Every Time I Love You

Heather Graham

Every Time I Love You

Every Time I Love You
, Copyright © 2014 by Heather Graham Pozzessere

All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior express written permission of the author. Please report the unauthorized distribution of this publication by contacting the author at
theoriginalheathergraham.com

Every Time I Love You
is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Published June 1988

To Marian Davant, my sister's mother-in-law, a beautiful lady who has done lots of beautiful things for me. Thank you.

Dear Reader,

Every Time I Love You
was written in 1988. At the time, it was a different kind of time travel, drawing upon history as well as what was then present day.

Today, in 2014, it is something of a historical piece—returning to that not-so-distant day when not everyone had a cell phone, when cafes and restaurants might still be glazed in a smoky mist, and when social media was just a bud in the minds of a youth about to spring forward and create the true information age.

While society may change every decade, people don’t. Throughout history we are driven by our need to know our place in the world—and by the love we bear those around us, parents, children, brothers, sisters, friends—and the one person we hope we find who is the true love of our lives, the one who makes everything else in life right.

My personal love for history remains the same. When this book was written, it was one of the few of its kind published, a forbearer, I like to think, for much of the turn fiction took in later years. Since the publication of this book, I’ve written vampires, ghosts, straight suspense, Christmas fare . . . horror!

This remains a special take to me.

I like to believe that my people have withstood the passage of time.

And I truly hope you’ll agree.

Here, for the first time in twenty-five years, is
Every Time I Love You.

Thank you! Heather Graham

CHAPTER 1

“The ultimate. Exquisite. Brilliant. Well?” Geoffrey Sable hiked a curious brow, watching his assistant's face with interest. She was attempting to appear reserved, but a slight smile was curving her mouth. She was a tall woman, slim and sophisticated in appearance, whose fashionable wardrobe complemented her very fashionable figure. She was a capable, charming blonde with big innocent eyes. They were blue eyes, like the sky, wide and clear and beautiful beneath the startling contrast of very dark lashes and honey-colored brows.

“Interesting,” she said slowly, carefully observing the canvas. “Interesting.”

“That's all?” Geoff demanded.

Gayle Norman hesitated, still studying the oil painting hung on the stark white wall. Little shivers rippled up and down her spine, yet, for some reason, she wanted to deny the obvious and rare talent behind the painting.

“Well...” she murmured.

“Oh, come on, Gayle!” Geoffrey demanded gruffly at last. He was the owner of the renowned Sable Gallery in Richmond, Virginia, and had been her boss for the past four years. Even before that, they had been the best of friends and knew each other like open books. He prodded her impatiently. “Gayle—you know talent when you see it! And you know that somehow these paintings are the most evocative art either of us has seen in ages!”

Evocative...
perhaps that was the word. Gayle had initially thought
erotic
—but perhaps that was too strong a word, for there was something in the muted colors, in the poses of the figures in the painting, in their almost mystical beauty, that transcended eroticism. In the particular oil she scrutinized, two lovers—a man and a woman—were entwined in an embrace. Gayle could feel the strength of the emotion there, the deep caring between the two. The painting was powerful because of the emotions it evoked. The intensity of the man's love for the woman, his strength, even his determination to protect her. And the woman's total trust in the man, her comfort in resting against him. The muted colors faded into misty grays at the edges of the canvas. It was beautiful and it made her ache with longing. She wanted to be loved, to know love as it was portrayed in this painting. She wasn't involved at the present time. Maybe that's why she felt a deep pang of loneliness when she looked at the canvas. But she wasn't involved because she didn't want to be involved—and besides this painting was about something far deeper than involvement. It spoke of deep love and tenderness and total commitment. The kind that came only once in a lifetime, and only then if a person were very lucky.

Gayle backed away quickly, drawing her eyes from the canvas to scan the others in the room. They were all nudes.

In art school, she'd spent hours sketching nude bodies: slim bodies, voluptuous bodies, muscular bodies—even some damned good bodies. She'd studied Rubens and Botticelli, and she'd been to the Louvre and most of the great art museums in the world.

Yet she'd never seen nudes quite like these. All these oils seemed to reach out and touch the senses and the emotions.
Evocative.
The word wasn't strong enough to describe these nudes, but she didn't know quite what to add to it.

“You're right, Geoffrey,” she said at last. “These are wonderful. McCauley is marvelously talented.”

Geoffrey nodded, still studying one particular oil with satisfaction. “Have the RSVPs all been answered?”

“Every single one.”

“And?”

“We'll have two hundred people—very illustrious people, that is!—strolling through here tomorrow night.”

“Good, good.” Geoffrey was pleased. Inordinately so. The grin that broke out across his pleasant features belied the dignity of his businesslike three-piece suit.
Well, why not?
she speculated affectionately. Geoff deserved to be pleased. A McCauley showing was a coup. McCauley was a recluse, Gayle had heard. His first painting had sold in Paris more than a decade ago for a ridiculously high sum, and the man hadn't consented to an interview since then. He never made personal appearances. Gayle imagined him to be a stoop-shouldered hermit with a beard down to his knees—a dirty-old-man type, perhaps, wheezing and chortling while he created works of spellbinding beauty.

She just couldn't help feeling a little negative about the artist. Organizing the showing had been pure torture. He wouldn't even speak with her personally. Every arrangement had been made through his personal manager, a man named Chad Bellows, who was charming and pleasant enough but still not the artist. Arranging each little detail had been an exercise in torture. Everything had to be checked and rechecked—no instant decisions were possible.

“What happens if your artist doesn't show up?” Gayle queried.

Geoffrey shot her a hostile glance, and though he seemed annoyed, she knew that he was nervous. He was still more her friend than her employer. They'd met at a cafe in Paris when they'd been art students with no real talent themselves, but with absolute admiration for those who did. They had become friends right away and business relations later. They'd never been lovers, although there had never really been a reason not to be—they'd both been young and—Gayle thought wryly—heterosexual. The friendship had just always been too important. Geoffrey had been simply wonderful to her. An orphan with a trust fund, she had clung to him like a marvelous new gift of an older brother. And in time, his dream of establishing an esteemed gallery had come true, and seven years after that fateful meeting in Paris, they were even hosting an exclusive showing of Brent McCauley oils.

Geoffrey grinned suddenly. “He'll show. If he doesn't, I'll send you after him.”

“And what makes you think that I could do anything?” Gayle retorted to the threat.

“He likes bodies.”

“I'm not sure how to take that!”

“Take it as a compliment. You might have been too skinny for Rubens, but in this day and age you've got a great arrangement of assets.” She was staring at him, curious at the compliment. Geoffrey laughed. “Ah, come on! You mean to tell me that you wouldn't bare all for the sake of art?”

“No,” Gayle said flatly. “And certainly not to that old hermit.”

“Ah-ha! If he were young and handsome, it would be okay?”

“No! I didn't say that.” She smiled. “I don't model. I sell art, remember? I'm the woman with all the hang-ups you love anyway.”

He grinned. “But to model for Brent McCauley...”

“You know what I'll bet? I'll bet he's a real recluse. Seriously, I'll bet he has wild white hair and a beard to his knees and he never bathes because he's always in his studio painting. He probably has little beady eyes with a blazing light of insanity in them. And we'll probably spend tomorrow wishing that he hadn't shown up!”

Geoffrey chuckled, raising his brows curiously at the tone of her voice. “Making arrangements for the show has been that difficult?”

“It's been worse!” Gayle shrugged and turned away from the paintings on the wall to stride toward her desk, a richly polished Victorian secretary that added to the subdued richness of the gallery. She plucked up her shoulder bag. When she turned around, Geoffrey was still staring at her curiously.

She sighed. “He may be brilliant, Geoffrey, but he's also a royal pain. Nothing has gone smoothly. And I promise you, if he does appear tomorrow, he'll be changing all my arrangements.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Geoffrey said simply. He was still smiling. Of course. He wasn't the one who'd had to struggle through a third party to reach the simplest agreements. “You're ready to go, I take it.”

“Everything is as done as it can be.”

“Yeah, but you're forgetting something. You can't leave without me. I drove you in this morning.”

“Well...? I'm ready. And I'm the work force.”

“This is pathetic. I get absolutely no respect. All right. Come on. We'll lock up and get out of here.”

In Geoffrey's silver-blue Maserati, which he had just been able to afford this year, he asked her about her plans for the evening. He glanced her way as he careened from the parking garage into Richmond's rush-hour traffic. “Are you still going to the Red Lion with the girls?”

“Yes, I'm still going to the Red Lion with the girls. It's Tina's birthday and she loves the place. It's really nice.”

“The music is too loud, there's too much smoke, and it's too crowded.”

“Want to come?”

“No.”

“Ah—you've got another date with Boobs.”

“Madelaine Courbier,” Geoffrey countered good-naturedly.

“So you do have a date with her. With Boobs.” Gayle smiled and quickly lowered her eyes. She couldn't help teasing him. Because Madelaine Courbier did have a hell of a chest, and Geoffrey was into heavy chests.

“Maybe. I do have an appointment.”

“Well, don't smother yourself tonight, huh? Don't forget the showing tomorrow. Your dream of a lifetime. I can just see the headlines. 'Illustrious gallery owner found dead of asphyxiation in his lover's arms on eve of greatest achievement'!”

“Very funny, Ms. Norman. And I didn't say that I had a date with her; I said that I had an appointment. You watch yourself: big brother won't be around to protect you if you flirt yourself into an awkward situation.”

“I never—”

“You do.”

“I'm barely friendly.”

“No—you smile and leave them drooling.”

“Geoffrey, you're terrible!”

They drew up in front of her house. Geoffrey leaned over to open the car door. “Be kind to Boobs and I'll be kind in return. Besides, I'm not so sure that you should be going to the Red Lion. You should be going to a church social.”

“Meaning?”

Lights flickered over Geoffrey's tanned features as a car passed by. He shrugged. “You should meet some nice guy and settle down. You're not getting any younger.”

“I'm all of twenty-eight, Geoffrey.”

“What was wrong with Tim Garrett?”

Gayle frowned, wondering where the conversation was going, uneasily aware that she had an idea of what he was getting at. “He hates art.”

“Howard Green?”

“He pants all the time. Really. It's horrible. Like dating a large German shepherd.”

“Bill Williamson? Does he pant too?”

“We just weren't suited to one another.”

“He thought you were just fine. You never give anyone a chance.”

“I date all the time—”

“Yeah. But I'll bet you haven't been to bed with a guy since Thane Johnson.”

She stiffened. “That's none of your business, Geoffrey.” She started to get out of the car. He caught her hand and offered her an apologetic grimace.

“I'm not trying to stick my nose where it doesn't belong. I just want to see you happy, Gayle.”

With a sigh, she smiled and squeezed his hand. “I know Geoff, but I am happy.”

“You have a nickname, you know. Ice Princess. Howie was complaining in Duffy's at lunch the other day.”

Gayle started laughing. “You were just calling me a flirt, now I'm an Ice Princess.”

“I just don't want you to base all your assumptions about men on the one affair in your life. And I want you to be careful. You're used to calling the shots. One day it won't work out that way. You'll hit one of the big boys, and it won't go your way.”

“Geoff, I'm going out with the girls for Tina's birthday. I'll be good, I promise.”

He was silent for a minute. “It may be more,” he murmured curiously, but when she tried to question him, he shook his head.

“Have you been into Tarot cards lately?” she teased him.

“A Ouija board!” he retorted. “Now go on in. It's chilly out here. And maybe Boobs is waiting for me!”

“Is she?”

“I never kiss and tell.”

Laughing, she got out of the car. A soft snow was falling and she wrapped her coat tightly to her chin to wave as he drove off into the coming night. When the taillights disappeared, she still paused. It was a beautiful night. There was no slush, just fresh, pure beautiful snow. The air was crisp and cool.

Gayle waved to one of her neighbors as she hurried up the path to her small house. She was in the middle of Monument Avenue, in a house way over a hundred years old, with a beautiful view of the park and several of the statues. She'd moved in her first year in Richmond, and she'd been furnishing it ever since. Once, it had been bare. Now she had two fine old Persian carpets on the hardwood dining room and parlor floors, and in her bedroom she had a canopied bed partially hidden by a Chinese silk screen, a set of high Victorian sofas and an Eastlake dressing table. She also had two Dalis, a Rauschenberg, and a set of seascapes by a budding young artist named Ralph Filberg. Those were her favorites. Geoffrey had talked her into the Rauschenberg as an investment; she had liked the Dalis and known she was getting a deal; but she loved the seascapes. No one had ever had to explain the talent to her—she had discovered it herself. It had been exciting to meet Ralph out on the Cape, a sullen young man with a wispy beard and a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. But when he had seen Gayle's enthusiasm, he had warmed to her; and when he had discovered she could actually help him, he'd become excited, eager, all too willing to please. Geoff had given him his first showing a little more than a year ago—and Ralph had given the paintings to Gayle.