Knock, knock...

by Dale Mayer

  And yet the painting sitting off to the side was thick and almost three-dimensional. It held so much paint. She wouldn't have been surprised to hear that he'd carved it instead of painted it.

  Fascinated. She stood back and paused. Tilted her head again. Backed up as far as she could go.

  She gasped.

  Inside, her heart jolted, stilled for a long moment, and then raced forward.

  No. The lines were so familiar. But it couldn't be. Wasn’t possible.

  A soft laugh filled the air. She spun around. But she was alone. Turning back around, she caught a glimpse of something. A fragrance…cinnamon, maybe whispered through the room. Of course it is. Do you really not know?

  She gasped. "Bernice?"

  That same warm laughter.

  Shay laughed too. "Aren't you supposed to be off in the light, doing things that dead people do?"

  I will soon. When I know Charles is fine. Until then, I'm here. Then again, as he hasn't got long anyway, I might just stick around. Bernice laughed. He'd like that.

  Even though Shay hated the thought of her grandfather dying, she had to smile at the thought of Bernice staying close until then. Pappy would be tickled. "I'm glad to hear he has a guardian angel. Thank you for helping him."

  I love him, Bernice said simply. How can I do any less? Now, look at the paintings. Are you really so blind?

  Shaking her head, Shay studied several paintings again.

  And then she knew.

  Indeed, how could she not have known? Tears crept into her eyes. Warm shivers rode down her spine, and her heart swelled.

  Finally, Bernice said; then she disappeared, leaving Shay to face the truth.

  The model was her.

  Chapter 24

  Shay couldn't move. Her mind froze long before the rest of her body, which was still trying to move forward. This wasn't possible. There's no way. Yet, no matter what she did, the fact was irrefutable. She was staring at portraits of her.

  The how eluded her, and the why... Well that just blew her away. Helpless to do anything but obey her instinctive need to see more, she walked quietly forward and stared at the closest canvas directly in front of her. Unfinished, it resembled many of the others she'd seen at the gallery, but this time the face was turned coquettishly with just the jawline complete. Her jawline. Her hand instinctively lifted to touch her smooth chin that he'd captured so easily with a single stroke. She wouldn't have believed it if she wasn’t seeing it.

  Fascinated, she walked around the studio, stopping to shift a canvas to look at the ones hidden behind it. So many. She could see a few, discarded in a pile at the back. She reached forward to pull the canvas that had been tucked the furthest away. It was a struggle, but she finally managed to pull it into the light.

  There was more of her showing than in the ones she'd recently looked at. Her face was more defined, less of a hint and more of a sketch. She looked back over at the others. He'd used less detail in those and gave more of an impression of her features. His skill had improved.

  Amazing.

  As she studied the paintings her mind flitted from conversation to conversation. To ones that offered uncomfortable insights about his muse, his passion. His discomfort with the many conversations. It all made so much sense.

  And made her feel foolish. She'd been jealous – of herself.

  She crouched down and flicked through a stack on the floor.

  Studying another one, she barely heard a noise behind her. She spun around to find Roman leaning against the open doorway. His only clothing was a pair of snug boxers molding to his muscled thighs.

  "Like what you see?"

  She gazed at him, a tic pulsing in his cheek. Her mind so full, her heart on overload, she could hardly speak. She took a deep breath and answered honestly. "I'm not sure, to be honest."

  "Oh?" He frowned, straightened and walked closer. As his gaze went to the canvas in her hand, he grimaced. "Ugh. That's an old piece."

  "Why are there no other models? No landscapes or still lifes?"

  She replaced the canvas in the stack before crossing the room to stand in front of him. "Is it only me that you paint?"

  His whimsical smile tugged at her heart. "In a way. I've been fascinated with you for a very long time." He studied her face as if waiting for a reaction.

  In truth she didn't have a reaction to give. She was too stunned. So he'd been painting her longer than they'd been communicating? Longer than he'd known her? Really? Was that possible?

  When she continued to stare at him, a gentleness spread in her heart. As if sensing her acceptance, he continued. "Your Pappy gave me the original picture. Although I think Bernice sent me a couple around the same time. I thought at first that I could paint you out of my system. That if I did just one more, if I got the line of your shoulder...just right...you'd leave me in peace." His gaze roamed her face, as if memorizing the slight nuances of the real thing to compare to his artwork.

  She arched a brow. "And? Did it work?"

  He shook his head, a curious light coming into his eyes. "It had the reverse effect. I became obsessed. I couldn't get enough. You dominated my thoughts and my days. I couldn't wait to get home so I could paint you again, this time with the draping of a sheet, or a dress or...nothing."

  She shook her head at the thought of this man, someone she hadn't even met, going through his day, eager to put her image on a canvas. It blew her away. And in a little way...it kind of creeped her out.

  She studied the proud man in front of her and realized something important.

  No. She wasn’t creeped out and the reason it didn't creep her out...was because it was this man. If any other man had done this, yes. That would have been all wrong. But not Roman. In some way, perhaps his need to paint her every day had kept her alive in his mind – she almost understood it. To paint her had become an obsession. His passion. There'd never been any doubt about that. She knew it. Had noticed it right from the beginning.

  She'd even told Stefan at the gallery.

  She just hadn't understood who he was obsessed with.

  Now she realized where the difficulty lay and why. And how personal this whole thing was. And why he had put up his walls. His obsession to paint her, and only her, had been his guilty secret. The reason for the distance she'd felt. And he hadn't known how she'd react.

  She checked his energy now. It no longer felt invasive. The wall had been there to protect his secret and now that was out, the wall was crumbling. Not completely gone yet, though... The wall was lighter, thinner. Still there, but no longer as solid, and it was collapsing even as she watched. He'd opened up, become vulnerable. She sensed he waited...for a judgment to come. From her.

  Then she remembered Pappy's confession at the hospital. Old matchmaking Pappy with Bernice as a willing accomplice. He'd given Roman pictures of her. Not nudes, just casual pictures from one of the many events in the last few years.

  Roman had taken it from there.

  She walked around the small room and studied the paintings. Every picture was at an angle of some sort. There were no full-on paintings of her face or a front view.

  "Why are there no pictures of my face?"

  "Because I couldn't get it right." He walked to a cupboard at the back of the room and pulled out several sketchbooks. He turned to face her and held out the smaller one to her. She accepted it. Turning it around, she flicked it open and walked a few feet away, engrossed in looking over all the different images. Several pages in, she glanced at the cover again, looking for a date. "When did you draw these?"

  "When I first got the pictures, maybe two years ago now. I was hoping to do your face, and I tried." He motioned to the book in her hand. "But I could never get it right. Eventually I gave up."

  "And why do you think you couldn't get it right?" She turned the page to see another attempt – this one looked really close.

  He took a deep breath. "A couple of reasons. I didn't know you, and I was doing this without you knowing.
In essence…I couldn't paint your face because I hadn't faced you about this. I felt...guilty."

  Startled, she gazed up at him, her attention diverted. A man with a conscience? She didn't know what to say, so she focused on the question she needed to ask. "What is with the blue?"

  Silence. Roman gave a short laugh. "I don't know what to say to that, except to say I have to add it. I don't know why." He shrugged and gave her a lopsided grin. "I gave up trying to change it a long time ago. It doesn't help that Stefan said he knew the reason for the blue...but wouldn't tell me."

  She widened her eyes. If it had been a soft pink, she'd have wondered if he'd seen her aura, but blue…? "Interesting, and so typical of Stefan."

  "It bothered me in the beginning, but it became one more thing to accept. Just like I used to do abstracts...but from the first time I saw a picture of you...there were no more abstracts." He shrugged helplessly.

  "You've done no other type of picture since you started to work on paintings of me?"

  "Well, I tried." He gave a short, self-conscious laugh. "But none of them worked. I tried for a few months to change… Only as long as I could paint you, then I could paint. But once I tried to change the subject, then I was lost. And I could do no more."

  She shook her head. She handed the sketchbook back. "I don't know what to say."

  "Are you...upset?"

  That answer was easy. The rest so not. She remembered all the things she'd instinctively known about his relationship with his model. Feeling her way through, she answered slowly, "No. Not upset. Surprised. Confused. Stunned actually. And uncertain."

  "Uncertain?" He jumped on that.

  She winced. "I didn't mean to say that."

  "But you did."

  She took a deep sigh. "I'm wondering...with all this...what you really feel for me." At the surprised and shuttered look on his face, she rushed to explain. "Are we together now because of this?" She waved her arm around the studio. "Is this what I am to you? Your muse? Do you worry that you can’t paint… Are you afraid that without me, you won't be able to paint anymore?"

  Once she started, the words poured out. She hadn't realized they'd been churning inside. Or even that they'd demanded voice, until the torrent had started.

  "And am I only here so you can fill in the pieces of your painting, the pieces that you haven’t been able to, until now?"

  The silence was absolute.

  She glanced over at him nervously.

  He stood as if slammed by a bullet. He barely moved. Not even a breath gusted free.

  She had to finish. She had to get it all out. Then she'd leave. But she needed to know the answer first. Then she could go home and sort this out. She took a deep breath and continued.

  "I guess I'm afraid that I'm only here because of your obsession. Not because I'm me."

  ***

  He couldn't breathe. He couldn't formulate a thought. And words strung into a comprehensive sentence seemed impossible. This is what he'd been afraid of. That she'd find out and misconstrue what she saw.

  Hell, he couldn't have foreseen this worry of hers. It never occurred to him that she'd doubt his feelings for her.

  But he hadn't known how to handle telling her, so he hadn't.

  And that had been a mistake. If he'd only brought up the issue first.

  But he'd woken up alone. And had freaked. He'd thrown on boxers and raced through the apartment searching for her. He'd been so sure she'd left to go home that when he'd found her in his studio, his first thought had been only relief because for that instant his secret was forgotten.

  It had taken minutes for him to relax enough to lean against the wall and watch her. She'd been so intent, so curious, he'd quickly fallen into artist mode, watching the expressions ripple across her face. She was so expressive. He'd actually reached for a pencil and sketchbook. That's when she'd heard him.

  Even now his finger itched for his pencil. To sketch out that long hair as it brushed over her shoulder with her every movement.

  Except he wouldn't be able to hold anything. He was frozen. What he said now would decide the course of his future.

  A crossroad.

  What could he say?

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out.

  ***

  Roman tried again, watching her as she studied him. Shay stepped toward him.

  "Tell me." She narrowed her gaze, willing him to step up and speak. To tell her what she wanted him to say. What she needed to hear.

  What he needed to verbalize.

  That she was his model, was both stunning and gratifying, but she wanted that reaction to be about her, in the flesh, not her image on a canvas.

  She took another step closer to him, and stood on tiptoe so she could stare into his eyes. Her gaze locked with his, probing, urging him to speak up. His eyes warmed, deepened. She offered a tiny smile in response.

  His gaze burned as fire ignited deep inside. The flame dancing in his eyes, grew stronger, brighter. That intense look caused a conflagration deep inside her belly. An answering prayer of joy rolling up through her insides, carrying a song as old as time.

  "Tell me," she whispered.

  A tiny smile played at the corner of his mouth. He leaned closer, intent on kissing her.

  She shook her head, insisting, "Tell me."

  His head lowered even more.

  "Tell me," she insisted, her breath brushing up gently against his lips.

  He stilled. His mouth inches from hers. His warm breath played over her eyes and face. She closed her eyes, letting his closeness warm her soul and soothe her thundering heart as she waited to be released from this prison of doubt. She knew it could happen. Would happen. If he was ready.

  If he meant all that his pictures said he did. If he was true to his passion.

  Then he'd be true to her.

  But she knew, first he had to be true to himself.

  "Tell me."

  Shay kept her eyes closed. She felt his energy surge toward her, wrapping around her, caressing her shoulders, her hips, her head. Light gentle strokes caressed and soothed even as they whispered through on a promise.

  She needed to hear the words.

  He needed to voice them.

  "Tell me," she whispered, keeping her voice soft and delicate, yet offering him hope and a future together like none other.

  He lowered his head to rest his forehead on hers. She opened her eyes to see him close his. An almost imperceptible shudder worked down his body and his shoulders lowered and relaxed. She sensed his energy sink deep into her own, blending and melding to join with hers, as one.

  As calm and sure as she'd ever heard his voice, his words came as a benediction. Releasing her from her prison and giving her the strength to fly free.

  She let her heart energy cross the small divide to crawl into his heart chakra and curl up inside.

  So quiet, more impression than sound, he whispered, "I love you."

  ***

  Wednesday, at dawn…

  Ronin loved working the night shift. Although it was closer to breakfast time, there was something magical about the city at dawn. That more crimes were committed, and there were more predators to hunt at night made his working life that much more interesting. He understood the predator mindset and he did some of his best police work at night.

  His twin brother Roman often did his best work at night too. Even growing up, Roman could be found, well after bedtime, with a pencil scribbling over every square inch of his textbooks. He'd gotten hell for that many times.

  Instead of art, Ronin had music in his soul. He played the trumpet and favored jazz. That both brothers had gone into law enforcement said much about who they were as men, but having a creative outlet meant they survived the rigors of the brutal world they worked in better than many others.

  He had worried about his brother for years. After that bullet, Roman could have taken a desk job. Instead he'd walked away and set up his own company. And he had proved
to be damn good at it. Ronin had used his services many times.

  He knew that while Roman checked over Shay's site and said that there'd been nothing obviously amiss, he'd also worried that the door to the office was essentially one any two-bit burglar could break if they wanted to get inside. That just meant they couldn't narrow the field at all that way.

  And Roman had gone a step further with the new security system he'd ordered for Shay's apartment and her office. Last Ronin heard, they were both still arguing over who would get to pay.