His fingers brushed her skin, feathery touches, as he started with the highest button and moved down. This wasn't the first time she'd had to rely on a man's help to get into—or out of—her clothing, but this was the first time it had been so … sensual. So full of promise. By the time he finished, she was warm and tingly and couldn't have cared less about all the accessories that perfected the look of the dress. This time, no doubt, less was better.
Turning, she watched him while waiting for some instruction. She had never posed for anyone before, other than the occasional Sinclair family portrait, and those had always been photographs, not paintings. Brief as those sittings were, they had always been painful moments, with her and Remy separated physically by his parents, emotionally by a world of resentment and hurt.
But there would be nothing painful about this.
There would be only pleasure.
Anticipation.
"Do you always work in oil?"
"I prefer oils, but I do a little bit of everything—watercolors, pastels and pen-and-ink. I'm going to use pastels today." He lifted the lid from the box, revealing a palette of well-used crayon-type colors in a wide range of hues. They looked as if they would be fun to play with, she thought, soft and transferring their tints to paper so easily.
"So what are you planning to do? Me, just standing in the middle of your apartment?"
He fastened a heavy sheet of textured paper to the masonite drawing board that had replaced her portrait on the easel before looking at her and slowly smiling. "You," he agreed. "Just sitting in the middle of my apartment—for right now, at least. I'll add a background later."
"What kind of background?"
"A place I know." After finishing arranging his supplies, he left the room for a moment, then returned with a quilt. It bore an intricate design, shades of green and crimson, solids and prints, on an ivory background. To Valery, who knew little about quilts, it looked hand-pieced and finely made, the sort of thing that, once it achieved the grace of age, would be of heirloom quality.
"Pretty," she murmured, fingering one edge before helping him spread it across the floor. "You should use this, or at least display it, not hide it away in a closet."
"My grandmother made it for me. The pattern is called the double wedding ring." He glanced across it, found the section he was looking for and lifted it for her inspection. There, embroidered in the center of one loop in hunter green thread, were two names: Michael and Beth. Underneath that was a date. Their wedding date.
The quilt had been a gift to celebrate a marriage that had lasted, according to Michael, too long—and not long enough.
No wonder he kept it in a closet.
"It's still a shame not to use something so pretty. Maybe you can find another woman named Beth," she teased, "and marry on the same day, then get your grandmother to change the year."
"Another woman who wouldn't mind being Beth Bennett?" He shook his head. "I don't think so. Not this time. Come over here and sit down."
She obeyed him, taking a seat near the back edge of the quilt, folding her legs to one side as he instructed, supporting her weight lightly with one hand on the opposite side. The quilted cotton was pliable enough but lacked the softness of well-used fabric, and the batting was still thick, still as puffy as the day his grandmother had stitched it. So many hours of work, such a labor of love, only to sit forgotten in a closet. It was sad, she thought, as sad as the divorce that had relegated it to obscurity.
He crouched in front of her, shifting her body a little this way, her head a little that. After a time he walked back and looked, then returned and arranged the folds of the dress, smoothing it down her shoulders, across her stomach, over her legs. For a moment he fingered the hem of the dress, much as she'd just done with the quilt; then, as he got to his feet and moved to the easel, he asked, "Why antique clothing?"
"I graduated from college with a degree in business and no interest in going on to earn an M.B.A. I was tired of school, tired of being dependent on Aunt Marie and Uncle George. I had already cost them enough—" in terms far dearer, she thought, than money "—so I figured it was time to get out on my own. I wanted to live in New Orleans—in the Quarter, actually, though, of course, I couldn't afford that—so I began looking for a job, and I got this one."
"So it was just chance. You didn't already have an appreciation for old things."
She gave him a dry look. "How could I grow up at Belle Ste. Claire without developing an appreciation for fine old things?"
"How would I know, never having seen Belle Ste. Claire?" he retorted. "Do you like your job?"
After a moment's consideration, she nodded. "The only way I'd like it better is if the shop were mine, if I were working for myself instead of someone else. That's sort of a goal, I guess. The owner keeps saying that one of these days he's going to sell out and move to Arizona and that when he does, he'll give me first chance. When my mother died, she left me some money, and I've been saving, but … I don't know."
"What other goals do you have?"
"Other goals?"
"Do you want to get married?"
She watched him for a moment, so intent on the work before him, and felt an odd little twinge around her heart. She relieved it with a heavy sigh. "Like most little girls, I thought I would grow up and meet Prince Charming, get married and live happily ever after. When I did grow up, I found there weren't too many princes and they weren't too charming." Then, abruptly, she corrected that. "The problem wasn't with them. It was me. I don't get close to many people."
He gazed at her for a moment—seeing, she supposed, angles, lines, shadows and hues—before turning his attention back to the paper. "Not everyone's going to let you down, Valery."
Realistically she knew that, but telling it to her heart was a problem.
"What about kids? You only need a prince for a night for that. Surely you can be charmed for that long."
"No," she replied flatly, so flatly that he stopped what he was doing and looked at her in surprise.
"You don't want kids?"
"Not that way. I grew up without parents, Michael. Every kid deserves to have at least that much. I'll never have a baby without a husband, without a father for her." After a moment, she asked, "What about you and Beth? Didn't you want kids?"
"How do you know we didn't have any?"
"You would have mentioned it before now."
He nodded once in acknowledgement, then concentrated on his work for a time before finally answering her. "When Beth and I first got married, we decided that we wanted to stay in this apartment. Three years later we decided that we wanted a divorce. Those were the first and last things we agreed on during our marriage."
"You wanted kids and she didn't." It was a guess, but Valery was sure she was right. There was something about him—his gentleness, maybe, or his patience—that hinted at a good father in the making. And his background—small-town middle America, son of a preacher and farmer, big brother, protector—made him a natural for kids.
"So she said. As it turned out, she wanted them, all right. She just didn't want them with me." He broke off, exchanging a white tint for a richer shade of ivory. "She and her husband have a son and a daughter."
She wondered how he'd felt about that, if it had hurt when he'd found out. Even if he had no longer loved her, surely he must have felt a twinge of something—jealousy, regret, anger—at seeing her pregnant or hearing that she'd given birth to the baby she'd insisted to him that she didn't want. But she couldn't hear it in his voice, couldn't read it in his expression.
Michael worked in silence for a while, the minutes passing unnoticed, the sketch in front of him swiftly taking shape. Finally he stopped, standing motionless, studying his work so far. For a preliminary piece, it would do. Later he would fill in the background—a place so familiar to him that he could already envision the finished piece in his mind. Later still he would do it all over again, this time in oils—for their richness and intensity—on fine Irish linen.
By then he would probably be working from memory. She would probably never see the finished painting, but it was just as well, for it would represent his memories, not hers. She wouldn't know that the house in the background, with its deep shaded porch, was the house where he'd grown up, wouldn't recognize the distant fields as the Bennett family farm. The swing, a plank of weathered wood hanging from two ropes from a branch of a tall oak, would hold no special meaning for her; she would have no recollections of wading or fishing in the winding creek that ran nearby.
To her, the painting, if she ever saw it, would be no more than a pretty woman in a pretty place.
To him, it would represent home. A place, a woman, a feeling.
Peripherally he saw her shift a little and realized that she was probably tired, but he didn't tell her that she could get up and move around. He wasn't quite ready to stop, wasn't quite ready to move on to the indulgence, the pleasure—the commitment?—that awaited him when he was finished here. Or was he?
With a shake of his head, he focused his gaze hard on the textured paper, on the shadings and shadows and degrees of colors, on the fluid lines of her dress and the effortless way the quilt colors blended one into another. Maybe he wouldn't use the farm for the background, he thought—or, at least, not that particular part of it. The age of it—the hundred-year-old house, the peeling barn, the leaning fences, the ancient trees—would complement the antique dress, the from-another-era look. The faded beauty of the farm would nicely balance the timeless beauty of the woman.
But maybe, instead, he would choose another location, someplace in the woods, a place where it stayed cool on the hottest summer day, where sunlight filtered through the tall trees to create a lace-edged pattern on the lush growth. A place where peace could be found, where privacy could be found—privacy for laying her down on his grandmother's quilt. For removing that lovely old dress, for stripping out of his own clothing, for…
His fingers clenched, and he felt rather than heard the breaking of the crayon he still held. He tossed it onto the worktable, then wiped his hands on a clean, white towel.
He couldn't take her to his parents' farm, couldn't show her that peaceful place in the woods. But they had privacy. He had his grandmother's quilt—or, better yet, a bed in the next room. He could remove that lovely dress. He could indulge her, could indulge himself. He could give her such pleasure and show her such need. He could make the last edgy, fearful week or so disappear, could give her something sweet and warm and tender to take its place in her memories.
For today, for this afternoon, he—who had been the cause of so much pain and sorrow—for once could make everything right.
Circling the easel, he walked over to her, extending his hand. He saw in her eyes that she understood the offer he was making. It was that simple: take his hand, and he would lead her into the bedroom to make love. Refuse it, and she refused him.
He also saw that she had no intention of refusing.
She laid her hand in his, and he pulled her easily to her feet. It was tempting to kiss her then, to undress her there, to make love to her right there on the quilt. But, holding both her hands in one of his, he delayed for the few seconds it took to reach his bedroom. At the door, though, he paused. "Last chance, Valery."
"It isn't a mistake," she said, referring to their conversation of that morning. She spoke with the seriousness of a child, so intense, so full of faith, that he almost found it possible to believe her.
Even though he had long ago stopped accepting anything on faith.
And then she smiled that sweet, seductive smile, and he thought that maybe he could take something on faith. Like that smile. Some bleak night, when she was gone and he was alone, he would start yet another portrait of her, he knew, wearing that smile and very little else. He would immortalize her for all those future bleak nights.
As if there were any need.
As if he would ever forget.
The bedroom was dimly lit, the afternoon sunlight blocked by the paisley drapes. The darker tones of this room—heavy fabrics, thick drapes, dark wood—had a practical purpose: many were the times when his evening shift lapped over into the night, when his hours for sleeping extended well beyond sunrise. Light was diffused, noise dampened, rest made easier.
But they also served another purpose, he realized for the first time. The room was cozy. Snug. Romantic.
It was the perfect place for this time with Valery.
Once inside the room, he released her to close the door, wanting no distractions—no phone calls, no unwelcome guests, no intrusions. Then, for a moment, he simply stood there, simply watched her as she removed her slippers, placing them neatly, side by side with his own shoes, in the closet.
Side by side. A memory came, unbidden, from the not-too-distant past, of words from a wedding ceremony—his and Beth's wedding. A couple should walk side by side, his father had instructed them. Not one leading, the other following, not one giving orders, the other taking, but together. Side by side. Sharing.
He and Beth had found it impossible. They had rarely even managed to be heading in the same direction, much less sharing anything along the way. They had both had their own goals, their own agendas, their own futures, and they had both naively expected the other to fall into line, to follow along. Until they had both stopped expecting anything at all from each other.
But he could envision just such a life as his father had described with Valery. He could imagine sharing his life with her. He could picture himself living with her at his side.
He could imagine himself loving her.
Always.
Forever.
Her hands clasped to still their trembling, Valery turned to study Michael. He was standing near the dresser, lost somewhere in his thoughts. Was he already regretting this? she wondered wistfully. Already looking for reasons why they shouldn't go on?
It was inevitable—their lovemaking. She knew it, and she suspected that, in his own way, he knew, too. The difference was that she accepted the inevitable, while he fought against it. His guilt over Evan's death, still intense after so many months, was proof of that. So was his struggle against the visions that had first linked them together. And his struggle against this. Last chance, Valery.
She knew there were no last chances. You could delay the inevitable, could postpone it time and again, but eventually it would come to pass. What was destined to be would be.
And this was destined.
"Michael?"
Her voice was soft, little more than a whisper, but it was sufficient to startle him from his thoughts, to bring his attention back to her. It was sufficient to coax a smile from him, gentle and sweet.
He came to her, sliding his arms around her waist, drawing her tight against his body. "No regrets?" she asked, and the surprised look in his eyes was genuine.
"No. I was thinking about promises."
"I don't need any promises from you."
He smiled again, then brushed a kiss across her forehead. "Maybe I need them from you."
It was surprising, she reflected, how a few simple words could hurt. His settled, tight and sore and sad, somewhere in her chest, making it uncomfortable to breathe, making it damned near impossible to smile. But she did breathe, and she did smile, and she offered him his promises. "I won't make any demands of you. I won't think this means something. I won't expect more than you intend to give. I—"
He cut her off with a kiss, slow and lazy, taking away the breath she'd just reclaimed, increasing her heart rate, raising her temperature, making her feel both the most incredible power and the most luscious weakness. When he lifted his head again, he hoarsely said, "Wrong promises, sweetheart. Some demands are perfectly welcome. Even I don't know exactly what's left in me to give, and you'd damn well better believe that this means something."
"Then what is it you want?" she whispered.
"You. I want you, Valery."
She smiled unsteadily. "You've got me." For now. For a
s long as he wanted. For as long as he needed.
For as long as she needed?
He kissed her again, another long, slow, wet kiss that left her clinging to him for support. No man had ever kissed her this way, touched her this way. No man had ever made her feel this way. Only Michael. Later, she thought, when she was alone, when she was calm and rational again, she would consider the significance of that. She would marvel over it, would be amazed that what they'd shared was so special, would be grateful for such a gift.
Or she would fear it. She would worry that he didn't feel the same, would fret over the heartache it could surely bring. She would fear losing it, losing him, losing herself.
But for now she would simply enjoy. Treasure. Take pleasure.
Tugging his shirt from his jeans, she slid her hands underneath, gliding them over his stomach. She felt scar tissue and remembered, from when he'd told her about Evan, that he'd been shot. She was sorry he'd been hurt, was sorry he carried this reminder of the worst time of his life. She was especially sorry she could do nothing to make it right for him. She wanted desperately to know that one day he would be all right, that one day his heartache would ease, that he would forgive himself and find healing. Faith. Love.
She would give him her own faith if she could.
She would give him her love.
If she could.
When he suddenly released her, she made a soft sound of protest until she realized what he was doing—not pushing her away, simply turning her away so that he could reach the buttons down the back of her dress. There were eighteen of them, each small and round and fitted through a narrow fabric loop, and he unfastened every one of them before pulling her back against him. His arms were around her waist, inside the dress, his hands seeking out her breasts. She didn't think even once about her precious dress. Only two thoughts ran through her mind, one behind the other, over and over: how wonderful this felt, and how she wanted more, more of his kisses, more of his caresses, more of him.
Michael squeezed her breasts gently and felt her nipples respond, hard little peaks pressing against the centers of his palms. Her bra—ivory, thin, lacy—provided a flimsy enough barrier, but he wanted it out of the way, wanted to feel her and nothing else, skin to skin, hand to breast, mouth to nipple. Sweet damnation, he wanted to see her, feel her, taste her. He wanted to crawl inside her body, the way she was crawling inside his soul. He wanted to get lost in her.
MICHAEL'S GIFT Page 15
