by Bella Andre
They picked out every piece. Turning them over, she read names like Royal Albert, Rosina, Coalport, Adderley, Rockingham. “This one says, By appointment to Her Majesty the Queen. We should try to break out that part to use. And since they’re all broken, I’ll offer ten dollars.”
“Big spender.” He stood close enough to nuzzle her hair.
Her eyes closed for a moment as she savored him. “They’re going to end up in the trash anyway. It’s ten dollars no one else would pay.”
Ten dollars was accepted, and they loaded the box in the bed of the truck. “If they break in transit, who cares?” She was, however, relishing the pleasure of breaking them herself. And she couldn’t wait to hand over a stack to Sebastian too, so he could work off some of the latent anger she knew had to be simmering just beneath his calm surface.
“Off to the construction sale?” He handed her up into the truck, his touch doing crazy things to her. This was her world, one that no other man had ever wanted to be a part of. But just having him in it with her made the day extra special.
“Yup.” She keyed the address into the GPS.
Fifteen minutes later, the contractor trailed them through the lot until Sebastian gave him the stinkeye. The old house had once been a Victorian, but it was stripped down to bare walls and floors. The sun was high in the sky now, and Charlie was glad she’d slathered sunscreen on her shoulders, arms, and neck bared by the sundress. Sebastian didn’t even seem to break a sweat.
They found brass pipes that could work for the sinews of a horse’s legs, and several different configurations of pipe fittings for the joints. Then she discovered the spools of copper wire, holding one up for Sebastian’s inspection.
“The reins,” she said, unable to stem the awe from the clear vision she’d just had.
“From copper wire?” He looked more than a little surprised. “I’m going to have to see it to believe it.”
Oh, she’d make him believe all right. She already saw the reins flowing out from the horses’ bridles as if they were flying. She’d braid several pieces of wire to give it strength and width.
“It could work for the horses’ tails too,” he said, his tone offhand.
She sucked in a breath on a gasp. “Oh, my God. Single copper strands bunched together.” It would seem as though they were blowing in the wind. “The tails will appear to be on fire when the sun hits them.” She kissed him soundly on the mouth. “You’re a genius.”
He took the opportunity to put his hands on her waist before she could draw back. She felt his utter focus and concentration on her. He tucked away a lock of hair, trailing his finger along the shell of her ear.
When she shivered and fell into his gaze, she felt as if she were falling out of her normal life...and into a magical place where there was only his touch. Only his kiss.
Only Sebastian.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Charlie’s ability to amaze him never ceased. She found fantastical mysteries in other people’s cast-offs. A dirt-encrusted gate could open the door to another world. A length of copper wire transmuted itself into the flapping reins of runaway stallions. He had no doubt she could do it. She saw inspiration in everything.
And Sebastian found inspiration in her.
She came alive when she was working, planning, visualizing. He’d given up on the drawing app and had continued to fill sketchbooks with images of her just like this—her eyes bright, her face shining, her lips smiling. Yet none of the drawings brought him closer to discovering why her work wasn’t already world famous. Why she wasn’t already a huge, glittering star in the art world. With her talent, beauty, and charm, she could easily command that world, the shining star on top of it all. By now anyone else would have been using his contacts to network, taking anything she could from him to advance her career. But not Charlie. No matter how many sketches he drew of her, he couldn’t put his finger on the reason. But he would. Soon. Because Sebastian had long ago vowed never to give up on somebody with potential. Especially when that somebody had come to mean as much to him as Charlie already did.
Since she wouldn’t take the money for her mother’s care from him—he’d gently offered a few times more to help pay for Magnolia Gardens and she’d just as gently turned him down—that meant the only other way to help her pay for her mother’s needs was to find buyers for the rest of her sculptures. He’d already made several phone calls to that end, but he wouldn’t say anything to Charlie until he had a solid bite from a prospect.
“We didn’t even spend a hundred dollars,” he said as he pulled the truck in front of the workshop and began to unload the full bed. Even lunch had been a quick but excellent burrito off a taco truck. He’d never eaten from a food truck before—why would he, when he had the best private chefs in the world on speed dial?—but with her it had been both fun and delicious.
Charlie laughed as she set the gate she’d found against the studio wall. Admiring her strength—and knowing that she prided herself on her independence—he’d made himself stop offering to carry the heavy stuff all the time. “Why do you think I chose to work in the junk medium rather than expensive canvases or paints or marble statues?”
“Smart woman.” He put the delicate and considerably lighter box of china cups and saucers on the workbench. Beautiful woman too.
She’d worn her steel-toed boots in deference to the junkyard terrain and a sexy sundress with minuscule straps in deference to the heat. He’d driven himself nuts the whole day, touching her hair, her face, her shoulders, her neck, anything he could flutter his fingertips across. He hoped he’d driven her nuts too.
“Guess what it’s time for?” she asked, with a wicked arch of her brow.
He had a good dozen ideas of his own...all of which involved Charlie naked and gasping with pleasure beneath him. But she wasn’t taking off her clothes; she was flicking the lid of the box with her fingernail.
“Smashing up the china for the base of the chariot. It’ll be like aggression therapy,” she said, a sexy come-hither sparkle in her eye.
“I don’t need aggression therapy.” No, he needed therapy of a completely different nature, on satin sheets with the night breeze cooling their sweaty, naked bodies. He wanted her badly enough by now to throw all his caution against the wall.
“Sure you do,” she murmured in a slightly husky voice as she took a step closer. The spicy, sexy scent of her skin beckoned him, and his fingers flexed, his muscles bunched, ready to pounce like a mountain lion. “Everyone has some anger they need to let out.”
“Even you?”
“I’m angry as hell that my mother is always in pain. What are you angry about?”
My father for being a selfish asshole. The words landed in his brain before he even knew they were coming.
As if she knew he wasn’t able to say the words aloud, she simply handed him a cup and whispered, “Toss it.”
Her words were so low, so seductive, that she could have been begging him to touch her, taste her, take her. He leaned into an overhand throw against the far wall. And the cup shattered.
“What an arm,” she cheered, punching the air. “But we might need a little less exuberance. Or we won’t get any pieces at all.”
“Your turn.” He shoved a saucer into her hand. She’d been right—the act of smashing the cup felt like it had smashed some of the anger boiling away in places he’d thought had gone cold a long time ago.
She narrowed her gaze and he could see her focusing on her anger about her mother’s illness a beat before she executed an underhand toss like a dancer, arm out, up, rising on her toes, letting the delicate porcelain sail and drop.
It broke into solid lines on the concrete. One half remained intact, lying upside down.
“Your turn again,” she drawled, then gave him a flirty smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. He felt the heat of her skin, caught the breathy exhalation. And suddenly this wasn’t only about unleashing anger.
It was also about seduction.
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br /> He tossed the cup. She chose another saucer and threw it right after his. Everything broke with a tinkle of china. The intact half of the saucer snapped as they piled on.
“More,” she said, grabbing, tossing, breaking, faster, one on top of the other.
Her breath came harder, her cheeks were flushed, her lips red, wet, inviting. He wanted to sink into her while he stroked her tongue with his, tasted her lips, feasted on her, the breaking glass ringing in their ears.
“Another,” she urged him. One after the other, saucers and cups sailed through the air, crashing hard against the wall, until the box was empty and the concrete in the center of the barn was a rainbow of colored chips. Her skin was covered in a light sheen of perspiration, and all he could think about was licking off the salt, reveling in it.
He didn’t think, didn’t blink, before hauling her up against him and taking her mouth. She was all spice, sweet and hot. As strong as she was, in his arms she felt as petite and delicate as the china. She devoured him even as he consumed her. Her body heat singed his fingertips as he molded his hands to her waist.
No other woman made him lose himself so completely. The workshop doors stood wide, yet he didn’t care. And he couldn’t bring himself to heed the cautionary thought that it would be better to wait, to make sure that they weren’t toxic to each other before they took this next step. There was only a hard ache inside him, an overwhelming desire to fit himself inside her.
He yanked a spaghetti strap down her arm, then molded her breast in his hand, roughly teasing the tip to a hard peak. She moaned into his mouth, a heady sound that played every chord in his body, vibrating through him.
Until today, he’d made himself take it slow. Made himself take care not to fall too far, too fast, too hard before he was totally sure their feelings for each other wouldn’t be their mutual destruction.
But slow was completely impossible now.
His hand slid over her hip, his fingers tugged up the thin material of her dress, and her bare thigh singed his palm. Her kisses stole his breath and fogged his mind, while the heat of her skin made him completely crazy.
“Sebastian.” Her eyes were drugged, her lips swollen, her hair framing her gorgeous face. If she’d stepped out of his arms, he’d have made himself let her go. But she molded her hand tightly over his on her breast, then dragged his head down for another intoxicating kiss. He stroked her tongue with his, caressed the hard nub beneath his fingers, and tested the flesh along the line of her barely-there thong, the temperature rising to steamy.
He needed more. More. And he couldn’t wait for it, knew he’d die if he didn’t touch her. When she pushed the back of his head until his lips found her nipple, he knew she felt exactly the same way.
He kissed her, licked, sucked, savored. Her body vibrated with hot, sweaty need, and she moaned, her legs tight around him, her body arching along the ridge of his erection. One after the other, his brain fired off orders he was beyond desperate to obey.
Touch her.
Taste her.
Pleasure her.
He flipped up the hem of her enticing sundress and put his palm on her center, letting her heat seep into him. “Here.” The one word was a whisper of need, a rasp of desire. “Now. I need to touch you, Charlie.”
He had never needed before, not like this, beyond the physical, deep into emotional territory. He truly felt as though he would die if he lost her. He’d never had such a thought about another woman, only Charlie. She was to die for.
Before the semi-destructive thought could paralyze him, she put her lips to his and hummed a hot little pleasure sound deep in her throat. “Here. Now. Touch me.”
Less than a heartbeat later, he was sinking his finger into her wet heat. She was so ready, her body quivering. He took her lips again, kissing her hard, delving deep, while he played over her arousal. Her hands roamed up and down his arms, cupping his face, into his hair, while her boots scraped the backs of his thighs restlessly. Panting, biting her lip, she looked up at him and he saw that a flush had turned her cheeks pink and her pupils were dilated.
He leaned closer, his reflection in her gaze, and filled her with his fingers. Hard, fast, he took her until her head fell back, her hair cascading across the bench. She gasped twice, then cried out, her body tightening, releasing. The perfume of her climax enveloped him as a full body flush turned her skin hot.
“Oh, God. Sebastian.”
Sweet Lord, he wanted to thrust so deep and high inside her that they became a part of each other. Wanted to wrap himself all around her and never let go.
Yet he knew he couldn’t. Not yet. Not when making love to her would only bring them closer...and he still didn’t understand what made her tick at her very core. And while Charlie had made it clear that she wanted him, it was obvious that she was still afraid to trust him, still afraid that any help he offered had strings attached.
Though he ached with unrelenting need, all he could do now was hold her close for another few precious seconds and allow himself the pleasure of breathing in her luscious scent.
“Soon.”
She reached out, her hand fluttering, lighting on his arm, his throat, his cheek, and finally her fingers on his lips. He knew he was right to draw back when she nodded and echoed the word back to him. “Soon. Although,” she said as she licked her lips, “I’m dying to touch you too. Here. Now.”
He couldn’t hold back his groan of need, even as he said, “If you put your hands on me—” He closed his eyes a moment to let himself soak in the sexy vision before brutally shoving it away. “I won’t be able to stop.”
She stared at him for a long moment, one that had him wondering if she was going to reach for his belt despite all their well-intentioned reasons for waiting. But in the end, she simply sat up and said, “If you’re not going to let me touch you—” She huffed out a long breath of regret that he felt down to his very marrow. “—then we should get back to finding the best pieces for our mosaic.”
We. Our. He loved that, how even after he’d worked like hell to put the brakes on, she was not only in agreement, but wasn’t holding anything against him out of sheer frustration.
Oh yeah, every sign pointed to Charlie Ballard being special. Being the one. Soon he would know for sure—whether it was through his sketches or simply by spending more time with her. Once he was absolutely convinced they wouldn’t hurt each other the way his parents had, he’d make damn sure they got their fill of each other, morning, noon and night, with no brakes anywhere in sight.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A few days later, Sebastian needed to fly back East. He usually enjoyed his business trips, different sights, a change of pace—but this time, he didn’t want to leave Charlie. This meeting had been scheduled a month ago, before everything started changing inside him. He’d invited her to come, but just as he’d expected, she wouldn’t desert the chariot.
So he went alone to New York and had a good meeting with the TV network that wanted to carry his series of motivational programs on creating success in everyday life. Even better, over drinks he met with a friend who mentioned a new hotel back in Northern California where they were looking for a big, impressive garden centerpiece. In an instant, Sebastian knew that Charlie’s work was meant to be there. One quick phone call got Sebastian an appointment for the day he returned.
He would have headed home that night, but he’d promised Susan and Bob he’d stop in to see them in Chicago. If not for them, he’d never go back there. None of the Mavericks would. The bad memories of Chicago overshadowed the good, even though they’d long since moved Susan and Bob out of the seedy neighborhood and into a big house on a tree-lined street.
“Honey, we’re so glad you came.”
Susan had prepared his favorite dish, beef bourguignon, which had been simmering all day in the slow cooker despite the Illinois summer heat. The house smelled like ambrosia, and now they were sitting outside on the deck enjoying a slightly cooler evening. A light bre
eze washed over him, reminding him of Charlie’s fingers in his hair.
Susan looked younger every day, if that could be believed. Life was treating her well. She was slender and healthy, walking five miles every day, at least in summer. “You look great. Have you done something new with your hair?”
She patted her silver locks and smiled. “Just a different rinse.”
She was only fifty-five, but most of those years hadn’t been kind. She’d been a waitress at a diner, and Bob had been a baggage handler at O’Hare. They’d started their family young, Daniel coming along when they were only twenty, and their daughter Lyssa ten years later. Then there were the Mavericks, the rough-and-tumble teenage boys they’d taken in and raised. Bob and Susan were givers, even when they hadn’t had enough to give. Sebastian was inspired by them every day.
Bob pointed to the top of his bald head. “Hey, what about me?”
“Oh, honey, I love your bald head.” Susan reached over to stroke the shiny skin.
Sebastian loved the way they were with each other. He couldn’t remember them fighting, not like his parents. His parents had loved hard, drunk hard, fought hard. Whereas Susan had always told Sebastian that in any argument, you had to stop, think, and then speak. It was advice that had served him well in business negotiations over the years.
Bob rose from his chair. “I’m going to water the rose bushes. They look a little parched.”
“Thanks, honey.” She gave him an affectionate swat on the behind as he passed, then he practically jogged down the steps. “He’s got a whole new lease on life after his back surgery. I’m so glad you boys talked him into it.”
No matter how much money the Mavericks earned, Bob and Susan never took anything for granted. It was only when the pain from an old work injury had become debilitating that Bob allowed Daniel and the rest of them to pay for the surgery. Of course they’d gotten him the best, flying in a surgeon from London.
