“Forgive me if I don’t believe y’all.” His words were dry as he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. After only a few day here, even the fairly refined twang of the South in his voice seemed strange.
Unsure of what to say, Emma crossed her arms over her chest. She cast a look back at the simmering kettle on the stove, tapping her foot anxiously. “That water is boiling as slow as molasses.”
“Em.” The nickname he’d had for her in childhood caught her full attention. She turned away from the tea, a stinging pain flashing around her heart when she saw the sadness in Matthew’s eyes. “You’re serious about ending it. I didn’t think you were, but I know you. You wouldn’t…you wouldn’t kiss someone back like that if you thought you were coming back to me.”
“Matthew.” Sucking in a deep breath, she willed her anxiety away. This was just Matthew. Someone she’d known for as long as she could remember.
A friend—she hoped he was still a friend.
“It wasn’t just the certificate, was it?” The grim acceptance in the lines around his mouth had Emma sighing and closing the space between them. Seating herself beside him on the bed, she measured the warmth when her arm brushed against his.
Warmth. Not heat. Something she’d never even known she was missing until a few days ago.
She mimicked his posture when she finally answered. “It wasn’t. You know that. We were getting married because it seemed like the logical next step to take.”
He was silent for a long moment, drumming his fingers on his knee, an agitated twitch that Emma had rarely seen.
When he again spoke, he broke her heart a little bit.
“We still could.” He faced straight ahead, as if afraid to make eye contact with her. “We make sense, Em. You know we’d have a good life.”
“No.” It hurt her to say it, and she knew it hurt him, too. How could it not, when they had so much history between them? “I mean, yes. We would. We could have a good life. But…don’t you want more than that? More than we’d ever be together?”
“Is that really what you want?” Jerking a thumb toward the front door, he frowned. “Is it…is it the sex? Because we could…I suppose we could…try something new.”
“What?” Emma couldn’t hold back her startled bark of laughter. “I…goodness. I don’t even know what to say to that.”
The pained expression on his face told her exactly how unexcited he was at the idea of spicing things up between them, and honestly, she couldn’t even fathom what that would entail. Just thinking about it made her squirm.
He remained silent, clearly waiting for her to continue. Emma rubbed her face, searching for the right thing to say.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Matthew.” The kettle started to whistle and she stood, moving to pour the water into the mugs. “I’m not having sex with Nick. I’m here to meet my father.”
He accepted the steaming mug of tea, wrapping his long fingers around the white ceramic as he studied her through the curls of steam. “Are you okay, Em? This…none of this is like you.”
“You know what?” Emma laughed again, but this time it was tinged with impatience. “I don’t know if it is or it isn’t. I’m starting to think that the way I’ve always been isn’t necessarily who I’m meant to be. I’m upset with you, yes, but it’s not your fault, and it’s not my mother’s fault. The whole mess with the certificate, with discovering that I have a father out there—it just got me going. I think I would have come to this point anyway, even if we’d gotten married.”
Some of the light in her former fiancé’s eyes dimmed, and she felt his sadness prick her chest. This hurt more than she’d thought it would after that scene over wedding cake samples. Wetness stung at her eyes, and she blinked it away as she focused on that damn tinsel again.
It was almost Christmas. It felt wrong not to be on good terms with her mother, with Matthew.
By the same token, she couldn’t imagine a better Christmas present than exploring the new facets of herself that were starting to emerge.
“I’m sorry.” Setting down her own mug of tea, she reached out for Matthew’s hand. Lacing her fingers through his the way she’d done a million times before, she gave his hand a squeeze of genuine regret.
Pressing his lips together, he closed his eyes for a long moment, squeezing her hand right back. Finally he let go, rising and setting down his tea.
“I think I’d better go.” His movements were stiff, stilted as he reached for his coat and pulled it on. He was clearly disgruntled, which got her back up as well. She wasn’t going to feel bad for doing what she felt was the right thing.
Still, watching him walk out under the light sprinkles of snow that had started falling, watching him actually walk away, she felt a thread of panic. When would she see him again? She’d never been incapable of answering that question.
But when the door closed behind him, the panic dissipated, leaving behind a blessed sense of…relief. That was the only way she could describe it. She hadn’t realized how heavily the albatross of her former engagement had been hanging around her neck.
She was free. And, looking up at the plastic mistletoe hanging from the splintered rafters in the cabin, for the first time in her life she had a chance to go after something she wanted for no reason other than that.
Chapter 17
The rays of winter sunlight created an ethereal halo around her head when Emma pushed through the door of the studio. The artist in him was instantly mesmerized by the way the light made her champagne strands glow, playing off the nearly translucent ivory of her skin.
Ivory. If it wasn’t illegal and unethical as hell, that was what he would sculpt her in. Pure ivory, melting hues of vanilla and pearl and cream.
“Nick.” Her voice cut through his musings, and he made a mental note to do some sketches of the sculpture later. Marble, maybe. Marble might work nearly as well as ivory. “Nick!”
“I’m glad you came.” Firmly pushing the art out of his head, he focused in on the woman standing in the chilly air of the studio. He grimaced slightly when he noted the annoyance radiating off her just like that halo of light he’d imagined.
“You might as well have peed on me.” She tapped her foot as he coughed out a laugh at the unexpected phrase. “It’s not funny. That’s what that kiss was. You were marking your territory, which you have no right to do after, what, a few kisses and some smoldering looks between the tortured artist and the simple southern girl?”
“I—” He had no argument to offer. That was exactly what he’d been doing. He hadn’t thought about it, he’d just acted when he saw the familiarity with which the other man spoke to Emma.
Just remembering that had jealousy kindling in his gut. He’d never felt it that strongly before, and he couldn’t say he cared for it.
“You know, some think that just because we southerners talk slow, that means we’re stupid.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she tapped her foot, the sound echoing off the concrete walls of the studio. “I’m not. I know that whatever you’re looking for from me, it happens in the bedroom and nowhere else.”
That conjured the instant picture of Emma on his hunter-green sheets, all that pale hair spread out over his pillow. Jesus. He shifted uncomfortably as his jeans started to feel tight.
“Clearly the suit wasn’t very adventurous if you think it can only happen in a bedroom.” He let his lips curl in a wicked grin, the expression evaporating instantly when he saw the temper in her eyes. He instantly became chagrined. “I’m sorry. Look, I was…I was jealous, okay? I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”
“And what way was that?” He’d expected that temper to come out in her voice, but instead she sounded confused.
He had a reputation on the island. He knew that. He’d done his best to encourage it, in fact. But because of it, she didn’t think he was capable of having real feelings for a woman. It pissed him off, even though he understood.
“He looked at you like you were his.”
He ground the words out of a clenched jaw. He was still jealous. And he still didn’t like it.
“I’m not his. I’m my own.” Slowly she unzipped her new down jacket, sliding it off her shoulders and setting it on one of the small tables that crowded the space. She wore a sweater underneath, nothing overtly seductive, but he still found his mouth going dry as she slowly closed the space between them. “I’m my own, and I know what I want.”
He barely swallowed a groan as she looked up at him, sparks of heat in those pale eyes. He fisted his hands to keep from grabbing her. It hurt, but after he’d—what had she called it? Marked his territory?—he owed it to her to let her make the next move.
Owed it to her to let her make the decision on her own. She’d heard what he was like, that he didn’t ever offer more than a night. That he wasn’t sure he could. He wouldn’t confuse her decision by telling her that somehow he knew she was different.
She was directly in front of him now, close enough for him to stroke his hand through the length of her pale hair. It nearly killed him, but he stayed frozen in place. The merest hint of nerves sizzled lightly over his skin, and intensity crackled like his welding torch. He focused on one of the dusty windows, the scarlet-red and glass-green of the Christmas lights outside casting their glow onto a pristine log of snow on the sill.
When her lips brushed against his, a tremor rocketed through him. Just the lightest touch, but he felt it solidly, a punch in the solar plexus.
Hands fisted at his side, he let her be the one to move. Pulling back an inch, she lifted a hand and traced curious fingers over the shape of his lips. Her breath misted over his chin as she removed her fingers and stood on tiptoe to kiss him again.
He couldn’t hold back anymore. He had half-moon crescents in his palms from where his nails had dug in, and they seemed to pull in more sensation when he cupped her cheeks—tiny pinpricks of concentrated pleasure.
Her skin was hot silk against the calluses of his workingman’s hands. He cursed against her lips when he accidentally dragged a rough patch over her cheekbone, and when she arched into the touch, he lost hold of the last shred of his sanity.
Pressing the hard length of his body to hers, he poured everything he had into that kiss—his attraction to everything about her, the guilt that dogged him over the fact that he was kissing Mike’s daughter. The fear of letting anyone get close enough that it would hurt when they were gone, and the grief that had sent him to the island in the first place. She pulled it all out of him, somehow demanded with the gentle press of her fingers that he give her more than he’d ever intended to give.
Her fingers fisting in the front of his shirt brought him back to earth. Pulling back with one final, hard press of his mouth against hers, he swiped a hand over his brow and eyed her, his breath coming hard.
With any other woman, he would continue, right then and there. With any other woman, it wouldn’t be any more than that.
This time? Allowing himself to be led by the insistence of his body wasn’t right—it was too much, too fast. He needed a moment to breathe.
Another woman might have been pissed off, might have gone after him with sharp words and sharper nails. Emma just looked at him as though she already knew why.
She was the one who broke the silence—he had no words, stuck as they were in his throat.
“Will you show me your work?”
Chapter 18
The wine was a welcome distraction after the kiss that had left her short of breath and weak in the knees. Emma sipped at the liquid that Nick had sloshed into a cheap glass bearing the logo of some brand of beer, enjoying the way the alcohol caused warmth to pool low in her belly.
The light press of his fingers at the base of her spine made her warmer still. She knew what she wanted, and it was undoubtedly going to happen—their need permeated the air between them.
“This is…well.” Emma blinked at the corner of the studio that Nick had led her to. Stacked nearly as high as she was tall were piles of…well, of junk. Scraps and sheets of metal, logs, planks of wood, hunks of stone, coils of wire, jugs of some kind of plaster. Some of it looked new, but most was weathered and clearly worn. “What is all this?”
“This is where we store…well, stuff.” Stepping back, Nick ran a hand through his hair. Emma didn’t miss the way the muscles of his arm pressed against the thin cotton of his T-shirt as he did. “It looks a mess, I know. We’re both pack rats. Can’t walk by something that one of us might use one day.”
“Did you find most of this?” With a small sweep of her arm, Emma indicated the piles that, when she looked at them through Nick’s eyes, seemed more like treasure than junk. “I would have thought you purchased them.”
“We do that, too.” His face was alight as he talked about his craft. “But one of the reasons Mike and I make such good partners in our space here is because we think the same. We both think it adds to the finished project to have something that isn’t brand-new, something with a story to tell.”
We both think. She hadn’t anticipated it, but the words released a hit of sadness, thick and oily in her veins.
Nick knew these things about Mike, spoke of them in a matter-of-fact way. While she, who had come from his blood, knew nothing more than what he looked like in a photo.
How could she be sad over something she’d only just discovered she’d been missing?
“Hey.” With a gentle press of his fingers under her chin, Nick caught her attention. Something about his expression told her he knew where her mind had wandered. “How about we finish up that tour?”
“Yes, please.” He was trying to distract her. She would let him.
She followed silently as he guided her through the mess of the studio. Back at the table where she’d first seen him working, she watched as he lifted a medium-sized statue from the shelf, grunting under its weight, muscles straining.
“This is what I’ve been trying to finish up lately.” Placing the heavy piece on the table, he swiped his arm across his forehead before casting a sidelong glance at Emma. “I’m a little stuck on it. What do you think?”
She understood what the glance had been for when she rounded the table and took a good look at the sculpture.
Cast in fiery tones of bronze and brass, it seemed abstract at first glance—just a series of soft lines, curves, and bends. A second look brought it into focus, and she could see that it was quite clearly a woman. A very sensual woman, seated with her knees hugged into her chest, her head dropped forward to reveal an elegant stretch of bare back.
She couldn’t quite hold back the hiss of her breath.
“It’s lovely.” She tried, but couldn’t stop herself from saying the words that she knew she shouldn’t let go. “She must be a beautiful woman.”
The wicked grin that split his face was instantaneous and exasperating. He’d chosen this piece specifically, she knew that now—he’d wanted to see her reaction.
“Green’s a sexy color on you.” Tracing a finger lightly over her cheekbone, he gestured to the sculpture with a nod of his head. “But there’s no need to be jealous. She’s not any one specific woman. Just my interpretation of female beauty. Which is probably why something’s still missing—she’s generic.”
“I think she’s perfect.” The streak of relief was new to her. The thought of him sitting there sketching in a notepad while some gorgeous, voluptuous beauty reclined on a bed before him had made her feel nauseated. “Do you ever sculpt real people?”
“Sure.” There was that grin again, tossed at her quickly before his attention returned to the statue. “You offering to pose for me?”
“I—what?” The notion was so absurd that she stopped as she was, hand extended to touch the cool-looking metal. “You’re not serious.”
“I absolutely am.” When he looked at her again, the heat that had been on simmer since their last kiss had again grown to small, flickering flames. “Though with a body like yours? I’d have a hard time focusing on my work.�
�
“I—” How on earth was she supposed to reply to that? She knew what she looked like. She had the kind of frame that wore clothes well but lacked the curves that drew men like honeybees to a blossom. “I don’t look anything like her.”
Didn’t look anything like his idea of female beauty.
“You don’t,” he agreed, and her stomach knotted. The tension coiled tighter when he approached her again, forcing her to back up until the sharp edge of the table pressed into her behind. “Because there’s nothing generic about you.”
He circled her thin wrist with his strong fingers, and the scrape of the callused pads of his fingers against her arm left her breathless. Gently, he guided her arm back, coaxing her fingers to clutch the edge of the table. He repeated the process on her left side, guiding that arm across her breasts. He brushed against her torso softly as he did, making her heart pound wildly in her chest.
“This is how I’d pose you.” His voice was low, rasping into the otherwise silent air. His fingers danced along her spine, making her arch her back like a cat. “Full of contrasts. Hiding behind one arm, but the other leaving you open.”
He stepped back, and she felt the burn of his gaze on her body as he studied her from head to toe. Closing her eyes, she felt his fingers in her hair, then the tie being pulled free. Her hair, thick and heavy, fell straight down like sheets of rain. When he pulled it over one of her shoulders, urging her to turn slightly toward it, she shivered against his touch.
“Half of you trying to hide behind that glorious curtain of hair. The other side open, revealing to everyone who looks at you how strong you really are.”
“That…um.” Her mouth was so dry the words stuck in her throat. “That doesn’t sound very…sexy.”
“Are you serious?” Pressing a light kiss to her lips, he trailed his mouth along the line of her jaw, making her moan. “There’s nothing sexier than a strong woman. Just like you.”
Her eyes flew open when he kissed her again.
This was it. Last chance to pull away, which is what the Emma of the past would have done. The Emma she’d been up until just a few days ago didn’t climb into bed with strange men. Hell, she didn’t even meet strange men, because she didn’t go anywhere new. She certainly didn’t hop flights to new countries on a whim.
Christmas Sanctuary Page 7