by Fiona Zedde
"You might want to call Nikki and let her know that the rain didn't wash you away."
Sinclair thought that was a good idea, but she had no idea what the Breckenridges' phone number was. She said as much to Hunter.
"I have the number here somewhere. Hold on." She turned before she could see Sinclair's expression of surprise.
"How did you know that I came up here with her and where she was?"
"I know where she works, Sinclair. It doesn't take a detective to figure any of that out."
Sinclair couldn't argue against that. While she called Nikki, Hunter hurried back to the kitchen to check on the food. She was back from the kitchen within a half hour with a tray of food and drinks for them both.
"Let's eat outside. The rain doesn't come in on the verandah."
They sat down at a rattan table with four well-padded chairs. The verandah was large enough that even with a brisk wind, the rain kept itself far away from the table and their food, splashing instead on the fragrant pink and white frangipani that leaned their small, golden-throated blossoms and green leaves over the railing toward them.
"This looks good," Sinclair said, salivating at the rosemaryflecked baked chicken wings and mashed sweet white potatoes on her plate. She was starting to think that everyone on the island knew how to cook except for her.
"Of course it's good. I made it."
The potatoes melted like butter over her tongue. Their light, starchy sweetness loosened an involuntary groan that Hunter heard over the deluge of rain.
"I haven't been the cause of a noise like that in quite a few months," Hunter grinned at her from across the table. "Thank you."
"That long?" Sinclair murmured between bites. "You don't seem like the kind of woman to endure celibacy."
"I'm not. But for Lydia I made an exception."
"She seems very special."
"Lydia is all that and more. I'm just wondering if it's more than I can handle." Hunter's mouth twisted in a parody of a smile.
"I'm sorry."
"It's fine. It's not your fault that neither our politics nor our bodies are compatible." She saw the look on Sinclair's face. "Sorry. Spoke out of turn."
Sinclair blushed at the mental image that Hunter's words conjured, two bodies moving together, frantically trying to fit.
"No need to apologize. I like to think that I'm not so naive that honesty will shock and insult me."
"And you certainly don't seem like the naive type. But I was actually apologizing for talking like that about your sister in front of you. I usually say those kinds of things to her face so I don't have to repeat myself."
Sinclair nodded, thought of pursuing the matter, then decided to let it drop. She focused instead on the meal in front of her. The chicken was tender, with just a hint of pepper to complement the aromatic seduction of the rosemary. Sinclair finished off her meal and sat back in the chair with a satisfied sigh. The rain still fell heavily outside, but she didn't care. With her belly full and her camera safe, life was good. She stretched out her legs, wriggling her toes when runaway drops of rain bounced off the railing and splashed on her bare feet.
Across from her, Hunter devoured her meal even more completely than she had. Sinclair watched her sink sharp teeth into the chicken bone, heard it snap, then her soft grunt of satisfaction. She made soft sucking sounds then emptied her mouth of the tiny ground-up remains on a corner of her dish. Hunter ate with rabbitlike intensity, biting and sucking and spitting in an even rhythm until all that was left on the plate was a small brown and beige pile of ground bones. She finally looked up and caught Sinclair staring.
"Want to try it?"
Sinclair shook her head, but Hunter scooted her chair closer and urged Sinclair to pick up her barely nibbled chicken bone with its thin curls of meat still attached.
Goaded by the look of disgust that had flared in Sinclair's eyes, Hunter guided the still moist bone to the other woman's mouth. "You have to clean off all the meat first. Come on."
Quelled by her unwanted attraction to this woman, Sinclair was helpless to stop her mouth from obeying.
"Now, bite into it."
Sinclair blinked when the marrow squirted inside her mouth, released from the remarkably soft prison of bone. It slid over her tongue and she swallowed. The marrow was smooth, like pate, and infused with a taste of iron that made it rich and unexpectedly good.
"Well?" Hunter's smile said she knew exactly what Sinclair was thinking.
"It's not bad. Is there a way to eat this without the messiness of biting into the bone?"
"I could suck it out of the bone and spit it into your mouth."
Disgust wasn't quite the emotion that twisted her stomach and made her take in a quick breath.
"I'm joking, American girl. I swear." She laughed softly and moved back to her side of the table.
"I'm starting to understand that you're a truly wicked woman."
"You're a little slow then, aren't you?"
"I'm fast when it counts though."
"Ah." The exhalation left Hunter as a sigh.
Smiles lingered, deliberately playing with each other.
Sinclair's eyes fell to Hunter's mouth, noticed its softness, the wet gleam of lips a shade or two lighter than her skin. She imagined another place on Hunter's body that would also be two different shades of dark. Her cheeks burned.
"Can I paint you?" Hunter asked.
Sinclair helped Hunter clean up after their lunch, wiping down the table and the rest of the kitchen while the other woman washed the dishes and pots. When they were finished, Hunter took two Popsicles from her freezer.
"Want one?"
Sinclair nodded. "Red, please."
"That's not very adventurous of you, is it?"
"What?"
"Red is such a safe color. Why don't you take this white one? Live a little."
Sinclair looked at Hunter as if she'd lost her mind. "I don't think so."
"Fine. Your loss."
"OK. Why don't we just share? You have the top half of the white and I'll have the bottom half. Same for the red."
"Very diplomatic. I commend you."
They moved back out to the verandah and put their feet out for some of the cooling drops of rain to hit them.
Hunter licked the side of her white Popsicle. "So, may I paint you?"
"If you really want to." Sinclair made a face.
"I do, so when can I start?"
"Whenever you want. I'm not on a schedule. How long is it going to take?"
"Not long. If it's all right, I'd like for you to pose for me for a few hours one day, then I'll take photos of you and use those for the rest of the painting."
"I don't have to be naked, do I?"
"Only if you want to be." Hunter wiggled her eyebrows, startling a laugh out of Sinclair.
"Are you ever serious?"
"Yes. But only when I'm alone."
Sinclair watched her for a moment, idly wondering what else Hunter did when she was alone.
Hunter drove her back to the Breckenridges' house and let her out at the gate. "Come back to my house in two days and we can get started."
"OK. See you Friday."
"I was starting to get worried," Nikki said when she came out to get Sinclair.
They walked up the long drive together, with Sinclair stopping occasionally to admire some part of the large yard's landscaping.
"Hunter took pretty good care of me," she said as they walked into the house. "I ran into her before the rain got started."
The smell of cooking food floated in the air, oddly out of place with the sterile decor. Everything that Sinclair saw was expensive and tastefully placed, but the house didn't feel lived in. The bone-colored furniture and white walls weren't the least bit welcoming. White drapery fluttered at the windows.
"Good. She's nice," Nikki said.
Was she? "Well, she's at least interesting."
She didn't see the look of speculation that Nikki threw her way.
"This is a beautiful house." As beautiful as a Tudor squatting on a jungle hilltop could look.
Nikki hummed an agreement. "Nigel and Barbara are going to be in town for another couple of hours. After I finish making their dinner we can go."
"Since I'm the one sitting up at your job, please take your time. I'll just go have a look around the house and the gardens."
"Go ahead, but be careful. The Breckenridges are very particular about their things."
Sinclair threw her a wicked grin. "I'll try to break only the cheap stuff."
She didn't get much sightseeing done. A little corner in their solarium seduced her into stretching out in the windowed alcove with her head propped up on a white pillow. The sun burned tiny kisses all over her skin as she looked out the window on the abundant green of the land below and the miles of blue sky above. Tall trees danced in the breeze. Her eyes fell closed.
Victor was waiting on the verandah with Xavier when Sinclair and Nikki walked through the gate later that evening. The two boys sat in serious deliberation around a game of checkers while Xavier's cup of milk and Victor's bottle of Guinness sweated nearby.
Nikki sat in the rocking chair after briefly touching her child's head then her husband's. "I'm tired. Who's going to cook tonight?"
Victor laughed. "Sinclair?"
"Don't look at me," she said, glancing over Xavier's shoulder at the close game. "If you don't want to wake up with ugly stomachaches in the morning, one of you will cook."
"Daddy made dinner already."
Both women looking at Xavier in surprise. "Really? You were both good boys while I was away, then?"
Xavier nodded in response to his mother's question. "I helped clean the fish and everything."
Nikki perked up. "What kind of fish?"
"Stew parrot fish." Victor looked up from his game with an indulgent smile.
It was apparently one of Nikki's favorites. Her pose in the chair became one of contentment instead of exhaustion. "I could eat that," she said.
Sinclair knocked on Hunter's door later in the week with a bottle of wine and a loaf of still-warm bread.
"Hello." Hunter's eyes immediately fell to her guest's impromptu gifts. "I should invite you over more often. Come in. Let me take those." She immediately put her nose to the damp plastic that covered the bread. "Lovely."
Sinclair closed the door behind her and walked into the softly scented house. An oil burner on the living room table was the source of the fragrance. Sage, she identified, following Hunter's almost naked back deeper into the house. The woman wore loose denim cutoffs, paint splattered and ripped, and a white halter top that left her back bare except for a bit of string that dipped across the solid expanse of flesh. Her hair was wrapped in a bright blue cloth and coiled on top of her head like a giant sleeping snake.
"Would you like some of the wine and bread to help you relax?" Hunter waved her toward the sofa. "I'm sure I could find a bit of cheese around here somewhere."
"If you have to scrounge for the cheese, don't worry about it. I don't like my dairy European."
Hunter smirked, then disappeared into the kitchen. She came back with two wineglasses and a plate with cheese already sliced into neat, appetizing rectangles.
"You are a domestic goddess," Sinclair murmured appreciatively, watching her wrestle the cork from the bottle and pour the merlot.
"Only a few of my talents are in the kitchen, my dear," Hunter said, stroking an imaginary mustache.
"That's good to know."
Hunter sank her long fingers deeply into the soft white dough of the bread and ripped it apart. "Et voila!"
She sat down beside Sinclair and sipped her wine. "Umm. And she has good taste in wine too. I love it."
Is she flirting with me? Sinclair hid her warm cheeks by tearing off her own hunk of bread. "So what are we doing today?"
Hunter finished her mouthful of bread and cheese before she spoke. "Come, I'll show you." She picked up their meal and stood up.
The house was even larger than Sinclair thought. They passed by the familiar kitchen to a small anteroom with walls hidden by empty and half finished canvasses and hanging white cloths splashed with paint. The scent of oil paints and turpentine laced the air. A long cloth-covered couch lay a few feet from the easel, waiting for a body to fill it. Just behind the couch was a large window facing the backyard, allowing a view of at least a quarter acre of land wild with fruit trees and flowers. A hammock lay empty underneath a fiercely blossoming royal poinciana tree. Bright red blossoms from this tree lay scattered on the low, small bladed grass that provided at least twenty feet of good rolling around room.
"How do you ever get any work done here? This place is gorgeous." Sinclair had to take some photographs of the house before she left the island.
"Discipline. The need for a paycheck." Hunter grinned. "Sit. Eat. Think about what position would be most comfortable for you on the couch."
Hunter set up the platter of bread and cheese along with the wine on a small table within reach of the couch. She put her own wine near the palette and sat down on the stool to watch Sinclair, who squirmed under the close scrutiny but tried to sip her wine and pretend nonchalance. It wasn't quite working.
"Should I take my shirt off? What do you want me to do?"
Hunter smiled as she put the wineglass to her lips. "Hm. Those words are music to my ears. Too bad I'm not a pervy sort to take advantage of your willingness to sacrifice your virtue for art."
"Is that how you get women to put out? Ask to paint their portraits, then ... ?"
"That's only one of my wicked, yet effective ways. You'll have to stick around to find out the rest."
Sinclair shivered in response. Tempting. She's your sister's girlfriend, dammit!
Under Hunter's eyes and the influence of the wine, Sinclair relaxed. She leaned back on the couch, stretching her arm above her head. Her sandals hit the floor with the sound of two light slaps and the cotton shirt she wore sighed over her breasts, baring the tiniest hint of cleavage. She closed her eyes, enjoying the early morning heat that slid in through the large window.
"That's perfect." A camera shutter snapped. Once, twice, then again.
"What kind of camera do you have there?"
"A digital Olympus Stylus that I picked up a little while ago." The shutter clicked again. "It works great. Haven't had a single problem with it."
"I'd love to see it later, if you don't mind. I take photographs, too. Of landscapes mostly, no nude girls yet." Sinclair peered at the other woman. "Though from seeing you at work, it's suddenly something worth thinking about."
The corners of Hunter's eyes crinkled in amusement. "Yeah, you can come by and see my camera anytime. And while you're at it, take a closer look at my all-booty-all-thetime lifestyle."
"I hardly think that about the way you live. But I like it. It's peaceful. You're happy. What's not to be envious of?"
"Sinclair, honey, you're only on vacation. This is my life." She rested the camera against her thigh. "I'm sure that citybred girls like you would get bored in this place in no time at all."
"Maybe." She looked up as Hunter adjusted the camera and took another shot of her. The dark woman gave her a stern look and indicated with one finger that Sinclair should turn back around. With a sigh, she turned her face into the back of the couch. The camera clicked again.
"I'm going to start painting now. You can sleep if you want to, just don't move."
"Not a problem." She breathed in the scent of paint and, underneath it, the smoky scent of sage that clung to Hunter. Her mind easily followed the path of the sage, wondering where it clung. Was it all over her skin, laying just on the surface of that bitter chocolate flesh, sinking into her pores and becoming part of the woman that was Hunter? Or was it in her hair, caught in the dark, snaking strands, trapped and unwilling to escape? Sinclair thought about the feel of all that heavy hair against her belly. Or would it be light, resting against her shoulders like a h
undred black feathers while Hunter whispered hotly in her ear? Would this same sagescented hair fly like a wild banner around Hunter's head and back as she moved, teeth bared in passion, above Sinclair? Sinclair's eyes snapped open. But she didn't move. Her body was damp under the cotton dress, ripe as an August mango. Had Hunter noticed?
"If you don't mind me asking," Sinclair murmured over the sound of the brush moving across the canvas. "How do you know that your body wasn't compatible with Lydia's?"
"I don't mind you asking, as long as you don't mind me not telling you."
"Fair enough."
Sinclair closed her eyes again and Hunter's brush continued to stroke the canvas.
"I tried to touch her and she wouldn't let me." Hunter's voice woke her from a light doze. Sinclair opened her eyes but didn't turn. "Whenever that happens with someone you've been dating for almost six months, that's usually a bad sign."
Sinclair blinked through the fog of sleep and adjusted her breathing; made a small noise to let Hunter know that she was listening.
"I've never had a woman back away from me before and mean it. For the past few weeks I've been thinking about that." Sinclair heard her swallow more wine. "Do you think that means anything?"
It was simple curiosity that Sinclair heard in the other woman's voice. No pain, just a desire to know. "I don't have that much experience with women to give you any insight," Sinclair said. "I'm not the best one to ask relationship-related questions."
"You're wrong about that. I think you're the perfect one to ask. If someone reached out to touch you with the intention of making love with you and you backed away from her, what possible emotions or motives could be moving you those few feet backward away from that potential lover?"
Sinclair thought of Yuen and all those times he'd wanted to have sex and she'd found something else to do, something else to occupy his mind. She'd never felt repulsed by the thought of Regina's lovemaking. Even now her skin tingled at the memory of it. There had never been a time when she had shied away from the woman's touch. Well, except for that night at the Burning Rose when Regina was being an asshole.
"Repulsion, right?" Hunter answered her own question. "But why?"