But no!
Staring straight ahead, holding his own dark gaze, he fought the passion down. Stilled it. Lashed it tight to the bars of his muscle and bone, the cage he had forged out of will and despair.
Why go? Why bother? I’ll stay here. Pour a drink. Read. I won’t go.
But something drove him on, restless, seeking. And tonight that feeling was stronger than ever, fierce and compelling. But to what? What hope? What dream?
Fool!
He smiled a cold, bitter smile, a mocking smile so chilling it would have raised goose bumps on the arms of the women waiting for him in the car downstairs. If they had seen. Which they never would.
“Never,” he whispered, erasing all emotion from his face, all feeling from his dark, dark eyes.
And, looking as cool and soulless as a painting, he shrugged into his jacket and left.
At that same moment the phone rang in Jamie’s silent loft. It made her jump. Brush still in hand, she walked over to where the phone lay on the floor next to the bed. “Hello?”
“Jamie? Hello, this is Kent. From next door?”
“Yes, hi. How are you?” She shifted from one foot to the other, impatient already.
“I’m great. And I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse. My friend’s got three tickets to the opening tonight at Lupercine. It’s their photography show. Great stuff! So you’re coming with us. Be ready in an hour.”
Jamie shook her head. “I can’t. Thank you but—”
“No ifs, ands, or buts. You’ll love it, and you can’t play the hermit forever. Say yes.”
“No, I really can’t. I’m in the middle of painting and I don’t want to stop. But it was very nice of you to think of me. I appreciate it.”
“Sure. You know what? I’ll just slip the extra ticket under your door. Use it if you can. Bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Jamie stared at the receiver for a moment, then set it down, frowning. She had been painting all morning and afternoon, caught in the same trancelike state as the night before, and this interruption annoyed her. The last thing she needed was some enamored neighbor lurking at her door. As if she was anticipating his unwelcome appearance in that very spot, her gaze swept the room.
She gasped, her eyes flying wide.
Across the room, her canvas looked gorgeous, vibrant, alive with a shimmering light that seemed to come from within it, from the paint itself. She stood dumbfounded, transfixed. That was the light she’d imagined, the light she’d seen before only in her dreams. There … there in her painting!
Unaware of her own movement, she took one step closer. Maybe it was only a trick of light coming in through the windows, some crazy mix of smog and sun. Maybe she was dreaming it now. She rubbed her eyes, getting paint in her hair and on her forehead, but she didn’t feel a thing. The light remained. A beautiful light, a perfect light …
But a landscape.
On the canvas, unforeseen and unplanned, a scene was taking shape: a sweep of hills, trees, a building of some kind hinted at by sharp, dark strokes of umber. It seemed barely hidden beneath her usual abstract style. The brush strokes were hers, as familiar as her own signature. The colors were hers, her characteristic overlay of thin layers of bright hues. But … a landscape?
She hadn’t painted a landscape since her first formal art class when her father had walked into the studio, glanced over her shoulder, and passed judgment: “Well, you don’t have much of an aptitude for that technique, do you?”
That had hurt. It still did. So she certainly had no intention of painting a landscape now … or ever.
But is it possible to paint something you don’t even know you’re painting? she wondered. Goose bumps rose on her arms.
She approached the easel warily. She drew a deep breath.
Biting nervously at her lower lip, she reached for the brush. But suddenly it felt cold and dead in her hand and her hand was shaking. It took all her energy just to screw the caps on the tubes of paint and to clean her brushes. And soon the loft would be dark.
Maybe she should go out for a little while. A bath first, a bite to eat, and then the opening. Suddenly it seemed like exactly the right thing to do. Hurrying into the bathroom, she ran the water good and hot, added some bath salts, and then sank through the cool bubbles into the heat and comfort with a sigh. Closing her eyes, she kept her mind carefully empty. No thoughts. No fears. No dreams. Nothing.
So she was completely unaware of what was about to begin … or had already begun.
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Read on for an excerpt from Gayle Kasper’s Tender, Loving Cure
ONE
Joel gave the exercise bike in the hospital fitness room extra leg action. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was what had his heart rate soaring, or if it was the tempting beauty doing her noon-hour workout in stretchy blue gym garb opposite him.
With blatant interest he watched her trim bottom move up and down as she worked out on the stepper, each well-formed buttock flexing in tempting sync, in perfect rhythm. Up, down. Up, down. Up—
Get a grip, Benedict, he told himself. There were any number of other women in the room, but for some reason he didn’t follow their movements as avidly. What was it about her?
He pumped faster as she raised a hand and lifted her wild mane of curls off her neck to cool herself, then let it fall again, tumbling to her creamy shoulders in a spill of red-gold color. The action was sexy, and totally unconscious on her part, which made it all the more provocative.
Joel was certain he’d never seen her around the hospital before. Where had she come from? he wondered with definite curiosity.
He’d bet big money the sexpert teaching that seminar Lydia expected him to take didn’t look anything like this woman. He’d managed to successfully sidestep the class by assigning one of his first-year residents to sit in on the sessions that started the next day.
Priding himself on his quick thinking, he went back to enjoying the view in front of him. Poetry in motion. His gaze swept down her petite, curvy frame, then slowly back up. Wispy spiral curls framed her dewy-damp face, and a hot blush heated her cheeks. Her mouth was generous, kissable, her eyes big and brown and earthy.
He sucked in a breath as she moved off the stepper and bent to dig in her gym bag for a towel. Yes, one damn sexy derriere, he thought.
She straightened, and with the towel blotted the rosy skin above her breasts. Those were nice, too. A ripe handful.
With a groan he moved from the exercise bike to the rowing machine, where she would no longer be in his direct line of vision. A few more moments of watching her and he’d have to head for the showers—to take a cold one.
He squeezed off a half-dozen pulls, his shoulder muscles flexing and bunching, his thighs tautening and relaxing. He was just getting into the rhythm when the hospital intercom spewed out a series of pages. The first one was for him, the last one for … Margaret Springer.
By the time he got to the phone to take the page, the tempting beauty in the stretchy blue gym garb was there ahead of him, her hand on the receiver.
“This is Maggie Springer,” she said. “I believe you have a page for me.”
Joel knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help it. This siren was the dried-up, androgynous prune Lydia had lined up to teach him about sex?
It took a moment or two before her call came through. Joel was still trying to control his erratic breathing when she turned and smiled at him. “I’ll be through with the phone in a moment.”
“No hurry,” he returned. “I’ll just stand here and kick myself all the way to the other side of the room.”
“Pardon?” She gave him a puzzled glance, then returned to her phone call.
Joel watched the expressions that played across her face as she listened to her caller. She was even more beautiful up close, and definitely a whole lot sexier. Her sultry scent wafted intimately around him, the disturbing essence torturing his senses, making him think of dusky nights a
nd hot caresses beneath cool sheets.
“My class is nearly full,” he heard her say into the receiver, “but I might have one more seat avail—”
Click.
Without thinking, Joel severed her connection.
No one was taking that last seat in her classroom but himself.
She turned, spearing him with darkening eyes. “You don’t have a lot of patience, do you? I told you I’d be only a minute. Here—if your page is that important, be my guest.” She thrust the phone into his hand.
Joel hung it up and gave her a wide smile. “I’m taking that last seat in your class.”
Her mouth gaped, and he fought down the most powerful urge to kiss it, savor the taste, feel it open under his, but he doubted at the moment the woman would be receptive. Later, he promised himself. Later he’d enjoy it to full measure.
“And who are you, might I ask?”
“Joel Benedict.” He offered her his hand, but she refused it.
“Ah, Doctor Benedict.” A smile curved her lips. “The man who referred to my course as psychobabble, I believe.” She folded her arms across her pert breasts that rose and fell with her every breath. “I think you also mentioned something about ‘boring, intellectual prattle’ as well.”
“Lydia has a big mouth,” he barked.
“Lydia is a friend of mine.”
“She still has a big mouth.” And he was going to enjoy making her take call on every weekend and major holiday for the coming year. Revenge was sweet.
Just then he heard his hospital page again. “Uh, excuse me,” he said, reaching for the phone behind her. He would make this quick. Damn quick, he decided as he saw her sashay off.
Maggie Springer gathered up her gym bag. Her friend Lydia had been right about one thing—Joel Benedict was gorgeous. She flung her towel over her shoulder and aimed one last admiring glance in his direction.
He was sleekly male in his snug gym shorts, his muscles taut under a faded red T-shirt. There was a hint of silver in his black, slightly curly hair, with a thread or two at the temples to make her curious about what life experiences had put them there. His eyes were an incredible silver-gray, cool, but they had exuded a definite heat when his gaze settled on her.
She dug in her gym bag for change for the juice machine. Exercise made her thirsty. Finding two quarters, she started toward the brightly lit machine in the alcove. She wondered if Joel Benedict would show up for class tomorrow. She had the feeling there wasn’t a whole lot she could teach the man about sex, but it might be fun to try. Professionally speaking, of course.
She reached up to drop in her quarters and make her selection, but a male hand stopped her. She felt the heat of it as it closed over hers in a firm grasp.
Joel smiled down at her. “My treat,” he said. “What would you like, grapefruit, mixed tropical, or … passion fruit?”
She returned his smile with a sultry one of her own. “Passion fruit.”
Ah, yes, Joel thought. Any famed sexpert worth her degree would make that choice. He’d bet there wasn’t an inhibited bone in that pretty little body of hers. Or were there things about herself she didn’t reveal to anyone—even a lover? He found himself wanting to know more about Maggie Springer.
“What time do we start tomorrow?” he asked, handing her the chilled can. He had some schedule rearranging to do before then, primarily lining up Lydia to take over hospital rounds for him.
A taunt played at her lips. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll find my class … dull?”
He doubted there was a thing about this woman that he’d find dull. “I’ll take my chances.” He dropped in two more quarters for a drink for himself.
“To Sexology 101,” he said, tilting his can to hers in a mock toast.
“To Sex Talk,” she returned, and took a swallow.
Joel enjoyed the creamy line of her throat as she drank. What would it be like to trail kisses along that slender column? he wondered. He felt a definite deprivation when she lowered her drink again and took away his view.
“Tell me, Doctor,” she said, her earthy brown eyes stapling him to the spot. “Why didn’t you want to take my course?”
The woman was direct. “Does the reason matter?”
“I’m a psychologist. It makes me naturally curious when I get a student who resists. I always want to know why.”
“I see— and if there’s some deep-seated reason?”
Her gaze played with his face for a moment. “Well, we all have our little fears, Doctor. Our … vulnerabilities.”
“And you want to know my vulnerability?”
Joel Benedict made her very curious. Maybe more than he should. She cared a little too much why he hadn’t wanted to sit in on Sex Talk—and why, now, he was more than eager to. “Can’t blame a girl for asking,” she said simply.
“And you can’t blame a man for not answering.”
She grinned at that. “Ah, yes, the mysterious male. I did a thesis on him once.”
“And what did you learn?”
“Any number of interesting facts.”
Joel had the feeling this woman could look straight into a man’s soul, and he wasn’t sure he wanted that much perusal into his.
Still, he’d be there tomorrow for her first session, not to have his feelings probed, but to see what the teacher had to offer. “I’m, uh, needed in the East Wing. Maybe we can continue this discussion another time.”
“In class tomorrow, Doctor?”
“In class.” He had the feeling he just might be letting himself in for more than he should.
Lydia said Maggie’s seminar would be lusty.
Joel leaned back in his chair in the small, overheated hospital classroom, anticipating fireworks. If the room decor was any indication of what Maggie had in her teaching plan, there would be plenty.
He hid a small grin as he read the words she had strung around the room like miniature billboards. BREASTS. VAGINA. PENIS.
As a doctor, he was more than familiar with the terms, of course, but he was more accustomed to encountering them between the pages of an anatomy text than gracing the walls of hospital conference space.
INTERCOURSE. CONDOM. ORGASM. The word list grew bolder as it circled the room, a border of technical jargon that piqued his curiosity more than a little.
He slouched down in his seat in a vain effort to avoid the young resident he’d sold his seat to a few days before, but it was too late; he’d been spotted. “Uh, Sam,” he said, striving for offhand. “Interesting class.”
“Interesting instructor,” the lanky red-haired Sam returned with an exaggerated wink, then, with his hands, he outlined what Joel presumed was meant to be Maggie’s curvy shape.
Joel saw red. “That ‘interesting instructor’ is not the reason you’re here. Keep that in mind,” he retorted, surprised at his own vehemence.
If anyone was going to define Maggie’s curvy shape, it would be him—and not with his hands in a classroom of seminar attendees.
He knew he was far too intrigued by her as it was. He had to be crazy to even be thinking about pursuing a woman who’d have him examining inkblots on their first date. On the second, she’d be analyzing his responses for clues to his inner psyche.
Was it worth it to have the tempting beauty to himself for an evening? He wasn’t sure he wanted his inner psyche probed. Few men did—but he resisted even more than most.
Life was a whole lot simpler—and enjoyable—when it wasn’t scrutinized closely.
He speared a hand through his hair and crossed one leg over the other as Maggie stepped out from behind the speaker’s stand and smiled out over the class. He wanted to think that wide smile was directed exclusively at him, but there were eleven other men in the room no doubt thinking the same thing—including the randy Sam. Again he felt that quick stab of jealousy—uncharacteristic jealousy.
There were also three women in the group, only one of whom he knew on a first-name basis. Ruthie, he thought her name was. All w
ere poised with pen in hand, ready and eager for the session.
Maggie was busily explaining the objectives of her course, looking every bit as heart-stoppingly sexy in a wild plum tunic-length sweater and that skinny little black skirt as she had in her skimpy gym garb yesterday. Her hair fell to her shoulders in a frenzy of red-gold curls.
Her earthy voice drifted toward him like a wafting tendril, slightly husky, sexy as all get-out, and as sultry as a hot summer wind.
She was deep in a discourse about the differences between the sexes. Basic med-school stuff, he thought, but with a twist. He half listened, more intrigued by her low, throaty voice than by what she was saying.
“We’re going to try a class exercise this morning,” she announced, “one that will loosen you up and get you in the right frame of mind for what you’ll be learning over the next few days.”
He flashed one quick glance at the wall, certain the words displayed there had something to do with this loosening-up process she spoke of.
“The tide of this course is Sex Talk,” she went on, “and the aim is to learn to communicate with your patients in whatever words they choose to use in place of the terms you see posted. For example, a patient having a physical problem involving his … male genitalia may not use the anatomically correct term but resort instead to a colorful euphemism such as …”
Joel clearly got the picture.
As she spoke, she moved up and down the aisles, handing out marking pens to each attendee. When she came to him, she smiled. “Still expecting boring, Doctor?”
A corner of his mouth edged up. The other members of the class were clambering out of their places, all too eager to record each and every dirty little word they had knowledge of beneath the corresponding medical one. “Boring? Hardly boring, Ms. Springer.”
She handed him a pen. “Feel free to try a word or two, loosen your inhibitions.”
The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept) Page 54