Loving Grace (9 page)

The chain curtain was up several feet. She
paused by the sofa, the rush of blood through her body, increasing,
while she stared at Noel.

Red sheets were over the bed, making puddles
of silk, and undulating at the end where the air moved them. Atop,
Noel lay nude, half on his side, and half on his stomach. One
strong arm was under the pillow, his inky hair shimmering against
the surface, and the other hand flat on the mattress. His tawny
skin, the cut and honed sculpted flesh and bone of him was more
stirring than his paintings and more beautiful to Grace than
anything she’d ever seen.

Grace sighed shakily, parted her lips, and
then moistened them. She wondered what it would feel like to touch
the satin heat of his skin, to shape him with her hands. He was a
muscular man. His heart would beat strong and deep. She wondered
how it felt to be so blessed, to not only create feminine beauty,
but also to possess masculine gracefulness. To be so vivid, so
warm, so fine, a healthy male animal. The man had it all; allure,
magnetism, sensitivity, talent, and magnificence. No wonder she did
stupid and insane things like this.

Grace peeked around, intending to quietly
leave, but when she glanced back at Noel, he was pushed up on his
elbow. Not at all sleepy eyed and clearly looking right at her. She
stood frozen to the spot. Her face flushed. Dashing to the door
would have been worse than immature, not to mention she’d likely
break her neck on the marble floor.

He sat a tad sideways, his legs bent and
positioned in a way that hid his groin. His wrist casually rested
on his knee, the other hand flat on the bed. Grace had the feeling
those warm eyes were expectant, waiting for her to do
something.

She should be apologizing. At the least she
could smile, shrug, and wave, walk out. That thought did filter
through her mind. But she took off her coat and laid it across the
back of the sofa. Pulling off her cap and gloves and tucking them
in the pocket, she ran her hands through her mussed hair, not able
to completely smooth it. She sat down on the sofa arm, facing him,
feeling the five-foot distance shrink.

Her skirt was modest length, just above her
knee. She braced her hands beside her hips, had her legs out,
ankles crossed. She gazed at him, her nose, eyes and ears filled
with irresistible sensations. Her head was both light and heavy and
her senses too alive to feel time do anything but stand still.

The exotic music hushed. Sounds of wind,
rain, and drums beat in the background, thundering like the heart
of a wild, running beast. She blew upwards to cool her heated brow,
but all over, her skin felt it. Her senses, her nose smelled
tropical heat. Grace broke their gaze long enough to reach down and
tug off her boots, tossing them near the table. She peeled off her
blouse, holding his gaze again when she unzipped the skirt. Clad in
beige bra and panties, she saw the slight smile on his lips echoed
in his eyes.

Grace unhooked her bra, distantly aware that
the synthesized rain stopped, steadied to a hard downpour. The
music softened except for sounds of night creatures. She slid the
panties off, set them near her clothing, and then padded toward the
bed. He reached over and slid something near him. She stood at the
side of the bed, but even in the darker shadows, they could see
each other clearly enough.

He had his palette. Grace looked up. A steel
bar hung just over her head. She grasped it, closing her eyes as he
began to paint her from the feet up. His brush strokes were long,
slow, feathering over her body. She allowed him to move her legs,
widen her stance, or lift to paint her inner thighs. She felt him
move around her, painting from her neck downward and then the front
again, up from between her legs, over her lower tummy. Only when he
stroked under her arm did she feel his breath, hot, fast, and
deep.

Grace opened her eyes and looked into his
while he painted her face.

A split second passed. She dipped her gaze to
his semi-full lips, soft, dark, slightly parted. He tucked her hair
behind her ears and painted them. Noel stepped back the short space
to the bed.

Grace slowly let go of the bar, her body
stroked by his brush to a high sensitive state. Her nipples ached
from constriction. She raised her gaze to find him waiting,
watching.

She took the palette from him without
breaking their gaze. Grace arched her brow.

Noel’s white smile was blinding, a bit bold.
He dared her.

She dipped the fan brush in, but smiled and
shook her head. She was no artist, and he was already a perfect
male animal. The only thing she did was to mouth her reply.

His smile stilled, faltered, and his eyes
glowed.

With a combination of the heat and aroma and
his male scent between them, Grace heard the music swell and felt
the vibrations in the room. She set the palette down and dipped her
fingers in black paint, smearing it on her palms. Fanning them dry
before she did the same to the bottom of her feet. Completely
covered she walked over to the set and pulled the curtain back,
switched on the fan, and climbed atop her perch. Head down for long
moments, she absorbed everything around her, until the scent,
sound, feel, was in every pore of her skin.

Blanketed by aroused chills, Grace arched her
back and made a purring sound in her throat. Noel was there with
the easel and canvas. He was painting.

She flung her head back and stared at him,
all her hungers, her cravings, every awakened need and desire in
that hot gaze.

Noel had three easels set up and moved from
one to the other.

Her heart pounded and her pulse beat strong
as fire raced through her veins.

Noel painted furiously, his eyes intense, and
his expression as passionate as her own.

Grace drew from him, to him, fed off him,
seeing the desire and the excitement in him stirred her own. Of her
own accord, Grace moved, she crouched for a long pose and then
jumped down.

He was switching canvases.

Grace was giving him what he’d wanted all
along. She knew that, her instincts were so attuned to him, that
she felt she could read his mind, see into it.

She prowled through the scene, looking at him
time and again. Sometimes she looked steady, others she peeked from
the side, or narrowed her eyes in challenge. She lost track of
time, of the purpose of hours. Grace gave herself completely to
him. It was sexual, sensual, art but not art. To her mind and body,
it was sheer animal instinct. How many hours she acted out her
fantasy she didn’t know, but she could be bold and teasing and she
could lust without guilt and without shame for the man who seemed
to be urging her deeper into the role. His expression, his eyes,
they dared and teased, and they glittered at times from the bold
looks and poses she went through.

Grace wet her lips with the tip of her tongue
and arched her neck, staring at him and imagining that he was her
lover. She felt sexual to the bone and the freedom of admitting it,
of letting it out and expressing it, was somehow powerful and
self-empowering. She felt female to her core, and damned glad she
was.

Eventually, she lay trembling on the jungle
floor, her eyes closed and listening to the steady tempo of her
thudding heart. She knew the moment he stopped painting. She felt
him come to her, and lower himself beside her. His damp body heat
and scent mingled with her own. Grace was slow to open her eyes,
and as she did so, she rolled her head to look at him.

He was breathing hard, looking at her too and
lying on his side. They were close, so close their warm breaths
mingled. She raised her hand and lightly touched his raven hair,
feeling the cool silk and the spring of curls wrap around her
fingers. Lightly, just barely, she trailed her fingertips down his
temple, his cheek and jaw, then rested them on his lips while she
watched his expression, witnessed the softening, the gentling.

Rolling to her side, she propped up on her
elbow to stare down at him. Passively he lay on his back, watchful,
curious, and with a welcoming, that tempted her more than he could
know.

Grace moved her fingertips from his mouth.
Under her hungers and wants, she still knew he loved someone else,
belonged to them. This was not real, just as she was not real. If
she was going to awaken and never see him again, she wanted to have
some memory of touching some part of him, outside of the
canvas.

She slid her fingers against the pulse in his
throat. His eyes closed. For long moments, she felt the life in him
and stared at the beauty of his face. He was so still, she thought
he slept, and slid her hand away. Grace arose and headed for the
restroom. She fought a tightness in her stomach, her throat, all
over her skin, from holding back, holding in her intense hunger for
him.

The silence in the room was stark. She
started the shower and got in, lathering briskly to push the haze
away. The scrubbing of her skin only reminded her of how much she
needed to be touched. She groaned, and let the hard spray rinse
away the paint and suds, leaving her stripped clean yet marked so
much deeper than before.

It was the sudden rush of cool air that
altered her. Jerking her head forward from the deluge, she found
herself facing him in the cubicle. No artist/model expression on
either of their faces.

When she spoke her voice seemed husky, a part
of the steamy fog wafting between them. “You’re finished with the
painting?”

“Yes.”

She wiped water from her face, still feeling
the spray on her spine as she slicked her hair back.

He moved, passing by her, and she turned
around to and to watch him wet his hair and wipe his face under the
spray. When he began to bathe, Grace knew what he was doing. She’d
said he was perfect, beautiful, and desirable. He was giving her
what she wanted.

She carved everything into her memory, the
handsome the bones of his face with his hair smoothed back, and the
crystalline water against his swarthy skin. It was fascinating;
something as simple as suds sliding down his strong throat and over
his shoulders. When he turned around Grace watched the droplets
roll down his spine and flanks. She looked at every inch, and she
watched each movement. The fact that he was fully aroused had her
swallowing and wetting her lips, but she wasn’t going to look away,
couldn’t. And he wanted her to look. She felt hot inside and out,
knowing it.

When he was simply standing there, with the
water pounding his shoulders, he reached out. He slid his hands to
her wrist, taking them in a light hold to bring her forward. He
slid them up her arms, then back down and finally pressed her palms
against his chest.

“We can’t,” she husked. “You can’t.”

His voice was more like a deep whisper. He
leaned his head down and spoke close to her ear. “Come closer.”

She did, until his hard, hot, flesh was
against her stomach. He embraced her. Grace held him tight. For
long moments, she drowned in the strength and desire of him. Her
head rested on his shoulder, her eyes closed to savor every aching
second. He began to guide her hands, over his body from face, neck,
shoulders, and the taut slick sides. He guided them over his back,
buttocks, spine, and thighs.

The stall filled with their low stimulated
breaths, and she wasn’t so sure she didn’t moan when he covered her
hands and rubbed them over his groin and erection. He embraced her
hard again, with his inflexible, hot, flesh between them, their
hearts thudded hard, and their bodies were stirred to an almost
painful sensitivity.

The water cooled, and the steam dissipated.
When she stepped back, Grace didn’t look again, but opened the
cubicle door and stepped out, reaching for a towel to wrap around
herself. She dried, hearing the water shut off and then heard him
step out as he took his own towel and dried.

Outside the room, the main area was silent,
too still. Grace walked to the sofa and dressed, aware of where he
was every second...going to his quarters and pulling on Levis,
coming over to sit in the chair.

She was completely dressed when she looked at
him again. His hair was combed back, inky wet, and his face was as
taut as hers felt.

Donned in her coat with cap and gloves in
hand, Grace turned in the doorway and saw Noel standing as if he’d
taken several steps to follow. Her eyes and throat burned. She took
one last long look before walking out with her boot heels ringing
too loud in the now quiet room.

She turned and fled, nearly falling down the
cold steel stairs, crying by the time she got into her car. She
heard her own sobs and felt as if a dam had broken somewhere inside
her.

Chapter Eleven

“How’s work?”

Grace stood at her stove fixing Seth’s
coffee. “Busy. Hectic.” She turned while it brewed, and barely
glanced at him. She prowled the small space.

“Grace, your pictures were fantastic and I’m
grateful for you driving me around, doing the stake-outs. But if
this is too much for you?”

“No. It’s just about over now anyway. Isn’t
it?”

He nodded. “The moment I saw that detective
sitting in the car and recognized him, I knew it was a matter of
time before they’d be knocking on my door.”

“He’s not a criminal, Seth.”

Her brother was silent a moment, then said,
“You may as well come clean. I saw the negatives.”

She turned, arms folded tight to ease a
tension that never really let up. Her eyes went rolled over him. He
retained his vacation tan, and his blond hair was shaggy, streaked
from the sun and swimming. Having worked with him many nights,
Grace was no longer fooled by his playboy image. Her brother was
serious about what he did. Smart and perceptive, too.

She sighed and went to pour his coffee,
getting one for herself before sitting on the settee and eyeing
him. “I’ve got the pictures in my trunk. Ones I took at his
studio.”