. That wouldn't be appropriate." He pulled back in his chair. "I didn't come here to talk medicine."

  She leaned forward. "Shouldn't we talk about what matters to you, and to me? You care about the children, so we're talking about them. Your brother—"

  "I don't want to talk about my brother. What do you care about, Jamila? What matters to you?"

  He was relieved that she accepted the change of subject.

  "I care about everything. "Life, people, art." Her gesture seemed to encompass the room and the entire harbor.

  When the waiter brought their food, he watched her eat Pacific salmon with small, eager bites. He realized he was becoming entranced by the way her mouth curved to reflect the smallest change in her mood. Moods, for Jamila, seemed to be like weather, flowing through her as naturally as the wind blew the clouds across the sky.

  "You put art last on your list, but I suspect it comes first for you."

  "Do you measure everything? Don't you know that if you're busy measuring it, you can't experience it, can't feel?"

  "A man needs to know what matters, what comes first."

  She lifted a fork filled with pink salmon, looked over it at him. "Does that mean everything else is sacrificed? Life would be sterile if what came first were the only thing you had. Your children come first, don't they, your patients? But if you put them first every moment, you'd be cheating both them and yourself."

  "You think I should sacrifice them?"

  She fell silent for a moment, watching him, reading him in a way that made Alex uncomfortable. Finally she said, "I think your world is drawn in black and white, Alexander Kent. You tempt me to add color."

  The air around them shifted, crackled with something dangerous, and they were stared at each other as if unable to speak, or to look away.

  Slowly, Jamila lowered her fork and pushed her plate away.

  The waiter must have been waiting for this signal, because he appeared at Alex's shoulder immediately, asking, "Coffee, madam? Sir?"

  Color in his life? She was a rage of color: all green tonight, clothes and eyes, rich copper in her hair. He couldn't look away from her, couldn't look at her without a host of disturbing feelings. He felt as if he were becoming one of her abstract paintings, all swirling color and raw emotion.

  Chapter 11

  "Let's dance," Alex said.

  Jamila stood and walked ahead of him, past the empty stage. The music came from somewhere unseen. Recorded, he supposed. When th
ey reached the small, empty dance floor, she turned and walked into his arms.

  She would fit perfectly into his arms, her head resting just here, in the curve of his shoulder. His arm, holding her, fit precisely the curve of her back.

  Slow music. He couldn't identify the familiar notes, but he would never hear this music again without remembering this woman moving slowly in his arms. He wanted to bury his face in the soft abundance of her hair, needed to see her lips, to know if her eyes were open, or if the slow weight of the moody music had closed them.

  "Look at me."

  She turned her head as he pulled back slightly, staring straight into his eyes. Hers had the look of a woman just awakened from sleep. If he bent his head, just slightly, his lips would brush hers. He couldn't stop himself, wasn't prepared for the electric heat of her mouth, could never be prepared.

  "Jamila..." Her name sounded like the woman, deep erotic colors, heat, intensity. He wanted, needed to draw her closer, deeper, to bury his mouth in hers, to drink her rich honey flavor until he was filled with her.

  "We—" Her voice choked off the word, and fire flashed in her eyes as she turned her head away. He drew in a shallow, careful breath. His lungs seemed incapable of deep breathing as he pulled her closer, her soft erotic movements torture against his hard body.

  When the music ended, he couldn't let her go. He hadn't meant to need her. Want, yes. Desire, of course passion, but not need.

  "Let's get out of here," he said tightly.

  His hand touched her back and she turned to walk to their table. He kept the contact as he walked beside her, pleasuring himself with the warm softness of her skin. The dress was cut low in back, her skin so white and soft. He was almost certain she wasn't wearing a bra.

  Juvenile mind, he told himself harshly. Smarten up and get with the program. He reached for the check, rigidly forced his focus to the credit card transaction, his signature, the tip. He succeeded well enough that by the time he stepped outside with her, he had his imagination under control.