Every Time I Love You

by Graham, Heather

  “It comes from being pompous. Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Have dimples on your—rear.”

  “I really haven't the faintest idea.”

  He broke out laughing. “You haven't?”

  “No! I'd hardly run around staring at my own—”

  “Buttocks,” he supplied. “Come, come, Ms. Norman! You were an art major. You've got to know something about anatomy. Enough to call a spade a spade and—a buttock a buttock. Or a rear or a derriere or an ass—”

  “Enough!” Exasperated, Gayle stared at him. She tried to walk past him quickly, but he caught her arm and pulled her back. His warm breath caught her earlobe as he whispered, “I do believe you have dimples on your buttocks. I'm willing to bet on it. Has no lover ever mentioned such a thing, Ms. Norman?”

  “No!”

  “Then you have indeed been neglected. And I do intend to remedy such sad circumstances.”

  A flood of color washed over her and she pulled her arm away. She felt naked. She hadn't blushed in years and she had never felt at a loss for words with a man.

  Especially with a man who possessed such an overwhelming magnetism. One who called to every need and longing inside of her.

  Gayle slid his jacket from her shoulders and handed it to him. She walked on ahead of him to the table.

  The group had been dancing. Chad and Liz and Geoff and Tina, then Geoff and Liz and Chad and Tina. No one seemed to have noticed that Gayle and Brent had disappeared for any length of time. Or maybe they did. As Gayle slid in beside Geoff she felt his scrutiny, sensing that he was just barely containing a snicker. Geoffrey knew she'd been outside.

  She leaned back in the vinyl-padded booth and murmured, “No, the man isn't exactly a bearded hermit. When did you meet him, and how did all this come about?”

  Geoffrey sipped something that looked like a gimlet and raised his glass before his face.

  “I met him this morning—you knew he was coming into town. And I came here because you always talk about it.”

  “You might have warned me.”

  “Why on earth would I want to do that?” he demanded, chuckling softly. “You were so intent on meeting a bearded hermit.”

  “All right! I've admitted he's not a bearded hermit.”

  “He doesn't seem to smell too bad, either. I'll bet that he even bathes.”

  “Geoffrey—”

  “Gayle!” he protested innocently. “I did tell you—”

  “Liar! You told me you had an appointment!”

  “I did not lie. This is an appointment. You were so busy making fun of Madelaine—”

  “Boobs!” Gayle interjected.

  “I rest my point. Why should I have warned you that I might be out with a hermit?” He sipped his gimlet again and looked at her pensively over the rim of his glass. “Come to think of it, I did try to warn you. I wonder why. Can chemistry spark before two people meet?”

  Gayle glanced across the table, but Brent McCauley was busy answering a question Tina had asked him about his work habits. Chad laughed and broke in with something.

  Gayle glanced back to Geoffrey. He was still watching her in a brooding appraisal.

  “He wants you to sit for him, you know. It was the first thing he said when I pointed you out across the room. Before he even asked your name. He really thinks you'd be a fabulous subject.”

  “And you want to feed me to the wolf.”

  “I don't consider him a wolf. I think he's a nice guy. I like him a lot.”

  “A man's man?” Gayle taunted.

  Geoffrey exhaled. “He's intelligent, interesting, and fun. Yeah, a man's man. I like him. He's a person first, then an artist.”

  “You do! You want me to do it! To sit for him! Nude.”

  “God, you're making me sound like a pimp.”

  “Well, I won't do it, boss.”

  “Hey—your choice. This whole thing is in your hands.”

  “There is no 'whole thing,'” Gayle snapped. Then she smiled. “Say that he was a she. Would you do it?”

  “Sit in the buff?”

  “Yes.”

  Geoff laughed. “I'll pose for you anytime, sweetie.”

  “Oh, you're an awful liar!”

  “I'm not!”

  “All right. Maybe you would. Maybe Boobs stands before an easel every night—”

  “Don't you just wish you could be there!”

  Gayle started to laugh, amused, and not at all sure what Geoffrey really would or wouldn't do.

  “Hey...” Geoffrey lifted his hands with an exaggerated shrug, then turned from her to answer a question Chad had just asked about lighting in the gallery.

  They were all talking around her. Someone had ordered her a new Scotch, and Gayle quickly sipped at it. Once again she was seated across from Brent McCauley. When she tried to cross her legs she kicked him by mistake. He stopped speaking to Tina and looked at her, and his sexy arrogant smile slipped into place. He seemed to think she had kicked him on purpose to draw his attention.

  “I didn't,” she retorted, though he had said nothing out loud.

  “Pose for me,” he whispered.

  “No,” she mouthed in return.

  She wanted to go home. While everyone else was having a good time, she was burning up inside. She was in panic. She needed things to go slowly, very slowly, with a man. She couldn't deal with this kind of emotional assault. Her head was pounding. She began to wish that Brent McCauley had been an old hermit with a mile-long beard. When would this party break up?

  Not ever, or so it seemed. For a reclusive eccentric, Brent was friendly and funny. He had an ability to draw people out. He listened to stories about Liz's kids, and laughed about the foibles at Tina's spa. He and Chad seemed to be good friends, not just employer and employee. They all talked; they all had a nice time. And Gayle just couldn't bring herself to be the one to break it all up.

  Liz finally suggested that it was time to go; she had to get the baby-sitter home. Brent McCauley went to retrieve their coats for them. While Chad and Geoffrey stayed inside, Brent walked the three of them out to Liz's car.

  Gayle never entered it.

  Before she could, he caught her hand again, pulling her back to his side.

  “I'll drive Gayle home.”

  “You needn't—” Gayle began.

  “Are you sure?” Liz interrupted.

  “We've a few things to talk about. The show tomorrow, you know.”

  Gayle knew that she could have protested politely. She could have said that she was tired, that she would see him at the gallery. She could have said a dozen things. But she didn't. She stood there silently, her hand in his, as Liz and Tina and Brent talked.

  They exchanged pleasantries. Brent McCauley was a star, of sorts. Maybe it was natural that Liz and Tina seemed a little awed as they told him good night.

  But he was just as warm in return. He liked them, Gayle realized, and she was grateful without knowing why. He liked them as more than pretty women; he liked them as friends.

  When Liz's car drove away, the parking lot seemed very empty. The air was cool. They were silent together, watching Liz's taillights disappear.

  “Come on,” Brent said after a moment. “I'll take you home.”

  “You came in your own car?” She asked him. She was nervous. She wanted to be with him; she wanted to lock a door a mile thick between them.

  “We all brought our own cars.”

  “No one ever harasses you?”

  “No one knows who I am.”

  “They will tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Still, not many people really notice artists. But then again—maybe being there in person is a bad idea.”

  “Oh, no! You can't back out now! Geoffrey would be heartbroken.”

  “My work will be there, one way or another. It's already hung, isn't it?”

  “Yes. But, you might not like the way I arranged the paintings.”

  “Trying to guarantee I'll m
ake it, huh?”

  “It's true. I'm sure you want your own more aesthetic eye upon it all.”

  “Pose for me. You'll have a royal guarantee.”

  “Sorry. I can't be bribed.”

  “Too bad.”

  Brent stopped next to an old Mach I Mustang. “This is yours?” Gayle demanded, looking at the big black air scoops and wondering just how old the vehicle was.

  “It's mine.”

  He opened the passenger door for her. She sank into a nicely upholstered leather seat. He came around and sat down, quickly revving the engine, then looking at her.

  “I don't know where you live.”

  She gave him her address. A silence fell between them as he shifted out into traffic. She was almost afraid to speak. She had to know something about him.

  “Where do you live?” She asked.

  “North, towards Fredricksburg,” he answered shortly, then added, “a nice little house, with a big loft. I like it.”

  She nodded. It wasn't really what she wanted to ask him. She wanted to know if he was seeing anyone; she wanted to know just how many women he had had in his life. She wanted to know if he drank his coffee black, what he ate for breakfast, and if he slept in the nude or in pajama bottoms.

  The car stopped. She realized that they had come to Monument Avenue and her house. He wasn't moving to let her out. He had shifted casually, watching her in the shadows of night.

  She turned to him too. She didn't know if she should run or if she could possibly ask him in casually for coffee and brandy. She wanted to tell him that she was attracted to him but that he was moving way too fast for her. She didn't know what she really wanted at all, except that she didn't want him walking out of her life.

  She didn't say anything. She didn't know what possessed her, but she felt as if she had to touch him. She shifted; she reached over and cupped her palm around his cheek, feeling the stubble of his beard. She felt the pattern of his jaw and a pulse against his throat. And somehow she knew that if she kissed him he would remain passive for a moment, then become the aggressor, nearly ravaging her mouth.

  She brought her lips to his, lightly, and then she waited, but he didn't move. Some wonderful smell that was more pure male than cologne caused a riot of sensations to wash through her, and she hesitantly teased his lower lip with her tongue.

  His arms wrapped around her, strong and sure. And his mouth covered hers, his tongue plunged deeply and erotically into the recesses of her mouth. Odd, that he touched her lips and the excitement swept to her abdomen. It was wonderful. It filled a void; it began an aching.

  His fingers shoved at her coat, parting it. She felt his hand on her breast, thumbs teasing her nipples beneath the material. He wasn't still. His hand was on her thigh in record time.

  It was too fast, yet it was incredibly natural. She barely pulled back in time and when she did, she was flushed and felt ashamed. It was her own fault. She had led him on. She wanted him, she wanted everything. It was still wrong, and she had never acted this way before in her life. Like a tease.

  “What's the matter?” he asked.

  “I'm sorry.” She wrapped her coat around her shoulders. She couldn't look at him. “I'm sorry, really. It's my fault. I—uh—I don't do things like this. Not until I've known someone for a long, long time.”

  He didn't say anything for a while. At last he opened the car door and came around for her.

  “You don't have to walk me in,” Gayle said miserably.

  “Yes, I do.”

  She fell silent. He led her along the walk and to her door. He didn't try to come in. She stood there, awkward, ready to cry. In the hall light, he seemed very mature, very much the man. She thought again that he was striking, that he had everything, that he was fascinating, and that she longed to rest her head against his shoulder. She didn't dare.

  He touched her cheek.

  “Next time, my love, be ready to finish what you start.”

  “I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

  “Then don't kiss me again—until you do mean it.”

  “You don't understand. I said that I was sorry.”

  “I do understand. And I know that you're sorry. I'm just telling you—be sure that you do mean all of your actions in the future.”

  “You needn't worry,” she promised him softly as she twisted her key in the lock. “There really isn't going to be a future.”

  “Yes, there is. We both know that.”

  She raised her head to protest. The moonlight was falling down upon his dark hair, upon his wide shoulders. Gayle trembled, aware of the shadows that played across his face. She parted her lips to speak, but no words would come.

  “Good night, Gayle,” he said politely. “I'll see you at the gallery tomorrow.”

  He turned and walked back down the path to his car. Gayle stepped into the house and locked the door, still trembling.

  She kicked her shoes off and pulled out her oldest flannel nightgown. She washed her face and brushed her teeth and tried to go to sleep.

  “He's the most obnoxious man I've ever met,” she assured the ceiling. Tomorrow would come, the showing would take place, and then he would leave and she would never have to see him again.

  Her heart began to thunder painfully. No...

  She tossed and turned in bed. She touched her lips and remembered how his had felt there, and then she started to burn, realizing that she was wondering how he would look naked.

  And how he would feel naked, lying beside her. Here, in this bed.

  It was a strange night for Gayle. She continued to toss and turn for hours, and when she did sleep she fell into a realm of deep, deep dreams.

  CHAPTER 3

  Percy

  Williamsburg, Virginia May 1774

  The first time he saw her—the very first time—he knew that he would move heaven and earth to have her.

  And he learned quickly that such a miracle might very well be required.

  It was a beautiful day in May. The sun had just dried the dew on the grass and cleared away the mist as Percy at long last reached the road into Williamsburg. Although the journey had been long, he smiled, enjoying the simple beauty of the day. It was almost as if life were just beginning; there was so much splendor in nature all around him.

  The roads were slushy that May. As he rode into town, Percy ruefully acknowledged the fact that he was covered with mud from his boots to his tricorn. His neat cream breeches were spotted in several places, and even his navy coat betrayed soiled spots. Well, it couldn't be helped.

  Once he'd had Goliath shod at the blacksmith's, he'd head straight for Mr. Griffith's tavern and see about his own appearance. He was much more accustomed to buckskins and unbleached cotton, but Colonel Washington had warned him that maintaining an elegant appearance might well help him sway citizens to the rebel's position.

  “What, whoa there, Percy!”

  The cry came from the green before the tavern, just down the road from the Governor's house. “James!” Percy smiled and called the greeting, sliding from Goliath's back. James Whitstead, his friend from the next county, came hurrying toward him, his hand outstretched in greeting. Percy accepted it with enthusiasm.

  “Why, Percy, look at you, will you!” James demanded, standing back to survey him. “Where's my country clod, eh? You're looking fine, man, I tell you, with or without the buckskin!” He tapped his knuckles against Percy's shoulder. “No wig though. Alas! How gauche. We'll work on appearance.”

  “We'll work on nothing,” Percy promised, absently pulling upon the dark queue of his own hair. He looked past James and saw that an older man was approaching them, a pleasant smile on his face.

  “He'll not need a wig, I daresay,” the man observed, shaking Percy's hand firmly. “I daresay he'll do quite well with our ladies, eh? From what I've seen, a fine pair of shoulders and a gleam in the eye, such as this lad's, do greater wonders upon the, ahem—soul—than any flight of fashion.”

  “I thank you, si
r!” Percy laughed and eagerly surveyed the gentleman. He was Patrick Henry, the great orator who had first filled him with revolutionary fervor. Henry was not an old man—on the contrary, he was not yet forty. But James and Percy had both just passed their twentieth birthdays, and Henry appeared very mature to them. He also was a man of formidable presence. When he spoke, the walls seemed to shake and shiver.

  “Will you have a pint with us, Percy?” young James demanded.

  “Aye, I will. Goliath has shed a shoe and as soon as I've had him tended to, I'll be glad of a pint. If—”

  He broke off because he was forced to do so. A carriage came sweeping along so quickly that Goliath reared and shied. More mud came sloshing over his clothing, his boots, his breeches—and even Goliath.

  “God's blood!” Percy swore, then he laughed with a fair share of hostility for the speeding carriage, for its haste caused sure disaster as the axle cracked, the wheel flew off, and the frame crashed neatly to the ground.

  “Ah, sir! See what your rudeness has accomplished!” Patrick called.

  The coachman, a slim, dour-faced fellow in the Governor's livery, cast an evil glare their way. He hopped to the ground, eager to reach the doors. Yet when he stood, he began to walk dizzily in a circle and then fell to the ground.

  Percy raced over to him, ducking down to seek a pulse. He looked up at the other two. “He is alive.”

  They'd attracted a gathering then. A hostile one, so it seemed, for in these grievous days no one could quite decide who was friend or foe.

  “Dazed, I suppose,” called someone.

  “Racing through here like a hellion, 'tis what he deserved.”

  “On the damned Governor's business!” someone else swore.

  “Give the poor man aid!” cried one goodwife, and she hurried to the crowd, smiling at Percy before she knelt by the fellow, a cool cloth in her hand to bathe his face.

  Percy turned to the carriage then, aware that someone must be inside it. He stood and started to walk toward it and then started to run. He reached the doors just as they flew open, and the woman appeared. Actually, she was little more than a girl. A bit of a thing, scrambling from the cockeyed angle of the coach to gain her balance and jump down, her voluminous skirts and petticoats hindering her progress. She caught hold of the door and saw Percy's eyes upon her and the laughter deep within them.