Every Time I Love You

by Graham, Heather

  Brent McCauley was at one of the little round hors d'oeuvres tables—pouring out two glasses of champagne. He arched a brow at Gayle. She was still breathless. She noted the champagne; she saw Riva, talking with Chad and a bearded art buyer in front of the painting of the lovers.

  “Well, Ms. Norman, how am I doing? Should I still be cleaning sewers? I've done my very best to be on good behavior.”

  She ignored his question. She looked straight into the black depths of his eyes.

  “Do you still want me to pose for you?”

  He was motionless for a moment, as if he were analyzing her question. His brow arched higher and his gaze raked over her curiously. “You've had a change of heart? Last night, I couldn't even bribe you. You've suddenly decided to bare it all?”

  “Do you want me to pose or not?”

  Looking amused and skeptical, he hesitated just a second longer.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “All right.”

  “That simple?”

  Why was he making it so painful now? “Yes.”

  He extended a hand to her. She took it and felt the warmth spread into her chilled fingers. “It's a deal then, Ms. Norman.”

  She wet her lips. “When?”

  “No time better than the present.”

  “What?”

  “Tonight. I'd like to start tonight.”

  Gayle heard the enthusiasm in his voice. He told her again how he intended to pose her, and she knew that he meant it—there was no time like the present. He could have started right then and there in the gallery. He said something about color and lights, angle and slope, and she felt shivers again. What had she promised?

  “Brent?”

  Riva had come to the table.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Brent apologized. “Champagne, Riva. I am sorry. I got sidetracked. I didn't mean to take so long.” He handed Riva a glass of champagne and she smiled as she accepted it. She complimented Gayle on the arrangements; Gayle thanked her.

  The three of them talked a moment longer. Riva watched Gayle and she watched Brent McCauley. Then she excused herself and left them.

  “Did you...make previous plans?” Gayle asked him.

  He shook his head.

  “Oh, I thought—”

  “She's a nice woman.”

  “Very,” Gayle agreed. Exotic, beautiful, Gayle added in silence to herself.

  Brent stepped a little closer to her, picking up a cracker, piling black caviar on it.

  “She knows.”

  “She knows what?”

  “She's a savvy lady.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She knows that she's attractive and very, very sexy. She's a sensual, generous woman. And ordinarily I would have been very receptive to everything she could wish to give.”

  “You are terribly obnoxious, you know.”

  “You think so? I think I'm honest.”

  “I said, if you've made previous plans—”

  “No, no. You don't listen, Ms. Norman. I didn't make any plans. Although I might have done so. Riva is beautiful. She just isn't—you. She's charming and sophisticated and—she knew. She stood here and saw that I had made a previous commitment.”

  “You've no commitment to me.”

  “But I do.” He smiled and sipped his champagne. She wasn't sure she liked his smug look. Like the cat that had eaten the canary. “Did you have previous plans for the evening?”

  “Yes. No. What difference would it really make? We don't have to start tonight. I rather thought you might like to work in the daytime. Don't artists prefer natural light?”

  “It depends on what they have in mind.” It could have been an innuendo; it wasn't. He told her how he wanted the painting to have a hazy dreamlike quality. “False light, a soft beacon in the night, that's exactly what I have in mind.”

  “I don't know,” Gayle murmured. “It's been a long day. Maybe tomorrow would be better—”

  “Tomorrow is a Saturday. Geoff won't be opening the gallery. We should start tonight. It's only about eight fifteen, and the reception seems to be winding down.”

  “But—”

  “Are you trying to back out on me? My house isn't even an hour's drive from the city. We'll leave soon.”

  He picked up one of the fine crystal champagne glasses and pulled a bottle of the Dom Perignon from the ice. He poured, then thrust the glass into her hand. He picked up his own glass and touched it to hers with a little clink.

  “The deal is made, Ms. Norman.”

  * * *

  A half hour later, she was in his old Mach I, watching as the city flew by her, silently promising herself that she would never drink champagne again. It was a very dark night on the highway, and very cold. She wasn't even able to talk to him; she sat huddled in the bucket seat, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. He didn't seem to notice. He was carrying on a conversation by himself, explaining that he wanted to start with a preliminary sketch and, once he did, she would understand what he had in mind, and be pleased.

  “I'm...sure,” Gayle murmured uneasily. She glanced his way, watching the night lights play over the contours of his face.

  “Riva probably would have gone just to be with you, you know,” she heard herself tell him.

  “What?” Amused, he glanced her way quickly. He was still smiling as he looked ahead at the road again. “Yeah, I think that you're right. I think that she and I might have had the same finale in mind.”

  “I—I've warned you. I don't. Maybe I didn't play fair. We could turn around. Maybe you could still catch Riva.”

  He shook his head in the darkness. His smile remained in place. “A smile from you,” he teased, “is worth total ecstasy from another woman.”

  “Oh, please, don't laugh at me. I have a god-awful headache.”

  “Do you? Poor baby. You can't just guzzle down champagne that way.”

  Eventually they left the highway and started down a rural route that was even darker. It seemed to Gayle that they twisted and turned endlessly before they came to a walled estate, the brick of the wall nearly hidden by a profusion of skeletal trees. Brent used a little plastic card to cause the wrought-iron gate to open, and they started along a curving, ebony ribbon of driveway. When they came to the entrance of the house and parked beneath the massive portico, Gayle realized that the house wasn't old at all, as the brick wall had seemed to imply. It was a contemporary dwelling. From the portico she could see the living room through massive plate-glass windows. There was an immense granite mantle at the far wall before which were leather sofas and chairs in soft grayish-beige to complement the stone.

  “You like it?”

  He hadn't stepped out of the car. He was surveying her in the dim light beneath the portico.

  “Yes.”

  “No, you don't.”

  “I'd imagined you in something different. A real Colonial, something with more...character, I suppose.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I do like old places. We've one in the family, though, already. I like this house because it gives me the privacy I need; I loved the woods here.” He opened the door and stepped out of the car at last, walking around to open her door. Her knees were a little shaky. He kept a hand on her elbow and led her to the front door. He rang the bell and she frowned at him curiously. He grinned.

  “My housekeeper should be here. She and her husband live on the grounds.”

  “Oh.” Gayle was certain that she blushed again. She'd been so convinced he wanted to seduce her.

  “You thought I meant to steal you away and ravish you.”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Oh.” She felt his eyes on her and pretended to study the house through the windows.

  No one came to the door. Brent swore slightly and searched through various pockets in his trousers and coat until he found his keys. He opened the door, and ushered her in.

  It was really magnificent. Wide-open space met her gaze. The living room stretched from one side of the house
to the other, with soft cream carpeting subtly switching to cool tan Mexican tiles. There was a long stairway at the rear of the room.

  “Mary!” Brent called out. There was no answer. He glanced at Gayle and shrugged. “She must be in the kitchen. Excuse me.”

  He disappeared to the right of the room through a multipaned doorway. Gayle felt so nervous about being alone with Brent that she couldn't quite leave the entryway, raised about a foot over the even level of the floor.

  He came back with a slip of paper in his hand and a rueful shrug. “Her grandson broke an arm playing football. She's in town with the little boy. Ralph must be with her.”

  “Oh.” Gayle still couldn't leave the entryway. He smiled. She gazed at him, thinking that he was a very handsome man who looked like a gallant from the past.

  “Well, come in,” he said a bit impatiently. “I won't bite you.”

  She stepped into the room. He came to take her coat, not hanging it up but tossing it over the back of one of the leather chairs. “Can I get you anything? A glass of wine, a soda?”

  She shook her head, sliding nervously into one of the leather couches. If he was aware of the panic streaking through her, he gave her no sign. He began to pull his tie from his neck, struggling slightly with the knot.

  “I'll show you the studio and the dressing room.” He reached for her hand, found it, and pulled her to her feet. He led her up the stairs to the top landing.

  The studio was located directly above the living room. Stacks and stacks of canvases lined the walls, some with pencil sketches, some with dabs of paint. A large table held tubes and bottles of paints and remover and brushes. His easel stood near the table. A massive skylight practically filled the ceiling and the room was surrounded by windows.

  He left her standing in the middle of the room and selected a canvas and fit it upon the easel. “You needn't worry about the windows; we're surrounded by woods. Completely private.” He paused at last, looking at her. “You're all right?”

  She nodded, even though she wasn't all right at all. She was very nervous, freezing one moment, hot the next. She wondered why she was there but, even then, as she watched him, she knew that she had come because she hadn't been able to let him leave without her. He had fascinated her, excited her—compelled her.

  “Good, good,” he murmured to her. He brusquely led her to a small section of the room in the corner and pulled back a heavy curtain. “This is the dressing room. Select a robe. I'm going to change. I'll be right back.”

  Then he was gone, and she was left standing there alone. She looked around the little corner; there were hangers and wall hooks. She saw a thick white terry robe and reached for it, but it slipped from her hand. She couldn't do it. She couldn't.

  No! She had to—she was here. She would do it. It was no big deal. She thought of all the nudes she had sketched in art school. The model was just a body. The artist was completely detached. She could do it. Brent McCauley had, certainly, in his day, sketched hundreds of nude bodies.

  She slipped off her shoes and wondered why she still didn't feel quite real. Maybe that was a bonus too. It wasn't really her here, it was the strange woman who had drunk too much champagne this evening and too impulsively volunteered.

  Reluctantly, she took off her panty hose. She bit her lower lip and felt chills sweep through her. She couldn't do it. No, she had said that she would. She fumbled for the zipper at the back of her velvet dress and then hastily pulled the garment over her head. She hugged it to her, then slipped it onto one of the garment hooks. She quickly unfastened her bra, then hid it beneath the dress.

  Then she realized that she was standing on a cold floor in an open room in nothing but peach string panties with see-through lace panels. She hugged her arms around her bare breasts and shivered and had to swallow down her sense of panic. She couldn't do it. She knew now for a fact that she just couldn't do it. When Brent came back, she would apologize profusely for leading him on in this manner. She wouldn't have him drive her back; she would call a cab.

  She pressed her hands against her cheeks. What would he think of her? First last night...and now this. She could never accuse him of dishonesty, so there was no excuse for her own behavior.

  “Gayle? I'm going to have you—”

  She spun around, startled at first, then horrified to realize that she hadn't pulled the curtain closed. She was just standing there, practically naked. And Brent McCauley was back in the studio. He had changed into jeans and a denim work shirt. He was standing a mere few feet away from her, staring at her.

  He was silent for the longest time. She couldn't move. She stared into his eyes, ebony-dark eyes with a slow-burning flame in them.

  “My God,” he breathed out at last, and the desire in his eyes seemed to touch her like a caress. She still could not move; she could barely breathe. She remembered vaguely that she had intended to apologize to him and leave. Her intention meant nothing now. Nothing had meaning, except for the touch of his eyes upon her.

  “Come here. Come to me,” he whispered to her.

  And she knew that they were not talking about art anymore, that this had nothing to do with modeling or posing.

  But, God help her, she was responding. She couldn't have denied his demand, not if her life had depended upon it.

  The distance between them seemed to be incredibly long. She moved slowly, as if a compelling force were drawing her ever closer to him. All the while she felt his eyes locked upon hers. She could not look away from him. Her arms fell to her sides; her fingers clenched and unclenched; she felt the cold of the floor with each step. And then she was before him. Not touching him, a breath away. She saw the clean-shaven texture of his chin and the little nick where he had caught himself with his razor. She saw a blue vein in his throat, throbbing. She felt his scent all around her, heavily male, and then she saw his eyes again, so deathly dark, so fascinating.

  His hands cupped her cheeks. Then his long fingers stroked and caressed her face. It was an artist's touch. A lover's touch.

  She didn't move. She couldn't move. Tremors seized her, and still she could not tear her eyes from the fascinating darkness of his. His touch, so light, left her face. His hands slid down the slope of her shoulders, caressed the outward curves of her breasts, and settled upon her waist.

  Then he knelt before her.

  She first felt the heat of his breath, then shatteringly, the warmth of his tongue creating patterns over and through the lace panties that covered her. She cried out softly, gripping his shoulders lest she fall, stunned by the sensation that ripped through her. Nothing had ever been so keen in her life; nothing had ever left her so bereft of thought or reason. Nothing had ever been so blindingly intense as his touch, so blatantly intimate, so sensual, so stirring, so exciting.

  The friction, the heat, the wetness, the probe and stroke of his tongue against her...the feelings washed through her with the force of a storm. Sweetness like honey flooded her; she shook and trembled and could barely stand, and only when it was so good that it was painful, that she could bear no more, did she begin to think to protest. To no avail. Frantically she whispered words, incoherent words, to which he paid no mind. His hand rounded her buttocks, his fingers played within the lace, and with a snap it was gone. Nothing stood between them and he knew no mercy. He played upon her leisurely but surely, like a master who knew her most erogenous zones. First he touched her lightly, then deeply, tormenting her with pleasure.

  She screamed as she reached a delicious release. Then so utterly weak in her limbs that she could not stand, she collapsed, falling upon him. Then, just as intense as her pleasure had been, she felt shame. She curled into herself, away from him, then sprang to her feet, sobbing. She lurched for the dressing room, desperate for something, anything, to cover herself.

  “Gayle!”

  She heard his command, loud and ringing and harsh. She stood still, then felt his hands upon her shoulders, firm and tender. “Gayle, Gayle, Gayle...” Just her
name whispered so gently.

  “Oh, my God, I said that I didn't...and then I just stood there while you—and I don't do this kind of thing with a stranger, and, oh, my God! I've never done this type of thing, ever...I don't—”

  “Look at me.”

  “No!” She spoke in fervent horror.

  “Sweetheart.” His kiss grazed her hair. He turned her into his arms and she buried her face against his chest. “I know that you don't because I don't. I swear to you, I never meant it to happen. Not here. Not now. I never meant to take such an advantage. Look at me, dammit, will you?”

  She really had no choice because his fingers were in her hair, and her head was arching back. She was astounded by the emotion betrayed in his eyes.

  “This is special. We're special. Good God, can't you see that yet? Can't you feel it, can't you admit that you feel it?” He demanded ardently.

  “Tell me that you want me.”

  He leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth. The salt of her tears mingled with the taste of his mouth. She came closer and closer to him until he had lifted her against him.

  “Tell me,” he whispered the words, his lips hovering just above her own. She stared into his eyes, feeling weak. She clung to him for support.

  “Tell me!” he insisted.

  “I...want you.”

  He swept her into his arms and gave her a ravaging kiss as he strode from the studio. She didn't know where they were going; she didn't really care.

  He moved quickly with long, strong steps. He paused, kicking open a door with the toe of his shoe.

  They came into his bedroom. Gayle never saw what it looked like that night. They entered in darkness and he laid her on the bed and all she knew then was sound. The thud of his shoes, the rasp of his zipper, the whispery noise as he cast his shirt and briefs aside. Then he was back beside her.

  She was able to touch him; to feel his shoulders, run her fingers over his cheeks. Run her hands along his muscular body. He groaned. She felt him shift his weight so that he was on top of her. He nudged her thigh with his knee, and she felt his breath and heard the anguish of his whisper.