There was a thread of impatience in her voice, a hint of frustration. But then Grace wasn’t a person who liked staying still. She was always moving, always doing something, and this enforced inaction wouldn’t be easy for her.
“I thought you wanted to paint.” He moved onto the next nail, laying down a smooth coat of polish. “Wasn’t that the idea?”
“I do want to paint. But … I don’t know. It feels wrong to do that when you’re busy trying to save my life.”
He flashed her a look. “I thought you had a deadline.”
“Yes, I do, but—”
“I’ll get rid of the arms dealers. You do the painting. That’s more important, understand?”
For some reason she glanced away. “What makes you say that?”
He stared at her, puzzled. Should he really be the one pointing this out to her? When she’d made such a fuss about having her canvases in the first place?
“You don’t think so?” he asked. “You told me this was your dream.”
“It is.” She shifted on the couch again and he had to tighten his grip on her ankle. “But I want to help you. I mean, this is kind of my fault.”
“What?”
“Well, Griffin was my husband. If he hadn’t been married to me and if he—”
“Bullshit. It was Griffin’s decision. It’s got nothing to do with you.” He narrowed his gaze, watching her face as she crossed her arms over her chest, her jaw tight. Defensive. And he had the sudden thought that perhaps this wasn’t actually about Griffin at all.
She’d told him about the father she’d once adored, about the drawings he’d balled up and thrown in the fire. About how he’d criticized her, told her she was no good. And she was such a fighter, she wouldn’t have taken that lying down. This exhibition, that collection upstairs, that was all part of proving him wrong, Lucas was sure of it.
And yet here she was, procrastinating on that last picture. The one she’d told him she had to finish before the exhibition date. Why wasn’t she painting? Was she avoiding it?
“This is to do with your dad, isn’t it?” he asked softly.
She blinked, her gaze flicking to his in surprise. “What? What about my dad?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
A scowl crossed her face. “This hasn’t got anything to do with him.”
“Really? So why haven’t you finished that painting yet?”
“I…” She stopped and looked away yet again, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. “Maybe I’m not good enough.”
But no, that didn’t ring true. If she didn’t think she was good enough she wouldn’t be exhibiting in the first place, nor would she have a sizable collection of work already. No, something else was holding her back; he was sure of it.
“That’s bullshit too. You know you’re good enough.” He kept his fingers wrapped around her ankle, pressed to her warm skin. “What’s in your head, Gracie? What’s stopping you?”
She kept her head turned away, her jaw tight. But he saw the slight tremble in her lower lip. “Sometimes I think … it’s selfish of me.” Her voice was husky. “Selfish to want to go after my dream. Especially after Dad basically destroyed all the relationships in his life going after his. He was such a selfish man, caused so much pain to so many people, and sometimes I think that … I’m heading down the same path.”
Lucas kept his gaze on the lovely line of her profile, long nose and definite jaw. A strong, determined, stubborn profile. Conflicted and flawed, just as she was. Beautiful, just as she was. “No,” he said quietly. “You’re not selfish.”
She shook her head. “How can you say that? After the way I treated Griffin—”
“Griffin made his own choices like your father made his. It’s not your fault that your dad was a crappy parent.”
Grace was silent a long moment, her face still averted. “He used to be so good to me, though.” There was pain in her voice now. “He used to call me his little sunset. Used to tell me how proud he was of me. And then he changed, started telling me that I was plain, that I was useless, that I was a waste of time, and I…” She swallowed. “I still wonder if it was something I did. Something I said. That maybe I destroyed the relationship I had with him in some way.”
Lucas’s chest constricted, his own father’s voice rattling around inside him, telling him things he didn’t want to hear, terrible things. You’re dangerous. You need to control it. You don’t want anyone else to get hurt … do you, Lucas?
“No,” he said, to her and to the doubts that echoed in his soul. “It’s nothing you did. He was the one who let his own frustrations get to him and then put them on to you. He was the one who was destructive, Gracie. Not you.”
Her throat moved and for a long moment she said nothing, blinking fiercely. Then slowly she turned back. “How do you know that, though?”
Wasn’t it obvious?
Holding her gaze with his, he said, “I might not have known your dad, but I know you. Not as well as I want to, admittedly, but enough to know that destructive is the very last thing you are.”
“But—”
“You told me that when you paint you let your feelings show you where to go, and from what I’ve seen of those paintings upstairs, it’s nowhere selfish or mean. Nowhere destructive or petty. You create, Gracie. You don’t destroy. Not like your dad.” Not like you. But he didn’t say that part. He kept that to himself.
Grace stared at him for a long moment and he thought he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes. “I actually do want to help you, you know.”
“You can help me by finishing that damn painting. I risked my life for that fucking canvas.” He let her see his faint smile. “And I want to see what you’re going to put on it.”
The tight look vanished from her face and she gave a reluctant laugh. “I thought you didn’t like art.”
It felt good to make her smile. It felt good to make her feel good. “I don’t.…” He paused, remembering the paintings upstairs and wanting to be honest with her, because she deserved it. “But I have a feeling I could come to like yours.”
Her smile became real then, slow and sweet, like the sun coming up after a very long and dark night, and he felt the ice in his soul begin to thaw. Then, without a word, she shifted her legs and moved toward him, kissing him hungrily.
The brush dropped from his hand, gold polish dripping on the couch cushions.
And he let it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sometime in the night Grace thought she heard someone cry out. Then a warm hand settled between her shoulder blades and someone whispered to her to go back to sleep, so she did.
Next thing she knew the room was bright and it was definitely morning. And the sheets next to her were empty and cold.
Okay, so Lucas was up. Which was disappointing. She’d been hoping for some lazy, sleepy good morning sex.
Hauling her hair back from her face, she took a bleary look around the room, then spotted the dress she’d been wearing the day before crumpled on the floor beside the bed. Reaching for it, she picked it up and slipped it over her head. Then she eased herself from between the sheets, shivering slightly at the cold floorboards on her warm feet.
Peeking first into the en suite bathroom to check if he was there—he wasn’t—she went out into the hallway, only to hear the sound of his voice drifting up from downstairs.
Still half-asleep, she padded toward the top of the stairs and looked down into the long gallery.
Lucas was standing in front of the big rose window, his back to her, talking to someone on his phone. He wore nothing but a pair of jeans hanging low on his lean hips, and she took a moment to admire the width of his broad shoulders, the delicious lines of his lats and trapezius muscles. The tattoo of the skeletal frog on one shoulder looked dark as the morning light fell through the stained glass and over him, painting him in vivid colors.
Her heart clenched tight in her chest.
Last night had been the best. In
fact, it might even have been the best night she’d ever had. Certainly it was better than anything she’d experienced since Griffin’s death. Better than anything before that too.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so happy. Maybe when she’d gotten Craig to agree to the exhibition, but actually, on second thought, that maybe ran a close second.
No, cooking steak for Lucas, then watching soccer while he sat on the couch and painted her toes eclipsed even that. A lethal predator she’d somehow tamed enough to do something so intimate, so domestic.
Griffin had watched soccer with her, indulging her, since he was a baseball fan. But he’d never taken the bottle of polish off her and painted her toes for her. Oh sure, Lucas had told her it was because she was distracted and he didn’t want polish on the cushions. But she had the sneaking suspicion he’d taken over because he’d wanted to and that he’d even enjoyed it.
He certainly hadn’t been worried when she’d ended up naked and beneath him after what he’d told her about her about her father. About her paintings.
How he’d managed to guess it was that fear that was holding her back from her painting she had no idea. She hadn’t even realized that was what had been going on herself. But as soon as he’d said the words the truth had slid through her like an ice cube dropped down her back, cold, unexpected, and very unwelcome.
She hadn’t wanted to admit it, had wanted to deny it, because she knew she wasn’t like her father. She knew. Yet the look in Lucas’s blue eyes, sharp as a scalpel, had cut her open, revealing the contents of her entire soul to him. To herself too. The truth she’d been trying to hide ever since she’d met him.
That she was just as selfish as her father was. That her art was more important to her than her relationships and that it was her fault her marriage had been crappy. That she hurt the people she should care about in the same way her father had hurt her and her mother.
She hadn’t known what she’d expected Lucas to do with the knowledge, hurt her maybe, since that was what her father had done. But he hadn’t. Instead he’d proved her wrong when she’d explained her painting process to him and she’d thought he hadn’t understood. Turned out, he understood very well.
“… you let your feelings show you where to go, and from what I’ve seen of those paintings upstairs, it’s nowhere selfish or mean. Nowhere destructive or petty. You create, Gracie. You don’t destroy.”
She hadn’t ever seen it like that. Hadn’t ever seen her paintings as coming from somewhere good. Somewhere positive. Not when for years her art had always been associated with her father’s destructive moods or his scorn, his lack of approval and her own anger.
It made her feel good about her own creativity. Like Lucas had somehow shown her how to free it from all those bad associations, all those bad feelings. Bad associations she hadn’t even realized were there until now.
Her palm itched, ready for a paintbrush. But she didn’t want to move yet. She wanted to stand there and watch Lucas for a moment, because he was so beautiful half-naked, talking on the phone, his voice so.… cold.
Something jolted through her. And she realized she hadn’t heard the ice he could inject into his voice for days now. Certainly the last couple of days there had been nothing but heat. Yet not now.
Who was he talking to?
She held her breath, listening.
“I don’t care,” Lucas was saying, every word an icicle. “I want your word that you’ll leave the woman alone. She has nothing to do with this.…” A pause. “I have the money. You know who I am, you know I can pay.” He stood very, very still, like a statue. “That’s irrelevant. You want the money or not?”
Oh God, he was talking about her? Was he talking to the people who were after her? Who wanted the money that Griffin had taken from them?
He sounded like he’d been plunged into ice.
“I can get you cash in two days,” he continued. “Take it or leave it.” Without another word he lowered the phone, clearly disconnecting the call before sliding it back into the pocket of his jeans.
Then he folded his arms and stood silent and still, staring through the glass in front of him as if he were a thousand miles away and not right here in the same apartment as she was. As if he were staring through the sight of his rifle, watching his target move around, unaware that they were being watched.…
Grace swallowed, unable to drag her gaze away from him for some reason. The way he stood was so strong, so obdurate, like a marble statue on a Roman temple, beautiful and yet hard as stone. Able to withstand the weight of centuries, able to stand there for a thousand years without moving.
He’s alone.
The thought hit her suddenly. Painfully. He was alone. Like those Roman statues, he watched the world move past him without ever becoming part of it, playing the role of the detached observer with that laser-sharp focus of his.
Griffin had told her once that Lucas didn’t have friends, that Griffin didn’t even know why Lucas befriended him. It seemed sad somehow. That this beautiful, dangerous man seemed to have no one. Oh sure, he had his brothers, but the way he talked about them … Were they close? He hadn’t even seemed that cut up about his father’s death; he’d kind of brushed it off.
Then again, that’s what he did, wasn’t it? He deliberately kept himself alone, deliberately kept himself closed off, because of the way his family had died when he was little.
Something wrapped sharp fingers around her heart and for some reason it felt like grief. As he stood there in that room, even with the colors all over his warm golden skin, it suddenly came to her that for all the time they’d spent together, she didn’t really know him. She knew that he was passionate, no matter how hard he pretended otherwise, and that he hid it well. That he liked the mental and physical discipline of being a sniper. That he liked being alone.
What else? Nothing. Whenever she’d tried to ask him about himself, he seemed to somehow deflect it back to her.
Perhaps there is nothing else to know. Perhaps being a sniper is all he is.
No, that wasn’t all. It couldn’t be. So she hadn’t had the most fulfilling life in the world, but even she had friends. She had stuff she liked to do. Did Lucas?
“Did you want something, Grace?” Lucas didn’t turn, his short blond hair tinted pure gold by the weak winter sunlight coming through the stained glass.
The question shocked her. Had she made a sound somehow? Given herself away?
She put a hand on the metal banister. “How did you know I was here?”
“I heard your breathing.”
Right. Okay then. Super sniper skills obviously.
She came down the stairs and went over to him, her first impulse to put her arms around him. Then she got closer and felt the tension radiating from him and crossed her arms over her chest instead.
“You heard all that?” He still didn’t turn and his voice was still very, very cold.
“Uh, yes. I guess you were talking to the people after me?”
“I was.”
She swallowed. “Lucas, you can’t give them the money.”
“I’m not going to. But they don’t know that. I just need a couple of days to get the details of my other plan into place.”
“What other plan?” She stared at his strong back, wanting to touch the tight muscles around his shoulders and neck, ease the tension from them. Yet something about the way he stood made her think he wouldn’t welcome her touch right now.
“You don’t need to worry about it.” There was a fine rime of frost around the words, a warning not to push. “I’ve got it under control.”
Grace frowned. Something was wrong; she could feel it. The way he’d suddenly gone into ice mode, the tension that was radiating from him … Yes, something was up. What was it?
“Are you okay?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t answer, his gaze firmly on the window in front of him.
To hell with it. Something was wrong and she wanted to know
what it was, perhaps help. He didn’t like it when she wouldn’t tell him what was up, so why should she put up with it from him?
Why do you care? You’re supposed to be keeping a part of yourself back, remember?
Sure, but he’d made her happy the night before, had sat with her and talked with her, reassured her about fears she didn’t even know she had. So why couldn’t she give him something in return?
Taking a couple of steps toward him, she slid her arms around his waist, laying her cheek against the hot skin of his back. Instantly his whole body tensed and he moved, and suddenly she was left standing there embracing empty air.
She blinked in surprise, trying to ignore the small, sharp burst of hurt.
He’d taken a few steps away from her, his arms tight at his sides, that tension gathering around him somehow thicker, denser. “Don’t.” There was a whole world of warning in the word. “It’s probably better if you don’t touch me right now.”
The hurt slid a little deeper. “Why not? What’s wrong? Did I do something?”
He said nothing for a moment, his head turned away. Then abruptly he glanced at her, the look in his eyes searing, stealing her breath away. She didn’t understand the expression in them, but it wasn’t cold. It looked almost like … pain.
She took a helpless step toward him, then stopped as he tensed yet again. “Lucas,” she began.
“I need to go downstairs,” he said before she could continue. “Give me an hour or two.” And he turned away, heading toward the elevator.
“Hey,” she called after him before she could think better of it. “So I’m not allowed to run away, but you are? Is that how this works.”
He came to a halt, straight backed and stiff. “If I’m going to be saving your ass I need get in some practice. Unless you have a problem with that?”
But no, that wasn’t fair. She’d stripped herself bare both literally and emotionally for him, because he’d asked. Because he’d insisted. And yet he wouldn’t do the same thing for her?
The Wicked Billionaire--A Billionaire SEAL Romance Page 21
