by Shelby Reed
As soon as the music box sound shattered the silence in its sickly sweet way, Colm knew.
Max was calling Sydney’s cell phone, barreling between them once again with his passive-aggressive bullshit and mixed messages. Before Colm left this world, he’d have to know why in hell Max would hire him and then do his damnedest to get in the way. Despite whatever lies this guy had told himself, he didn’t want Colm to succeed. Maybe he wanted to fool himself into thinking he and Sydney had something remaining to build on. Meanwhile she stood in the arms of another man and cried, and soft jazz vocals played in the background. Colm wanted to strip her naked, pull her to the floor, and bury himself deep inside her.
Sydney didn’t seem to hear the phone; if she did, she ignored it. She tightened her arms around his neck and offered her mouth to him, tears still streaking her beautiful face.
And God, Colm wanted that mouth, the salt of those tears on his tongue. He nudged his nose against her damp cheek and took her exhale between his lips.
Mozart started a fresh round on her cell phone, insistent and discordant mixed with Sade’s sinuous vocals echoing from the boom box. Sydney finally seemed to hear it and went still in his embrace.
“Don’t,” he whispered, but it was no use.
When she opened her eyes and looked at him, dazed, he sighed.
Flushed, she slid her arms from his neck, stepped back, and looked around for the phone, even though it sat right on the paint table where she usually kept it.
“Your worktable,” he offered in a low voice, and she hurried there, grabbed it, and looked at the screen. He could tell by the way she bit her lip and shoved her hair behind her ear that his suspicion was correct—Max. Thank God the man was going to Chicago and leaving Colm to his work with the few days that remained.
Sydney’s fingers trembled a little as she eased onto the barstool and dialed her cell phone. After another second, she said, “Hi. I was painting. What’s up?” Pause. “He’s right here. Do you want to talk to him?” Her blue eyes met Colm’s across the six feet between them. “Okay, I’ll tell him. No, that’s fine, I was winding up for the night.”
That understatement brought a rueful smile to Colm’s face and he had to turn away. He went to the stage, grabbed his shirt, and pulled it on, grateful for the barrier against the studio’s coolness, which had begun to seep into his muscles.
“I’ll get up with you in the morning,” Sydney was telling Max. “We’ll have coffee before you leave for the airport.”
Coffee. Not sex, not laughter, not intimacy. Coffee. Colm shook his head and tucked in his shirt.
When she hung up the call, she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her paint smock and spoke in the same composed voice with which she’d addressed her boyfriend. “Max wants to see you at the house before you go to bed. He’s leaving by dawn and needs to arrange early payment with you.”
Just in case Colm could get her into bed and screw her all night. Double the money. He kept his head down and focused on buttoning his fly. He couldn’t forget the way Sydney’s fingers had unfastened it, pushing the buttons through their holes. The image sent a surge straight to his cock, and he immediately shifted his thoughts to the man in the wheelchair. A fresh chill stole his lust. “Maybe he shouldn’t pay me before I’ve finished my work.”
“Why not? Are you going to bail on me?”
When he looked up, she had leaned the ruined canvas against the wall and was on her knees, wiping paint from the floor with mineral spirits and a rag. The pungent smell rose up, reminding him of the artist she was and again, how much he desired her.
“What happened a few minutes ago was my fault,” she went on, without giving him a chance to respond. “I want to thank you for putting up with me during my mini-nervous breakdown. It won’t happen again.” The words came wry and a little husky. She scrubbed harder. “I hope you’ll forgive me for any untoward behavior I’ve exhibited.”
He slid his hands in his front pockets and stood there, bemused. “Untoward behavior? Is that what you call it?”
“It was inappropriate.” She reached for another rag. The paint on the concrete floor had mixed into a messy, rosy smear. “I fell apart, you were here, and I took advantage of that.”
“Funny. I was thinking it was the real you coming out, and I kind of liked her. And I thought she might kind of like me, too.”
Her head jerked up and she stared at him. “Well, I’m sorry for all of it.” For a moment she held his gaze, then shook her head and returned to her task. “You should go to the house now. Max is heading to bed soon.”
Colm didn’t know why anger curdled the satisfaction that had lingered from their embrace. He wasn’t supposed to care about either of these people or their twisted lives, and yet he reveled in Sydney as much as he despised Beaudoin.
He put on his loafers and jacket and headed for the door. It squeaked when he opened it, cold air rushing in to snatch his breath. “For what it’s worth,” he said, pausing on the threshold, “nothing about your behavior seemed inappropriate to me. Lonely? Yes. Frustrated and confused? All that and more. I’m glad I was here for your mini-breakdown. I’d like to be here every time it happens, and during your happier moments, too. Now that I’ve heard you cry, I’d like to hear you laugh, Sydney. I’d like to learn your smile.”
She laid the rags on the worktable, then rubbed her hands on her jeans-clad thighs. “Your friend Garrett will be here at seven tomorrow, right?”
“That’s what I told him.”
“Good. I won’t need you till then.”
Colm nodded and didn’t look back as he pulled the door shut behind him. There was no more reaching her tonight.
* * *
Will you have a drink?” Beaudoin wheeled himself to a butler’s cart and snatched up a crystal decanter of cognac.
“Sure.” Colm stood in the middle of the library and looked around while he waited. Row after row of burgundy and gold-spined books, everything matching, balanced and just-so. No John Grisham or Louis L’Amour here, Colm thought wryly. Nothing in the massive, high-ceilinged room promised comfort, warmth, or satisfaction, not even the crackling flames in the fireplace. The space was a mirror reflection of Max: cold and completely unreadable.
Max rolled around with a snifter of brandy in one hand and maneuvered his way to Colm. “You’re standing there like a soldier. Why not have a seat?”
Colm took the snifter and chose the nearest chair, a leather wingback with brass nailhead trim. “I know you paid Azure up front for the two weeks, so you don’t want to see me about money. Why am I here?”
“Am I not allowed to ask you how things are progressing?” Max poured his own glass of brandy and returned. “After all, Sydney is mine.”
Colm swallowed a curse along with a mouthful of brandy. He wanted to toss it back like a shot and then tell the guy to go screw himself. “If you say so,” he said when he could talk around the burn in his throat.
“So?” Max wheeled closer, so close that the tips of his shoes nearly touched Colm’s shins. He was in Colm’s space in more ways than one. “How’s it going with her?”
Colm held the man’s steely eyes. “It’s going.”
“That’s all?”
“It will go a lot better when you leave town.”
“You think she’ll be unfaithful to me.”
“I don’t know,” Colm said. “I can’t tell what she’s thinking.” He tried not to remember the way they’d stood in the studio, his cheek on hers, their mouths so close. How much did Max deserve to know? All of it. He was paying. Colm had nearly forgotten his own reason for being there.
“May I speak frankly?” He folded his arms and sat back to escape the man’s close proximity.
Max seemed to take the hint. He wheeled back a few feet, swirled his brandy and gave it a sip. “All right.”
“I don’t think you want this thing to succeed.”
The faint derision Max usually wore in Colm’s presence faded a little. “Of
course I don’t.”
“And yet you’ll pay me double if I get her into bed.”
“Only for exposing her as the whore she’ll be if she falls prey.”
Colm gritted his teeth. “Falling prey to a man who pays attention to her, keeps her company, and listens to what she has to say? You think that makes her a whore?”
“You have no idea what our lives are like in private, or how I meet her needs.” Max wheeled away, headed for a refill.
“I know she feels hurt a lot. Earlier tonight, you threatened her with being replaced as an artist and maybe even as your lover.” Anger knotted in his chest. “Does that inspire love in a woman like Sydney? Is she a masochist?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know her.”
“Bullshit. I saw how she looked at you on Saturday morning when you walked into our house.”
Colm’s frown deepened as he sat forward, forearms on his knees. “She looks at everyone like that. She paints them in her mind. Hasn’t she ever painted you?”
“That’s not my thing.” Max studied his drink. “I’m sure by now she has let you in more than you’ll tell me. Those little sessions in the studio provide all kinds of opportunity for intimacy. Has she told you we’ve been distant for the last few months?”
“You mean in bed?”
Max opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head and said quietly, “I’m a shell of what I used to be with her. Sydney’s been very patient, but I can’t stand the martyrdom, the good-natured tolerance. This . . . this invalid shit—” He whirled to face the fireplace. “I believe she will eventually leave me because of what I can’t give her. Best to find out now than drag on for years.”
Colm drained the rest of his brandy, determined to feel no pity for him. “You made a big mistake by threatening her like you did tonight.”
“My replacing her is a very real possibility if she doesn’t snap out of whatever phase she’s been going through these past few weeks.” Max’s smooth tone returned. “Her work is losing its heat; she’s losing interest in what has made her so wealthy.”
“That’s because what she really wants is to do portraiture.”
“Portraits are a dime a dozen in this field. She won’t get anywhere with it. And make no mistake about it, Hennessy, I will ruin her as an artist in this town if she fucks you. The new girl in Chicago is no threat, she’s a fact. I’m merely thinking ahead.”
Colm set his snifter on a nearby table and stood. “If it’s that easy for you to move on, why don’t you just let Sydney go?”
“Because I love her,” Max said flatly. “Why else would I go to so much trouble to protect myself and what belongs to me?”
Colm almost laughed. Almost. “I don’t understand you one goddamned bit. But as I said, that’s not my job.”
“No.” Max’s smirk returned. “However, you’re serving a purpose. You have ten days to earn your extra money, and if you fail, well—this entire thing will be cash well spent for me either way.”
Colm looked at him for a long moment before he opened the library door. “Thank you for the brandy.”
“I won’t see you again,” Max said, wheeling too quickly toward him. Rushing, nearly, a vehicle out of control. “Leave your real home address with Hans so I can mail you your check for the extra funds. If necessary, of course.”
It was Colm’s turn to smile. “And who would I tell if I do accomplish what you’re asking me to do? I can’t imagine you’d take my word for it.”
“Not usually.” Max looked thoughtful, then drew a breath. “However, we’re partners in this. And partners have to trust each other.”
The fist squeezing Colm’s throat tightened. “I hadn’t thought of you as a partner.”
“Oh, yes. You and I, partners in crime. But in the end, I won’t need to ask you anything. I’ll know it all simply by looking at Sydney’s face.”
Suddenly Colm couldn’t stand another minute spent in the same room with him. “Is that all?”
“Leave your personal number, too, in case I have any questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
The corner of Max’s mouth curled up in reply.
Sickened, Colm stepped into the foyer and shut the door between them. He prayed the man was right—that their contact would be severed now. He never wanted to lay eyes on the son of a bitch again.
* * *
Sydney didn’t see Colm on Wednesday during the day. When she walked across the yard to her studio, his black Ford Explorer was gone. That empty parking space did something funny to her insides—left them feeling empty, too. Throughout the day she took breaks from painting and stepped out onto the studio porch to watch for him, but by nightfall he hadn’t yet returned. What if he didn’t show up for their appointment with the other models tonight? What if he’d truly had enough and had taken off permanently?
Frustration held a tight grip on her chest by the time the studio door squeaked open. Her heart gave a hopeful leap, but it wasn’t Colm. A tall, tawny-haired man stepped into the room, and instantly Sydney jolted off the barstool.
“Hi.” His smile faded as he took in her defensive stance. “Sydney, right? I’m Garrett.”
Garrett. A friend of Colm’s, someone he liked and trusted. And she trusted Colm. But where the hell was he?
She took a breath, tried to laugh at herself for being so nervous, and failed. “Hi, Garrett. It’s a pleasure.” She forced herself to meet him halfway across the studio. “Colm has told me a lot about you.”
He grinned. “I’m scared to ask.”
“Nothing too incriminating. Thanks so much for accommodating me, by the way. I know it was short notice.”
They clasped hands. His palm was warm and dry; he offered a friendly squeeze and didn’t linger, which helped put her at ease. Relaxing a little, she took a second glance at him and found him to be all-American attractive with wavy, light brown hair and blue eyes that could make a girl feel warm in her skin. Nothing like the flutter Colm set to life in her stomach every time she looked at him, though.
Nothing like Colm.
He nodded at the platform. “Is that where the magic happens?”
“I hope so. Colm had the day off,” she added. “I’m waiting for him and the other model, Cherise, to get here before I explain what I’m envisioning tonight.” She started toward the coffeemaker. “Do you like French roast?”
When he hesitated, she glanced over her shoulder at him and had to smile at the disappointment on his face. “You prefer something a little stronger?”
“It might help relax things.”
Good point.
He gave an approving nod when she withdrew a fresh bottle of Shiraz from the weathered cabinet. She poured him a paper cup full and one for herself. Colm was now five minutes late.
“Here’s to your dream ménage à trois,” Garrett said, his smile disappearing behind his cup. He drank his wine in one swallow, so she poured him more, and then he wandered over to her workstation and picked up a tube of paint. “Oils?”
“Acrylics. It forces me to work fast.”
“Colm said you were really talented.”
She waved a hand. “Oh, I think that’s all subjective.”
“And his subjective opinion, Sydney, is that you hang the moon.”
She didn’t know what to say. Relief battled with bemusement when the door swung open and Colm stepped into the studio.
“Hey.” He sounded breathless, as though he’d jogged to get there. He brought the crisp, fragrant autumn into the room with him. Sydney had the ridiculous urge to shoo Garrett away and put Colm alone on the platform, where she would capture him anew on canvas just as he was, in his jeans and jacket, flushed and a little ruffled from the November wind. And when his gaze collided with hers, electricity buzzed through her limbs.
“Wine?” she asked him, snatching up a paper cup. “We’re relaxing before we begin.”
Colm stopped beside his friend and grasped his hand
in a brief shake. “Relaxing, huh? Your influence?”
Garrett grinned. “Of course.”
Sydney handed Colm his cup then left the men to talk while she alternately readied her workstation and sipped her wine. She’d never felt self-conscious with models before, but suddenly she couldn’t quite envision the men entangled with beautiful Cherise, or how it would feel to witness the unquestionable sensuality of the night ahead. A thread of anticipation went through her at the idea of watching Colm in action with other people, hints of what he looked like when he touched a woman in carnal need. Slow warmth seeped through her at the idea, compliments of wayward arousal and wine drunk too quickly.
Cherise, of course, ran late. When she half stumbled through the door, Sydney glanced at her watch and raised her eyebrows.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry. My GPS broke and I was sure I could find this place without it. This neighborhood is way the hell out here!” She hopped off the ramp and slid out of her fitted leather coat, exposing a body clad in a tight chartreuse sweater and even tighter jeans. “Are these guys my victims for the night?”
“We are, thank God.” Garrett approached her and took her hand. When a pleased flush reddened her cheeks, he upped the ante and lifted her knuckles to his lips. “I’d hoped you be gorgeous.”
She flashed him a saucy smile.
Colm rolled his eyes at Sydney from behind his cup and she bit back a laugh. She cleared her throat and offered Cherise the obligatory Shiraz, which, to Sydney’s surprise, the girl politely waved away.
“I feel more sensuous in my skin when I’m smoking weed,” she explained.
Sydney sighed. “I don’t have any weed.”
“No big deal,” Cherise said with a shrug. “I can fly sober.”
Garrett’s grin widened, but Colm didn’t react. He was watching Sydney with an intensity that made her stomach feel light and fluttery. The sexual tension in the room sent galvanized thrills through her nerves. “Let’s get started.”
“Naked right away?” Garrett asked.
“Yes. There’s a changing room over there and robes for everyone.”
