Games People Play

by Shelby Reed

  He stepped up on the stage, but when he started to disrobe, she shook her head. “Just as you are for now. I expect you need time to adjust to the situation.”

  “Not really.” Who knew such light green eyes could give off heat?

  “Well, I do. In fact . . .” She strode to a small, retro-looking cabinet and rifled through it. “There’s a bottle of something in here . . . here it is.” She withdrew a bottle of red wine. “I know it’s early, Mr. Hennessy, but do you like Shiraz?”

  “I do.”

  She pulled out two plastic tumblers and poured a splash in each, then returned to him and handed him his cup. “Cheers,” she said, lifting her tumbler in an age-old gesture.

  He held up his cup. “Here’s to me getting naked and you being comfortable with that.”

  Sydney gave a huff of laughter. “Have you forgotten eroticism is my subject of choice? My choice, Mr. Hennessy. I like erotic art.”

  Colm glanced around at the chaste portraits and lifted an eyebrow at her.

  She took another gulp of wine and drained the cup. A little hair of the dog, but its bitter fruitiness only tilted her stomach. “Here’s to us making the most of an awkward situation.”

  “And you calling me something other than ‘Mr. Hennessy.’”

  “I can’t say that will ever happen. Are you finished with your wine?”

  He handed her his cup, which she discarded in a nearby trash can. Then she returned to her easel, picked up a piece of charcoal, and clipped a practice sheet of newsprint to the board while he returned to the center of the platform.

  “Where do you want me?” His voice echoed in the vaulted-ceilinged room. She liked the sound of it: low but not baritone. A little husky.

  “Right where you are.” Shifting her attention from his green eyes to his body did little to alleviate her discomfort. “Just stand still and let me get in some warm-up sketches.”

  He stood dutifully still, hands at his sides, shoulders stretching the robe so that it gaped at the chest, which rose and fell with each breath. He kept his lashes mostly downcast except for stealing one glance at her, which went through her like a tiny electric jolt.

  Her charcoal faltered on the page, then resumed. After a moment, the wine curled warmth through her limbs. The lines were coming more fluidly now as she finished a study of his uncomplicated stance. His bare legs were strong, muscled. As she’d suspected the night before, he was well-proportioned. A perfect model for her work—both erotic and otherwise.

  She set down the charcoal, tore out a new piece of newsprint, and looked at him, her heart hammering, mouth gone dry. When his eyes met hers, she said flatly, “You can disrobe now, Mr. Hennessy.”

  He shifted his weight and shrugged out of the robe, tossed it aside, and resumed his stance.

  Oh, Jeez.

  She tried not to look at anything but his shoulders. They were a good place to start. Then his chest, a study in celestial musculature. Over his heart was a tattoo, a cursive word she couldn’t discern except that it started with A. Her gaze dropped lower. He had a six-pack, naturally. Wonderfully defined flanks.

  Even his penis was just right.

  “Do you have a pair of boxer shorts?” she asked, redirecting her attention to her disaster of a drawing.

  “Back at the cabin.”

  “Bring them next time. I don’t always know what I’m going to do at first. I change my mind frequently and abruptly. Just now, I think I’ve decided to work on certain parts of your body instead of the whole thing.”

  That didn’t come out quite the way she’d planned. His surprised hesitation filled the room before she hurried, “I mean, turn your back to me.” That might keep the blood in her head instead of running amok to other places.

  Bad idea. His backside belonged to Michelangelo’s David, sculpted and pale like alabaster where the sun hadn’t touched him. He obviously worked out, although she had a feeling that kind of physique was also a case of excellent genes. And the way he stood, at ease, head slightly lowered, made her think he was giving her the chance to look at all of him, to savor what they both knew was stunning.

  Heat slid through her veins, a heat she hadn’t felt since before Max’s accident. And God, it was a welcome sensation. She shifted on her barstool and rubbed her free hand on her denim-covered thigh. She could hardly sit still, suddenly.

  “Wrap the robe around your waist,” she ordered a little too sharply. “I want the material, the . . . the extra element of . . . you know what I mean.”

  He grabbed it off the floor and did as he was told, then secured the belt low on his hips so as not to interrupt the drape of material. He was experienced. Maybe even a magazine model, the idealized variety she couldn’t stand.

  “Have you modeled before?” she asked lightly, studying the play of light on the tanned skin of his back. “Fashion magazines, that sort of thing.”

  “When I was in college I gave it a shot. I hated it.”

  “Even the money? The gorgeous women?”

  At the cynicism in her tone, he glanced over his shoulder at her, and she winced. She was being a bitch and didn’t know why. Max was the one she was angry with, not Colm. It wasn’t his fault he was so damned hot.

  For a long time he didn’t speak, letting her bathe in her own shame. She half expected him to pick up his things and excuse himself. She would deserve it.

  Then to her surprise, he said, “Can I ask you some questions now?”

  “Okay.” She’d sketched his back and buttocks, even though she’d started out trying to do a portrait study of his head and shoulders. She’d drawn them all wrong, too. Starting at the top again, she pressed hard to banish the previous lines.

  “Tell me where you’re from,” he said.

  “Nebraska.” She feathered the charcoal along the sides of the image’s spine to capture his musculature. “You?”

  “Virginia.”

  “From around here?”

  “Southwest Virginia.”

  “You have no accent.”

  “It was hammered out of me.” Before she could press for more information, he said, “You do incredible portraits. Are you formally trained?”

  “Homegrown, I’m afraid. My aunt taught me. She was a successful artist in the sixties—Lila Warren. Have you heard of her?”

  “No, but then I don’t hang out in artists’ circles.”

  “What about the art modeling?”

  “It’s been awhile, and it was mostly for students.” He moved, a natural shift brought on by relaxation. Fluid, graceful. Her charcoal faltered, and she forced herself to objectify the slight shine of perspiration on his skin. Just sweat. A human body’s natural response to heat. Despite the drafty studio, the lights aimed at the platform radiated warmth. Her own brow was damp, too. Maybe the heat was why her lines ran all over the place. This was already a mess and they’d only just started.

  Drawing number two in the garbage.

  “Why do you do this?” he asked suddenly.

  She hesitated in the midst of pinning up a fresh sheet of paper. “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you choose erotic art over portraiture, when you obviously have an affinity for people’s faces?”

  “Sex sells.” She stroked the charcoal down the length of his image’s spine. “You can’t argue with that.”

  He said nothing.

  “There’s no shame in it if you can rise above it and do what you have to do,” she added.

  His head turned slightly, a smile curving his mouth. “Really? Not even a little?”

  Sydney swallowed. The practice drawing was turning into a disaster. After another futile attempt, she sighed, set the charcoal in the tray, and turned off the work light. “That’s all for today.”

  Colm glanced at the clock. “We were only at it a few minutes.”

  “I’m just trying to get a feel for your body.” A new blush warmed her face. “You know what I mean.”

  He flashed her a grin. “What are your plan
s for the rest of today?”

  “I need to talk to Max,” she said quickly. “Then I’m going into the city.”

  “To photograph models?” At her nod, he added, “You really are uncomfortable being alone with me.”

  “You’re a stranger, Mr. Hennessy.”

  “I won’t be for long if you’ll give me a chance. Let’s be friends.”

  She sighed and glanced at the last drawing. It looked like something a ten-year-old could produce. “Look, I know you’re trying, and I’ll do my best to . . . to meet you halfway. Today I don’t need to photograph models. I just need more people for the idea I have for this project. I’m going into the city to pick the right models to work with you.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “A ménage à trois.”

  “Right.” He stepped off the platform, stripped the robe from his hips as though being naked was the most natural thing in the world for him. Sydney closed her eyes and wished for that same lack of inhibition, but it would never happen. When she opened her eyes, he’d disappeared into the dressing room.

  “Two women and me?” he asked from behind the curtain. At her silence, she heard him laugh. “It was worth a shot.”

  “Are you too shy to pose with another man, Mr. Hennessy?”

  “Not too shy. I just like women.”

  “I can easily find someone else to do this if you—”

  He stepped back into the room with jeans on, barefoot and shirt unbuttoned. “No. I can handle whatever floats your boat. Boss,” he added, although the humor in his words didn’t reach his green eyes.

  “Don’t call me Boss.”

  “Don’t call me Mr. Hennessy.”

  “I’ll let you see yourself out.” She started for the door.

  “Sydney.”

  She paused on the ramp, her heart pounding. The way he spoke her name made her feel like they shared a secret.

  “I might know someone you can use,” he said. “A male model, anyway. He’s a friend of mine. Maybe I could save you some of the search.”

  She rested her hand on the latch and was silent for a long time. Then without looking at him, she said, “Is he as fit and good-looking as—is he fit and good-looking?”

  “From a guy’s point of view, yeah, I’d have to say so. He usually has women all over him.”

  “Lovely. Then talk to him and let me know what he says. I’d like an answer as soon as possible.”

  “. . . Colm.”

  “Colm,” she conceded. But she left the studio without looking back at him again.

  Chapter Five

  She found Max in the house’s gym with a new massage therapist, a young sandy-blonde who looked pale and nervous as she cradled his head in her hands and gently moved it side to side. Sydney knew he often had muscle spasms, and she prayed his temper wouldn’t run this therapist off as it had the last three.

  “You finished early.” He jerked his head aside and brushed the woman away to look at Sydney from his prone position on the table.

  “I wanted to talk to you before I go into the city. I need more models for this particular project,” she added quickly, before he could ask about Colm. “They’ll have to come out here for a few sessions, unless you wouldn’t mind me working in the city.”

  “I’d rather you work here, naturally. And what about Hennessy?

  “He’ll be part of it, of course. But while we’re on that subject, I have something to say.”

  Max raised a hand to stop her and glared at the massage therapist, who, to keep from being in the way of the conversation, had gone to work gently limbering his legs. “For Christ’s sake, Tina, are you trying to shove my knee down my throat?”

  She murmured an apology and resumed bending his leg more gently, but her hands shook around his bony knee.

  Sydney couldn’t stand it anymore. “I need to speak to you in private.” It was the truth, but she also felt sorry for the therapist and wanted to give her a break. “Give me five minutes,” she told the woman.

  When the grateful-looking therapist had washed her hands and departed, Sydney came around the table and perched beside Max. “Why did you hire Colm?”

  He looked at her, his gray eyes searching her face, and then sighed. “I’m aware of your restlessness lately. I wanted to encourage you to start again as soon as possible. Between shows, you seem lost. This time, I thought—”

  “But why didn’t you tell me this before? And warn me? I would have listened to your idea, even if the thought of having a single model out here in my studio makes me uncomfortable. And why a male one?”

  “Hennessy seems like a superior specimen.” His gaze shifted away, his mouth thinning. “Surely you can see that. I’m a man, and even I can recognize that he’s art on legs. I thought having a male model might help you work through some of your idiosyncrasies.”

  Hurt bolted through her, stinging her eyes. “My idiosyncrasies? They’re fears!”

  “And when will you get help for them, for Christ’s sake? When will you let go of the past?” Max reached out and grasped her wrist when she went to jerk away. “Sydney. You talk about our lack of a sex life, but I never know who you’re thinking of in bed with me—that bastard who took such advantage of you years ago, or me.”

  She dropped her head and squeezed back the tears. She never thought of that man from so long ago, but she couldn’t convince Max of it. She’d tried counseling a couple of years ago to rid herself of the bad memories, but it had only seemed to feed them. Then the accident happened, and since then, she hadn’t had time to think about the past, her youth, anything much but Max, his needs and her own for him. She couldn’t explain it. She didn’t know if she loved him anymore—maybe hadn’t since the night he cheated on her—but he was her stability.

  Until lately. Until Colm Hennessy.

  “I don’t want you to run off to the city,” he said, caressing the wrist he had grabbed. “Every time you go, you’re gone all day. You’re so far away. Maybe I’ve hired this man for selfish reasons, but only because I miss you. I need you out here, Sydney. I need you.”

  Sydney hesitated, her chest pulling tight. She didn’t often see beyond his cheerful, steely bravado, but the plea in his gray eyes now grabbed her anger and ran off with it. He seemed smaller, lying on the massage table with two useless limbs and that prison of a wheelchair hovering ever near.

  She sighed. “I’ll try to recruit a couple of women models to buffer things. I know you meant well by hiring Colm, and I’m trying to understand.”

  He offered her a smile that didn’t quite warm the piercing way he studied her. What was he thinking when he looked at her like that? She fought the urge to fold her arms over her heart, to protect herself, and yet this was Max. The same man she’d known and loved for four years. When had it all become so strange?

  He broke from his trance and squeezed her hand. “I’ve got to finish this damned massage therapy, but tonight I’ll take you out and we’ll talk more. We’ll have dinner in Middleburg at that inn you love. Would you like that?”

  Mixing food with discussions of their relationship issues didn’t exactly appeal to Sydney, but she wouldn’t dash his well-meaning intentions. “I would. And what about Colm?”

  Instantly Max’s expression hardened. “He isn’t a guest here, he’s an employee. He can find his own meals when he isn’t invited to join us.”

  Sydney pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “Now will you tell Theresa to get back in here? I want this hellish session over with.”

  “I think her name is Tina.” She bent to kiss his lips and to her amazement felt the touch of his tongue, just for an instant. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Yes,” he said. “If it’s good for you.”

  She didn’t know what was good for her anymore, only that something had to change, was changing, and she couldn’t stop it.

  * * *

  With the afternoon off, Colm buried his frustration in a long run around the estate. T
he gold and russet trees canopied the soft path, the call of unseen wildlife soothing his irritation. He hated every moment of the situation with Sydney and Beaudoin. He hadn’t deciphered Sydney yet, but his knowledge of the finer sex had become honed in the last three years, and he recognized an easy mark when he saw one. She reminded him of the myriad clients who’d passed through his doorway since the whole Avalon thing had started. Lost women too long neglected, beautiful, untouchable except with a total stranger between the sheets. Then they came apart under his hands, a double-edged sword that spoke to his male ego but also left him feeling empty and desperate.

  Long gone were the days of worshiping and designing civil architecture. He’d been so self-important then. Another Louis Henri Sullivan or Frank Lloyd Wright. He’d thought the world spun solely for him.

  Amelia’s face floated through his mind, and he picked up speed. This was all for her. Maybe one day when they were old, he would tell her what he’d done to keep her in good care and she would understand. He couldn’t help Jill now, but his sister . . . she was the life that remained. Real life.

  Tears stung his eyes as the unseasonably cold wind assaulted him, and he sprinted faster, leaping over logs and debris, mindless and driven, until his lungs threatened to rise into his throat and choke him.

  He circled the entire estate without realizing the distance he’d covered until the house and its outlying buildings came into view. Then he half-stumbled to a stop and braced his hands on his knees, panting and nearly sick. When he glanced at the mansion, the draperies in the living room wafted aside and he found himself the object of Beaudoin’s unyielding regard. He didn’t bother to raise a hand in greeting. He looked away, caught his breath, and then walked the rest of the way to the guest cabin.

  * * *

  The shower beat down on his head, washing away vestiges of his run and lingering waves of pain. He dressed, and with his hair still damp, climbed into his black Ford Explorer and headed back toward the city, past mansions that rivaled Beaudoin’s whitewashed brick behemoth, past worlds he couldn’t possibly understand except when the ladies of the house crawled into his bed at Avalon. Then he lived and breathed their opulence, and it echoed with empty restlessness.