Love Unlocked

by Libby Waterford

  “I should let you go in and unpack,” she said.

  “Do you want to come in? We could order a pizza, put on a movie.” The attempt at normalcy didn’t feel as…abnormal…as he thought it would.

  She shook her head. “I’ve asked enough of you lately. I can’t ask you to keep taking care of me.”

  He took a deep breath. How many times would he have to show her that he wasn’t going anywhere before it finally sank in? The last thing he wanted after that experience was to let her go home to that lonely house on a hill.

  “Okay, you don’t have to ask anything of me. It’s my turn to ask something of you. You owe me a modeling session. I’d like to collect.”

  “Now?” Her voice came out in an embarrassed squeak. “I must look like something the cat dragged in.”

  “You’re lovely. Red looks good on you.” He eased the key out of the ignition and opened his door. It felt good to get out of that tin can of a car and stretch his legs.

  Eve glanced down at her black and white ensemble. “I’m not wearing red.” Then she pulled down the sun visor and peered at herself in the tiny mirror. “Ugh. I’m red from crying. It’s not very gentlemanly of you to point it out.”

  “It’s not very ladylike of you to renege on our agreement. We had a deal. I get you into the party, you pose for me.”

  “You want me to do it now?” Her voice was clear and incredulous. It pleased him that she no longer seemed to be dwelling on the sad story she’d shared.

  “Now, or after pizza and a movie. And sex. And a good night’s sleep. Let’s take it one step at a time, shall we?”

  “One step at a time,” she repeated, doubt lacing her voice.

  “I promise, if you ever feel even remotely uncomfortable, you can leave and we’ll consider the agreement null.” He easily swung both of their bags onto his shoulders and led the way up the rest of the driveway.

  He heard her scramble to follow. “Uncomfortable isn’t exactly my issue. But pizza does sound good.”

  He hid his smile of triumph as he unlocked the front door. Round one, Hudson Cleary. On to round two.

  Chapter Twenty

  Maybe she was experiencing some kind of delayed posttraumatic stress thing; maybe she was completely exhausted; or maybe she’d stepped into a dreamlike parallel universe. But when she closed her eyes and opened them again, the steaming hot bubble bath was still right in front of her. Hudson had drawn it for her, placing a clean towel and a bathrobe on a hook next to the big, old-fashioned claw tub.

  He’d ushered her in, told her the pizza would be there in half an hour, then left.

  It took every ounce of her willpower not to burst into tears again at the sheer niceness of it all. She’d exposed him to criminals, allowed him to abet her in a crime, ditched him in a hotel room, almost, but not quite, had sex with him twice, well, three times, and told him her darkest secrets. In return, he made her a bubble bath.

  The stress of the last forty-eight hours washed away as she lowered into the water and scrubbed herself clean. The bathroom was warm and cozy. He’d obviously put work into the old Craftsman, equipped it with modern touches like heated floor tiles and excellent water pressure, while retaining the impeccable workmanship of master woodworkers in every room, such as the carved wooden tiles illustrating a sunburst decorating the doorway and the single window over the sink.

  Hudson had been a surprise since the moment he’d arrived at her front door with a toolbox and a gruff attitude. She couldn’t peg him, couldn’t anticipate when he’d be sweet or when he’d be demanding. She’d seen the impatient artist side of him on more than one occasion. She’d seen the passionate, virile man as well. And it seemed there was a sensitive side to all that stoicism and attitude. She wondered how many other women he’d drawn bubble baths for, if he was such a pro at it.

  It didn’t matter. She’d learned to let go of so many things. The past only got in the way of the present. She’d thought the solution to that was simply to ignore the past, but she was learning that was no way to ease its hold on her.

  Hudson seemed to understand how she’d gotten to this odd place in her life, at once so far and so close to who she’d once been. He’d given her so much, and had resisted taking what she knew he wanted.

  She owed him, because she’d given her word and she believed in making good. Eve would give him her body because it was hers to give as she saw fit. She’d give him her heart because she didn’t have a choice.

  The water cooled; the bubbles started to get patchy. She washed herself with a fragrant bar of clove-scented soap. The manliest of the scents you could get at the Chelsea drug store, it smelled like Hudson.

  A tentative knock came at the door. At her “Come in!”, Hudson peeked his head around the door. She didn’t bother to cover herself. He’d seen most of her in bits and pieces, anyway.

  “Hey, uh, the pizza’s here.”

  She enjoyed the way his gaze stayed valiantly glued to the wall behind her head. His self-control would pay off later.

  “I’ll be down in two minutes,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  “Uh, okay,” he said, and ducked away.

  It took her just that long to towel off and slip on the robe he’d provided. There was no need to get into her suitcase for clean clothes yet, even though Hudson had thoughtfully placed it inside the door to the bathroom.

  She found him dishing up pizza slices onto white ceramic plates in the living room. A fire snapped in a stone hearth, giving the room the feeling of a cozy winter’s eve rather than a midsummer night.

  “I poured us some wine,” he said. “Not champagne, but this’ll work with the pizza.”

  She curled up on one end of the couch and took a sip of the red. The peppery flavor unfolded on her tongue and she took a moment to enjoy the sensation. “It’s perfect,” she declared.

  “It’s from my mom’s place. I mean, it’s not her winery, but she’s worked there for years.”

  “Really? What an interesting place to work.” Then she watched Hudson devour a slice of pepperoni and black olive in two bites.

  “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got half veggie, half pepperoni.”

  “I like pepperoni, but I wouldn’t want the veggie to go to waste,” she laughed, taking a slice for herself.

  “Oh, it wouldn’t,” he assured her.

  “Well, save some room for dessert,” she said in a low voice.

  “What’s for dessert?”

  “Me.”

  She hummed with satisfaction when he started choking on his pepperoni. He took a glug of wine, which didn’t help.

  “You?” he managed to spit out.

  “We had a deal, didn’t we? You reminded me this evening.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, first you can draw me, and then you can have me.”

  The bold statement suited the kind of sleepy, sultry mood she was in. He was a stunningly gorgeous, patently passionate artist with hands that could drive a woman mad in seconds. She wanted those hands on her, driving her mad, making her forget about everything except the heat and the pleasure. Though she’d never been an exhibitionist, there was something strangely erotic about the idea of sitting before him, where he could look but not touch, letting him turn her body into art with those clever fingers.

  Apparently, he thought so, too, because she’d never seen him move so quickly. He slapped the lid on the pizza box closed. “I’m finished.”

  She laughed. “Well, I’m not, so slow down. We have all night.”

  “I like the sound of that.” He met her eyes across the coffee table and poured them both more wine.

  “Tell me more about your parents,” she said, turning the conversation away from lust before she melted.

  “All right. My dad’s retired, my mom still pours for the tourists most weekends. High school sweethearts, married forty years. My dad inherited the locksmith business from his father, a German immigrant who arrived right before World War I broke o
ut. He landed in New York, and thought anyone who stayed there was out of his mind. He kept pushing west until he couldn’t get any farther. He married a Mexican girl, and my mom’s family goes way back to the California rancheros, so I’ve got a bit of American Indian, Spanish, Mexican, you name it, in me.”

  “You’re the oldest, right?” she asked, topping up their glasses.

  “Yeah. Stephanie came along two years after me. She was always their favorite. Will’s the baby, and he made my dad so happy by taking over the family business. I thought he was crazy, but he’s done really well with it, expanded the scope. It suits him. I’m the odd one out.”

  Hudson didn’t seem to realize how lucky he was to have a family at all.

  “What do they think of you being a world-famous artist?”

  “I don’t think they think much of it at all,” he answered. “It took a few years before they even understood why I wanted to go to art school instead of a regular college, or instead of skipping college and going to work. Stephanie helped me convince them. She was always on my side, and they adored her, so it all worked out.”

  “She must have really believed in you.”

  “Yeah, she could see that I was suffocating in this town, and that a future in locksmithing wasn’t going to be enough for me.”

  “Perceptive woman.” Eve couldn’t imagine anyone not seeing the potential in the man sitting across from her.

  “She was always looking out for Will and me, even though I’m older. She was always looking out for everyone else. So when she got sick, it didn’t occur to her to worry us with the details. At least, she had Mom and Dad and Will here when she died. I wouldn’t have been able to bear it if she’d been alone.”

  “I know.” She felt Hudson’s eyes on her, but she kept hers on her wine glass, smiling sadly. “She chose to leave you out of her battle for her own reasons. She must have loved you very much.”

  “Yeah, I think she did. I hope she knew how much I loved her.”

  “I’m sure she did. You’re her brother.”

  “You’re his daughter. He knew you loved him, too.”

  Eve couldn’t help the tears that fell. Hudson was at her side, again, helping her to wipe them away. She was amazed at the depth of tenderness in her chest that welled up whenever Hudson was near. A lake of emotion had been resting placidly inside of her, waiting for him to come along and jump in, making waves and ripples and splashing all these feelings around and over the edge.

  He was a solid mass of muscle and heat next to her; she was fragile, swimming in his plaid bathrobe, the extra glass of wine making her weepy. It would have been so easy for her to turn into him, to beg him to kiss her and take her mind away from all the turmoil and angst.

  Instead, she got to her feet, wiping her tears dry. She picked up her glass, the bottle of wine, and walked in the direction of the studio. “Bring the pizza if you’re still hungry,” she called over her shoulder.

  Eve was a bit unsteady on her feet as she walked away from him. Taking her clothes off for the sake of art shouldn’t have been a big deal. She’d seen enough nudes to know that models were rarely self-conscious, that it was a job, and the artists were mostly interested in the way the shadows fell and flesh rounded and veins showed through transparent skin. They wanted to see how hands and feet naturally articulated themselves, things you need a real live person to truly see. Artists weren’t generally interested in their models sexually. That wasn’t why she was doing it. Hudson had an incredible talent, and it broke her art-loving heart to think of him wasting it, letting it sit idle while masterpieces went unpainted. If she could help him move past this blocked phase and into a period of creating again, that would be something worthwhile, something in life she could be proud of. She’d be engendering artwork, not stealing it away, not putting something false in place of something real.

  Still, her nerves nearly got the better of her when she reached the studio; the walls of glass would leave her exposed to the dark woods behind. Then she heard a click and the buzz of opaque electric sunshades lowering over each window. Hudson dimmed the track lights above to a soft glow. Heat rose from the slate floor tiles and he arranged some pillows on a love seat that was sitting in the middle of the room. She hadn’t noticed it before. Had he brought it in for this occasion?

  She looked over to Hudson, not sure how to proceed.

  “We don’t have to do this,” he said neutrally. “Not right now. Not ever, if you don’t want to. But if we do, I want you to be comfortable.”

  The use of the word “we”, as if they were embarking on something together, gave her back her resolve. She took a large swallow of wine, set the glass and the bottle down on the drafting table, and walked over to the love seat. Using slow, deliberate movements, she pulled out the clip that was holding her hair in place at the top of her head. It came down in a tumble of black silk. She worked her fingers through it, until it hung in a soft drape far below her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but she could feel the heat in her cheeks giving them color, and at least her manicure and pedicure were still decent. This wasn’t a test; she wasn’t a model. Hudson had seen her practically naked before. She untied the robe, and, taking a deep breath, shrugged out of it, laying it over the back of the chair. She willed herself to breathe normally, to stay calm, to be utterly disinterested in Hudson’s reaction to her. He was an artist right now, not a man.

  When she went to sit down on the love seat, she looked up to him for direction. “How do you want me to….” She trailed off at the look of reverent awe on his face, and took no small measure of womanly pride in the swift certainty that he liked what he saw.

  Eve relaxed then and positioned herself, reclining so her weight was evenly distributed. It could be physically tiring to hold one position, so she might as well take him at his word and be comfortable. She raised her eyebrows in silent invitation for approval.

  “That’s fine,” he said slowly and started getting out materials.

  Sitting out in the open, naked, was kind of fun. Since puberty, Eve had despaired of her body. She longed to be tall and waif-like, to be able to be a human clothes hanger, like the models that graced the covers of her magazines. She’d never grown much past five feet, and eventually she’d grown breasts, though they hadn’t stopped growing when they reached a proportionate size to her diminutive frame. No, they’d kept expanding, rendering her depressingly top heavy. In Paris, she’d learned to dress and carry herself with ease and self-confidence, but she’d never really learned to love her body the way it was. The few men she’d been with had been happy enough to discover her ample bosom, but they hadn’t had the experience or ability to bring her anywhere close to the kind of physical pleasure she’d read about in books and seen in movies. They’d been boys, safe and pleasant, with whom she’d been unafraid to get attached, because she wouldn’t have to tell them anything true about herself.

  Hudson was the first real man she’d allowed to touch her, to take an interest in her. She was baring herself to him in a way she’d never wanted to before.

  Eve lay back and discovered that, while Hudson was busy selecting his tools, she had lost all of her nervousness. He, on the other hand, was taking an inordinately long time to comb through his pencils and straighten his sketchbook. She remembered that he was still getting his hand back after many months of disuse. He cleared his throat a few times. She heard the rustle of his papers and the tick of the heater.

  “Hudson, look at me,” she said softly.

  He met her eyes.

  “All of me,” she commanded in a whisper.

  He dragged his gaze down her body, taking inventory of every mole, every hair, every hollow and crest. She released the breath she’d been holding when she heard the first scratches of his pencil against paper. Hudson’s stare grew less intense as he glanced quickly back and forth between her and the sketch. She could fully relax then, and marveled at how quickly his hand moved, how he seemed to fill a page in a few strokes and t
hen move on to the next, and spend twice as long on that one before flipping it over to a fresh sheet.

  Eve discovered something else unexpected as she lay there. She was being looked at, but she in turn could watch Hudson as carefully as she liked. She studied him, the way she had the first day they met as he worked the lock open on her front door. She hadn’t been impressed by his lock-picking skills. But then she hadn’t known it was a part time gig.

  As rusty as Hudson may have been at drawing, she could tell this was an area in which he was in command. He’d spent hundreds of hours in a studio, drawing, painting, thinking, and it showed he felt comfortable in the setting. Even if his heart and brain didn’t believe, his posture, the way his body sank onto the stool in front of the drafting table and his right leg hooked around one of the feet revealed this was all second nature. He had an extra pencil behind his ear, and his hair curled around his eyes. She wanted to brush it away for him, but kept still, though even this relatively easy pose was becoming difficult to maintain.

  She didn’t want to break his concentration, but she was all too aware of every itchy spot and cramped muscle in her body.

  “Hudson?” His head jerked up. She gave him a small smile. “Would you mind if I moved into a different position?”

  “No, no, not at all. It would be great if you wanted to change every couple of minutes. It’ll help me get a well-rounded picture of you. I like to work quickly at this stage. Do whatever you want.”

  At first, she was hesitant, not sure what poses were de rigueur. After a few stilted efforts, she started doing what felt good, lifting her hands into the air, kneeling on one knee. She forgot she was naked, and there was nothing sexual about the positions she took up.

  Watching Hudson was fascinating and she looked her fill. When she’d first met him, she’d instantly seen the basic male perfection that he exhibited, enough to fluster her even then. Now that she knew him, and what a generous, brave, passionate heart lay underneath all that hard muscle, she found him breathtakingly handsome.