Anais had taught him that, only in reverse. His height meant he intimidated people without intending to. His actress wife had shown him how to adjust his posture and his gestures to make his size less overwhelming to others. For a moment, he stayed silent. He had worked so hard to keep Anais away from this place and from Claire. Yet he found he wanted to bring his dead wife out into the open, to see if that would banish the darkness surrounding her. “Anais showed me how to change my body language. Her stage training made her an expert.”
Claire sat silent, her eyes wide and soft. She gave him a tremulous smile, and he was afraid she pitied him. That was another reason he never mentioned Anais’s name. He hated the combination of curiosity and sympathy it brought out in people.
“Why don’t I show you the rest of the house?” he said, closing the almost-empty pizza box and carrying it to the refrigerator. “Not much is finished. Just the living room and master suite.”
“Thank you for trusting me enough to share that,” she said, ignoring his change of subject.
“It was time to stop avoiding the topic.” He felt better too, as though he’d cracked open a window to let light and fresh air waft through. He grabbed two more bottles of Molson from the fridge and opened them, giving one to Claire. “Now let me lure you into my bedroom.”
She stood, reaching up to cup his cheek with her palm as she pressed a gentle kiss against his lips.
He put his hand on the indentation in her back where her T-shirt met her skirt. He couldn’t resist slipping his fingers under the white cotton to feel the warm satin of her skin.
“Beer and a back rub,” she said, breaking the tension, much to his relief, “what could be better?”
He fluttered his fingertips against her rib cage, making her squirm and giggle. He loved to hear the trill of her giggle; it contrasted with the sophisticated facade she wore so comfortably.
She angled her arm to bat at his hand. “Not quite what I had in mind for the back rub,” she said.
“I find a really good massage requires a certain state of undress.”
“Didn’t you want to give me a tour of your house?” she asked.
“You sidetracked me.” It was true. He wanted to slide his hands under her clothes every time he saw her. He craved the feel of her against his skin because she chased away the cold. This time he offered her the crook of his arm. “Let me show you my etchings.”
She snorted and threaded her arm through his elbow to rest her hand on his forearm, tracing the line of his muscle with her index finger. Her feather-light touch sent a bolt of arousal straight to his groin.
“This is the living room,” he somehow managed to say as he almost dragged her through the doorway.
He watched her gaze sweep the room and come to rest on the expanse of glass. The moon had risen while they ate, bathing the softly arching mountain ridges in a cool, silver light.
“Ahhhhh,” she sighed, releasing him and moving closer to the windows almost as though she were sleepwalking. “Much better than etchings.”
He could see her reflection in the glass, overlaid on the view and washed to black and silver just like the mountains. Her expression was rapt and for the first time, he saw her as part of this place, saw that it called to her just as it called to him, no matter how much she denied it.
He stepped up behind her, putting his arms around her and resting his chin lightly on top of her head. “Why do you fight it so hard?”
She relaxed back against him. “I’m not putting up much of a fight.”
“I mean Sanctuary. You love the mountains. You love your sister and her kids. You love horses. Why are you so determined to leave?”
He felt her stiffen. “You must have wanted out pretty badly yourself to go to college at age fifteen.”
“I just ran out of classes to take. The guidance counselor told me I should apply to college, so I did.”
“Did he suggest Harvard to you?”
“It was on the list he gave me.”
“You know what the guidance counselor did when I went to talk to him about studying art history in college?” she asked. “He smiled and handed me information on two-year teaching certificates and a practical nursing program. His other suggestion was secretarial school. My parents thought they were all great ideas.”
“That obviously didn’t stop you.”
“No, it made my future in Sanctuary very clear to me. Then my favorite teacher—the only one who believed I had a future in art—quit the next day.”
“Who was that?”
“Mr. Van Zandt. He taught art and Spanish.”
“I remember him. He was one of the young, cool teachers.”
“He was the first person who spoke the word connoisseurship to me. I fell in love with that word. It seemed miraculous that you could have a career as a connoisseur of art, but I knew that’s what I wanted to be.”
This glimpse of her younger self fascinated him, and he wanted to hear more. “Why did he quit?” he prompted.
Her grimace showed in the window’s reflective surface. “He was forced to leave by a parent who claimed he made homosexual overtures to his son. Mr. Van Zandt wasn’t even gay.”
“So why the accusation?”
“The son wanted to join the art club instead of playing football. Evidently, the kid was pretty stubborn, because his father couldn’t think of any other way to get him to play quarterback, or whatever position it was. And no one in Sanctuary stood up for Mr. Van Zandt. No one.”
“So you lost your one supporter. That was tough.”
“It was a total shock. I walked into his classroom while he was boxing up his last few possessions. He told me to get out of Sanctuary before it destroyed me.”
There were tears in her voice, and he felt her drag in a shuddering breath. He tightened his hold on her and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “I can’t blame him for his bitterness, but he shouldn’t have let it spill over onto you.”
“I never thought of it that way, but I guess he shouldn’t have. All I knew was that the only person who understood my dreams was telling me to leave, or they would be destroyed.” She turned in his arms and looked up at him so he could see the tears start down her cheeks. “I felt utterly alone that day, and that’s when I knew I couldn’t stay in Sanctuary.”
He imagined the teenaged Claire standing in the empty classroom, resolving to find a way out of her small-town life all by herself, and the courage of it took his breath away. He began to understand what Sanctuary represented to her.
“You did it, Claire,” he said. “You proved everyone wrong about you.”
At that, she shifted away from him, and he released her. “Some things worked out; others didn’t,” she said.
He knew she was thinking about her divorce. From his standpoint, divorce looked like a minor glitch, not a major failure.
Her story told, she stepped away from him and turned to scan the rest of the room. “I understand now,” she said.
“You do?” He felt a clutch of panic at what his living room might have given away.
“Why you want the Castillo.” She waved to the blank wall over the sofa. “It would balance the incredible view.”
He nearly sagged with relief. “Now that you know what a great setting it would hang in, will you sell it to me?”
She laughed and shook her head, making her hair ripple around her shoulders. “Nope. I promise to find you something else worthy, though.”
“Problem is, when I get a notion in my mind, it’s hard to shake it loose. I just can’t picture anything else in that spot.”
“What did you tell me the other day? That when you want something, you keep after it.”
“It works nine times out of ten,” he repeated. He took her elbow and led her toward another doorway. “This way’s the master bedroom.”
“Oh my, a fireplace,” she said as she stepped into the high-ceilinged room and spotted the rough-cut stone hearth. “I’ve always wanted one in my bedr
oom. And you have a glorious view from here too.”
“Right now, I prefer the closer view,” he said, letting his gaze skim down her legs to her nearly bare feet. She was wearing dark-pink polish on her toenails.
“Really?” she said, turning and giving him a mock sultry look. She took a sip of her beer and deliberately ran her tongue over her lips.
“How about that back rub?” he said, taking the bottle out of her hand and setting it on the mantel beside his. He scooped up Sprocket and put him outside the door before closing it.
She looked small and shy, standing in the middle of his big bedroom, her arms wrapped around her waist. All he could think about was seeing the curves of her smooth, bare skin contrasting with the patchwork quilt spread over the king-sized bed. She would look beautiful against the golds and greens. For a moment, he wasn’t sure how to approach her, and then she raised her arms and ripped the shirt off over her head.
“There’s nothing I like better than a good back rub,” she said and flung the tee across the room.
Hours later, he lay in bed with a sleeping Claire spooned up against him. The moon’s light glistened on the strands of her dark hair as it fell over her shoulder. Her arm was draped over his chest in a graceful arc. He picked up a swath of her hair and brushed it over his lips, savoring the sweet scent of citrus wafting up from it. She’d told him she’d used her niece’s orange-fizz shampoo. He inhaled again and smiled.
It felt good to be awake because he wanted to be, not because he couldn’t sleep. He could feel Claire’s soft breath ruffle across his skin, her heartbeat against his ribs.
His smile faded as he considered whether he kept seducing her just to fend off his nightmares. No, that couldn’t be true, because there were other women who had been willing to keep him company in his bed. None of them had tempted him.
It wasn’t until he saw Claire step out from behind Sharon that he began to want something again. Why? Why did Claire do that? The first answer he had come to dug cold, sharp claws into his mind: Claire reminded him of Anais in some dark, unspeakable way.
But there was no darkness in Claire; he could see that now. What she had was the strength to help him fight his way out of Anais’s shadow. As he wrapped himself in the warmth of Claire’s presence, he almost believed his past could be banished and he could love her with a whole heart. Almost.
The next morning, Tim again woke her by waving a fragrant mug of coffee under her nose. Dressed in a pair of plaid cotton pajama pants, he sat on the bed, kissed her, and offered her whatever she wanted for breakfast, but the darkness was back in his eyes. He kept looking at her as though she might grow fangs and bite him, and not in a sexy way.
“Tim, what is it?” she asked, putting her hand on his arm. She tried a weak joke. “Did I call you by the wrong name in the throes of passion?”
She saw him think about brushing the real question aside, and then he dropped his head, staring down into his coffee. “No, you’re pretty good with names,” he said. He combed his fingers through his hair. “I reckon I’m just unsettled by how fast we’ve gotten close.”
Claire pushed herself upright against the pillows. Last night, he had spoken Anais’s name to her for the first time. A weird jumble of feelings—shock, sympathy, a strange gratification—had held her silent for too long, and the moment had passed. Maybe he wanted or needed to talk about his wife, but couldn’t find a way to bring it up again.
“I don’t think I responded very well last night when you mentioned your wife’s name,” she said, wishing he would look up. “I mean, I know what happened with her—”
“No one knows what happened with my wife.”
“All right, I know the bare facts of what happened. I can only imagine what you suffered—are suffering. I’d like to help.”
“That’s a real nice offer, but I don’t think I should take you up on it,” he said, standing up while keeping his back to her. He towered above her, and she could see the tension knotting the muscles of his shoulders. After a silence, he looked back at her and said, “You have helped me. It’s easier to think about her now.”
“Maybe you should talk to Willow. She’s good at keeping secrets, and very sympathetic.” Claire knew this might be her only chance to discuss the topic, so she decided to try every angle she could think of.
“As much as I respect Sharon’s views on the subject, I’m not going to spill my guts to a horse.”
“Maybe Willow isn’t your whisper horse. Maybe you just haven’t met the right one yet.”
He turned then, his face a mask of exasperation. “Claire, a horse isn’t going to change anything.”
“I know that.” She wasn’t going to let his skepticism stop her. “It’s what you say to the horse that changes you. Putting your situation into words gives you a new perspective.”
“Words are meaningless. Actions tell you what you need to know.”
She gasped as she began to comprehend how deep his pain must run. How would she feel about herself if Milo had committed suicide rather than divorcing her? “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t really understand until just now.”
“Then you’ll understand why I don’t think Willow will be of much assistance.” He stalked over to the window and took a swallow of coffee.
She slipped off the bed and padded up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her cheek against the warm, bare skin of his back. She felt him breathe in sharply.
“Claire, when you touch me, I don’t know what helps or doesn’t help.”
“It has to help,” she said, thinking of herself and how cherished she felt when she was with him. “What could feel better than this?”
“I can think of several things,” he said, putting his mug on the windowsill to turn in her embrace. He tipped her chin up for a long, coffee-flavored kiss. “We did a few of them last night.”
With a sense of unease, she let him put an end to the discussion. She could almost feel the shadow of his dead wife falling between them. When he slid his free hand down to cup her bottom, she put her hands on his chest and pushed. “Easy, buster! I have to get to Holly’s house in less than an hour.”
“We can manage that,” he said, hooking his hand under her knee and pulling it high up on his thigh while bending so his erection rubbed right between her legs.
That was all it took to awaken the craving to have him inside her. She yanked open the fly of his pajama pants and freed his cock. He wrapped her other leg around his waist and carried her over to the bedside table. Dropping her feet to the floor, he pulled a condom from the drawer and rolled it on. She hitched one leg up on his thigh so he could drive himself up and inside her. She flexed her hips as his fingers stroked her in a matching rhythm, and an orgasm slammed into both of them almost simultaneously.
“We may have set a new world record,” she gasped as he slipped out of her, causing an aftershock to shudder through her body.
He held her tight against him as their breathing slowed to a normal rate. “You’re right about one thing. Nothing feels better than this.”
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Claire sat at the glass-topped desk in the main room of the gallery. It was a typical slow Tuesday, so she had plenty of time to think.
Her relationship with Holly had reached a milestone this morning: her sister had allowed Claire to drive the girls to school for the first time, saying she would stay home and rest so she could pick them up at the end of the day.
Frank remained a touchy subject. Claire recommended that Holly bring Paul up-to-date on yesterday’s events. She knew restraining orders weren’t worth much, but she thought it would be good to have one in place. However, Holly vetoed that, saying she didn’t want to provoke Frank further.
Claire let that go, since the police seemed pretty willing to offer Holly protection even without a legal document. In fact, Robbie McGraw had been sitting in an unmarked car parked two houses down when Claire drove up in the morning. She had waved and made a mental not
e to bring muffins the next morning.
She thought through all of those issues several times, trying to ward off contemplation of her relationship with Tim. She got up to straighten one of the Len Boggs paintings, and wiped down a black metal sculpture that showed every dust mote. She sat back down and sorted through a pile of junk mail Davis had left on the desk.
Then she folded her hands on the cold glass and gave in to Tim, staring at the Annie Nelson photo directly across from her without seeing anything in it.
Their relationship felt like a dance. A tense, steamy tango, full of advances and retreats. She was having a hard time keeping up with the choreography.
Had she pushed too hard by bringing up his dead wife a second time? As they grew more and more intimate, it seemed impossible not to. Yet Tim had been politely withdrawn as he drove her to the veterinary hospital this morning to pick up her car. It was a strange contrast to the explosiveness of their lovemaking.
No, it was sex, not lovemaking. She couldn’t claim to love Tim, although sometimes she felt on the verge of it. He was a spectacular lover, a rock in a crisis, and a knowledgeable collector of art. It was actually amazing she wasn’t in love with him.
Maybe the push-pull was deliberate on his part. When he felt she was getting too emotionally entangled, he pushed her away. In a way, he was doing her a favor. They both knew she was leaving in the not-too-distant future. Keeping their relationship uncertain would minimize the pain of parting.
“Who am I kidding?” Claire moaned as she contemplated returning to her empty apartment in New York. “I’ll miss him enormously.” She allowed herself a giggle at her choice of words. “Especially since he’s so enormous.”
“Care to share the joke?”
Claire jerked around to see Paul walking toward her as the gallery’s front door swung closed behind him. “Oh, you startled me!”
“Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity,” he said, dropping into the chrome-and-leather chair beside the desk. He stretched out his long legs and stuck his hands in his pockets.
Take Me Home Page 19
