Every Time I Love You (7 page)

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.