Games People Play

by Shelby Reed

  They worked for hours, their only communication relayed with their eyes. When they were done, she threw a cloth over the canvas and approached the platform. “Thank you.”

  He stretched and released a long breath. “Am I finished?”

  “I don’t know. Do you mind if you are?”

  “You’re the boss,” he said as he rose from the edge of the platform.

  “So we’re back to that.”

  He picked up his jacket and looked at her. “You know we’re not. But friendship isn’t a viable alternative anymore, Syd. Every minute I sit in here with you and know your eyes are on me, I want you more.”

  She swallowed, her pulse thrumming a rhythm of insanity. Before she could tell him she felt the same, that this was the most thrilling and horrible thing she’d ever experienced, he said, “I’m going for a run. Want to come?”

  She gave a mirthless laugh. “I haven’t jogged a day in my life.”

  “I’ll go slow. Go change and meet me at the cabin in fifteen minutes.”

  * * *

  They ran in the same fragile peace as they had worked in the studio. Sydney tried not to look at him too many times in the afternoon’s golden light as their feet hit the soft carpet of the abandoned horse trails that wound through the estate’s acreage. She listened to the rhythmic sound of his breathing, to the hammer of her own heartbeat, to twigs snapping underfoot and the call of birds overhead.

  When they reached a rushing creek, they stopped. Sydney was winded but tried to control her panting until Colm gave her a knowing look. Then she burst into breathless laughter. “I am so bad at this.”

  “You’re doing great,” he said with a mild smile. “Want to rest before we run back?”

  “Do we have to run back? Can’t we just stroll? Briskly?”

  It was his turn to laugh. “No way.”

  “You’re cruel and inhuman.”

  They sat on a fallen log, where the dampness of the wet, soft wood seeped into their running clothes. It felt good to Sydney’s heated skin, distracted her from the scent of him, perspiration and hot, clean male.

  “When I found this place for the first time, I fell in love with it,” she said, gazing around at the blaze of dying foliage, the crystalline rush of water over mossy stones. Every time she came here, it was like seeing the enchanted spot for the first time. “It’s so peaceful.”

  He leaned his forearms on his knees and studied her. “You belong in Max’s world. The big house, the fancy cars, the money.” She would have argued, but he added, “And you belong here in the woods, right in this moment, all damp and flushed, with your hair sticking up a little.” He smoothed a wave of blond hair behind her ear. “You’re beautiful. More beautiful than anything in this place, Sydney. You surpass it all.”

  Her mouth had fallen open somewhere around “all damp and flushed.” “Oh. Thanks.” She sounded brainless, but what did a woman say in response to things she’d always wanted to hear?

  “Happy birthday,” he said, and her pulse took off on a mad race. She thought no one remembered. She couldn’t believe he had.

  Colm took her chilled fingers in his. “I have a surprise for you, if you’re the kind of person who likes surprises. Otherwise I’ll tell you what it is and you can say yes or no.”

  She hesitated. She loved surprises and hadn’t known many of them in her lifetime, but it was so hard to trust this man sitting beside her, looking at her so intently, waiting for her answer.

  What the hell.

  “Surprise me,” she said at last.

  His smile was the sweetest reward. “Dress nice,” he told her, helping her to her feet. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  She gaped at him. A mere hour to dress, primp, and recover from this hellish thing called jogging? “Only an hour?”

  “You’d better run fast, then.” He took off into the woods, and with a laughing groan, she hauled herself up and sprinted after him into the shadows.

  * * *

  She wore a basic black dress that fell above her knee and simple faux pearls she had bought herself. The strand of pearls Max had given her was safely tucked away, waiting to be returned when she saw him again.

  In typical last-minute fashion, Max called to make sure his annual bouquet of roses had arrived. Sydney hadn’t even noticed where Hans had left them. She thanked him and felt a little put off when he cut the conversation short, but her curiosity about Colm’s surprise soon banished any of the old rejection she felt in Max’s presence.

  When Colm came to retrieve her, he rang the doorbell, and she paused at the top of the staircase, nervous as though this was her first date all over again. She listened to him greet Hans, heard the two men laugh. Max never talked to Hans. In so few days, Colm had painted Max in a dull light, but what did it matter? After tonight—a benign evening, the sensible woman in her had decided—there’d be nothing more between her and Colm. Desire could be controlled; love couldn’t, and right now she was deeply in like. Tonight his company would be a lovely gift, something she’d long needed, but that was all, no matter how enticing he was.

  And he was. He wore his usual leather coat and plaid scarf over a gray button-down shirt and dark slacks, and she thought she’d never seen a more handsome man.

  When she finally got her pulse under control and started down the stairs, he stopped midsentence in his conversation with Hans and watched her descend. “You look amazing.” The low declaration slipped from him as though he couldn’t stop it.

  “Thank you. So do you.” She couldn’t stop her own words of truth, either.

  When she broke the look between them, he smoothly recovered and glanced at Hans. “Don’t you think she’s beautiful tonight, Hans?”

  “Yes,” Hans said with a faint smile. “But then, I’ve always thought so.” He handed Colm Sydney’s coat as though he knew it wasn’t his place to help her slide into it, then discreetly left them alone in the marble-tiled foyer.

  Colm held the black ankle-length coat for her, his hands lingering on her shoulders when she slipped it on. “Thank you,” she murmured, for so much more than the gentlemanly gesture—for making her feel talented, lovely, feminine, desirable. She would never know anything more than his touch on her shoulders, or the useless kisses they’d shared, but he was the person who’d helped open the cage to set her free.

  She didn’t know where he could possibly take her in fancy dress so early in the evening, but it indicated a long night ahead, and she was glad for it. They drove into Alexandria in his black Ford Explorer, and this time there was little silence between them. They talked music, sports, politics, religion—some of which Sydney normally avoided, but now she craved to know what he thought, how his mind worked.

  The topic of Max didn’t come up. He didn’t belong in the narrow space between her and Colm. In her mind this was the beginning of good-bye. She could give herself, and Colm, this one evening, this camaraderie and pleasant conversation, the sweet minutes ticking off until they parted ways.

  He maneuvered the SUV through rush hour traffic and found a miraculous spot on King Street in Old Town. When he came around and opened her door, she gave him a hard look. “Where are we going?”

  He nodded down the crowded street. “Around here somewhere.” He took her hand, his fingers laced through hers as she stepped onto the sidewalk. So intimate a gesture, so presumptuous, but she loved it. They strolled in peaceful quiet, passed a family of noisy tourists, laughed as a toddler broke away from the group and smacked into Colm’s legs.

  “Whoa, partner.” He gently re-guided the little boy toward his family, and Sydney wanted to weep for all Colm was. If she’d met him four years ago instead of Max, she would have—no, she wouldn’t have been smart and seasoned enough to look beyond his beauty. She would have run from him, and it was hard not to do so now.

  They walked on, and when a damp wind caught Sydney and stole her breath, he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “Cold?”

  No, she was warm a
ll over. Filled with joy and regret. Everything in the world spun around her. “Well, maybe a little.”

  “Good, because we’re here.”

  She hadn’t been tracking their path, and now she looked up to see a nineteenth-century factory building with a modern facade. The sign over the broad glass doors read Artist Co-op. The last time she was here, she’d been a lost girl, a waitress at a TGI Friday’s, miles away from Max and Colm and the life that now entangled her. “I love this place. It’s been years.”

  “There’s an artist I want you to see.”

  She held tighter to his arm. “Really? Someone you know?”

  “Not personally, but he has a space here where he shows his work. I’ve observed him and he’s impressive.”

  The building’s interior was set up like a mall, with studios on each side of the long, wide corridor, glassed in so visitors could observe the works in progress. Colm once again slipped his fingers through Sydney’s and they walked up a few doors until they reached one with Philip Franklin scrawled across the glass.

  The artist was arranging a space with an olive green backdrop and a narrow wingback chair draped in black when they walked in. He looked up and straightened, his gray handlebar moustache nearly hiding his broad grin. “You’re right on time.”

  Sydney glanced at Colm. “We have an appointment?”

  “That’s right.”

  The artist, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them, motioned to the wingback chair. “If you’ll sit, Sydney, we can begin.”

  Warm with self-consciousness and delight, she laid her purse on a nearby table and seated herself. The artist came forward to adjust her arms so they curved, languid, in her lap, one hand turned palm-up to keep her from appearing too stiff.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Colm said, watching from near the easel. “I think you’ve wanted to do this, Syd. To see what it’s like from the other side of things.”

  The knot of bittersweet emotion she’d harbored all evening nearly blocked her reply. “I’ve never been a model before,” she managed.

  “Then it’s time. Breathe,” he added with a faint hint of irony, an echo of what she’d murmured in his ear when helping him pose for the ménage à trois session.

  Philip Franklin stood back and gave a nod of satisfaction at her position, then glanced at Colm. “Does this work for you?”

  “In every way, except for one last thing. May I?” He approached Sydney and, crooking a finger beneath her chin, tilted her face up and just slightly away from the light. She would be half-illuminated, half in shadow—Sydney in Real Life. His fingertips trailed along her jaw, more caress than direction, stroking her heart into overdrive. Then he stepped back and went to lean against the wall beyond the easel, ready to watch.

  The session lasted one hour, during which Sydney sat in obedient stillness, even though her neck began to ache and her shoulders went stiff. How in God’s name Colm sat so long for the sake of art she didn’t know, but she would never again feel agitated with a model for any restless shift of position. And even if she had to sit paralyzed all night, she was determined to honor him for one of the most exquisite gifts she’d ever received.

  There was little conversation among the three of them, only the soft sound of Debussy playing from a stereo near the easel. Try as Sydney might to keep her gaze straight ahead, it kept drifting back to Colm, to travel the long, graceful form of him leaning so casually against the wall, arms folded over his chest. To settle, again and again, on the shuttered green eyes that never strayed from her face.

  “Eyes right here,” the artist reminded her a few times, always with a patient grin. Then finally, “Are you newlyweds?”

  Sydney’s mouth fell open, but before she could deny it, he waved pastel-stained fingers. “Ah, I’ve changed my mind. Look at your husband as you please, Sydney. Your face softens just right when you do.”

  “My husband?” Her face blazed. “Oh . . .”

  Colm raised his brows as if waiting to hear what she would say. For a moment her gaze darted between his face and the artist’s; then she relaxed and flashed Philip an embarrassed smile. “Okay, then.” And returning her attention to Colm as instructed, she found him smiling, his lashes lowered to hide anything else he might be feeling.

  When the session ended, she stood and stretched, suddenly self-conscious as the artist signed his work and turned it for her and Colm to evaluate.

  The woman in the pastel drawing was Sydney Warren . . . and someone else. A woman lost in love.

  “Perfect,” Colm said.

  * * *

  Night had fallen when they drove from Old Town Alexandria toward the highway.

  “Are you hungry?” Colm asked, flicking the turn signal as they slowed at an intersection.

  She wasn’t hungry. Her stomach was twisted into knots, that old, sweet mixture of excitement and anticipation like a first date all over again. And regret. Always, always regret with this man. “I don’t think so.”

  His gaze shot to her over the console and back to the road. “You won’t let me take you to dinner?”

  She swallowed and shook her head, craving the wrong thing, loathing the right. “It’s getting late, Colm, and . . . I can’t.”

  “I see.” He didn’t sound irritated, only curious as he steered the SUV onto Route 9 and accelerated. “Have you had enough of my company?”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  He smiled a little. “Then it’s because you’re afraid of me.”

  “No, I’m afraid of me.”

  “Well, then.” He checked his rearview mirror and changed lanes. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

  They drifted into languid quiet. She loved the easy way he steered the vehicle, one-handed, the other loosely looped around the gearshift. She loved the faint golden glow of the dashboard on his features, which grew more stern with concentration. She loved that she couldn’t quite read his thoughts as he fiddled with the stereo and filled the Explorer’s interior with the mellow sound of Norah Jones.

  Colm turned on the seat warmers, and Sydney finally settled in for the hour-long drive to the estate. They didn’t speak much, but the peace between them soothed her. He was a man who didn’t need to fill the air with anything but sensuous, lazy jazz.

  When they pulled into the estate’s driveway and parked, the harvest moon hung high in the night. He turned off the motor and for a long time they merely sat there, looking at the sky through the windshield.

  Then she glanced down at the tube she carried containing the portrait. “How did you know?”

  He turned his head to look at her.

  “How did you know this would mean more to me than anything?” she said.

  “I know you,” he said simply.

  “I’m see-through, aren’t I?”

  Colm gave a soft laugh. “No, you’re a brick fortress.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “Don’t ask me how I know you. I just do. That’s all.”

  A sigh wisped through her as she turned the tube in her hands. Then she said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Quiet fell anew, rife with unspoken desire and the forbidden possibilities that draped the evening. And all the while he watched her, his eyes glittering in the darkness.

  Finally she cleared her throat. “You don’t have to walk me to the house.”

  Humor touched the corners of his mouth. “Why not? Think Hans will be watching when I kiss the hell out of you?”

  “Hans wouldn’t . . .” She faded off. “Colm, that’s not okay.”

  “I know it’s not. Come here anyway.”

  She couldn’t help herself. One kiss—the end of an enchanted night. She leaned across the console and immediately his mouth was on hers, warm, avid, soft. One hand cupped the back of her head while his tongue dipped inside her mouth and stroked.

  God, the man kissed like no other. Instantly, hot, liquid desire flowed through her, and she kissed him back, no holds barred
.

  The rushed sound of their breathing filled the Explorer’s interior. Colm shucked off his jacket and came back to her, hungrier than before, and foolish woman, she welcomed him, straining to meet him. Leather creaked. The console dug into Sydney’s stomach. Colm banged his hip on the steering wheel and cursed.

  He tore his mouth from hers and framed her face with his hands. “We’re steaming up the car windows. Wait there.” He climbed out and slammed the driver’s door, then came around to her side, where he drew her out of the vehicle, shut her door, and turned so that his back was against the cold SUV and pulled her to him. “Right here,” he spoke against her temple, sliding his arms inside her coat and around her.

  When he grasped her hips and pulled them flush against him, a sound of surprise whimpered out of her. She could feel every bit of him—his chest, his abs, the shamelessly hard and formidable part of him beneath the placket of his pants.

  Sydney needed to stop. This wasn’t part of the plan. Flying free of Max and her old life? Yes. Falling utterly and completely for Colm Hennessy in a week? Never. She opened her mouth to tell him . . . no . . . don’t . . . and what came out was, “Oh, God. Colm.”

  Whirling them so her backside was against the car, he pushed her coat off her shoulders so it fell around her elbows, leaving her shivering not from the cold, but from the incredible heat flowing through her veins. He slid his hand down, rucked up her dress and caught her right thigh, lifted her leg so it hugged his hip, and shifted closer. Close enough that if they had been naked, he’d be inside her now. Close enough that soon she would never forgive herself for the reawakening of her old weakness, her loss of character and integrity.

  Colm was hot, hard against the hungering center of her. She gripped his firm backside to draw him closer until he groaned some unintelligible encouragement and rubbed against her.

  Hands off his ass, the voice of reason ordered.

  She quickly relocated her palms to his chest. Beneath her right hand came the fierce pounding of his heart and its stutter when she whispered, “Colm. Enough.”