by Laura Moore
As he’d sped from the city to his aunt’s house, his thoughts had continued to revolve around Gen. Thoughts that had quickly spun into sensual fantasies of seduction . . . of undressing Gen slowly, discovering exactly how many of those enchanting gold-dust freckles covered her. Of kissing every last one of them as she moaned in his arms and her eyes glittered with greenish-gold flames of desire.
Yet now that he realized exactly who Gen was, and recognized too the hold she had over his imagination, he wanted nothing more than to break her unknowing spell.
That was somehow the worst of it: Gen hadn’t the slightest inkling of her effect on him, of her power. Because her power came from simply being who she was.
So he was stuck, smitten with a woman who wore button-down shirts and painter’s pants that would have been baggy on Paul Bunyan. He was entranced by a woman who, when she wasn’t telling him off, was deriving gleeful, sadistic pleasure from watching him get licked to death by a hairy dog in desperate need of mouthwash.
And it damn near terrified him that in spite of all this he’d be willing to do just about anything to have that smile wreath her face and see laughter light her eyes.
It occurred to Alex that the smartest thing he could do would be to jump into his car right now and drive away even faster than he’d come, putting as many miles between him and Genevieve Monaghan as possible.
Unfortunately his chance at self-preservation was snatched away by Aunt Grace’s arrival. Her face flushed a glowing pink, her bare feet coated with sand, she’d clearly just come from her walk on the beach. “Why, Alex, dear. Whatever are you doing sprawled on the grass?”
“What is grass but to sprawl on?” he replied easily as he rose to his feet and kissed his aunt’s cheeks.
Watching them, Gen felt an unexpected rush of gratitude toward Alex for having omitted Murphy’s role in how he came to be on the grass. She didn’t want Mrs. Miller to get the wrong impression about her dog.
“And why are you here?” Mrs. Miller demanded. “Today’s Thursday.”
“One of the joys of the computer age is that I can bring my work with me; one of the privileges of being the head of a firm is that I can leave when I want. No one but you to scold me when I play hooky, Aunt Grace,” he said lightly.
Mrs. Miller made a tsk-ing noise and brushed at the dirt on his shoulders. “You’ve never played hooky in your life, although you probably should. You work far too hard. It’s lovely that you’re here, Alex, though I’m afraid it’ll be just you and Genevieve for much of today and tomorrow. I’m off to go kayaking with the group for the South Fork Conservancy. Tomorrow I have a lunch followed by a committee meeting for the Hampton Classic. That charming friend of Sam Brody’s, Ty Sheppard, has been nominated this year’s chair.” Turning to Gen she said, “I should be back later this afternoon, around five. Shall I pick up some groceries on the way home?”
“Oh, no, that’s all right. I can do the shopping, Mrs. Miller. I’ve got the list already written out. But if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my work. Come on, Murphy,” she said, slapping her thigh. And Gen hurried away before she saw more of this side of Alex Miller’s personality, and forgot to remember that she really didn’t like him.
EIGHT
Alex rapped on the door frame hard enough to be heard over the classical music pouring from the portable radio. The dog, of course, had already noticed his presence and had risen from his post, his body poised.
As a precautionary measure, he said, “Down,” in a low, gravelly tone. When the dog kept all four massive paws planted on the floor, seemingly content with wagging his tail so hard his entire body shook, Alex found himself grinning. Then, addressing Gen’s pant legs and bare feet, the only parts of her that were visible behind the rectangular canvas propped against the wooden easel, he asked, “Do you mind if I come in?”
Gen’s head popped around the edge of the painting. “Oh.”
Not quite as warm a reception as her dog had given him, Alex thought ruefully. “I brought some food.”
“Food?” she said in surprise, thereby confirming what Aunt Grace had told him before she left. “Make sure Genevieve eats something, Alex. She’s spent the week making these delicious meals, each one more beautifully presented than the next. But then she neglects to eat them. I’ve come to the conclusion that she views cooking as a sort of still-life arrangement. Once it’s done, she moves on to her next project.”
“Yes, food,” he said, echoing Gen. “Lunch was a couple of hours ago.”
She glanced back at the canvas she was working on. “I guess I can take a break.”
Alex watched her drop her brush into a can of water and wrap a plastic bag around her paint palette. Wiping her hands on a frayed rag, she looked with interest at the plate in his hand. “What have you got there?”
“What I assume must be your cooking, since it tastes delicious. Aunt Grace has an alarming tendency to burn everything she puts in a pot. She’s gone through several fire extinguishers. Here,” he said, holding out a plate filled with a cold roast beef sandwich, a potato and cucumber salad, and a bunch of red grapes. “A peace offering.”
“A peace offering, huh?” she replied, taking it from him. “Well, I’m not really the type to hold grudges— although I admit in your case the idea has definite appeal.” Flashing him a cool smile, she carried the plate over to the futon sofa and sat down. Raising her legs, she propped her bare feet on an upside-down milk crate, and with an expansive wave of her arm, said, “Go ahead, take a look around. I warn you, though, I did an excellent job of hiding your aunt’s silver.” She grinned mockingly and took an enormous bite of the sandwich.
“Your sense of humor overwhelms me.”
She shook her head as her jaw worked. Swallowing, she said cheerfully, “No, that would be my dog. I see you changed your shirt. Think you’ll be able to get the grass stains out of the other one?”
“If I don’t, I’ll send you the bill,” he shot back dryly.
Laughter bubbling up inside her, Gen took another hefty bite of her sandwich to prevent its escape. In spite of her decidedly mixed feelings about Alex Miller, she had to admit she enjoyed his quick wit. Pretending to concentrate on her food—impressed to discover that he’d added horseradish to the sandwich, which gave it a wicked, nostril-searing kick, exactly what she liked—she surreptitiously watched him move about the studio, all the while trying not to notice how the cotton T-shirt he’d changed into clung to the muscles of his torso, or how very fine he looked in a pair of faded old jeans.
First he wandered over to her worktable and paused to look at her paints and brushes, charcoals and pencils. When he turned away, the angle of his head told Gen he was studying the long expanse of bare wall and the tall stool that she’d placed in front of it. The empty wall was where she planned to hang the canvas for the hospital commission. Gen had positioned the stool there so that at odd moments during the day she could sit and stare at the white emptiness, inviting images to float before her.
Next he walked over to the second worktable she’d set up. This one was covered with seashells, sea glass, bird feathers, rocks, and pieces of driftwood, objects that had caught her fancy on her beach walks with Murphy. While Gen found the objects fascinating, she grew puzzled when Alex continued to linger near them. Until suddenly it dawned on her: he was scrupulously avoiding the area near her easel, as well as the window ledge where the portrait she’d begun of Mrs. Miller rested. It surprised Gen how much it meant to her that he’d not only remembered but respected her declaration that her artwork was off-limits without her express invitation.
“I’ve been working on a portrait of your aunt,” she said, with a nod toward the other side of the room. “If you’d like—”
“Yes, very much indeed.”
She put the half-finished sandwich aside and went over to the window. “Here it is,” she said, holding the sketch pad out to him.
He gazed at it. “It’s terrific. You’ve captured my aunt
perfectly, from the tilt of her chin to her white gloves. Tell me, though, why did you choose to draw her at breakfast? Because that’s the only time she sits still?”
Alex’s wry question had Gen laughing. “Yes, that was one reason. I also love how she understands what makes her happy, and that she starts each day surrounded by some of those things. One could do worse than follow her example.”
Alex looked at her and a strange silence enveloped them, one that made Gen as nervous as a schoolgirl on her first date. There was such magnetism in his brilliant blue gaze. Drawn to it, she found herself suddenly wondering what it was that made Alex Miller happy . . . what gave him pleasure.
Sex. Hot, steamy sex was the answer that sprang unbidden into her mind. An answer that took her fertile imagination on a wild ride as she pictured Alex’s leanly muscled body covered in a sheen of sweat. He was moving in sensual concert, hips flexing to a driving beat as his broad hands stroked and caressed freckled limbs. . . .
Oh, God! Panic-stricken, she reined in her shockingly vivid and, more important, appallingly inappropriate imaginings.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when Alex’s hand reached out and grazed her cheek. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Something in your eye?”
Gen realized she’d been blinking, those erotic images burned into her retinas. It would be beyond mortifying if he guessed the true nature of her problem—one in which he’d had a starring role. “Yes, a speck of dust from the window,” she lied, taking a hasty step backward. She squeezed her eyes shut. “There, all better,” she managed with a bright smile.
“Thanks for letting me see this,” he said, handing the portrait of Grace Miller back to her. “I’d like to buy it when it’s finished.”
Gen’s shoulders relaxed at the turn of conversation. Art she could handle. “Sorry, it’s not for sale. I’m giving the drawing as a present to your aunt, as a token of thanks for her generosity. Which reminds me, Mrs. Miller suggested I talk to you about this TLM Fund. You know, she said the most fascinating thing . . . that you are the fund. Mind giving me a little background information?” she asked sweetly, her eyebrows raised in open challenge.
Alex stiffened.
Ooh, but it did feel good to turn the tables on him. That was surely the reason for the keen sense of anticipation inside her, Gen told herself, not because she felt a growing fascination for this incredibly handsome and enigmatic man.
“That’s what my aunt told you?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding. She walked back to the futon, dropping onto it. Leaning back against its frame, she stretched her legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “So tell me, how does one become a fund?”
Alex didn’t reply immediately. Damn, he wished his aunt had been more circumspect about his involvement in the TLM Fund. No way was he going to explain to Gen why TLM had come into existence, that he’d created it in honor of Tom and Lisa, his deceased brother and sister-in-law.
Although Alex knew he wanted Gen, what he didn’t want was her pity. Nor was he about to let anyone probe the painful memories that still haunted him. With a careless shrug, he said, “It’s not a big deal. I made some money and put it in a fund.”
She gave him a long look. “How’d you make it?”
“Initially? I traded. Then it was just a matter of adding to the original profits. I was lucky and made some good investments.”
He made it sound ridiculously simple, Gen thought, as if netting what had to be millions was as easy as dropping pennies into a piggy bank. She didn’t believe him for a second. Nor did she think his attitude was very common. She’d bet the majority of financier types would be braying about the fortune they’d made. “So you were into trading, huh? Isn’t that interesting. I’ve done some trading myself.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Yup. I was a regular shark when it came to baseball cards. I still remember the day I suckered Nolan into giving up his Ted Williams for a Pete Rose. My finest moment.”
“You’re right,” he said, grinning back at her. “That shows true killer instincts.”
“Yeah, I know.” She raised her hand to cover an exaggerated yawn. “I probably could have made some major bucks if I’d stuck with it. But really, I’d rather make art.” Then, without skipping a beat she said, “So tell me, how come you’re donating a hospital wing in Boston when you have no connection to the city?”
Perhaps it was because she’d posed the question out of left field, so to speak, that she was able to catch the sudden shadow that crossed his face, dimming the brilliance of his eyes. Gen felt the depth of Alex’s pain like a visceral blow.
“Someone I once knew was born there,” he said quietly.
She opened her mouth, but before she could whisper some woefully inadequate apology, the telephone rang.
The answering machine was on, as Gen routinely screened her calls when she was working. In a family of fourteen, it was an essential measure. Otherwise it would be impossible to get even a lick of paint on canvas.
She instantly recognized her mother’s voice, her rapid delivery too. Tansy Monaghan hated getting cut off, so her messages were always spoken in a hurried rush, a race against the machine. “It’s me, darling. I just wanted to tell you that the box with Bridget’s present arrived this morning. I shook it lightly. Nothing rattling so I don’t think the jars got broken. I can’t wait to see them. I know she’ll love them. We’ll miss you this Saturday, sweetie. I’ll call and tell you how it went. That’s all for now, darling—oh, don’t forget to eat. You’re far too thin. We love you. ’Bye.”
The tape clicked off and Gen lowered her gaze, studying her bare toes intently. But not before Alex said mildly, “That’s an interesting shade of red.”
“Excuse me?” It would have been nice if he’d pretended not to notice her embarrassment.
“Your face.” He grinned. Seeming unfazed by her glare, he continued. “What is it you’re missing, a party? Bridget’s the chef, right?”
“I’m disappointed. You know my family so well. How could you forget Bridget’s turning thirty this year?”
Ignoring her sarcasm, he said, “So why aren’t you celebrating with your family?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because I’m in eastern Long Island and they’re in Somerville, Massachusetts. Which is about a six-hour car ride that I’m not sure Hugo the Yugo can make. And I can’t see hitchhiking with Murphy being hugely successful, either. Bizarrely, Amtrak has a no-wolfhound policy.”
“Ever hear of a plane? You could go and come back in the same day, and leave Murphy here.”
“Ever hear of flat broke? No, I didn’t think so,” she said scathingly. “Come on, Murphy, it’s time for our walk.” And she brushed past him without a second glance.
Her lips had been trembling, Alex thought dully. God, what an ass he’d been. While he refused to feel guilty for asking Sam to investigate Gen and her family’s background, firm in his conviction that his aunt was far too trusting when it came to opening her heart and her home, Alex hated the fact that now he’d hurt Gen with his arrogant assumptions.
He should have guessed that her finances were tight; it was far too soon for her to have received the check for the sale of Day One. Yet even when the check cleared, someone used to living within Gen’s kind of budget, dependent on the sale of her art, didn’t simply hop on an airplane to attend a birthday party . . . exactly what he’d cockily suggested she do.
Alex didn’t like what that said about him. Above all, he didn’t like what that made him in her eyes.
By the time Gen finished her walk, her usual buoyant sense of humor had been restored. The episode in the studio between Alex and her had merely brought into sharp relief how different two people’s lives and worlds could be. Alex Miller’s contained nothing that she coveted. Gen loved her life exactly the way it was, devoted to her art, to her calling.
Nevertheless she thought it best to avoid him as much as possible. There were a few too many things she liked about
him and that piqued her interest. There was his philanthropy—mysterious though he was about it—his dry wit, and his obvious affection for his aunt.
But Gen was honest enough to admit that wasn’t the real reason behind her decision. It was the powerful sensual thrill that coursed through her whenever Alex was near that troubled her most, and made her as wary as a wild animal scenting danger. She didn’t understand her reaction to him. She’d never felt this way toward anyone else—not even Jiri, who knew her so well, and who shared so many of the same dreams and ambitions as she.
So while Gen could truthfully say that she coveted nothing that Alex possessed, she was increasingly and distressingly aware that what she desired was Alex himself.
A part of her longed to explore this heady attraction, yet she knew that the sensible part of herself would prevail. Like the lines to the pop song, her motto would have to be, “I do not want what I cannot have.”
Perhaps that would help control her craving the touch of another woman’s man.
As Gen washed the sand from her bare feet with the garden hose, the cold water turning her skin a bright red, she wondered about Alex’s relationship with Sydney Raines. Did they spend their weekends together? Would Sydney be coming out this weekend? She found herself wishing that Alex’s lover might materialize soon. Sydney’s presence would force Gen to face reality: Alex was most definitely spoken for.
It was a truth that slipped all too easily from Gen’s mind.
Where had Murphy wandered off?
Gen had been preparing dinner in the kitchen. A chicken curry simmered on the stove next to a sauce-pan full of fluffed basmati rice. Sautéed green beans with toasted almonds lined a warming dish, and Gen had bought gingersnaps to go with the passion-fruit sorbet Mrs. Miller adored. Murphy, who usually positioned himself in a prime spot where he could catch the bits of raw vegetables Gen tossed him, had vanished. She glanced around the terra-cotta-tiled kitchen and felt a horrible flutter of panic, like a mother who’s lost her child.
