Authors: Julia Gabriel
Next to You (24 page)
He lifted his mouth away from hers for a split second, just long enough to say, "Relax, Marie. It makes a kiss more enjoyable." Then he resumed the kiss, his hand now cradling the back of her head, pulling her lips further into his mouth.
The nerve of the man! She squirmed in his embrace, trying again to free herself. It was too hot outside to be doing this! Her skin felt like it was melting, all liquid-y and ... melting-like. He tasted like coffee and chocolate. Her mind tried to attach itself to that thought—chocolate this early in the morning?—but gained no purchase. Her thoughts were like liquid, too, the knowledge that she should resist him sliding right past a dawning awareness that this was a kiss unlike any she'd ever had bestowed upon her.
A kiss she suddenly—desperately—didn't want to end.
She let the pencil drop from her fingers and slid them into the hair at the nape of his neck. He groaned into her mouth and she opened her lips to him, inviting him in. His tongue twirled around hers, sending a shiver that she couldn't identify as either hot or cold down her spine.
"Marie." God, the way he said her name. The r's rolled and tumbled into her mouth, spilling into her chest before settling into her hips as a spreading pool of desire.
She wanted this man. She wanted his lips on more than just her mouth. Wanted his hands on her body. All over her body. She wanted to be flat on her back beneath Luc Marchand, his weight pressing her into the damp heat of summer grass ...
And then just like that, it was over. Luc pushed away from her, his breathing ragged, and the hot summer air resettled between them. There was a wild look in his eyes, but Marie barely saw it for all the spots and flashes of light shooting through her vitreous jelly. She tried to focus on his face, on his lips. The lips that had left hers bruised and tingling. But nothing settled in her vision. All she could see was light and color, the shapes of her desire.
"Marie?" The r's in her name were deeper now, huskier. Deprived of oxygen.
Breathe. Air into lungs.
As the light show in her eyes faded, Luc Marchand's face began to come into focus again. No one had ever made her insides do that before ... just liquefy. She hadn't even known you could do that with something as innocent as a kiss. There was nothing innocent about this man. The months since the divorce filing had left Marie unsure of what exactly she knew anymore but this was a no brainer. Luc Marchand didn't have an innocent cell in his body.
He reached toward her and flipped over a clean sheet of paper on her sketchpad. "Now draw a color for me."
Now? Now he wanted her to draw? When the only thing she could think of was ripping off her shirt and begging him to touch her? How could she draw now?
"Any color," he prodded. "I don't care."
He leaned over and picked up her pencil, gently curled her fingers around it. How was it that he was touching her hand, yet she felt his hands everywhere?
She began to run the pencil across the page with as firm a touch as she could muster. Her hands were shaky, though, and her heart was still pounding with both fists against her chest. But she did her best, on the off chance he might kiss her again. Already she was craving another kiss like that. Just one more hit, that's all she needed. Please. Just one more.
When she was done, she tilted the pad up for him to see. The lines were spidery and delicate, outlining narrow shapes she had shaded in.
"And what color is that?" he asked.
She studied it for a minute, wanting so very much to get the answer right this time. "Grey," she declared finally.
He nodded. "Yes, I can see that. Grey.
Bon.
"
She wasn't sure she'd actually been seeing grey, but grey was what she was feeling. Indefinite, nebulous, cloudy. She felt all of those things right now. Everything in her life had been black and white. Her life had been on a track. She'd had a role to play, a purpose to fulfill. She'd had status. Then Richard filed for divorce. Kicked her to the curb.
Ever since, she'd been wandering across a field shrouded with fog. Not sure what she should be doing. Or what she wanted to be doing. Letting other people make decisions for her. And now she had stumbled into this man and his sexy r's rolling off his tongue, his kisses that had rendered her temporarily blind. Like she hadn't been blind enough already.
"Why did you kiss me?" she asked.
"I wanted to turn off your brain, so you could draw."
Oh.
"So that was all just a drawing lesson?"
"Yes, Marie, it was."
But his eyes said otherwise. She wasn't
that
blind. He ran his hand back through his hair, damp and curling from the heat. Instantly, she recalled the feel of it, the skin between her fingers sizzling to life.
"Do you kiss all your students?" she asked.
His face darkened. "Not normally, no."
Not normally, What did that mean?
He stood. "Let's go inside where it's cooler."
Cooler was a good idea. Something had just happened here and she wasn't sure what. Marie needed her normally cooler head to prevail. She was not in the habit of kissing sexy French men. Sexy French men were not in the habit of kissing her. She imagined Luc Marchand was going to regret this in the morning. Conceivably he was already regretting it.
She stood and followed him back up the hill. She was not noticing his very fine ass. No, she absolutely was not. Her imagination had gotten the best of her back there. Or maybe it had just been a simple lack of sex. That's what Nishi would say.
You just need to get laid. Take the edge off.
Easy for Nishi to say. She was married to Imran. Imran was perfect. Luc Marchand was clearly not perfect, even if his ass was.
Luc held the door of his studio open for her. Compared to the sunny day outside, the studio was cool and dark. Marie blinked her eyes several times until they adjusted to the dimness.
"Water?" Luc asked.
"Please," she answered.
Inside, things were different. Like there'd never been a kiss outside, just minutes ago. Her internal organs were solid again, her skin no longer melted chocolate, the pool of desire in her hips leaking away. But her lips, those were still tender and kissed.
Luc set two glasses of ice water on the bistro table and motioned for her to join him.
"So, Marie, why are you here?" He took a long drink of water and studied her intently.
She nervously palmed her glass. "To take drawing lessons?"
"You don't sound so sure."
"I'm here to take drawing lessons," she said again, this time with more authority.
"But this wasn't your idea, was it? It was your friend's idea?"
Marie shrugged. "I drew in college. I used to draw all the time."
"But you stopped."
Marie really didn't want to get into this, the demands on her time as a young politician's even younger wife. Evening receptions, Kennedy Center openings, charity boards, her mother's neverending fundraising circuit, ribbon cuttings back "home" in Pittsburgh, interviews and photo shoots, organizing dinner parties at their home in Great Falls, hiring caterers, deciding seating arrangements, then reading up on everyone's pet legislation, and on and on and on. And then after the on and on, making it to the gym before it closed because heaven forbid she not look like the young, perfectly adorable wife.
There hadn't been time for drawing or knitting or gardening—not that she had wanted to knit or garden, but if she had there hadn't been time for it.
"If you were really passionate about it, you would never have quit," Luc added.
She sighed and flicked her hand through the air, conceding the point. "Do you only take on passionate students?"
Luc Marchand flipped the chair around so he could lean back, away from the table. He crossed his arms across his chest as he studied her face. Marie dropped her eyes to stare at the paint rag tied around his neck. The paint rag couldn't stare back, or remind her of kissing.
"I prefer to, yes. I can only take on so many students at a time, so I want to make sure each one is serious about learning. I expect my students to put in the necessary amount of time to do this well. So I need to know whether this is something you want, or whether you're just here because your friend paid for the lessons."
"Most people don't care, as long as they get paid."
"But I do care, Marie. I don't want to invest the time in someone who doesn't know why she's here."
He tilted his chair back, letting the front legs lift off the floor. Marie could see the schoolyard condescension in the gesture.
"Are you looking for something fun to do on the weekends?" he asked.
Marie shrugged. "Have you ever been through a divorce, Mr. Marchand? It's not much fun."
"I've never been married, no. But fun is not what I teach. So tell me, would you be here if your friend hadn't paid for your lessons?"
She was stuck. The answer, of course, was no. She was back working at her mother's firm and due to begin evening classes for her MBA in a few days. She was saving money like a madwoman so she could move away—escape was the better word, really—from DC when she finished her degree. Drawing lessons were a frivolity she wouldn't have indulged. Nishi had known that.
That was the simple answer. The harder truth was that no, she hadn't even thought about picking up a charcoal pencil or paintbrush in years. The idea had not even been on her radar until Nishi had presented her with it.
But now that it was on her radar, yes, she did want to take drawing lessons. She just couldn't say why. It was something she felt, not something she knew.
Outside, a gust of wind swept up a small pile of leaves and twigs into a sudden cyclone, a swirl of green. Just as quickly, the wind lost its gumption and released them. Marie and Luc watched, together, as leaves hit the studio's large picture window and then were quickly whooshed away.
"So Marie?" Luc said. "No reason? No reason why you want to take up drawing again?"
She sought frantically for words, but none came.
"You have to go, then. I don't teach people who don't know why they want to learn. When you have a good reason for taking up my time, return."
Marie picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder.
"Well. Okay. I mean, I don't think that's ..."
Just shut up already.
"Well then. Goodbye." She felt his eyes burning into her back as she walked toward the door.
Outside, she hurried to her car, humiliated, her ears hot and buzzing. She slammed the car door shut, narrowly missing her own ankle.
Well, that went well.
She hoped Nishi could get her money back. Was he being serious when he said he only taught people who know why they want to learn? Whatever happened to the concept of learning for the sake of learning? Maybe that was out of fashion these days. Or out of fashion in France.
If she were Nishi, she'd march back in there and tell him exactly what she thought of his arrogant, pompous, French ... pomposity. She'd demand to be given her damn drawing lessons same as the next person who showed up with cold, hard filthy lucre.
Not to mention the way he had kissed her! Taken advantage of her. Made her feel things she hadn't come here to feel.
She leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. She wasn't Nishi. As Marie Witherspoon, dutiful daughter of a former senator and chameleon-like soon-to-be-ex-wife of Congressman Richard Macintyre, she was going to turn the ignition and carefully back up the winding driveway, hoping she didn't take out Luc Marchand's mailbox or any of his—probably heirloom—plantings. She would look both ways up and down the road before pulling out, and then she would drive the speed limit all the way back to her apartment, where she would eschew the handicapped and inexplicably "reserved" parking spots for the closest other available spot she could find. Later in the day, she would thaw some of Imran's curried barbeque chicken and have that for dinner. Then she would surf the internet for awhile before taking a shower and falling into bed.
That's what she was going to do. In her fog-shrouded field, doing what she always did was the safest way to avoid injury. Doing something out of the ordinary, say driving to Middleburg for drawing lessons, could lead anywhere. Over a cliff. Into a ditch. Stuck in a dead end.
She inserted the key into the ignition and turned. As she backed up the driveway, a hard knot of irritation—at Luc Marchand, at Tricky Dick Macintyre, at herself, at the entire damn world—tightened in her chest.
At the top of the driveway, she looked away from the rearview mirror and down toward Luc Marchand's lawn and the stone wall. She remembered the coolness of the stone through the thin cloth of her pants, the liquidy thing her insides had done, and how
edible
Luc Marchand had tasted. She had wasted a perfectly good Saturday morning. And yet, as she drove the winding country roads leading back to suburbia, everything looked sharper—the rough bark of trees, the hard glint of cars, the splintered wood of fences—and more in focus than it had in years.
J
ulia Gabriel writes
contemporary romance fiction. She lives in New England, where she teaches writing at a university and divides her time between writing, reading and quilting.
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