‘It’s not that I don’t like it.’
‘Oh, you hate it.’
‘That’s not fair Hayley, I never said that.’ He didn’t look happy and he didn’t seem to know whether he preferred to look at the picture or her. ‘I don’t hate it; I don’t exactly not like it, even.’ He paused. ‘It’s just … Well, it’s great, for just a picture but …’
‘Not for your picture. Just for some other office, some other place?’
‘It’s clever, really.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I can see the “me” bit in it, the boring bits and the danger …’
‘But? You can be honest, you know.’ Even though I’d rather you weren’t.
‘It’s not you.’ He grimaced, and she knew she’d stiffened and drawn away from him just a tiny bit. She couldn’t help it. ‘It’s just a picture; you know, a great picture, but …’
‘But?’ Were they ever going to get anywhere with this, was he going to spit it out and say it sucked?
‘But it doesn’t do anything for me. It’s like all those other pictures that didn’t do anything for me until I met you. All those brilliant pieces of art in all those galleries I’ve been forced to walk through.’ His voice was soft and it hurt, really hurt. Chipped at places it shouldn’t have been able to reach. ‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but it’s just, I don’t know, flat?’
Honest, she’d asked for honest and he’d delivered, like he always did. One hundred per cent. ‘Flat.’ Shit. ‘See? I told you this would happen. I knew it.’
‘But the other ones are great, they’re brilliant, so it can’t be –’
‘And that one sucks, right? You hate it, I hate it.’ She took another step away, shoving her hands into her pockets, trying to ignore the sudden need to throw the damned picture on the floor and stamp on it.
‘You can’t just blame being with me.’ He was looking at her as though she’d gone slightly mad. ‘Be reasonable, Hayley.’
‘Reasonable? I am being reasonable. Knowing what you want doesn’t always make you bloody right, you know. I’ve been here before. This is the start, this is the point where it all just starts slipping away, and I can’t do that to myself again, I can’t.’ Heat pricked at the back of her eyes. They’d had the sex, the fun and she’d known all along it was wrong, that she couldn’t handle it.
‘And what about me? You can do it to me? To us?’
‘Us? I told you there couldn’t be an us, not at the moment, not until I’ve done this.’
‘So you expect me to just accept all the blame? It’s my fault, is it?’
‘I don’t expect anything.’ She took another step back, another step further away from the man who wasn’t to blame for anything except wanting her as much as she wanted him. ‘I only expect stuff from me. I want to do your paintings. I just need space.’ The inside of her cheek stung as she bit hard.
‘You’ve had space. Those other paintings are fine, but this one just hasn’t worked. Just do it again.’
‘Tom.’ Why did he have to make this difficult? Why was he so fucking stubborn?
‘Since when did space ever work in a relationship?’ He’d raised his voice, but then she saw it in his eyes. That point when he knew he’d said the wrong thing even for himself. Since when was this meant to be a relationship? Neither of them had wanted that. ‘Fine.’
Shit. She wanted to grab him, kiss him, wanted him to rewind, and instead he was looking like everything she said was right. ‘I just need to …’
And she spun round and headed down the stairs.
OK, he was out of his depth; he didn’t do begging, and he didn’t do getting involved. And he’d just nearly done both. Not that it would have made an iota of difference. Because he’d blown it.
After they’d been freefalling she’d practically locked herself away up here and he’d let her, because she’d been fizzing with a contagious energy that made him want her more every day. Then he’d seen the fear, the resolution as she’d fought it, and he hadn’t dared ask. He’d just shared her bed and shared her body, but too many times she’d not been there, locked away as though she was trying to prove something to them both. And he’d been too scared to pry, to prove her right, and risk her walking away. Even though all he’d wanted to do was tell her it was OK, that he wanted to share, not take away. The one time he’d pushed the point, every sinew in her body had seemed to tighten and she’d gone as brittle as an eggshell on him. And he’d let her. Fuck.
So this was her domain, the place he’d only been allowed in briefly before. He leant to one side, flicked open a sketchpad, and the real Hayley jumped back at him. The Hayley that was present in all her pictures except that one she’d done for him.
His gaze travelled over the ones strewn on the floor; sketches in charcoal, rough drafts in colour. They were good, they were her. She didn’t need more space, more time without him. He could back off, but he didn’t want to. And he really didn’t need to. Unless it was just that she wanted him to …
He leant back against the wall and closed his eyes. Maybe she couldn’t do that one picture for him because she didn’t want to. And now he’d really screwed up; he’d told her she was crap, proved to her that she’d been right all the time. Except she hadn’t. And he might not want a relationship, but he didn’t want to let go either.
‘Hey.’
Like the mystery she was she’d come up the stairs without a sound. Her light scent invaded his senses just as her soft voice tweaked at his conscience. He was being unfair, and whatever the answer to this was he wasn’t sure he had it. ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to worry about throwing me out. I’ll leave you in peace.’ He held both hands up in defeat.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said …’
‘That it sucked? But it does, I know it does.’
‘But it’s my fault.’
‘No, no it isn’t. That’s why I’m sorry.’ He opened his eyes, but didn’t dare move another muscle as she walked over to him, her bare feet moving soundlessly on the wooden floor.
‘It isn’t your fault, Tom, it’s my fault.’
* * *
Hayley stared at him, sat on her studio floor, surrounded by her sketches, and her throat tightened painfully. My fault for not believing, my fault for overthinking things. Running had been the easiest thing to do: running from him, running from herself and all the things that sent her into a state of frozen panic. The picture had never been right, but she’d battled on with it. It was too self-controlled, too careful. She’d been scared to let him into her life; she’d been too scared to let him into her head, into her painting. She’d wanted to capture him, but she hadn’t let herself. How could it be a reflection of him if she spent all her time trying to shut him out of her thoughts? ‘I’ll fix it, Tom.’ And then I’ll try and fix us.
‘What do you mean?’ He was looking at her warily, his eyes narrowed. ‘You’ll run away, that’s it?’
‘No, I’ve stopped running. Well, I’ll try and stop. Just give me a couple of days.’ He looked sceptical, and for a moment there was a look of something she couldn’t pinpoint, couldn’t identify, and then it hit her. Square in what might have been her belly but could well have been a smidgen higher. He looked defeated, and it was so not how he was supposed to look. ‘Trust me, can you trust me?’ Like I’m trying to trust you?
He nodded; pulled himself back up to his feet. ‘These are good, brilliant, in fact.’ He waved at the sketches.
‘I know.’
‘You can still –’
‘I know.’ She took a step forward and kissed him, just to shut him up, try and stop him trying to work it out for her. ‘I need to do this for myself.’
‘I can help.’ Her heart quickened almost painfully in her chest at the gentle look on his face. Storming out of the studio had been childish and she’d only got as far as the bottom stair before she’d known, before it had hit her that she’d spent her whole life using her art as a security b
lanket, as an excuse for not letting anyone get close.
‘No, Tom.’
‘You still want me to go?’
‘I’ve got to jump solo this time.’ She grinned, and stepped back away from temptation. ‘You can come back later.’ She shoved her hands into her pockets. ‘If you still want to, that is?’
Chapter Seven
Hayley lay back on the studio floor and looked up at the stars, her own bit of heaven. She was knackered, totally bloody knackered, and every bit of her body seemed to ache in its own sweet way, but a gentle buzz of satisfaction was humming through her. The same buzz she had when Tom held her close, after he’d just about shagged her senseless.
What Tom did to her scared her. Shitless. Not the buzz bit, just the “everything else” bit. It had never been about simple highs and lows like she’d had with Chris; the happy or sad, the screaming or sex. It was warm and fuzzy, anticipation and fear mingled in a way that was filling her head and her heart but not tearing her apart. Just all-invading, as though Tom belonged there. Which was definitely bloody scary. And yet somehow she still had space, space to do what she wanted and space to fill with him.
He might not still want her, but she had to stop being a wimp, and face up to the facts. She loved him and all she’d had to do was let him into her head and stop trying to block him out, even if she’d had to throw him out of the house before she could do it.
Once she’d started she couldn’t stop. She’d never worked so long on one piece and she hadn’t even needed sketches, she’d just painted straight onto the canvas. It was him, her tiger in the night. A tiger that morphed into so many other things, but the essence of him was there, in the centre. Strong. And that was what he was all about, what his business was all about, power and success. She’d captured the smouldering in his eyes that she loved, a golden glow just about to burst into flames, and she’d captured the movement, the mystery, the pent-up drive and energy, the latent power about to be unleashed. The colours were wild, but it was right for him, his business. It was change, challenge, and the pure magnetic force of the man behind it. Anyone who looked would be able to see the eyes, the essence, but not the man. Her man.
Her mobile stuttered into life and she reached an arm out lazily, yawning as she picked up.
‘What’s the matter?’ There was a sharp edge of concern. Shit, she’d made the man paranoid.
‘Nothing, I was yawning.’
‘You sound strange.’
Something stirred in her core, the warmth starting to spiral in her stomach. ‘I am strange; I need you to come over.’
‘There’s definitely something wrong, Hayley; it’s past midnight and you’re asking me over.’
‘Hey Mr Boring, whoever said everything stops at midnight?’ She stretched her toes out, and the tension built in her muscles, sending a fresh tingle to the top of her thighs.
‘I’m actually in my car outside, but I didn’t like to just knock in case it made you come over all artistic again.’
The grin tugged at her insides and set the butterflies off. ‘I think I’ve done enough coming over all artistic for one day.’ She laughed into the pensive silence. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Come up, there’s a spare key in the big pot at the side of the door.’
Answering the door would have been normal. But she didn’t want to go down; she wanted to wait for him here in this most private part of her world, of her. Wait for him and let the anticipation build in her body.
The door clicked open, shut, the key clattered on the table; his footsteps echoed on the polished wooden floor, and her heart started to pound in her ears.
He stood and stared and the hairs on the back of her neck started to prickle. He didn’t like it. He hated it. Fuck.
‘Bloody hell, Hayley, that’s … I don’t know quite what to … I --’
‘You can’t hate it?’ She knew she was whispering. He couldn’t; it didn’t feel wrong, it couldn’t be wrong.
‘It’s amazing. How could I hate it? But I don’t get how it’s so different, it’s …’
‘It’s something personal, like you said, a part of you and a part of me. I just couldn’t let myself get that close to you before.’ Saying this out loud definitely felt dafter than thinking it. But she wanted to try and explain; he deserved it. ‘I kept avoiding what was inside me, what I wanted to paint.’
‘But when we’re in bed …’ He was staring at the painting as though he didn’t want to break the bond. ‘I feel like I know every bit of you when we make love.’ There was a long pause. ‘Inside and out.’ His voice was softer, but had dropped a tone so that it snaked right under her defences.
‘I know.’ She swallowed to clear the stupid lump in her throat. ‘I was trying to lock that out when I painted so that I didn’t screw up. I know it doesn’t make sense, but I was trying to pretend I could switch my emotions on and off, I think. Oh shit, I don’t know.’ They didn’t move, standing shoulder to shoulder, and she knew she was teetering so close to the edge that turning back wasn’t really an option. ‘It’s just – well, I started painting when I was 16, to block out all the shit in my life.’ Hot tears pricked the back of her eyes and he reached out, threading his fingers through hers, the feel of him merging with the feel of her. ‘My mum died, and Dad couldn’t cope with his own feelings, let alone stupid teenage girl hormones.’
It was so still in the room, so silent she could have been alone, but for the first time in her life there was someone really there, listening even if he didn’t quite understand. ‘And I guess it worked.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘I shut myself off and put all my emotion into my painting and I didn’t need anyone’s shoulder to cry on. But I guess I started to use it as an excuse, a way of keeping people at a distance.’
‘But what about Chris?’ His thumb brushed against the back of her hand, small circles that headed straight for her heart.
‘I was totally bloody infatuated. Nothing else seemed to matter until I came to my senses. But it scared me that it was so easy to lose control, to forget what was really important to me.’ She swallowed again and tried to force everything back inside. ‘I nearly lost everything.’
‘But you didn’t and –’ there was the slightest hint of awkward catch in his voice ‘– you loved him.’
‘No, I was just ready to need someone. But – right time, wrong person.’
‘And now?’ He was close, close enough for the warmth of his body to seep into her skin, for that familiar smell of him to wrap round her.
‘I don’t want a way out.’ He traced a finger down her arm; the shiver trickled into her voice, and she was suddenly scared of what came next. ‘It’s – erm, what you wanted, then? The picture?’
‘You’re what I want.’ Warm lips found the spot beneath her ear that never failed to send a sigh through her body. ‘Even though you drive me a little bit crazier every day.’
‘It’ll stop you being grey and boring.’ She finished on a squeak as his teeth nipped the soft skin just where her neck met her shoulder.
‘I forgot what grey was the day I met you, Hayley Tring.’ His mouth travelled down over her shoulder, over the soft cotton of her T-shirt, teased at her already hardening nipple. ‘I think you’re overdressed.’
A shiver of anticipation rippled through her belly as he pulled the T-shirt over her head, the warmth of his palm against her swollen breast sending an urgent message straight to her clit.
‘You stripped me to the bare essentials in that picture so I think it’s only fair I do the same to you.’
The back of his knuckles scorched her stomach as he slipped his hands under the waistband of her jeans and tugged her closer, until her breasts rubbed against the smooth softness of his shirt and his lips were a breath away. One flick and the button gave way and he pulled the zip down with agonising slowness, until every nerve ending in her body was screaming at him to hurry. She wriggled her hips as he eased the jeans down, impatiently lifting her feet up out of the tangle of denim and
knickers, his laugh curdling through her as she staggered. Firm hands on her waist steadied her body but sent every bit of her insides haywire. He was looking at her, so intently that her heart started thundering in her ears and she was sure she’d internally combust if he didn’t do something.
‘You’re mine.’ His voice was a rough growl as he unclipped her bra and a shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with being naked and everything to do with the way his gaze was raking greedily over her. ‘You’re almost too good to touch.’
‘Tom!’ Shit, he wasn’t going to stop now.
‘Almost.’ His mouth curled with a wickedness that sent her pulse racing into overdrive. ‘Ever thought of doing a self-portrait?’
‘My cheekbones are too big.’
‘No one will be looking at your cheekbones –’ The heat of his finger caressed her cheek as he spoke. ‘But they’re perfect anyway.’
‘I’m too skinny, my hipbones …’
‘I love your hipbones.’ His voice had a rough catch in it as his hand traced a path down her body. One lazy finger circled her belly, drifted out to her hip. ‘I love you just as you are. Cheekbones, hipbones, wacky artistic brain …’
‘Tom.’
‘Shh.’
She gasped as his thumb stroked over her mound, while he gently pushed between her thighs with firm fingers, edging her legs wider apart. ‘I want you so much.’ His fingers stroked along her slit, probed, opening her, finding their way inside her, and she clutched at his shoulders as her trembling legs threatened to give way. ‘I love watching you come.’ His fingers were still but his thumb was circling on her clit, setting off the gentle swirl of orgasm inside her. ‘Come for me, Hayley.’ The heat of his other hand burnt a path down her spine and she moaned as he reached the bottom, as he pressed against the base. Held her tight. ‘I’ve got you, darling.’ And he was pressing in deeper, fluttering his fingers, creating sensations she didn’t recognise, and she was coming. Spiralling over the top, on the crest of a wave that was shattering, splintering, sending tendrils of aftershock to every part of her body.
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