Either way, instinct kicked in and she let out the air she’d been holding in her lungs. Took another slow, deep breath. It was like breathing in pure energy.
Delicious heat flowed through her.
Filled her.
Seeped into her bones.
Sank deeper, warming her pelvis.
Her core.
And for that moment the breath was inside her, she felt alive and wholly connected to herself.
Then, just like that, his hand slipped out of hers, or maybe her hand slipped out of his. Either way, the handshake ended, and with it that sense of self that had been so elusive for most of the past year.
“Your coat.”
“What about it?” she asked, blinking up at him.
His lips twitched and he stepped back a pace. “Can I help you take it off?”
She was close enough to count the crow’s feet framing his eyes as he tried not to smile. But the deep-blue orbs held definite signs of friendly amusement. His gaze trapped her, pulling her deeper into a private joke she hadn’t even known they were sharing.
“No, I can manage, thank you,” she said and side-stepped away—from the wall, from him—on the pretext of taking another look around the room.
“I call it Unfinished Space, what do you think?”
He was right behind her—his voice low and teasing, his breath warm against her ear. She laughed, which she guessed was his intention, and shrugged out of her jacket. His fingers skimmed across her shoulder blades as he took hold of the collar and eased it off her arms. She shivered, though not the least bit chilled.
“Thanks,” she said, aiming for studied casualness, and handed him her scarf and purse since he seemed intent on performing his duties as host. “And I think you need some shelves.
“Plywood would work well if you wanted deep shelves. If you didn’t, a nice pine would complement the flooring.”
He laughed and set her coat and scarf on top of a nearby stack of boxes. “You know your way around—”
“Power tools,” she said, that defensive edge of sarcasm creeping into her voice.
Whoa, where did that come from?
She’d been enjoying herself. Flirting.
My God, she’d been flirting!
She hadn’t flirted since—God, since she’d met her ex in college. The marriage had ended amicably three years ago then the cancer had invaded.
Afterward, she’d lost touch with her body’s signals. Yet it seemed her body still knew what to do. First that weird breathing energy thing and now—
She glanced toward Evan, her heart hammering in confusion and wonderment. Feeling more like a teen than a fifty-something-year-old woman with decades of experience behind her.
Only she didn’t. Have decades of this kind of experience at all.
And damn, damn, damn. He’d put some space between them.
“Sorry, I—”
“Cass.” His voice was still warm, but he kept his distance and shoved his hands in his pockets.
Her gaze strayed down his bare arms to the edge of the denim. This time she didn’t wonder. She understood exactly what he was saying because there was a definite bulge in his jeans. And the heat that washed across her skin had nothing to do with menopausal hormones gone awry.
“I like what I see,” he said.
So do I.
“It’s called good tailoring.”
He chuckled. “Maybe, let’s see, shall we? There’s a robe in the washroom you can change into.”
“Where’s this going?” she asked, because a robe meant getting naked and getting naked meant…
Well, that was the issue. She wasn’t certain what getting naked meant. Hadn’t had any concrete expectations when she’d walked into this room. Hadn’t expected the intense attraction that had flared between herself and this man.
“Wherever you want this to go.”
Which was no answer at all.
“So this is totally my show. I can walk out—”
“Or stay and get painted,” he said.
The challenge brought her up short. But instead of intimidating her, the conversation exhilarated her. Made her feel alive.
“That doesn’t seem likely in a place you’re calling Unfinished Space.”
“I have paint,” he said and shrugged. “And I admit I’m curious. I’d like to see where this goes.”
“So you’re in charge.”
A smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t think either of us is in charge, do you? Cass, why did you come by this afternoon?”
Because Synithia had handed her an address.
Because he’d countered each of her objections with a challenge.
Because too many things had changed in her life recently. She’d changed. And she needed to find out who she now was.
“Because I was curious.”
“Good. So be curious.”
Chapter Two
The lights in the room dimmed one by one, until only the track lights above her remained on, leaving Cass standing in a pool of light. The guitar solo of a classic rock song vibrated through the air. Through her body. It was funny to think that the music she grew up listening to was now called classic.
Did that mean that she was?
Despite the claim that she was curious, she’d felt more confident when she’d been conversing with Evan. She’d definitely been more confident with her clothes on. Reduced to wearing one garment, she wasn’t entirely comfortable standing on a piece of cloth, center stage in the light.
On display.
Cass shifted and her bare feet sank farther into the folds of the drop cloth. The robe was short—a little higher than mid-thigh. The super-soft, black fabric caressed her skin, slightly abrading her nipples whenever she moved.
She closed her eyes, blocking out her surroundings. Took a deep breath, hoping to center herself. But she didn’t fool herself in the least. Her experience was pretty classic vanilla.
“Don’t close your eyes,” Evan said, placing a hand on her shoulder.
She jumped.
His chuckle tickled her ear. His fingers trailed a path across her shoulder blades, slipped over the edge of the robe and came to rest on the pulse point pounding at her collarbone. She opened her eyes. Faced his intense blue ones.
“You need to relax. Pay attention to the moment,” he smiled. “Cass as in—”
“Mama,” she said before he made the mistake of calling her Cassandra.
He raised an eyebrow.
She shrugged and fought to hold on to a sense of equilibrium. She could do this. After all, she’d been telling the story her entire life.
“My father was a musician. According to family legend, he and my mother first heard Cass Elliot singing in New York folk clubs a few years before she joined The Mamas and the Papas.”
The tip of one finger ran the length of her collarbone, dipping down and then up the other side.
“That’s quite a tribute.”
She licked her lips, aware that Evan tracked the movement. His eyes flared with—lust—an emotion that hadn’t been part of her equation for a long time. Yet one touch from him seemed to ignite her. Spark a connection between them. Maybe that’s why she felt comfortable finishing the story.
“Dad was devastated when she died so young,” she said, her voice sounding rough. Distracted. “It also took him awhile to reconcile to the fact that his only daughter didn’t live up to the name and inherit his musical talent.”
“It’s nice your father had expectations,” Evan said.
Cass opened her mouth. Not willing to let such a tantalizingly brief yet personal comment pass without exploring it. Instead she whimpered because his finger took a detour down between her breasts. Then his fingers curled around one end of the sash and tugged, pulling the bow loose.
Parting the edges.
Leaving her body exposed.
Well, mostly.
“Much better,” he said and took a little stroll all the way around her.<
br />
“What are you doing?”
He looked her up and down with a critical eye.
“Assessing what I can see of my new canvas,” he said as he ended up behind her.
“Oh.”
She started to turn her head, to ask a question, but stopped and stiffened when his left arm snaked around her torso. His heat immediately surrounded her. His hand slid between the folds of the fabric. And his fingers brushed against her skin, sending tendrils of warmth meandering across her body. Then he pulled her snug against him.
“Careful,” she said, her voice laced with panic.
He froze. Loosened his grip, but didn’t let go.
“Talk to me, Cass.”
He didn’t ask what’s wrong? but she heard the words in his tone. So she took a self-inventory. The discovery startled her. The tomboy inside her who loved power tools wanted to be held. Craved it, actually. It had been a long time since a man had held her against his muscular frame.
She took a deep breath and consciously relaxed against him, trusting that he’d hold her. His body was strong and aroused. His erection, now jammed against her buttocks, spoke to her feminine power.
If she believed it was still there inside her, because for a while now she’d had her doubts.
“Cass, what’s going on? Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head. But then his thumb brushed against her stomach. And just like that, the uncertainty resurfaced.
What did she tell him?
That she still felt protective of her abdomen. That the scars from the cancer surgery, even if they’d faded into discolored splotches on her skin, weren’t sexy.
The straightforward truth was a mood killer.
And yet, wasn’t that really why she was here? To face the straightforward truth and find out who she now was.
“I had two abdominal surgeries nine months ago. Cancer.”
“Ah Cass,” he said and brushed a kiss against her hair. “I’m so damn sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m going to be okay.” And this time she almost believed herself.
“You mean…”
“The cancer is gone.” Along with half my insides, or at least that’s what it feels like.
His fingers brushed as lightly as a butterfly’s wings against her abdomen.
“But at a cost,” he said and nuzzled her neck. “You lost an important part of yourself.”
The way he said the last bit made her think that maybe he understood. But then she didn’t quite understand it herself.
She turned her head. Smiled, because what she was about to say, she genuinely meant. Even though she kept focusing on those damn missing insides.
“Been there. Done that. Enjoyed it immensely. I didn’t need those parts anymore.”
He jerked against her and her smile deepened. For once in this relationship, she’d caught him off-guard.
“You have a—”
“Son. He’s in grad school doing his MBA. You?”
“A daughter. She’s the reason I came to this city. Rented this place. She moved to Toronto last September to start university. Now she’s found a job here for the summer.”
“So you and her mother are—”
He sighed. “Cass, you’re standing practically naked in my arms. Personally, I’m voting for totally naked. In the next ten seconds would be too long a wait.”
She laughed.
“Good to know,” he said.
“What?”
“Humor. Changes the topic and gets you to relax. Now,” he said and reached up and grabbed the collar of her robe. “How about we ditch this?”
“Evan.”
“Cass,” he said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not getting any younger.”
She laughed again. “Since I’m pretty sure I have a few years on you, I’m not sure if that’s a relevant argument.”
He grinned. “Point. Look, the only person in my life right now is an exceedingly stubborn older woman who won’t get naked for me. And I’m assuming that’s just a matter of time, because I’m the only man in her life right now too. Satisfied?”
She shook her head.
He twisted her around to face him and then dipped his forehead until it rested against hers. “You’re killing me here. You know that, right?”
“Good to know.”
He lifted his head. “What?”
“One shake of my head gives me a whole lot of leverage.”
He chuckled. “What are you trying to leverage?”
“One of us has too many clothes on.”
“That would be you,” he said.
Only he was the one to step back, releasing his hold on her, and in one fluid move pulled his T-shirt over his head and threw it into the shadows. His chest was covered in a light dusting of hair, a mix of dark and gray, that contrasted sharply with his bald head.
Definitely very nice lines.
And she reached out, the impulse to touch him uncontrollable.
But he grabbed her wrist, blocking the attempt.
“Cass. I lied.”
“What?”
The uncertainty returned like a wave relentlessly battering against a sandy shore and she tried to twist away.
“Hey, listen,” he said, gently tugging her a little closer. “I lied because I’m the artist. You’re my canvas. And that means that right now, I am the one in charge.”
She stopped struggling, but she couldn’t seem to stop trembling. This was it. The moment of straightforward truth and it scared her.
Scared and exhilarated her.
Made her feel alive.
“We definitely need to work on the concept of you relaxing,” he said.
She laughed and gave her head a little shake. At this precise moment, combining the words “relax” and “disrobe” seemed to be an oxymoron.
He turned her back around and settled his hands on her shoulder. “Ready?”
She shrugged and he moved his hands in time to let the plush fabric fall and pool at her feet.
“Beautiful.” He ran the back of his hand up the length of her spine.
It took everything in her not to move.
To let him look. And touch.
It took everything not to argue.
To ignore the inner critic that all women her age contended with.
His hands settled on her shoulders.
“Do you feel beautiful, Cass?” he asked as if he’d heard her thoughts.
She shook her head. Shrugged. The best she could admit was that she didn’t feel unbeautiful.
He stepped forward until bare skin only just touched bare skin. His chest hairs tickled her back, but this time she was more comfortable, more sure and settled against him. His hands glided down her arm and up her sides. Then they slid around and cupped her breasts. His thumbs brushed rhythmically along the soft curve of skin and over her taut nipples.
She moaned and stumbled against him. He took advantage of her momentary weakness to shuffle them in a quarter turn.
“Full, soft,” he murmured in her ear. “Beautiful. Do you see that, Cass? Do you see beautiful when I touch you here?
“Look.”
She looked. They stood in front of the mirrors she’d seen earlier. And what she saw startled her. Instead of the flaws, the scars, the multitude of imperfections, what gazed back at her from the mirror was the feminine framed by the contrasting masculine.
What she saw was something that could be beautiful.
“Yes,” she whispered into the silence.
“Good, because now we’re going to get our hands dirty.”
“Finger paints?”
Within seconds of his announcement, Evan had retreated to the edge of the drop cloth where he’d set out his paint supplies, a bowl of water and a few rag cloths. Cass had admired the array of colors and containers. But now he stood behind her, surrounding her with his incredible warmth, a simple tube of finger paint uncapped and ready to squirt on her skin.
“It’s washable,” he sa
id.
“That’s not the point.”
“Then I’d like to know what the hell the point is?”
He didn’t sound annoyed so much as exasperated. But his reflection in the mirror told a different story. The crow’s feet were visible again and his eyes sparked with undisguised pleasure. He was enjoying the repartee between them as much as she was.
“Finger paints are for kids.”
Her great-niece would be all over a project that involved finger painting and getting messy.
“If you’re expecting a spiel about us being kids at heart, forget it. Been there. Done that.”
She laughed. “Okay, no spiel. It’s just, I guess I was imagining—”
To find herself in a second skin. A new skin.
“A really cool paint job,” she finally said. “Like I saw on Danielle.”
“Who’s Danielle?”
“The waitress Synithia hired to serve champagne. She was dressed in her birthday suit and a painted tux.”
He nuzzled her neck. “You’re forgetting the rules.”
“Rules?”
“I’m the artist,” he whispered in her ear. “That means I’m in charge. And, for the record, I only paint cool.”
She laughed again. “Okay,” she said softly.
Because she realized that at some point. At this point, she had to let go. Surrender. And trust the artist and the process.
“One final rule. The canvas isn’t allowed to talk back,” he said and squirted a fat blob of yellow paint onto her belly.
“That’s cold!”
She jumped. Or rather she tried to, but he held her fast.
“Cass.” His voice held a note of warning.
“For the record, I’m not talking back. I’m making an observation.”
“Hush now,” he said. “Time to get to work.”
And he placed her hands in the paint and covered them with his own.
For the next several minutes, all they seemed to do was to draw tight concentric circles on her stomach. But then the rhythmic movement began to seduce her and she let her thoughts wander.
Slowly, tentatively, she began to connect with the sensations bombarding her body.
The squish of the paint between her fingers.
The slide of it across her skin.
The strength of his hands on hers.
Body Art Page 2
