Judy Gill

by Golden Swan [LS-377] (epub)

  She laughed at his tale of drudgery, but he scowled severely at her and said, "Besides, I think you're lying." Holding up an imaginary card, pretending to read, he went on pontifically, " 'If somebody offers you food that you truly dislike, do you accept it and choke it down? Do you refuse politely by claiming not to be hungry? Do you tell the truth about the way you feel and hope they'll offer you something else?' No waffling. You must choose one of the above."

  "And I did," she said. "I'm really not terribly hungry."

  "Don't you ever eat something just because it might taste good, whether you're hungry or not?"

  Her face went very still. "No," she said quietly. He looked at her quizzically. "But do you like fruitcake when you are hungry?"

  Again her eyes smiled. "Sadly for my waistline, yes."

  He wanted to tell her there was nothing wrong with her waistline. "But even if you hated it, you'd never have chosen the third option, would you?"

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because I think you're afraid of what I might have offered you in its place."

  "I'm not so much afraid, Cal, as naturally cautious." He nodded, and wanted with a sudden and shocking hunger to make that other offer, to pull her into his arms and kiss the living daylights out of her. He wanted to lift her up and carry her to his bed and make slow, sweet love to her whether she was emotionally ready or not.

  His smile tilted one side of his mouth. "You're probably right to exercise caution."

  "The girls have told me what an awful cook you are," she said with a laugh. "I understand your spaghetti sauce tastes like dog food."

  He joined in her laughter. It was easy to laugh with her, he thought, taking pleasure in the fact. It was wonderful having someone to enjoy things with. Linking his fingers with hers again, he led her to the table and seated her ceremoniously. "I promise not to offer you anything I'm responsible for having cooked, and if you're really not hungry, will you at least pretend a bit of thirst?"

  "No pretense necessary," she assured him.

  He smiled and took a bottle of Riesling from the refrigerator, then poured it into two glasses, leaving the bottle on the table.

  B.J. examined the label. "Thank goodness. I've heard stories about homemade wines and what they can do to the unwary."

  He gave her a stern look. "You," he said, "do not qualify as 'unwary.' "

  She shrugged and smiled, dropping her lashes, but she didn't deny it.

  "B.J." He swallowed hard. "Lord, but you do things to me when you flirt like that."

  She looked up, startled. "Like what? I don't flirt!"

  He whispered a fingertip across the back of her hand. "Oh, yes, you do, lady, and every time you bat those long lashes at me and give me tantalizing little glimpses of those big blue eyes, I get all hot and bothered and ready to—roar. You just don't know how pretty you are."

  Her eyes flared wider for a second before her lashes fluttered in confusion. "Cal . . . don't," she said, then looked down in that way he was beginning to suspect meant that she was moved and didn't want to show it.

  "Okay," he said. "But I don't know why you don't like compliments. Especially sincere ones."

  She smiled at him briefly before those incredible lashes flickered down again, and he shook his head as it dawned on him that she wasn't flirting. She didn't have the faintest idea of how it affected him when she caught him in the quick web of her gaze, then looked down like that. In any other woman of his acquaintance, that mannerism would have been a carefully contrived one, likely practiced for hours in front of a mirror. With B.J., though, it was completely unconscious. It endeared her to him even more and he felt a hard, hot lump rise up in his throat. She was so damned special, and she didn't have a clue.

  "Look at me," he whispered. Startled, B.J. glanced up at him, finding the air suddenly crackling with electricity. Her eyes widened as he drew one thumb across her lower lip.

  "It's happening again," he said.

  "What is?"

  "I keep getting this overwhelming urge to kiss you."

  Her heart hammered in her chest. "I don't think it's a really great idea."

  He could see the wild little pulse in her throat. In a minute he was going to press his mouth to that pulse. The anticipation made him harden and ache. "Don't you?"

  She shook her head.

  "Why not? Give me three good reasons."

  She smiled. That she could do. "I don't know you very well and I don't make a habit of kissing strangers, recent examples notwithstanding. And I'm leaving tomorrow."

  "I could say that those were only two reasons, but I'll be kind. I wish you wouldn't go so soon." Again he smoothed his thumb over her lower lip, just to watch its unconscious pout. "Couldn't someone else look in on your friend's house? I have a radiophone here. You could call someone."

  "No. I have to leave." She twisted her head to one side, and his hand fell to the table between them. "But not just because of my commitments there, Cal," she said, looking down at his hand, touching it with the tips of her fingers. She shuddered, thinking of the way his caresses made her feel. It was a feeling she liked. A feeling she wanted. A feeling? No. A whole series of them, each one more potent than the other, exploding in little pops of excitement all through her blood.

  "Because of something I've said or done?" he asked.

  "It's not just you," she said quietly, then paused, nibbling at her lower lip. "Suddenly things are happening that I never thought would happen to me, and they're happening awfully fast." She remembered too well how fast things had happened, with Kevin, the man at Club Caribbean, and then, her involvement hadn't been nearly as emotional. This time she knew she was falling in love. Before she had merely, as Melody put it, been falling in lust. A perfectly normal process, Mel had insisted, but one B.J. had felt compelled to halt. While she had wanted Kevin, she hadn't really liked him. Trouble was, she liked Cal. . . along with loving him.

  "Sometimes," Cal said gently, "we can't help how fast things happen. I wish it didn't worry you so much."

  "But it does. There doesn't seem to be a proper background for any of this, no solid fabric behind it." And she still hadn't told him the truth about herself. "We seem to have missed out a few steps, Cal. It's like knitting. If you miss stitches, the garment is in danger of falling apart later on." She smiled, and her dimples flickered so quickly he nearly missed them, but the expression in her eyes stopped his heart.

  And he was in danger of falling in love with her, he thought, then blinked rapidly, wondering where that idea had sprung from. He crushed it down. He wouldn't even consider it. He wanted her, sure, but anything else was out of the question. Preposterous. Like she said, they'd known each other for three and a half days, and if things were happening too fast for her, they were right on schedule for him. He had only to remember that moving fast was the best way to allay doubts and apprehensions. If they connected before either of them had too much time to think, there'd be no turning back and this entire episode could go on until its natural end. Then he would be able to start forgetting about her.

  "Maybe we've missed out a few stitches or steps," he said softly, thoughtfully, "but neither of us is a child, B.J.., and you're becoming more and more Important to me each moment we spend together. No, don't shake your head. I have to tell you this.

  "I've never felt quite like this about another woman." That much, he knew, was true, and he didn't mind admitting it. "I've never before known anybody with such—innate honesty. It makes me want to be totally honest with you." He frowned. Was that true? After a moment's reflection, he decided, yes, it was.

  B.J. cringed inside. How had he come to develop such a false opinion of her? She had to tell him! But how? How to begin? She'd tried to make him see reality last night, but he hadn't listened. He had just said again that she was beautiful. And while it was nice to hear—no, more than nice, it was wonderful and made her feel all mushy and hot inside—it was also too fantastic to believe. Her mirror said "pretty," other people ag
reed, and when she compared herself with what she had been before, she rejoiced inwardly. But beautiful? The word made her uncomfortable for reasons she couldn't begin to understand. "I'm just an ordinary woman, Cal. I'm—"

  "Hush." He smoothed his fingers over her lips, and she hushed, more because the delight coursing through her made it impossible for her to catch her breath than because he had told her not to speak. "I want to say this. I tried last night, but I couldn't find the right words and then you ran away. There's nothing ordinary about you at all, B.J. In spite of your beauty, there's an openness about you that so many other women seem to lack, with their fakery, their games, their pretending to like a man so they can get from him whatever they want. I don't think you ever do that, do you, B.J.?"

  Openness? She jerked her head back. "Cal, please. I. . . have to tell you something about myself. I'm—"

  'That's what I mean," he interrupted, watching the color come and go in her face. "You're embarrassed by my saying this, and that's because you're so unassuming, so natural. If you like someone, it's because they've earned that liking. And if you don't, you'd never pretend, even if playing the game meant getting something you want. You didn't feign liking for me, even though you wanted to be here with the kids and I was standing in your way. You didn't try to charm me into letting you stay." He chuckled. "But in spite of that, you did charm me, and I want you to stay."

  "But I don't want to stay," she lied desperately, hoping to convince herself, too. "I can't!"

  She grabbed up her glass and drank deeply, hoping she wouldn't choke, then set it down because her hand was trembling too much for her to hold on to it.

  "I'm upsetting you, I know," he said quietly. "Maybe even scaring you, but please, don't be afraid. Drink some more wine, B.J. You're too pale." He lifted her glass to her lips, feeding her the wine, and she drank, her eyes on his. No one had ever done something like this to her before and she didn't know how to tell him to stop, or even if she wanted to tell him that.

  "Your complexion," he said, setting her glass down and stroking her cheek. "That was something I noticed about you immediately. There you were, white as a sheet, yet your skin was still like porcelain, clear and flawless. Other people pay vast sums to cosmetic companies to achieve what you have naturally. And your hair was like spun silk, the scent of you as clean and as fresh as a new morning, and it was all real. You hadn't achieved that look by artifice. No chemicals, no makeup, no hiding behind something synthetic. There's an honesty about you that shines forth and

  And what? he asked himself, feeling something rise in him like a great, hard lump of need that grew and grew. It was such a huge need, so vast and overwhelming that he thought he might pass out as his head spun and his chest ached. He struggled for breath, fought to understand what was happening to him, and felt It burst free with such a force, he nearly cried out in pain. But it was there, the pain was gone, leaving behind such an exhilaration, such an excitement, such a sense of utter fulfillment, for just a second he thought he understood how a woman must feel at the moment of birth.

  "B.J.! Oh, B.J., I want to paint you," he said in a hushed but exultant tone. "Yes! That's it! I have to!" Now, the reason for the sketches became clear. Some secret part of him had known all along that this was his destiny. B.J. In oils.

  She sat back, staring at him, feeling as utterly dumbfounded as he looked. No! He hadn't said those words! Had he?

  "Cal? Do you know what you just said?"

  "Yes!" he exclaimed, laughing excitedly. "I don't know where the idea came from, but I know it's right. It's what has to be." He lifted his glass and drained it, then recklessly refilled it.

  Of course! That was what his tortured thoughts had all been about the night before. He wanted to paint her. To do that, he had to be worthy not only as a painter, but as a man, and he didn't know if he was. Because in order to paint her, he was going to have to know her—totally—and she would have to know him, trust him, give him every nuance of herself, even the small things she might now be holding back.

  He caught both her hands in his, gripped them tightly. "Let me do it, B.J. Let me paint you."

  "You don't paint portraits." ,

  Her voice was hoarse with the fear that rushed over her. She drew in a sharp breath and felt herself flushing as his earlier words echoed in her mind. Purity of soul? No artifice? If he only knew! If he tried to paint her, if he looked that closely, he would see the sham just under the veneer of what he called "purity." He was an artist known for his ability to discover the essence of the creatures he painted. Realism was his trademark. He could capture the primitive emotions of animals—the burning fury of a dam whose young were threatened; the spirit of a predator spying its prey; the wary alertness of a doe at a watering hole; the arrogance of a sea lion bellowing out his intentions to the world.

  If he painted her, he would have to look too closely. Surely he'd see beneath the carapace of her deception, discover the counterfeit that she really was. And did she want him to know the truth? Did she want to change that beautiful—if totally false—impression he had of her? No! something in her wailed. She liked having him see her as he did.

  "You can't paint me," she said. "You can't. If you want to do portraits, do them. I have faith in you. You can paint them if you choose to, but not me."

  "I can. I will." His grip on her hands was almost painful. His eyes were black with the passion of his dream. "But only if it's you. I can be what I want, finally, thanks to you. Don't deny me this, B.J. It's my dream, and you can make it come true. No one else. Just you. I have to try."

  How could she deny him his dream? Yet how could she let him discover the truth about her? He would hate her if he did, and suddenly she knew she couldn't bear it if he hated her.

  "No, Cal," she whispered. "Please, no."

  "Why not?" He relaxed his grip and caressed instead, trying to wipe away the white marks his fingers had left on the back of her hand. His gaze held hers. Intent, insistent. "Sweetheart, don't be afraid. I only want to paint you."

  Only? He heard himself say the word and knew what a terrible misrepresentation it was. The painting would be only a small part of the bond he would require with her.

  "B.J., please. Why not?" he asked, reading the inflexible denial in her eyes.

  "Because." She trembled and withdrew her hands from his. as if he could read the truth simply through touching her. "Because we don't really know each other and ... I think we'd have to."

  "Yes." He stared at her, wondering if she understood as much as he thought she did, as much as he was just now beginning to understand himself. He knew with an unprecedented depth of self-knowledge that if he didn't try to paint her, he would be forever dissatisfied with his growth not only as an artist, but as a man. Looking at her, he realized he was hovering on the brink of a huge step. If he took it, he might falter. But if he didn't, he would simply shrivel up where he sat.

  "Yes, B.J., well have to know each other very well." Know her? He was going to have to love her. The realization rose slowly within him, and he reeled as if from a powerful blow. Not just make love to her. Love her.

  He stared at her. Did he? Had it really happened to him at last? And suddenly he knew it had. He wasn't just "in danger" of falling in love with B.J. Gray. He'd up and done it! He wanted to laugh at himself at the same time as he wanted to curse and deny it. Yet there was no denying it. It was so clear now, so obvious, and it explained all his nebulous feelings of the past few days.

  Cal smiled at her, and the gentle tenderness in that smile stirred something inside B.J. that had slept for too long. She hushed it as best she could, and tried not hear the seduction in his voice as he said. "It won't happen right away, B.J., but it will happen."

  "What will?" Her voice cracked.

  "Well know each other . . . well enough." His smile faded. He reached out and touched the back of her hand again.

  She smiled faintly and looked down. "Could we? Ever?"

  "Couldn't we?" he counter
ed. She felt more than saw his dark gaze on her, and her rapid pulse slowed to a heavy, almost lethargic beat that pounded in every recess and extremity of her body. "B.J.?"

  "Yes?" she whispered, her fingers tight around the stem of her glass as she fought to withstand the pressures of that steady, deep cadence in her blood. She lifted her lashes and looked at him.

  "Do you want... to know me that well?" he asked.

  "Cal. stop It. I don't want this kind of—flirtation."

  His eyes flared for a moment, with desire, she thought, but also with anger, with confusion. Only . . . what did he have to be confused about? He was in control of things here, wasn't he? In control not only of his own emotions, but of hers. She was the one hanging on by the tips of her nails, about to fall over the cliff.

  "Why would it have to be a flirtation?" he asked. "Don't you think I'm capable of anything else?"

  She frowned at the pain in his tone. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. This was Cal Mixall, womanizer-at-large. Was this some kind of act? If it were, it was a damned good one, she thought, but brought herself up short. "Frankly, no."

  "Well, I am!" I love you! he wanted to tell her, but it was still too new, too unbelievable even to him. Could a man really fall in love in so short a time? Of course he could. He had, but if it was too soon for him to fully comprehend it, how could he expect her to believe it? He would have to show her. The thought of showing her how much he cared for her made him tremble deep inside.

  "How do you know you are?" she asked. "You've never tried anything else."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  B.J. had no answer. Really, she had no reason to believe he was the philanderer she'd always thought him to be. Just the odd comment made by Curtis, or one of the amusing stories passed on by Melody, possibly embellished to add interest. After all, it was only in the past two years that Cal had even been on this side of the country and in frequent contact with his brother and sister-in-law. What he'd done, the kind of life he'd led, back east was a mystery to her. And in truth, so was his life since he'd come to the coast, though they might live only ten or fifteen miles apart. More than distance separated them. They had different life-styles, different circles of friends. As for the few snippets that had appeared in the arts and literature pages of the papers, gossip didn't count. She'd never listened to it about other people; why was she so ready to believe the worst of Cal?