Nerves of Steel (25 page)

How could she have been so stupid?   Thinking that he had felt anything at all for her?    When would she learn to trust no one, assume nothing, especially not handsome men with clever hands and smart mouths.  She grabbed the door and flung it open.

"Don't go."  His voice, softer now, pleading almost, caught her on the landing.  "Please."

The word was so quiet Cassie could almost convince herself she'd imagined it.  She slowed her breathing and tried to still the fight or flight nausea that filled her stomach.  She turned, eyes narrowed, and to her surprise he stood there, motionless, hands at his side, palms out.  He looked so harmless.   So sincere.

Drake had the potential to hurt her more than anyone else alive.  Still, she took a reluctant step toward him.  Could she trust him?  Lord knew why, but she wanted to.  The idea seemed so foreign that she almost laughed.  It was as frightening as this dreadful need he stirred within her.  And as compelling.

She edged back inside, handing him her coat, her eyes never leaving his for an instant.

"Thank you," was all he said, as if she had given him a rare and precious gift.  If he only knew.

He met her gaze and took her hand once more, his touch gentle as his thumb caressed the scar at the base of hers.  Maybe he did know.

Drake opened the third door in the foyer.  Cassie had assumed it led to another bedroom.    He opened it and flipped a light switch.  Beyond him a cavernous space that occupied the rear of the building brightened with the gleam of overhead track lights.  He led her inside, looking over his shoulder at her.

Large windows took up all three outside walls.  There was an elegant wrought iron spiral staircase in the corner, leading to the roof, she guessed.  Beside it was an old-fashioned freight elevator enclosed within an intricately worked metal cage.  A battered leather recliner along with a large table were the room's only furnishings.  But what stole her breath were the colors.

Swirling colors covered canvasses of all sizes.  There were easels, angled to capture the light at certain times of the day, each holding works in progress.  She began a slow walk around the room.  His work was evocative, breathtaking.  The way he turned light into a vibrant force converted the simplest of landscapes into living moments of time temporarily imprisoned by the pigment.  His portraits, they moved beyond two dimensions as if he were capturing the subject's soul rather than their mere physical appearance.

She stopped in front of a large canvas depicting a man of indeterminate age sitting on the steps of the Carnegie library, his earthly possessions packed tightly in paper shopping bags surrounding him. 

"I know him.  That's Morris," she said, her fingers reaching out and almost touching the figure.  Morris was a frequent visitor to Three Rivers on nights when it was too cold to sleep on his grate.  In the portrait he looked up at the viewer.  The rage and impotence in his eyes was so palpable she wanted to step away.  Instead, she was actually drawn forward because, beneath all that anger, she saw the strength of the man revealed.

"It's wonderful," she whispered as if she were in church.

"I'm rather proud of that one myself."  Drake joined her.  "It's almost done, just needs a touch of something--I'm not quite sure what.  I haven't really done any work since last summer."

"There are always so many people there, walking right past him like he doesn't exist."  Cassie remembered the last time she'd seen Morris during a visit to the library.  The homeless man had spat and cursed at her.

Drake cocked his head and looked at the painting.  The white marble steps spread out from the seated figure, dwarfing him while also shedding a reflective light that created a halo, bathing the homeless man, illuminating him in sharp contrast to his surroundings.  Drake grabbed a length of charcoal and leaned forward.  With a few quick strokes he added a distant figure emerging from the library, his shadow descending over the steps, almost reaching Morris.

She watched in awe as the few, almost careless, sweeps of charcoal suddenly redefined the painting.  Now Morris was not just a man who had left society behind, but who existed in a life on the other side of an invisible border.

"You've a good eye," Drake told her.  "Thanks."

"Your mother got her wish," she said, remembering his story about his first name.

"It's something I've done all my life, scribbling on any scrap of paper I could find.  It's my escape."

She moved on to look at a view of jumbled rooftops.  "Why do police work at all?  When you have so much talent--"

"I love being a cop.  That's when I feel most alive.  Most of what I do in here comes directly from what I do out there on the streets."

"I know what you mean.  The rush, the adrenalin, are addictive."  She turned and spotted a scattering of paper sketches on a battered table behind her.

He moved to intercept her.  "When I said I didn't expect anything to happen last night, what I meant was that I didn't expect you to want--I mean, you're so--hell, I don't know what I mean."  He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.

She glanced down at the figure in the drawings.  Her hand shot out to grasp the paper, she stopped herself and looked to him for permission, but his gaze was turned away from her, fixed on the floor at his feet.  She scrutinized the sketch, gnawing at her lower lip for a long moment.  "Is that supposed to be me?"

"They're only from memory."   He took the sheet of paper from her, and she was surprised to see that his hand was trembling.

Cassie stepped away from him.  He couldn't see her that way, it was impossible.  The woman in those sketches was beautiful, full of passion and sensuality.  She was none of those--couldn't he see that?  Then she saw the date scrawled in the corner.  Two days ago.  Before last night.  She turned to him in confusion.

Drake clenched his hands, waiting for her verdict.   She knew all his secrets now, she could hurt him without even trying, but when she looked up at him with surprise and wonder in her eyes, he didn't think that would happen.

"You didn't know me at all when you drew this," she said.  "Not even my name."

He risked stepping closer to her.  "I knew everything I needed to.  I knew everything in here."  He placed a hand over her heart.  To his amazement and delight, she blushed. 

"So, you like them?" he asked. 

She nodded, her teeth still worrying her lower lip, gazing at the sketches with wide-eyed fascination that was enchanting to watch.

 "Like them?  I love them, but this isn't me."  Her finger softly stroked the air above the charcoal lines.

A surge of pleasure warmed him and he straightened as if released from a burden.  "I draw what I see," he assured her, encircling her with his arms.  He turned her toward him and lifted her hands in his.  "How do you do your job with such tiny hands?"   Her palms were angry red where the skin had been stripped away.  He gently kissed the small areas of intact skin.

Drake raised his gaze when she took a sharp breath in.  Her eyes were sunken, her face pale beneath the remnants of grime and soot.  He thought of all she had been through in the past two days.  Enough to decimate a strong man, but she refused to bow to exhaustion.

"You need sleep," he whispered.  In answer, she slid her hand from his and feathered it up his arm, sending a delightful shiver through his body.  She gave him a tiny smile and encircled both hands around his neck, standing on tiptoe to kiss him.

The kiss resonated through Drake.  At last he felt free to totally respond to her.  There were no secrets, no fears left, only his desire for her. 

"You're all I need right now," she murmured when their lips parted.  If she only knew how true those words were for him as well.                           

Drake encircled her waist with one arm and swept the table clean with his other.  She wrapped her legs around him, and he placed her on the table.  His hands slid under her sweater, playing over her skin as his lips slipped down her neck.

She reached down, drew her sweater up.  Before it was over her head, Drake's mouth and hands returned to savor her flesh.  She tasted of sweet apple blossoms rustling in a springtime breeze.  She bent her head over his, her hair cascading forward, and he was drowning in the rich, dark tresses.

Her mouth was at his neck, his cheek, his ear, filling him with tiny thrills as her tongue caressed him.  His hands continued to roam over her, evoking small noises of delight from her whenever he found a particularly sensitive area.  He pulled her jeans off and continued his exploration of her body, enjoying the pleasure he was able to give her. 

Her hips rocked in time with his hand as he caressed her.  He moved his mouth down her chest, slow and relentless, wanting to taste every inch of her, to know her in entirety.  Finally he knelt between her legs.  Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his head forward, and she cried out.

She grabbed the edge of the table, relaxing her merciless grip on his hair.  Another cry of release escaped her lips, this one a soft mewing.  She fell back, limp. He straightened and looked down on his handiwork.

Hart said nothing, her breath coming in rapid gasps as if she'd just finished a marathon.  When she opened her eyes, her pupils were wide with pleasure.   Her body glistened with sweat and a healthy glow, her eyes were bright, her hair hanging tousled like a child's as she leaned back on her elbows, totally relaxed.

"My god," she said when her breathing normalized.

"Something wrong?" he asked with a smile, his fingers teasing a small circle below her belly button.  She weakly swatted his hand away.

"You need to give me moment here." 

Drake kept his hand still, felt the trembling in her body begin to subside. 

"I hate that you can do that to me."  She sat up again, swinging her legs on either side of him.

"Do what?" he asked innocently as his fingers slid up to cup her breast.

"Stop it.  That.  Turning me into jelly.  I hate needing you, wanting you, letting you make me feel so--"

"Vulnerable?" He supplied the word that had echoed inside him ever since they had shared that first cup of coffee, when she had brushed her fingers against his, restoring them to life.

They were both still now, staring at each other.  "Yes," she whispered, and he was surprised to see a single tear slide from her eye.  "Vulnerable."

CHAPTER 42

"Wait here," he said.  Cassie watched Drake go into the guest bathroom next door.  He returned with a thick terrycloth robe that he wrapped her in.  Before she could tie the belt, he scooped her into his arms and carried her out of the studio.  Laughter at his exuberance escaped from her.  The constant knot of grief constricting her chest since last night loosened its grip.

"You're exhausted."  He deposited her onto one of the cherry, Shaker-style dining room chairs.  "First something to eat, then bed."  He moved into the kitchen beyond, opening the folding doors over the bar.

"Bed?" she asked with a smile that crinkled her eyes.

"Sleep," he amended in a stern tone.  He turned on the heat under a cast iron skillet and gathered eggs, roasted red peppers, green onions, sausage and mushrooms.  The kitchen filled with a tantalizing odor.

"Should I be jealous?"  She asked as he chopped the vegetables.  His knife flew in quick precision with only the slightest movement of his hand.  "A woman's robe?"

"I keep it for my mother's visits."

"Where's she live?"

"Florida.  She got a job down there a few years ago.  Got tired of the cold."

Cassie stood, tying the robe around her and looked out the windows at the bleak Pittsburgh night.  "I don't blame her." 

She walked around, admiring his artwork, examining his belongings for clues to their owner.  One corner of the living room was filled with a large TV, stereo and DVD player.  His eclectic collection of music was neatly arranged, but in no particular order, John Coltrane sandwiched between Led Zeppelin and Tantric.  She smiled when she saw a copy of her father's favorite, John Lee Hooker.  She finished her wandering and returned to the kitchen, perching on the counter beside the refrigerator.

Drake flashed her a smile, then turned to add the vegetables to the browning sausage.  She watched him ground some pepper over the mix and sprinkle in some rosemary, basil and a small amount of fennel.

"Have you sold any of your work?"

"I'm lucky, my uncle set me up with an agent who takes care of that end of it."  Drake beat the eggs and adjusted the heat before adding them to the pan.  "I try not to think of my art as a business.  It's more like therapy that happens to sometimes pay." 

"Could I see your paintings in a museum or gallery?" she persisted despite his obvious embarrassment.

He looked up at her, as if uncertain if she was mocking him.    "No museums, but galleries in New York, Cleveland, Baltimore and DC."

"None here?  I really want to see more."

"None here.  You're one of the few outside the family who even know about my painting.  I'd like to keep it that way."

She nodded her agreement.  "That smells great.  Did your mom teach you to cook?"

He chuckled and shook his head.  "Mom's idea of cooking is ordering take out.  My dad was the chef in the family."  He shut the gas off, allowing the eggs finish cooking in their own heat while he poured them each a glass of milk.  Cassie carried the glasses to the table, and he followed with the food.

Hart dug in, and he was gratified by the smile of delight that crossed her face as she chewed.  "Wow.  This is great." 

She shoveled more of the eggs into her mouth, eating with the same passion she seemed to bring to everything in life.  Drake took a small bite, marveling at these new feelings.  He chewed slowly, as if he could somehow stretch out this peaceful interlude, freeze time.  He'd never had someone to take care of before.

It felt good, he decided as he washed down the eggs with a sip of milk.  The food settled in his stomach with a warm feeling that eased into his veins.  For the first time in days, the rigid set of his muscles begin to relax.