His hands flapped the air once, dismissing her statement. He stood up and went to the window, looking out to the sea. “I can make you paint like Picasso.”
“I’d rather paint like Megan Kelly,” she told his back.
“I can make you sing like a nightingale, dance like a spirit.”
“If I want to sing, I just open my mouth.” He heard the scrape of a chair, her voice coming closer to him.
“If I want to dance, I just spread out my arms like this.”
He turned to find her in front of him, her feet repeating a graceful pattern, her hips swaying to invisible sound. Her head tilted back, exposing a length of long, smooth throat. Her raised arms formed an arc as her small, slender body moved like the waves outside the window.
She spun around once in a lazy circle, the thin, cotton gown she wore billowing. The tiny-flowered material settled as her spin stopped, allowing a sway to show the curve of a hip, a breast, the flat, hard angle of ribs, only suggesting the body that lay beneath the faded fabric.
She took a step toward him, her lids lowered to half-mast, her arms moving closer together, inviting him in. He hesitated, in that second, wondering once more where this ordinary woman gained her power.
He took her newly healed hands in his, and their bodies came together, his hips and belly finding softer, smaller mates. He felt the gentle push of her breasts against his chest, and his throat felt as if it were filled with cotton batting. He could not swallow.
“I haven’t danced in so long,” he heard her murmur.
He looked down. The crest of her cheek lightly rested on the round of his shoulder. Her eyes had closed. The curve of her mouth was of a child’s smiling in her sleep.
“You see…” He felt the movement of her mouth against his collarbone. “Paradise isn’t found in bulging bank accounts or faraway lands.” She lifted her head, her gaze fixing on him. “Do you understand?”
He did not so he said nothing.
“It’s right here.” Her hand lifted and laid against his chest, “Inside you.” Her hand went to her own breast. “Inside me.”
Gino’s voice was thick. “What can I give you then?”
Her answering gaze stayed solemn. “When I know, I’ll tell you.”
Her head dropped. Their steps slowed.
“I only know it’s not diamonds or deserted beaches or dancing different from this right now.” She stopped moving. “Can’t you understand?”
In her somber study, he saw her plea that he understand.
“Nothing easy,” he half asked, half answered. Her neck muscles relaxed, and her head settled against his shoulder, confirming what he’d just said, what he’d already realized the night before. They began dancing again.
“It’s easy for you, Gino, isn’t it? You know what you want,” she said, the breath of her words warming the silk of his shirt.
“Yes.” His reply was automatic. The muscles of his body stiffened involuntarily.
Her head came up, spilling her hair behind her shoulders. Her eyes regarded him, challenging him to say it.
“I want to be King.” All the slur had left his voice.
Her eyes studied him. Their hips continued to swing, their shoulders to ripple. “Is that all you’ve ever wanted?”
“There is nothing else,” he replied.
“So, all that stands between you and your happiness is me?”
He eased her into the center of the kitchen. He gave her question the same sidestep, even though they both knew it was the truth. “What’ll make you happy, Megan Kelly?”
Her head returned to the square of his shut, hiding her expression. She said nothing. Against the horizontal plane that held his heart, he felt a half shrug of her shoulders as if they were too heavy to lift more than that.
They swayed in silence. He tilted his head to the right, and her hair, as soft as rain, skimmed beneath the hard edge of his jaw. The smell of wet sand and sultry air was replaced by a sweetness only possible when a woman was so near.
“Gino?”
Lulled by the slow steps and the lovely feel of her body against him, he’d closed his eyes. Bound by this woman in a perfectly comfortable blackness neither here nor there, he answered with a sleepy, “Mmm?”
He felt her head leave his shoulder. The spot where she’d laid it stayed warm.
“I’m happy now.”
He opened his eyes to hers. Their green had deepened to forest, the pupils opening into a darkness a man could drown in.
He said nothing, not trusting his voice, which once more seemed strangled. When he didn’t respond, her head nestled against him again, her eyes covered, no longer asking for an answer.
He looked down to the ringlets that looked as if they were spun silk, his lips wishing to lay on their feathery bed.
He didn’t understand. She wasn’t a goddess, a sorceress, an angel, a witch. She was a small, simple woman, ordinary in every respect.
Except she could open her arms and cast magic far greater than his own legendary powers. She smiled and he was under her spell.
“You’re a strange creature, Megan Kelly,” he said.
He heard her laugh before she even raised her head. “Now there’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
He joined her laughter and the tightness in his chest lessened, making it easier to breathe.
They were still swaying, still smiling silently when she said, “Let’s go home, Gino.”
He nodded. He had no choice. Her every wish was his command.
Chapter Five
She was back in her own bed. The sun was still shining. But by now, she was no longer sure if she was dreaming or awake, home or hurling headlong through the universe.
She wasn’t sure of anything at this moment.
She sat up as she met the memory of Gino’s hand on her skin. The exotic incense surrounding him like an opiate still filled her nostrils. She knew the beat of his heart, which had quickened when she nestled against his chest.
It was the same beat that had begun within her own body. Her feet had moved to it. The pulse of her blood had echoed it. She placed her hand against her chest and knew the rhythm once more, weaker but there nonetheless.
At that moment, it was the only reality she knew.
She swung her legs out of the bed and walked to the window, welcoming the cool shock of tile against her bare feet. She pushed back the curtains. Her flowers, pink, purple, coral, cream, welcomed her home. Her sigh was audible.
“Me-e-e-e-gan,” Gino called. “Come here. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Oh, no! What now?
She slipped on a robe and walked in the direction of Gino’s off-key singing. She stopped right before the entrance to the kitchen, afraid to look.
“I see your shadow. Come on in,” Gino said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Would you put that in writing, please?” Megan peeked around the corner of the doorway. A silver tray of pastries covered the center of the table. A crystal bowl of fruit rose behind it. A covered chafing dish stood on the counter. Coffee perked patiently beside it.
Megan stepped into the room, a smile spreading across her lips.
In black tie, Gino stood beside the refrigerator. He acknowledged Megan’s pleasure with a smile of his own before bowing low. “Madam, breakfast is served.”
Megan walked to the counter and lifted the cover of the chafing dish. In its belly, paper-thin crepes swam in an orange-scented sea. Still smiling, she turned to Gino. “Did you cook these yourself?”
He rolled his eyes. “What do you think?”
Megan laughed half at herself, half in pure pleasure. She sat down, eyeing the mound of pastries. “I guess there are some advantages to having you around.” She reached for a flaky square dusted with powdered sugar.
Gino went to the counter and poured them each a cup of coffee into white china cups edged in gold. “I figured after the night you had, you’d be starving.”
“I am.” The p
astry was midway to Megan’s mouth.
Gino stirred his coffee. “You must’ve been more tired than hungry, though, if you were able to sleep this late.”
“Late? What time is it?” Her gaze shifted to the wall clock. The pastry fell to the table uneaten. “Oh, no!” She jumped up, knocking over her chair, and ran from the room.
“What’s the problem?” Gino had followed her into her bedroom, a cup of coffee in each hand. He placed one on the dresser where Megan was opening drawers and flinging out clothes. He took a long sip from the other one as he settled in the chair in the corner.
“It’s 1:25!” Megan slammed closed one drawer and opened another below it.
Gino took another unhurried sip of his coffee. “Yes?”
“Elliot and I are supposed to be at his mother’s at two. He’ll be here any minute.” She suddenly froze. “Did you hear a car door?” she whispered.
Before Gino could answer, there was the sound of steps coming up the back sidewalk. Alarm lit up Megan’s features.
“It’s Elliot. Get rid of that breakfast!”
“But you didn’t even eat yet,” Gino observed.
“Get…” Megan’s voice rose, then just as quickly dropped to a hiss, “rid of it now!”
With maddening precision, Gino set his coffee on the saucer balanced on his thigh, closed his eyes for not longer than three pounding beats of Megan’s heart, then opened them, picked up his cup and took another sip.
“It’s gone?” Megan heard the slam of the back screen door.
Gino calmly nodded, sipping his coffee.
“Me-e-e-e-gan,” Elliot called.
“Now you go,” Megan ordered Gino in a frantic whisper.
“Me-e-e-e-gan?” Elliot called again.
Gino sipped his coffee.
“I’ll be right out,” Megan yelled. She ran into the small adjoining bathroom and turned on the water. She ran back into the bedroom. “I’m in the shower,” she yelled, glaring at Gino. He smiled pleasantly back at her.
“Your coffee’s getting cold,” he said.
“You’re in the shower?” Elliot’s voice was closer.
Megan tiptoed toward the door. Holding her breath, she slowly, soundlessly locked it. She tiptoed back to the center of the room. With her features in a tense pose, she pointed at Gino, then pointed at the window.
“You’re not even dressed yet?” Elliot called from the other side of the door. “It’s after one-thirty.”
Megan watched the doorknob turn one way, then the other. Her gaze shot back to Gino. Her outstretched finger stabbed toward the window.
“I overslept.”
“You overslept?” The knob stopped turning. “You never oversleep.”
“After working all those extra hours, then the accident, I must’ve slept right through the alarm. I’ll be out in a minute.” The room was starting to steam up.
Even behind the closed door, Megan could hear Elliot’s cluck of disapproval. “I better go call Mom and tell her we’ll be late. She isn’t going to like this.”
Megan didn’t move until she heard Elliot’s footsteps heading toward the kitchen.
“Great,” she mumbled as she moved back to the dresser. She pulled a cotton shirt from the drawer, considered it a moment, then dropped it beside the other clothes strewn on the floor.
“I guess I better change, too,” Gino said. “I’m a little overdressed for the occasion.”
Megan turned back to him. He was now in pressed linen trousers and a white button-down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves.
“You’re not going.”
Gino looked down at his outfit. “You don’t like this? I thought it was suitable for an afternoon of sucking down brewskis and swearing at the sports channel. I imagine that’s what Elliot does while you gals cook him dinner, serve it to him, clean up after him.”
“I don’t care if you go naked—”
“Do you think Elliot’s mother would prefer that?”
“Because you’re not going.”
“Here’s my second surprise for you today—yes, I am.”
“I can’t believe ten minutes ago I actually said there were advantages to having you around.”
“Listen, I’m not exactly overjoyed about spending the next few hours listening to the wit and wisdom of Elliot and his mom, but you—” He pointed his finger at her. “Threw away the crock pot.”
“I didn’t throw it out…exactly,” Megan attempted to defend herself.
“The bottom line is it’s not here. Which means you’re stuck with me for now. Do you think you could turn that water off?” He smoothed the legs of his trousers. “My creases are beginning to fade.”
She went to the bathroom and turned off the shower.
“Me-e-e-e-gan, are you dressed?” Elliot’s footsteps came down the hall and stopped outside the door.
Megan looked at Gino, putting a finger to her lips. “Almost ready.”
“Were you talking to me a moment ago?” Elliot asked from the other side of the door. “I thought I heard voices again.”
“I was singing in the shower.”
“Singing in the shower,” Elliot grumbled as he walked back down the hall. “Shake a leg. Mom already put the roast in, and I don’t like it well-done.” The sound of a television program started.
Megan moved toward the closet. “What am I going to wear?” She considered a high-necked white blouse, a striped shirtdress, a pair of black pants, then abandoned them to the other end of the metal rod. “I wish I had…”
“Yes?”
She looked back at Gino. He was sitting up straight, an eager look in his eyes.
“What I meant to say was I need something to wear.”
Gino slumped back in his chair. Megan shoved aside a few empty hangers, coming to a paisley blouse.
“How ‘bout this?” Gino asked.
Megan turned to face him, almost toppling over in the spiked heels she was now wearing. She steadied herself on the bed, straightening slowly as her gaze came up her legs in black leather pants, her midriff bared by a black lace bustier. She let go of the bedpost, looking up from fingernails, now three inches long and painted red.
“You forgot the dog collar,” she said.
“At least, I didn’t pierce your belly button.”
“I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
“Just trying to help out.”
“If I show up like this for dinner and put Elliot’s mom into cardiac arrest, it wouldn’t exactly have a positive effect on our already shaky relationship.”
“Point taken. Okay, something a little less heart-stopping. How’s this?”
Megan was afraid to look. When she did, gone were the leather and lace. In their place was a plaid-pleated skirt that touched her knee, a white turtleneck and a navy blue blazer with an embroidered crest on the pocket.
She looked up at Gino. “You’re having a good time, aren’t you?”
He smiled his answer.
Megan looked down at her penny loafers. “I’ve heard some guys go for the schoolgirl look but I don’t know about their mothers.”
Gino stood up. “I’m just trying to show you you’re being a little silly. What’s the big deal anyway?”
Megan let out a nervous laugh. “You’ve never met Elliot’s mother. Every time she looks at me, I feel like my shirt is buttoned the wrong way or I forgot to zipper my pants.”
“You’ve nothing to worry about, Megan. You’re a beautiful woman. Look.”
Megan didn’t move. Had he really said she was beautiful?
“Look in the mirror,” he commanded.
Her feet moved to the tone in his voice. She wiped away the steam that had settled on the bureau mirror and slowly revealed a woman in a strapless, pearl-beaded sheath, exposing skin so creamy it was hard to tell where the dress ended and the flesh, began.
Her lips, painted pale cranberry, formed an O. The rest of the face was hers, too. It was the face of an extraordinarily beautiful woman.
“How…?”
“It was easy.” Gino’s image joined hers as he came up behind her. “The beauty was always there. I just added a few enhancements.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and his head close to hers where her hair had been piled into an artless crown of curls. He spoke into her ear, his breath stirring a wayward tendril. “Elliot’s mom, eat your heart out.”
It wasn’t vanity that kept Megan before the mirror unable to move. It wasn’t amazement that parted her lips with an endless breath. It was the presence of Gino beside her, the picture of them together, the look in his eye, the longing in her heart.
“Me-e-e-e-gan!” Elliot yelled. “We’ve got to go.”
Megan’s eyes lost their dreamy look. “Could you give me something a little less Bob Mackie?”
“Yes, it’s a little dramatic for day-wear.” Gino lifted her chin with a strong tapered finger. “But this afternoon when Elliot’s mom looks at you like your blouse is on backward, you remember this image. And you remember, I’m nearby.”
Megan turned around, seeing only his beauty now. “Where will you be? In the sky, in the house, in the car trunk?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be around.”
“Me-e-ee-e-gan!” Elliot’s voice was loud and exasperated.
“You better go,” Gino advised.
“What form will you be in? Land, animal or mineral? I don’t like this at all.”
“Go.” Gino took her by the shoulders and pushed her toward the door.
She took two steps forward, then stopped. She looked back at Gino. “But—”
Elliot began to pound on the door. “Me-e-e-e-gan!”
She looked back at the door.
“Go!” Gino whispered behind her. He gave her a pat on her rear end.
She turned, indignation coming on the heels of her surprise. He was gone. All she saw was her own reflection in the mirror. Her hair was still carelessly tousled, her features perfected by the expert touch of makeup, but she now wore a peach-colored dress of the softest silk. Its neck was scooped, the material forming against her breasts in a demure curve, then falling into a long length of skirt that swirled about her legs to just around the ankle. For the first time in her life, she felt like a fairy-tale princess.
A Man for Megan Page 7
