by Laura Moore
“Wrong answer,” he said flatly. “You should have told him you’d fallen madly in love with me and that there was no damned way you were going to Prague. That there was no damned way I’d let you go,” he added fiercely.
His words were so close to what she’d said to Jiri, to what she hoped in her heart, that Gen gaped in stunned surprise. “Is that right?” she asked, trying to sound cool as her heart leapt wildly inside her.
“Damn right,” he replied. Without warning, he flipped her over so she lay pinned beneath his solid, muscular length. His hands skimmed up from her waist to cup her breasts possessively. She was sure he could feel her heart racing against his palm as he fondled her, his fingers teasing the tight, aching buds of her nipples. With a soft moan, she arched her back. His eyes, inches away, burned like blue flames as he said, “Next time Jiri asks, tell him I’ll lend the painting. But I get the flesh-and-blood woman. You are mine, Gen.”
And then he set out to prove it all over again.
TWENTY-SIX
Alex and Gen spent the week indulging in the soli-tude Mrs. Miller’s departure provided. They had the house to themselves. They had all the company they desired—each other. They wanted for nothing more. The days were loosely structured, and while the patterns shifted, the elements remained the same: they ate, they worked, they slept, and they loved. It was a perfect week and Gen had never been happier.
It was a week of learning, of joyful discovery.
With each day spent laughing and sharing, with each night spent lying in the magic circle of Alex’s embrace, Gen grew more certain of Alex’s love for her. In turn, her faith and confidence in her love for Alex gave Gen the strength to conquer the last remaining demons of doubt. Gen banished the specter of Sydney and the pall she’d cast over their relationship.
Emboldened and energized by her newfound courage, Gen rushed to finish the painting for the hospital. She needed to show Alex what he meant to her, and in Gen’s mind, her art spoke more expressively what she felt than any hackneyed or clichéd words of love. Whenever Alex was in the house, teleconferencing with his partners as they fine-tuned the business strategy for I.Com, the software company they were negotiating with, Gen would remove the cotton spread that still hung over the painting. She would work, pouring the love that welled inside onto the canvas.
From the curious looks Alex gave her after these stolen sessions Gen knew that he’d guessed her secret activity. Yet as always he respected her artistic wishes and refrained from asking to see how the painting was progressing; his restraint filled her with gratitude.
At last on Friday, a day when the sky was cloudless and the sunlight streamed in through the windows, Gen stepped back from the canvas and laid her brush down on the palette. Silently she contemplated the finished scene, imagining how it would look in the soaring space of the hospital wing.
Her stomach fluttering with nerves, she went in search of Alex.
He was in the study, seated behind the large oak desk, his attention focused on the computer screen before him. From the speakerphone Gen heard the voice of one of his associates. Not wishing to interrupt, she paused outside the doorway and gave herself over to the sheer pleasure of looking at him. Dressed in a white T-shirt that accented the bronze of his tan and the blond lights in his hair, Alex resembled a movie star far more than he did a financial wizard.
Then Alex reached out and pressed the button on the phone’s console. “The restructuring plan sounds airtight, Mike. Cathy, can you fax me everything we’ve discussed? Great. Glenn, if either you or Mike need to get in touch with me over the weekend, I’ll be here. Otherwise we’ll meet at nine Monday morning. Okay, thanks, guys. See you.” Pressing another button, he cut the connection and then stretched, rolling his shoulders. He stopped in midroll, as he caught sight of Gen hovering by the door. The smile that lit his face stole Gen’s breath away.
“Hey there, beautiful,” he said huskily. “Come here.”
Nervous now that the moment had arrived to show him the painting, she stepped hesitantly into the office. She kept her hands behind her back as she approached Alex’s desk, hiding the gauzy silk scarf she’d dug out of her closet.
“Have you finished your work?”
“I’m all yours.” He nodded as boldly his eyes traveled over her body. From their scorching heat she could have been wearing a five-hundred-dollar transparent negligee, rather than a faded olive-green T-shirt and cutoffs.
“I’m glad.” She smiled softly. “I have something I want to show you.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “But you need to close your eyes first.”
Alex’s eyebrow cocked. “This is getting to be a very intriguing habit with you,” he murmured. “One that definitely arouses the, uh, interest.” The deep timbre of his voice told Gen that wasn’t the only thing she’d aroused.
Gen did her best to ignore the quickening of her pulse. Nervous as she was, she wanted Alex to see the painting first. Afterward she could give him her body as well. She brought the scarf out from behind her back and dangled it from her fingertips. “Please, Alex?” she said, wanting the painting to be the first thing he saw when his eyes opened.
Time became suspended as he regarded her, his blue gaze probing. Then, with a smile both tender and amused, he shook his head and obediently closed his eyes.
Slipping around to the back of his chair, Gen wrapped the scarf around his head. Then, tugging a laughing, blindfolded Alex, who slowed their progress considerably by demanding a kiss every few feet, she led him through the house, across the lawn, and into the studio.
Positioning Alex in front of the painting so that when he opened his eyes the entire canvas would be within his field of vision, Gen stepped behind him. He stilled beneath her trembling fingers as she unknotted the scarf.
In a voice that shook with the force of her emotions she whispered, “This is for you, Alex.” She stepped backward, pulling the scarf with her.
Alex had already intuited from the fine tension emanating from Gen that at last she was going to unveil her painting for the hospital wing. With his heart thudding heavily, he slowly opened his eyes. And beheld an image of himself he’d never caught in any mirror, his laughing expression tender and filled with the joy of the moment.
The scene Gen had depicted was instantly recognizable. It was the day when he and the twins had set out to build the biggest sand castle they could. There in the foreground, the castle rose, a tall and fantastic monument to the twins’ unflagging enthusiasm. Sophie and Jamie stood next to Alex’s kneeling self, pointing and exclaiming at their finished creation, pride and happiness shining in their faces.
With an innate sense of what would capture the imagination of the children coming to the hospital, Gen had rendered the castle meticulously. The moat, the high crenellated walls, the towers that stood at each of its corners, the seashells and branches the twins had chosen to decorate the fantastic structure— all the details were there. Even the texture was right, Alex thought in silent awe, wondering what Gen had mixed into the acrylic paint to mimic so perfectly the gritty texture of sand.
He knew that the visitors and patients who entered the hospital wing would stop just to gaze at Gen’s painting. He knew that they would smile, gladdened by the precious beauty of a brilliant summer day in which two golden-haired children and a man shared a special moment together. They would look at the oceanscape Gen had painted for the background and be dazzled by the light that bounced off the incoming waves, their white frothy caps rendered with quick, daring flicks of Gen’s paintbrush. They would gaze at the painting and behold a masterful symphony of colors and textures. And their hearts would be lifted by this vision of beauty, joy, and hope.
But for Alex, Gen’s painting represented an even greater gift.
He turned to her. She’d been watching him, an aching vulnerability in the depths of her lovely eyes. As if she were as delicate as a flower, his hands reached out to cup her face. “You knew about Tom and Lis
a,” he whispered shakily.
“Yes.” Her voice was hushed and solemn. “Your aunt showed me an album.”
His shoulders rose as he drew in a long, ragged breath. “It still hurts, Gen,” he admitted quietly. “Losing my father and Tom and Lisa so senselessly devastated Cassie and me. Tom and Lisa were just starting their lives together—Sophie and Jamie were only babies. Donating the hospital wing was my way of keeping Tom and Lisa’s spirit alive and something I could give to Jamie and Sophie, too. Tom and Lisa would have been wonderful parents, Gen. They’d have loved watching Sophie and Jamie build their sand castles. They would have loved this painting.” His throat tight with emotion, he swallowed, managing only a fierce whisper as he continued. “As for me, I can only say that I love this painting almost as much as I love you—” At Gen’s sudden sob, Alex broke off. “Ah, sweetheart, don’t. Don’t cry,” he pleaded as with infinite gentleness his fingertips caught the tears falling from her eyes.
“I can’t help it. I’m so happy it hurts. I’ve never felt this way before,” she whispered, smiling tremulously through her tears.
“Me neither. I never thought this would happen. You’ve changed my life, Gen.” Wrapping his arms about her, he pulled her close and lowered his mouth, kissing her deeply. Then he was lifting her in his arms and carrying her to the bed and following her down. They made love to each other with hushed whispers and caresses that lingered, drawing broken moans and shattered sighs as their two selves became one.
Sunday arrived and with it the reality of the outside world began to filter into Alex and Gen’s idyllic seclusion, suffusing the remaining hours with a bittersweet poignancy. In the afternoon they went for a walk on the beach. Murphy ran before them, sniffing at the intriguing scents, and in his bid to keep the beach pristine, devouring any picnic remains he happened upon. The hour was late enough that only a few straggling families and couples remained, and even they had begun gathering up their beach towels and folding their umbrellas before making the trek through the sand to their parked cars.
To Alex the sight was a forcible reminder of his own impending return to the city. Unconsciously his hand squeezed Gen’s. “Damn, I wish I didn’t have to go tomorrow. I hate the thought of being away from you. You sure you can’t come with me? You could meet Jiri and this Kucera guy in New York while we negotiate with I.Com. I could duck out of the dinner with them—Glenn and Mike can do the honors—and you and I could go out. La Grenouille, maybe. You’d love the flower arrangements they do there, Gen. We’d have a nice meal, drink some champagne, and then go to my place, where you could have your wicked way with me.”
“My wicked way with you? This from the man who did things to me in his Aston not even the producers of those James Bond movies would dare?”
“Only because they wouldn’t have been able to fit a camera in that tight a space,” he replied with a modest grin that had Gen laughing and poking him in the ribs. For a moment, they tussled in the surf, as carefree as children. Finally, breathless, flushed, and considerably the wetter for her wrestling match with Alex, Gen cried, “Uncle!” Slipping her hand back in his as they continued their stroll, she said, serious at last, “All that sounds lovely. But Alex, I know how hard you’ve worked setting up the I.Com deal. You should definitely go out and celebrate with them and your partners afterward. Besides, I can’t—Jiri must have raved about the paintings I’ve done here, on Long Island. Kucera wants to see them. And Jiri says it’s better to make Kucera come to me, that it’s an important part of the curator-artist courtship dynamic.”
Alex’s jaw tightened. “Funny he should use the term ‘courtship.’ Tell me why he needs to accompany Kucera again?”
Gen cast him a sidelong glance and shook her head. “Because Kucera’s English is a little spotty. Jiri’s going to act as translator. And because he’ll be going back to Prague this week and he wants to say good-bye.”
Good-bye and good riddance, thought Alex, thoroughly sick of hearing Jiri’s name. It was probably for the best that he wasn’t going to be around when the Czech showed up tomorrow, because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to conduct himself in a civilized manner. While he knew it was ridiculous and totally irrational to harbor any further jealousy toward Jiri, he still had an unshakable urge to plant his fist in Novak’s face. And although he wanted Gen in New York with him, having her stay here would allow Alex to keep his surprise for her a complete secret.
Alex had made a private appointment Tuesday morning at Harry Winston, the Fifth Avenue jeweler. The little bit of string he’d used to measure Gen’s ring size while she was fast asleep was tucked inside his wallet. He couldn’t wait to see the look in her eyes when he slipped the engagement ring on her finger. After he’d proposed, that’s when they’d really celebrate. His body hardened at the thought of making love to her, and knowing she was going to be his forever. So when Gen, with a pensive frown on her face, turned to him and asked, “Alex, you’re not really bothered by Jiri coming out tomorrow, are you?” he was able to smile and say, “No, not as long as Jiri restricts this so-called ‘courtship’ to art.”
Not even the heavy rain slashing at the window-panes could dampen Gen’s spirits Tuesday morning. Why care about a little rain when a museum curator had said he’d like four—count ’em, four—of her paintings for a major exhibit next year? How could a few measly drops from heaven steal her euphoria when the man she loved was coming home in a few short hours?
Happily ignoring the staccato beat of the rain drumming down, Gen sat at the kitchen table writing a shopping list for the dinner she was planning. Before leaving on Monday, Alex had mentioned going out to dinner to celebrate her meeting with Tomas Kucera. But Gen much preferred the idea of eating in, tête-à-tête. They didn’t have to go to a fancy restaurant. She’d cook him a meal that would knock his socks off—the rest of his clothing she’d remove herself, she thought, giddy with anticipation.
Her pen poised in midair, she reread the list. Oh, yes, she should buy some more Belgian chocolate for Mrs. Miller’s morning cocoa, as Alex’s aunt was returning home Thursday. Gen smiled, realizing how much she was looking forward to the ritual of preparing Mrs. Miller’s distinctive breakfast tray. Laying down the pen, she was in the midst of pushing back her chair to check and see whether there were enough eggs in the refrigerator when the doorbell rang. Murphy, who’d been dozing underneath the table, awoke barking.
It must be one of Mrs. Miller’s friends coming to pay a call, that or a deliveryman with a package. In either case Murphy would be better off in the kitchen, Gen thought. She closed the swinging door behind her, ignoring his whine of protest.
At the front door, she instinctively peeked through the rectangular glass, but all she could see was a figure huddled against the driving rain. Not very threatening-looking, she decided. Pulling open the door, her welcoming smile died as her mouth fell open in surprise. “Sydney!” she exclaimed.
At Gen’s voice, Sydney lifted her bowed head. Swiping her face with the back of her hand, she said, “Hi, Gen. Is Alex here?”
“No, no, he isn’t,” Gen stammered, staring at her in dismay. Sydney’s face was awash not from the rain but with tears. She looked exhausted, her red-rimmed eyes testimony to hours of crying. Realizing belatedly that she was making her stand in the downpour, Gen said hastily, “Come in,” opening the door wider.
Sydney stepped inside, only to turn and face Gen. She was already talking—indeed, her whole body vibrated with a horrible urgency. “I called Cathy, asking where Alex was. She said he’d be here.”
“Cathy?” Gen echoed blankly.
“Alex’s secretary,” Sydney said impatiently. “I called his office assuming he’d be there. But Cathy told me he was coming out here. I drove all the way in the pouring rain and I really need to speak to him!” she cried, and a violent shiver wracked her body.
Sydney’s patent desperation was beginning to affect Gen, too. A terrible sense of foreboding settled in the pit of her stomach. “I’m a
fraid he had an errand to run before he left. I’m not sure how long it was supposed to take—but I imagine he’s on the road by now. You could try him on his cell.”
“No.” Sydney shook her head. “No, it’s not something I can tell him on the phone. I need to talk to him. With the weather like this, and the traffic ghastly, it’s going to take him hours to get here,” she wailed and then pressed a trembling hand to her lips.
Whatever had happened to Sydney, it was bad, thought Gen. Really bad. She looked even more distraught than she’d been that day on the beach. She looked as if she was about to fall apart completely. Laying a tentative hand on her arm, Gen said, “Sydney, what’s the matter, what’s wrong?”
Perhaps it was the sympathetic touch of another human, perhaps it was the obvious concern in Gen’s voice. But the tenuous control Sydney had over herself crumbled. “I’m pregnant!” she blurted out, promptly dissolving into tears.
The room, the entire world, spun crazily, leaving Gen reeling. Her hand tightened, clutching Sydney’s arm. “Pregnant?” she whispered dazedly.
“Yes. Pregnant. I don’t know how it happened.” Agitated, Sydney began to pace and her words tumbled out, tripping over one another in a chaotic, panicked rush. “I’ve never been so damned terrified—and so incredibly happy at the same time. I keep thinking of us having a baby together and I can’t imagine a better father. He’ll be so patient and generous. But the timing, the timing is terrible. I’m afraid he won’t be ready. I’m not sure I’m ready. But Alex, I think he actually knew, at least on some subconscious level— at the party he told me I was looking so beautiful, that I was glowing. He was like the old Alex—I, I just can’t keep this to myself any longer. I’ve been trying to screw up my courage—that’s why I came here. . . .” Her shoulders shook as she succumbed to tears once more.
