by Laura Moore
“The ribbon’s almost as big as her,” Gen remarked with a smile. Cassie Miller, her wide grin exposing several missing teeth, was holding the ribbon high in the air so it wouldn’t trail on the ground. A little dapple-gray pony with thick braids stood next to her, looking sleepy.
“She was the short-stirrup champion, I believe. Oh, here’s another one of Tom and Alex. This must have been the year they were the junior-doubles champions at the tennis club here. Those two were so close— none of that rivalry and resentment you often find in brothers. Alex idolized Tom.”
“How old was Alex here?” she asked, staring at the picture of him, a renaissance angel of a boy with blond, wildly curly hair.
“I think about eleven. Oh, and this was taken a couple of years later, when the boys were in their teens.”
Alex was on the beach, the Miller house in the background, jumping to catch a Frisbee in midair. He must have driven the girls crazy, Gen thought to herself, adding, Well, that hasn’t changed much. She wondered, though, if Alex ever showed that joyful smile to anyone now. Sydney, when he’s alone with her, holding her in his arms and making love to her, an insidious voice whispered in her head. Disgusted with her ridiculous obsession about Alex and his girlfriend, she thrust the thought aside.
Luckily, Mrs. Miller had turned to a new page. Alex’s sister, Cassie, was decked out in a pale pink prom gown. She was hugging her father, whose hair was now threaded with silver. “Mary died shortly after this picture was taken,” Mrs. Miller quietly informed her. “Jack was devastated when she was diagnosed with cancer. The disease spread so fast that she was gone from us in a matter of weeks. Then death took my Alexander from me. So many, many deaths in this family,” she murmured sadly. With a sigh she moved on to the next page. “Oh, here’s Tom and Lisa on their wedding day.”
Looking at the photograph, Gen recognized it as the same one that had been in Alex’s office. Another photograph showed the couple outside the church.
“Mrs. Miller, isn’t that Concord, Massachusetts?” Gen had visited the colonial town too often not to recognize it.
“Yes,” Mrs. Miller replied. “Lisa’s family was from Boston, but they’d recently bought and restored an eighteenth-century farmhouse in Concord. They decided to hold the wedding there. Of course, Alex was best man at the wedding. He’s giving the toast here.”
A younger, laughing Alex, movie-star material in his severe black cutaway, stood raising his glass of champagne to the bridal couple, who were seated in the center of a long table, surrounded by wedding guests, their glasses also raised.
“They were a beautiful couple,” Mrs. Miller said. “And here they are with their twin babies, Jamie and Sophie. My great-nephew and -niece.”
Perplexed, Gen glanced at Mrs. Miller. “I must be confused. I thought Alex said Cassie was Sophie and Jamie’s mother.”
A shadow crossed Mrs. Miller’s face. “She is. Cassie adopted Sophie and Jamie when Jack, Tom, and Lisa were killed in a car accident almost six years ago.” Her lips trembling with suppressed emotion, Mrs. Miller looked up from the old photographs to stare into the fire.
Gen cursed her extraordinary ability to picture scenes with such vivid clarity. Three members of a family killed at once. How did one get past such a devastating tragedy? “I’m terribly sorry for your family’s loss, Mrs. Miller,” she said quietly.
“Thank you, my dear. Some deaths are especially hard to bear—Tom and Lisa’s particularly. But Cassie’s done a terrific job with the twins. They’re happy, carefree children. All four of them, Cassie and her husband, Caleb, and the twins, will be coming next week to visit.”
“How wonderful for you.”
“Yes.” She smiled. “Genevieve, dear, you don’t mind if we stop here? I’d rather go to sleep thinking of Cassie’s upcoming visit than that sad period in our lives.”
“Of course,” Gen reassured her.
Mrs. Miller closed the album and set it on the coffee table. “Now,” she said briskly. “Tell me how your work is coming along while I finish my grappa. How is my portrait?”
“It’s taking shape nicely,” Gen said, more than willing to follow the older woman’s lead. “I think you’ll be pleased with it. A few more breakfasts and I should be finished.”
“I can’t wait to see it.” Grace Miller tipped the balloon glass to her lips. “I think, however, that if I don’t wish to be drawn with horribly unflattering bags beneath my eyes, I should take myself upstairs and get a good night’s sleep. This rain should help nicely.” She stood.
Gen politely rose too. “I’ll shut the windows and turn off the lights before I lock up.”
“Thank you, Genevieve. Good night.”
“Good night, Mrs. Miller.”
Gen listened to the sound of Mrs. Miller’s feet climbing the stairs, heard her muffled tread as she walked down the hallway to her room, the creak of hinges as her bedroom door was opened and then shut. Quiet descended, with only the pop and hiss of the fire to break the silence.
Minutes passed as Gen stared at the fire. But the album, a moving visual history of this family, was there in her peripheral vision. Finally, unable to resist, Gen leaned forward and pulled the album onto her lap, opening it directly to the page on which Mrs. Miller had left off, the one showing Tom and Lisa with their newborn twins. She looked at Tom and Lisa’s eyes, how they shone with happiness and love as they gazed at the two tiny babes sleeping in their arms.
Slowly her fingers lifted the page, turning it, and there, inserted into the protective plastic sheath, was a cream-colored booklet with the words “In Memoriam” engraved on its front. Underneath, Gen read the names Thomas and Lisa Miller and the dates of their births and deaths. They’d been so terribly young, she thought sadly.
Her eyes drifted down the page and her breath caught in a gasp of recognition.
The printer had done an exquisite job designing the roundel. There, in the center of the page, entwined together, as though linked for eternity, were the initials TLM.
Gen stared at those initials, stared until she could no longer see, blinded by her tears.
FOURTEEN
By Thursday afternoon Gen had finally sorted herself out and come to terms with her feelings for Alex. Okay, she had a crush on him. And that was all right. Because after all, how could she not have a crush on a man who was not only gorgeous, sexy, and smart, but who also had a heart filled with pain and sorrowful memories? A man whose heart was in desperate need of healing?
Whenever Gen thought of the loss Alex and his family had suffered, she was humbled. Her family was huge and yet it had been spared any comparable tragedy. She could only imagine how devastated she would feel were one of her siblings to die; she could not imagine how shattering it would be to lose three of her family at once.
While she’d come to accept her crush on Alex for what it was—a totally understandable attraction toward an extraordinary man—she knew that she would simply have to vanquish the green-eyed monster that awakened inside her whenever Sydney was near. That shouldn’t be too difficult, Gen reasoned. Now that she understood the motivation behind Alex’s generous donation to the hospital, she’d be busy creating a painting magnificent enough to pay homage to Alex and his family’s spirit.
She was working in the studio when she heard the inimitable roar of Alex’s Aston Martin coming up the drive. At the slamming of the car door, she smiled, not even bothering to stop Murphy as he sprinted outside.
A few minutes later, Alex appeared in the open doorway. Murphy circled about him, tail beating madly as he brushed against Alex’s legs, welcoming him back into the pack.
“Hi,” Gen said as he walked toward her. It was because of what she’d learned about him that he took her breath away, she told herself. All perfectly natural.
“Hi,” he replied, a look of surprise on his face. He paused and cocked his head, regarding her closely. “What’s up? Why the smile?”
Gen waved her hand airily. “Oh, you know the old saw
‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ Hey! Where are you going?”
Alex had turned around, as if heading out the door. He glanced over his shoulder. “I figure I’m on a roll. I’ll see you in about a month or so, Monaghan.” Whistling, he walked out of the studio.
Her laughter bubbled out. She’d definitely missed his wit. She returned to her sketch, humming happily. Putting the finishing touches on her pastel drawing didn’t prevent her from noticing that Alex was making repeated trips to and from his car, Murphy trotting loyally at his heels. Her curiosity winning out, Gen got up and went to stand by the open door. This time when Alex passed in front of the studio, he was carrying his laptop computer and a large file box.
“A bit of homework this weekend?” Gen asked.
Alex stopped walking. He shook his head. “Vacation work,” he corrected. “Cassie and Caleb are leaving the twins here while Cassie competes in some horse shows. So I’m moving my office headquarters to East Hampton.”
The thought of Alex staying at his aunt’s for longer than a weekend visit had Gen’s heart beating faster, her delight far outweighing any other pesky concerns— such as the fact that this undoubtedly meant Sydney would be around more too. Having Alex here would be a golden opportunity to start work on the idea that had taken root in her imagination since she’d looked at Mrs. Miller’s family album.
“That’s good to hear,” she said, nodding. “I need a man.”
Alex nearly dropped both the computer and the box of files.
She needed a man? The words echoed in his stunned brain. Had he imagined them, simply because he wanted her so damn much he was nearly shaking?
He’d spent the last four days in the city unable to get Gen out of his mind. Only to continue the torment by spending his nights in front of Day One, which now hung in his living room. He would stare at it, seeing more and more of Gen in the woman depicted there. And his hunger for her had grown apace.
Seeing the smile playing about her lips had the blood pooling in his groin. Alex only thanked God she hadn’t said, I need you, or he’d have lost it right then and there.
“I’d be happy to oblige in any way,” he managed calmly enough.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she told him, her eyes twinkling with that mischievous light he’d come to recognize. “When you’ve finished moving your headquarters, come on over to the studio. I’ll show you what I want.”
Alex returned twenty minutes later. He’d unpacked and changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, wondering the entire time what Gen had in mind.
“Back so soon?” she said, laying her pastel stick down next to her drawing.
“I confess to being extremely intrigued by the ‘need’ you mentioned,” he said, grinning at the laughter sparkling in her eyes. “Are you working on a new piece?” he asked, pointing to the drawing.
“Oh, just fooling around with some ideas for the wing,” she said casually. Lifting the large sketch pad, she closed its cover, hiding the drawing from his gaze. “But I’m not ready to show them yet.”
He nodded. “I understand.”
“Thanks.” She smiled.
“So is Aunt Grace out somewhere?”
“Well, today it’s the tea for the Guild Hall patrons. Tomorrow it’s the East Hampton Garden Club followed by the Friends of the Bridgehampton Library.” She shook her head. “Your aunt is a remarkable woman. I’d collapse after a week with a schedule like hers.”
“Yeah, she is,” he agreed fondly. “Every year she seems to do more.” Alex paused and fixed his gaze on her lovely, expressive face. “So you need a man?”
The question hung in the air between them. Alex saw Gen’s eyes widen with a flash of sexual awareness. Then she was nodding vigorously. “Absolutely,” she said, the beginnings of a grin playing over her bare and so very delectable-looking lips. “But I promise I won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
He stepped closer. “Oh, I have a pretty broad comfort range. I’m open to almost anything.” Already he was thinking of the countless things he’d like to do to Gen. And as he firmly believed in turnabout, she could do whatever she pleased with his body. “What do you have in mind?” he asked in a voice grown husky.
“I want you to pose for me.”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“That’s right. I need a male model to draw from.”
“You want to draw me?”
“Yes. I need a male figure for my painting and as you’re the only male around, I thought I’d take advantage of your body. As you’re far from hideous, you’ll make a fine study.”
He felt a grin stretch his mouth. Gen was the first woman who’d ever complimented him by telling him he was “far from hideous,” as if he were half a step up from Quasimodo. He was still sorting out how he felt about being asked to pose when she said with a little sigh, “Well, I guess that’s a no. It’s okay, really, Alex. I’ll ask one of the guys at the seafood shop or maybe one of the men from the landscaping company your aunt uses.”
The very idea of Gen asking another man to pose had Alex stiffening in outrage. He could just imagine how they would react to a request like that, from a woman as beautiful as Gen. No way was he going to let that happen. “So do you want me naked?”
Gen’s jaw dropped like that of a hooked fish, and a fiery blush stole over her, from the neckline of her ratty T-shirt all the way up to her hairline.
“Naked?” she repeated, her voice breathless. “No, no, that won’t be necessary,” she assured him hurriedly, only to pause, frowning, as a thought struck her. “Well, maybe in a couple of sittings, you could take off your shirt so I can sketch your torso and back—but the pants definitely stay on.” Her gaze skittered away from his as, impossibly, her blush deepened.
Pleased at how flustered she’d become, he asked solemnly, “Are you sure? That way you could check out everything, ensure all the proportions are right.”
Her gaze collided with his. Seeing the teasing smile on his face, her brows snapped together. “I highly doubt any part of you is as enormous as your ego,” she said in a withering tone.
He gave her a roguish grin. “You’d be surprised.”
“Jeesh.” With an aggrieved sigh she rolled her eyes. “So are you going to do this or not? ’Cause I really need a man—”
“And I’m it,” Alex finished for her.
It was a totally unnerving sensation, Alex realized, to be looked at this closely, with such intensity. Gen’s eyes hardly ever left him as her graphite pencil flew over the paper. Saying she’d wanted to do a study of his hands, she’d seated him on the stool and then had him prop his elbows and forearms on the worktable so his arms wouldn’t get fatigued from holding the pose. From the way her eyes moved, traveling over him, Alex had the impression Gen was taking in more than just his open hands. It felt like she was seeing everything, every pore, every line on his skin, every freckle, and then probing deeper still, as if her gaze could penetrate past his skin to the fibers of his muscles, to the density of his bones . . . to his very soul.
“You twitched again,” she remarked absently. In the quiet of the studio, her pencil made a quick scratching noise as it moved in rapid, short strokes. She must be shading in an area, he thought.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “This modeling stuff is . . .” He searched for the right word.
“Hard? Strange? Weird?”
“All of the above.”
She smiled. “Yeah, I know. Few people realize how difficult it is to maintain even the simplest of poses. Whenever Jiri was in the mood to work from the model, he’d ask me.” A wry grin split her face. “I remember feeling as if my body had turned into a giant pretzel after those sessions. There are people who love modeling, but I’m much happier on this side of the drawing pad.” She flashed him a smile. “You’re doing a great job, though. If you could just hold this position for a few minutes more, I’ll be finished for today. Hands are the most challenging parts of human anatomy to draw. Y
ours are very expressive. Strong and lean. Nicely proportioned.”
Although he was glad she liked his hands—as he intended to have them on her body very soon, touching her everywhere—Alex honed in on her earlier comment. “Jiri’s the artist you lived with, right?” he said. “And you modeled for him? In the nude?”
“Sometimes,” she replied, her hand moving confidently over the paper. “It really depended on what he was working on. Once, for an entire month, I was wrapped in burlap. In the painting it looks like I’m growing out of the earth. It’s in the Tate collection now—probably the only way Genevieve Monaghan will ever hang in the Tate,” she said with a light laugh. “Jiri did several nudes of me too, but those he didn’t sell—No,” she said abruptly. “Don’t move. I need you to keep the fingers open.”
Gen’s sharp command had Alex realizing that his hand had clenched into a fist. And that he very much wanted to slam it into something—no, someone. He forced his fingers to relax, but the tension remained coiled inside him. “So just how close were you and Jiri?”
“Jiri?” She raised her eyes to his and gave a slight shrug. “He was my mentor and friend—is my friend,” she corrected hurriedly.
“Was he your lover, too?” he asked softly.
Her left eyebrow arched mockingly. “Gosh, I’m surprised you have to ask. I’d have thought a background check as thorough as yours would have provided the juicy stuff too.”
It took Alex a fraction of a second to calculate how to get what he wanted. He smiled. “Answer the question, Gen, or you lose the chance to draw this strong and lean and very expressive hand.”
“Lord, you’re like Murphy with a bone. No, that’s not quite the analogy I want. You’re just like a guy. Fixated on sex,” she muttered. “No, we didn’t sleep together. Sex wasn’t important to our relationship. Jiri and I were totally involved in making art,” she informed him coolly, but a slight frown marred her forehead as she studied her drawing.
