Passionate Protectors?

by Anne Mather

  Now it was a quarter past eight and she was already fifteen minutes late for her second appointment with Kyle. She’d never make it to Notting Hill before eight-thirty at the earliest—and that was only if she was able to hail a cab straight away.

  ‘Damn!’ Hands on either side of her curvaceous hips, she found no pleasure in the sight of her svelte but shapely figure in her black, nice but hardly sexy high street store underwear. Just a surge of impotent resignation that yet again she’d said yes to something when she’d really wanted to say no. If anything, her lack of assertiveness had got worse since her divorce.

  The pale young woman in the mirror with the dulled brown eyes and turned-down mouth was a poor reflection of the passionate girl with a hunger for life that she’d once been.

  Megan brought her hands up to her face. Nick had made her despise almost everything about herself, and it was damn near breaking her heart as well as her spirit…

  ‘Haven’t you got an appointment with What’s-his-name tonight?’ Penny put her sleek blonde head round the door, taking a loud crunch of the celery stick she held aloft as she did so.

  ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘What do you mean, you’re not going?’ The blonde frowned as Megan pulled a plain black sweatshirt over her head and yanked it irritably down over her jeans. Even pouting with anger, her glossy dark hair a dishevelled mass of black silk down her back, Penny thought her friend was stunning. Megan Brand had the kind of beauty that needed no further decoration. Her features were strong enough and striking enough to withstand the need for make-up, and add to that glorious hair and a body that couldn’t seem to help going in and out in all the right places—well, the men just took one look and fell like ninepins.

  Not that Megan was remotely interested. But who could blame her after that imbecile Nick had practically maimed her for life? Why he had even looked at another woman when he was married to the kindest, most gorgeous girl you could imagine was also totally beyond her comprehension. She’d never understand human nature, even if she lived to be a hundred.

  ‘I’m late. I’ll never get a cab now. I’ll just have to ring him and let him know. He’ll probably tell me not to bother next time.’ Megan grabbed her hairbrush off the vanity unit and shouldered past her surprised friend into the living room.

  Two uplighters on slim steel stems lit the airy, beautifully furnished area while the flat-screened television played softly in a corner. Defeated and despondent, Megan stared broodingly at the two women arguing on the screen but barely registered a word they were saying.

  ‘I can give you a lift, you ninny!’ Penny unhooked her Italian leather shoulder bag from where she’d left it behind the door, then rifled through it for her car keys.

  ‘You’ve not been in long yourself. You know I hate relying on you for this kind of thing.’ Megan’s face was flushed with frustration and remorse as she watched the other girl suddenly take charge. What had she ever done to deserve such a wonderful friend as Penny Hallet? The woman had stuck by her through thick and thin, and then some. It had been Penny who had come and taken her to the hospital that dreadful night when Nick had shoved her down the stairs. Penny who had practically begged Megan on more than one occasion to leave her volatile, handsome husband ‘before things got out of hand’.

  If only she’d listened. Her leg might not now be scarred from two painful operations and she might not walk with a limp—maybe for the rest of her life…As for the other thing, perhaps the most dreadful thing of all—well, she wouldn’t even go there. Not tonight.

  ‘You hate relying on anyone for anything, full stop!’ Penny remonstrated. ‘But I’d honestly take you to Australia and back if I thought it would help you get out of this damn air of gloom that’s been dogging you. And it must be doing you some good seeing this KH—what did you say his name was? Kyle, wasn’t it? When you get back tonight I want to know all about it.’

  Megan tensed. She didn’t know if she wanted to repeat what she’d discussed with Kyle at their last session. All week she’d suffered agonies, wondering what he must think of her after her mostly involuntary revelations about her personal life. Was she mad, contemplating going back to see him again? Could this cool, laid-back, straight-talking handsome man really help put her back on track again? And when was she going to get to do some actual painting?

  Oh, what the hell. She’d just have to bite the bullet and take a chance, because there wasn’t much else that was helpful going on in her life right now. Tomorrow morning was already looming large in her mind because she had an appointment with the physio at the hospital and her leg always ached twice as badly after that little session—even though her physio took pains to reassure her it was doing her good.

  ‘Ready?’ Penny jangled her cars keys and opened the door.

  Snapping out of her momentary reverie, Megan grabbed her suede jacket off the couch and followed her out.

  ‘Glass of wine?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Megan glanced warily round the big modern kitchen with its fashionable stone-flagged floor and bright copper pans stacked from large to small beside the stainless steel oven.

  It was like a kitchen that belonged to a show home—not at all in keeping with the more bohemian laid-back style of his living room. There were no obvious signs that much cooking went on there either. No cooking smells lingered, there were no tell-tale stains on the burner, and all the surfaces were gleaming—just like on one of those adverts for ‘miracle’ cleaning products.

  Was she being too presumptuous in assuming that Kyle’s artistic talents didn’t extend to culinary expertise as well? Oh, well. Perhaps he wasn’t a god after all…just a man—a mere mortal with faults and idiosyncrasies and bad habits like everyone else.

  Two bottles of good-quality Chardonnay stood on the marble worktop, alongside two elegant stemmed wine glasses and an attractive pale wooden gift box of Turkish Delight. Megan wondered fleetingly if it had been gifted to him by an admirer. A long-time girlfriend or lover, maybe? The thought made her stomach lurch a little. Did this surprising, unpredictable man have a penchant for sweets, then? The very idea filled her with an unexpected burst of warmth. It made him seem more human somehow—less out of reach.

  She watched him turn round and lounge against the sink unit, his hazel eyes reflective but impenetrable as he studied her. Brooding almost. What was he thinking? She hoped he wasn’t regretting agreeing to see her again. It made her realise that she wanted to be here, had been wanting to see him again since the surprise of that first appointment, wanted to see where their association would lead her—if she would like the result.

  This evening his cheekbones seemed even more sharply defined than before, his features all sculpted planes and angles that together created an appearance that was almost soul-destroyingly handsome. His looks were a rare combination of chiselled male beauty and the cool, innate intelligence that shone out from those astute sexy hazel eyes of his, like a beacon beckoning Megan to come home…She caught herself up short, like someone who’d inadvertently stood too close to the fire, hugging her bag tightly to her chest as if to protect herself.

  ‘I’m sorry I was late; I had to work overtime.’ As soon as she’d uttered the words she was suffused with ridiculous guilt. There’d been no ‘had to’ about it. She could have declined if she’d wanted. Lindsay, her boss, would have sulked, as she was apt to, but she would have got over it if Megan had stood up for herself. The trouble was, Megan very rarely stood up for herself.

  ‘You came. That’s the main thing.’ Kyle raked his fingers through his hair and gave her a lazy smile. The sort of smile a woman could easily fall into and forget to come up for air. Megan swallowed nervously.

  ‘Are we going to do any painting tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘Would you like to?’

  ‘Well, if that’s what you’d planned. I mean, I—’

  ‘Nothing’s planned.’ Kyle straightened and hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his tight black jeans. It dragged
Megan’s gaze south, to his trim lean hips and long-boned thighs encased in soft worn denim. ‘I’m afraid I rarely plan anything very much.’

  What was she supposed to make of that? Megan thought wildly. It was all very strange. Kyle still hadn’t told her what the lessons would entail, and when she’d tried to pay him at the end of her last visit he’d told her to put her money away because they’d work something out in a few weeks’ time, when he saw how things were going. Whatever that meant. The man obviously had income from other sources, and Megan secretly thought he must be wealthy indeed if he didn’t need to charge his clients straight away.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Does that bother you?’ he asked lightly.

  It did, if she was honest. But only because her life before her divorce had been so rigidly organised by her husband that in some peculiar, perverse way she’d got used to it—like a prisoner who got used to the four walls that kept him caged.

  ‘It’s okay.’ She shrugged, unwilling to let him see that she was disturbed by his complete disregard for structure in their sessions. She’d go along with it for a while, she told herself, but if it proved too unpredictable she’d just tell him things weren’t working out as she’d expected and move on.

  ‘It’s not, is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not a college professor or some sort of schoolteacher, Megan. I don’t have a curriculum to adhere to. These sessions are for you to explore exactly what it is you think you need in terms of support and guidance, and for me to help you. Does that make things more clear to you?’

  Sensing Kyle move towards her, his intriguingly erotic male scent stirring the air between them, Megan willed her foolish heart to stop beating so wildly so that she could at least make an attempt at some halfway normal remark.

  ‘Give me your bag,’ he demanded softly—so softly his words sounded as though they’d been dipped in honey. Megan shivered, her nipples tingling and growing tight and achy beneath her shirt.

  ‘Why?’ She asked the question almost as a reflex, because she was handing it to him even as she spoke.

  He laid it to one side, then stood directly in front of her. Determinedly, her dark eyes stared straight at his chin as he towered above her, seeing the slight cleft in the bronzed skin already shadowed by day-old stubble, spellbound by the tantalising shape of his hard, sensual mouth. A different kind of numbness stole over her body. This one made her feel as if she had fallen into some kind of helpless hypnotic trance, because suddenly she found herself incapable of moving…

  ‘Give me your hand.’ Clasping it firmly in his own, he laid it against the hard but warm expanse of his chest.

  Beneath the plain white T-shirt he wore, which highlighted his exotic tan and drew mouthwatering attention to those silky steel-toned biceps, she could feel the deep steady throb of his heart. Megan’s tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. The ability to respond to anything in a natural way had completely deserted her. Her senses were jammed, suspended, hijacked…

  ‘Painting engages not just the physical senses, but the soul and spirit as well. Truly, it can work magic. Every brushstroke can be a revelation. So tell me,’ he asked thickly, ‘what do you feel?’

  Oh, Lord, tell me this isn’t happening…Megan felt faint with panic. Fear and anticipation were overwhelming her in equal measures. Every cell in her body was thrumming in awareness of this strong vital man who was holding her hand captive against his chest as though he might keep it there for ever, and a series of unstoppable tremors suddenly seized her body and tied her tongue.

  ‘Megan?’ he prompted.

  ‘Your heart.’ Her voice came out on a croak and a soft crimson blush crept slowly into her cheeks. ‘I can hear your heart beating.’

  ‘Good. I’m reassured that I’m still alive, then.’ And haven’t died and gone to heaven…He’d never seen such melting brown eyes or such delectably sultry lips—lips that perhaps unknowingly invited more intimate inspection…

  The beguiling scents of her body, her shampoo, her perfume—the sweetness of vanilla and the eroticism of musk—invaded his senses like the delicate brush of velvet and lace, satin and silk, and made him immediately hard. He fought manfully to keep his sudden desire at bay but, Lord, he didn’t think his libido had been more severely tested in his life. She was gazing up at him, trusting as a child, her expression a captivating mixture of innocence and fire, wonder and fear…

  With a supreme effort she suddenly tugged her hand free and stepped back. Looping her hair behind one ear, she sent him a clear distress signal. Please don’t do this, because I don’t think I can handle it right now.

  Kyle slowly nodded his head, as if answering her, but it was several seconds before he could give his thoughts the power of speech.

  ‘What colour would you paint my heartbeat, Megan? Think about it. What did you sense when you put your hand over my heart?’

  ‘Passion, strength—’ She glanced away, flustered, staring down at her soft brown leather mules as if seeing them for the first time. Why had she said passion, for goodness’ sake? Of all the things she could have told him that was the least safe. But Kyle wasn’t going for safe responses, was he? He was trying to psyche her out—uncover the real Megan Brand.

  Only he was on a hiding to nothing, did he but know it, because even she didn’t know who the real Megan Brand was. But, yes, she had felt passion and strength when he’d placed her hand over his heart. In spades. Making love with this man would be like trying to ride the wind or hold back the tide…It was a heady thought that made her weak with wild longing.

  ‘What colours would you paint passion and strength? How would you paint them? Want to have a go?’

  Kyle observed her responses with profound interest. Her body language was distinctly ill at ease, and there was a war going on behind those heavenly brown eyes that he longed to put an end to. A soft flush tinted her porcelain cheeks and damn it all if she didn’t look close to tears. Beyond her incandescent beauty he saw a woman so wrapped up in her own despair that all he wanted to do was sweep her off her feet, carry her to bed and comfort her in the time-honoured way that could make a man and a woman temporarily forget the troubles or pain that dogged them. He wanted to show her in no uncertain terms that she was a beautiful, desirable woman—the kind of woman that any man with breath in his body would want to protect and treasure…

  She was wrestling with her tears and nodding at the same time. Kyle swept past her, taking her hand with him, leading her gently down to the bottom of the garden, to the private temple that he personally worshipped at—his art studio. It was housed in a white pagoda-style summerhouse, with intricate latticework on the cornices and stained glass in the windows, which in the evening twilight looked almost like something from a fairytale.

  Megan’s despair swept away in an instant. She was enchanted. Enchanted and enthralled. Kyle switched on a light as they entered and Megan felt as if she was entering Aladdin’s cave. She couldn’t suppress a deep sigh of pleasure. Inside was everything an artist could dream of needing: easels, paintboxes, canvases and everything else in between. In the air swirled competing scents of turpentine and ink, charcoal and wood.

  Stacked next to one opposing wall were several completed canvases, both large and small, and Megan craned her neck to get a proper look. She was dying to see some of Kyle’s work—perhaps it would give her some more clues to the man himself? While he was trying to figure her out she was trying to glean some insight into what made this fascinating man tick. Perhaps later, when he had got to know her a little better, he might let her see some of the fruits of his own creativity?

  But clearly right now it was Megan’s creativity that Kyle was most interested in. With almost breathless anticipation she watched him carry an easel, a canvas already stretched and prepared across it, across the matte wooden floor to the nearest open window. He took a couple of minutes to position it exactly how he wanted it, then looked across at her and smiled. It had been an inclement
sort of day, and now a cool breeze drifted in to trail a featherlight touch on the virgin canvas.

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ he commented conversationally, ‘but I work better with some fresh air circulating.’

  Megan’s chest was tight with excitement and trepidation. Oh, God—it had been so long since she had had the chance to do this. Now, when it came to it, would she be able to do anything at all? If only she wasn’t so damned nervous! If only she could rest assured in the knowledge that Kyle wasn’t going to judge her on whatever effort she produced. In the past, when she was married to Nick, everything she’d ever done had been with his approval in mind. She had lived in mortal fear of his disapproval. She’d vowed to herself that never again would she subject herself to such tyranny. Only sometimes her own self-imposed tyranny was even worse. She had to cut herself a little slack, but how?

  ‘Do you know your way round a paintbox, or do you want me to go over it with you?’ Kyle had wheeled a trolley across, with a sheet of glass over the top and an opened paintbox on the top. Laid out next to the paints were several high-quality sable brushes in varying thicknesses with polished handles.

  Even though she didn’t do any actual painting, Megan did know her way around a paintbox. She had three really good art manuals at home—her favourite bedtime reading—and she had those first six months at art college to fall back on.

  ‘I think I can manage.’ She gave him a watery smile and was almost knocked off her feet with the dazzling glance he gave her in return.

  ‘Then it’s all yours, sweetheart. Paint that passion we were talking about. Don’t rein it in and don’t hold back. I want to know what that emotion means to you. Take as long as you like. I don’t care how you do it; it’s not a contest and I’m not judging anything. Just feel free to express yourself in whatever way you feel inclined. In the meantime, I’ll go and make some coffee.’