The Brooding Stranger

by Maggie Cox

  His lips descended to bestow the sweetest, most tender kiss he’d ever given her. It was in that blissful shattering moment that Karen knew she’d lost her heart to Gray O’Connell. But even amidst her joy in the realisation she recognised the ever-present shadow of potential heartbreak… .

  ‘I want to paint you,’ he declared, smiling when he lifted his head to study her, repeating his earlier desire and hoping this time her answer would be different. ‘Will you come to my house tomorrow and sit for me?’

  ‘Do you mean just a portrait?’

  His lips curved in amusement. ‘Are you still afraid to take off your clothes for a nude study?’

  Blast her unerring ability to blush at the drop of a hat! It was ridiculous, when nearly every night she lay bare in his arms in bed. ‘You probably think I’m a dreadful prude.’

  ‘I don’t think that at all. I love it that your nature is basically shy. I certainly wouldn’t change it, or want you to be any different.’

  ‘In that case, if I agree to sit for you, could we start with a portrait? Just head and shoulders, maybe?’

  ‘A portrait it is, then.’ Gray dropped a kiss on the top of Karen’s head and grinned.

  Bridie Hanrahan heard the frequent thumps and curses emanating from her employer’s studio and smiled indulgently. Something had rattled him. Rattled him or inspired him, she thought. He’d practically mown her down this morning as he’d torn through the house and up the stairs, yelling out as he went to, ‘Make me some strong black coffee would you, Bridie? After that I don’t want to be disturbed. I’ll be working in my studio all day!’

  In that brief encounter the housekeeper had noticed there’d been a light in his eyes that she hadn’t ever seen before. If she hadn’t bumped into Liz Regan this morning in Eileen’s shop then she wouldn’t have a clue as to what had put that light there. But after a few minutes’ conversation with the young redhead who owned the café she’d learned that Gray O’Connell had turned up yesterday afternoon to hear Karen Ford—the pretty tenant of his father’s old cottage—sing.

  Bridie was intrigued. The news was akin to hearing that the Pope had dropped into Malloy’s Bar and had a couple of pints of Guinness. It was a known fact that Gray didn’t socialise … at least not locally, at any rate. He was a regular ‘Howard Hughes’, and rich as Croesus so the rumour went. But little good his money seemed to have done him so far. He could probably furnish this big old house like Buckingham Palace, but the thought had obviously never even crossed his mind. The man was no doubt still grieving for his father.

  Thinking of poor Paddy, and the sad end he had met down there on the beach, Bridie tut-tutted softly, shook her head, then continued along the wide black-and-white tiled hallway to the kitchen to make Gray his coffee.

  Sketches of Karen fairly flew off the point of his pencil. Again he worked from pure imagination and memory, which for an artist wasn’t entirely satisfactory, but soon, he told himself, he would be working with the real thing. Sheets of smooth cartridge paper were scattered everywhere, and on his easel Gray had stretched and prepared a canvas, ready to start painting when she arrived. At last she had agreed to pose for him. He’d almost held his breath when he’d asked her, fearing that she might say no. Again he found himself moved by her bravery in forging ahead with a new life embracing new experiences and not staying stuck in a grief that anchored her to the past and prevented her from really living.

  He could learn a lot from Karen. The woman totally inspired him—and not only with her courage to sing again after the tragedy of her husband’s sudden death. One mere glance into her incandescent sky-blue eyes seemed to fill him with an unstoppable flow of energy and excitement. When Gray was lost in her bewitching gaze it helped him forget that he’d been such a terrible disappointment to his father, and that his mother had been too wrapped up in her own misery to hang around and see what he made of his life …

  ‘You’ve a visitor, Mr O’Connell.’

  He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn’t even register the fact that his housekeeper stood in the doorway, her florid, kind face somewhat bemused.

  ‘A visitor?’ he echoed. He never had visitors. The locals knew better than to risk disturbing him. But in the next instant he realised exactly who that visitor was and leapt up off his seat. ‘Is it Karen Ford?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes, Mr O’Connell. Shall I bring her up to your studio?’

  ‘Seeing as Miss Ford is sitting for a portrait, then I’d say yes—bring her up to me straight away, Bridie!’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GRAY was seated on a stool, staring out through one of the huge ornate windows that overlooked the sea of rolling green surrounding the house. He cut a lonely, if compelling figure, with his slim but muscular physique, black sweater and familiar tousled black hair. She’d seen him only a few hours ago, yet Karen’s heart still bumped against her ribs as if she was seeing him for the very first time.

  ‘The drive up to the house is so long I thought I’d never get here,’ she announced nervously, slightly out of breath at the interminable ascent up the staircase with Bridie to the top of the house where Gray’s studio was situated.

  The open door in sight, she had told his kind-faced housekeeper to go back down. She’d heard the older woman trying to catch her breath behind her, and wondered that she wasn’t as skinny as a rake with all the stairs she must regularly have to climb in such a mansion. Even though he’d told her himself that he’d made a fortune, Karen was still overwhelmed at the beauty and size of the great house Gray lived in. He was certainly no starving artist living in a garret! No. Instead, he lived in self-imposed isolated splendour.

  The thought made Karen’s brows pucker as she glanced round the lofty attic, with its stack of paintings propped up against the walls. His output certainly looked to be prolific. Was his relentless painting the only thing that gave him refuge from pain these days? Even though she ached to examine every canvas, her heart constricted at the thought of him living here alone with just his dog, and seeing only his housekeeper for company.

  ‘The map I drew for you worked out all right, then?’

  Her handsome host left his seat to come and greet her, catching her by the elbows to draw her to him. Again she was struck by the chiselled perfection of his extraordinary face. If she were an artist she would beg, borrow or steal for the chance to paint him.

  ‘It was perfect,’ she answered.

  ‘No problems understanding it?’

  ‘I presume you’re referring to the tired old chestnut that women can’t read maps? I actually find it dead easy!’

  Gray’s generous black brows creased mockingly. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Well …’ She couldn’t help grinning. ‘Not all the time. But you’re an expert at drawing, and that’s why it was so clear.’

  ‘Carry on in that flattering vein, madam, and you’ll go right to the top of my Christmas card list. You might even win yourself a prize.’

  Karen loved it when he joked with her like this. When the cloak of brooding darkness that he sometimes wore was laid aside he was a different man entirely. Right now, with Gray in a much lighter frame of mind, it didn’t seem as daunting as it had done at first to sit for him and have her portrait painted. At least it would mean time together, she thought wistfully. Time when the words not yet could be forgotten for a while and not haunt her.

  ‘Could my prize be permission to look at some of your paintings?’ she asked, careful to maintain her light-hearted tone.

  It was as though a cloud had streaked across the sun and blotted out the light. ‘What for?’ Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Gray gave her a glance that was guarded, even a little angry. ‘So that you can ascertain whether I’m any good or not?’

  ‘It’s only natural that I’d be interested in your work, don’t you think? Please don’t take it the wrong way.’

  The light returned—if a little self-consciously. ‘Sorry. Old habits die hard, so they say.
Do you want to take a look now, or later—after I’ve made a start on your portrait?’

  ‘Later is fine … thanks.’

  ‘Then in that case we’ll crack on, shall we? Here, give me your coat.’

  Handing him the duffle coat she’d donned that morning, because there was a distinct wintry snap in the air, Karen watched him stalk across the room to the door, close it, then hang her coat on the single hook behind it—all the while her gaze hypnotised by his taut, firm behind and the long, muscular legs snugly contained in faded worn black denim. He was an artist, but in truth Gray O’Connell was a work of art himself, she thought in silent appreciation.

  Releasing a sigh, for the first time she noticed the little puff of steam her warm breath made on the cold air. ‘It’s chilly in here.’ She crossed her arms over the cornflower-blue sweater she wore with her jeans and shivered. ‘Don’t you feel the cold?’

  ‘Not when I’m lost in my work.’

  Returning to her, Gray surprised her by enfolding her in a tight bear hug. In an instant all thought of cold was banished, to be replaced by the most delicious spine-tingling warmth—warmth that made Karen feel like butter melting over hot toast.

  ‘Better?’ he teased, lifting his head to smile down at her, two perfectly edible dimples creasing his cheeks.

  The man had a smile that could lift a heart so high you never wanted to come down to earth again.

  ‘Much better … Can we stay like this for the rest of the day?’ The words were out before she could check them. The thing was, it didn’t matter how many nights she spent in Gray’s arms—it just never seemed to be enough. She always craved more.

  The dark pupils engulfed by haunting shades of silvery-grey grew darker still, and his hands dropped to her hips to drag her closer. With his lips just bare inches from hers, Gray intimately lowered his voice. ‘Perhaps I was wrong about you being shy? I seem to be uncovering a whole other side to you that leads me to believe you’re quite the little seductress.’

  ‘If I am,’ Karen breathed softly, ‘it’s only because you keep putting irresistible temptation in my way.’

  ‘So it’s irresistible I am, is it?’

  His lips brushed Karen’s in a flirtatious, sexy little kiss that made her insides clench and her eyelids drift closed. But right at that moment there was a firm knock at the studio door and they automatically sprang apart. Bridie, pink-cheeked and puffed from her climb up the stairs, opened the door wide to beam at them.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr O’Connell, but I was wondering if the young lady might like a cup of tea?’ she asked brightly.

  Karen reddened as Gray’s amused glance locked with hers. ‘What a perfectly timed entrance, Bridie.’ He smiled. ‘Not to mention a great idea. Would you like a cup of tea, Karen?’ he asked politely, but she saw the corners of his mouth wrestling with the urge to grin, and found herself struggling to keep her expression serious as she turned towards the housekeeper.

  ‘A cup of tea would be lovely, Mrs Hanrahan … thank you.’

  ‘Call me Bridie … everybody else does. Now, what about yourself, Mr O’Connell? Is it coffee you’ll be wanting?’

  ‘Coffee would be grand, Bridie,’ he agreed, but then he frowned, glanced over at his easel and said, ‘But not right now, if you don’t mind. Could you bring our drinks up later? Say in about an hour?’

  ‘Of course, Mr O’Connell. That’s no trouble at all.’

  The door closed and once again Karen found herself alone with Gray.

  ‘No more distractions,’ he announced firmly with a glint in his eye. And then suddenly he was all business as he instructed her to sit in the solitary high-backed Victorian armchair by the window. ‘I’ll put the heater on to keep you warm,’ he added.

  ‘Lift your chin a little.’ He made a swift practised sketch of her onto the silver-grey backwash he’d painted onto the paper earlier.

  As soon as Gray had seen Karen ensconced in the rather grand Victorian armchair it had come to him what a naturally regal air she exuded. Perhaps it was her exquisite bone-structure or her flawless skin, or a combination of both, but she definitely had an intriguing ‘touch me not’ shimmer that would surely make any man studying the portrait ache to break down that naturally English reserve and make her smile. Unknowingly, he found his own lips twitching.

  ‘What are you grinning at?’

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to wonder.’

  ‘So you’re going to be cryptic now, are you?’

  ‘Fold your hands in your lap … pretend you’re royalty visiting an impoverished but brilliant artist in his lonely garret.’

  ‘What?’

  She chuckled, and Gray’s insides were suddenly submerged in near volcanic heat. Did she have any idea how sexy and endearing her laugh was? How it brought to mind hot butterscotch poured over the creamiest vanilla ice cream?

  ‘That’s a stretch! I’m not remotely royal, and neither are you impoverished as far as I can see.’ She swept her hand round the lofty proportions of the once grand attic. ‘I’m about as un-regal and ordinary as you can get, I assure you. I’m at my happiest baking cakes, singing and playing my guitar.’

  ‘It’s true that I’m not impoverished, and you may not be royal, sweetheart, but you have no idea what you’ve got—and trust me … it’s not ordinary’

  ‘You’re biased.’

  ‘I don’t deny it. Sit up! Don’t slump in the chair. And if you insist on smiling try for more of a “Mona Lisa” smile rather than a cheeky schoolgirl grin.’

  Karen’s blue eyes sparkled impishly. ‘Are you usually this bossy when you paint someone’s portrait?’

  Emphasising the clean flowing line of her jaw with his pencil, Gray pursed his lips. ‘A man has to lay down the law with a difficult character like you.’

  ‘I’m not difficult.’ She gave him a theatrical glare.

  Reluctantly, he knew it was time to end the charming banter and get a little more serious. Studying the sketch he’d made for a moment, he drew the small table with his palette on it nearer to the easel and began to block in the figure and background with his brush. Before he’d got very far he glanced over at Karen, noting that her expression had grown pensive.

  ‘I didn’t say you had to stop talking,’ he remarked gently. ‘In fact the bond between the sitter and the artist is a very important factor in creating a good picture. Tell me when you first realised you could sing and what you loved about it.’

  ‘You really want to know about that?’

  Gray nodded, but it grieved him that she’d thought he wouldn’t be interested. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well … there was always music in the house when I was growing up—mainly because of my dad. He was always playing his records. He loved female vocals best of all, funnily enough.’ Her gaze drifted far away for a moment, and Gray elected to stay silent rather than comment. ‘I used to sing along.’ Her slim shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘He told me my voice was pretty. So I suppose that’s when I knew I could sing—when I realised I loved it.’

  ‘And is he still around? Your father, I mean?’

  ‘No. He’s not. He died when I was fourteen.’ Her hand brushed back her hair.

  ‘Keep still, can you? Let your hair fall back the way it was. That’s it.’

  Gray stopped painting to study her for a few moments. Her expression wasn’t sad, he noted, just resolute. As if she’d had to be. But he guessed she’d loved her father very much and clearly still missed him. Who would be fourteen again, sailing in an untried vessel across the storm-tossed sea that was the experience of most teenagers? Especially when it involved losing a parent, he reflected sombrely. Although he had grown up with his father, it hadn’t made it any easier for Gray to lose him as an adult … especially when his mother was already off the scene. Touching upon the subject even momentarily made his gut twist with pain. It also prompted him to ask Karen about her own mother.

  Her expression seemed a little pained as she replied, �
�She’s still here. Still determined to pretend everything in the garden’s lovely, no matter what’s going on. She would have made a first-class actress.’

  Letting out a long, slow breath, with the tip of a slim sable brush Gray coloured in the dark golden lashes on the beautiful face clearly emerging on the easel in front of him.

  ‘She wasn’t supportive when your husband died?’

  ‘Being supportive isn’t her forte. She likes to be the Queen Bee—the pivot that the rest of the world revolves around. She also holds the firm belief that families should close ranks when disaster strikes and put on a brave face. They certainly shouldn’t let on by word or deed that they’re devastated, or act like they need help. That would really let the side down.’

  ‘And you’re her only child?’

  ‘Yes.’ The blue eyes appeared downcast for a moment. ‘Personally, I would have loved to have had a brother or sister, but my mother told me early on that having me had been far too exhausting for her to consider having any more children.’

  ‘So you’re not close, then?’

  ‘Not remotely. I mean, I love her—and I think she loves me—but …’

  She fell silent for what seemed like a long time. Gray was working on her hair now, trying to capture the little flecks of golden light that the watery sun beaming in through the window brought into arresting focus. From where was the masochistic impulse coming then to get her to talk about her husband? He hardly knew. But he saw the surprise and shock in Karen’s eyes when he voiced it. ‘Tell me about Ryan,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ The lovely blue eyes were distinctly wary.

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  The tip of his paintbrush shaped colour and texture on the canvas as if steered by some unseen force of its own. In her lap, Karen’s slim hands unfolded restlessly, then quickly folded again.

  ‘It was at a friend’s housewarming. Ryan was an acquaintance of my friend’s husband. At the end of the evening someone—probably after too much wine—suggested we all do a turn. I didn’t have my guitar with me, so when it came to my turn I sang a very simple unaccompanied folk song. Later, when we were having coffee, Ryan came over to talk to me and complimented me on my voice. Before I left that night he’d asked me out.’