The Colors of Love (21 page)

Jamie stretched lazily, feeling a pleasant ache in her hips.

"Hmm," she murmured, her face nestled into the pillow. She stretched out one hand to search for Squiggles, who usually slept against her legs.

No furry kitten. He must have prowled out to the kitchen to—

Her eyes flew open.

Alex—

No, Alex wasn't here, and here—here wasn't home.

The hotel room.

She'd made love with him last night, right here on this bed, tumbling into flames and passion, swirling reds and purples. She hadn't known until last night that passion lived in its own color spectrum.

Squiggles—had she left enough food?

Yes, she'd filled his dish before she went out with Alex. So he'd be fine until she got home. He'd greet her at the door with a complaining meow the way he always did, and she'd give him a treat.

She closed her eyes and let herself become aware of her body.

Oh, yes, she could feel the difference. She wondered if it showed is her face, in her eyes. She had only to let herself
feel
to become aware of the curious fullness deep inside her. She hadn't known she would be able to feel him inside,
afterward.
She'd felt as if she were forever branded as a part of him.

Where had Alex gone?

She slid out of the bed and walked to the sliding patio door. Today the ocean rolled onto the beach in long surges, driven by the wind farther north. The sun hung high enough in the sky to leave no pink of dawn. He'd left the room, gone downstairs or outside. Surely he hadn't driven away?

No, of course he wouldn't do that. She smiled, knowing Alexander Kent was far too courteous to walk out on a woman without saying good-bye.

So he'd gone out for some other reason.

She wished he'd woken her. She would have liked to share the early morning with him, to greet the day with his wake-up kiss while his hands sought secrets he'd discovered last night.

She shivered with her own erotic thoughts.

Lightly,
she thought,
take it lightly.

Whatever had happened last night, she needed to remember that this man had no intention of committing to a real relationship with Jamila Ferguson.

She couldn't believe it hadn't happened to him too. Maybe right now he was outside, walking, adjusting his mind to a new reality, because after the way they'd loved, how could he imagine sharing his life with any other woman?

Only yesterday
she'd
believed she wanted to live her life alone. She'd wanted a lover, yes, but she didn't want to need another person as an essential part of her existence.

Now...

"You're crazy," she whispered. "You're in some sort of artistic frenzy. When the painting's over—when the affair's over..."

It would change; of course it would change. The newness would wear off and she'd be herself again. Last night she'd thought the words
I love you,
and had very nearly said them. It would have been a mistake, because of course the feelings would fade and lose power. This was her first time. After the second time they made love, the tenth, the fiftieth—

In time, she'd
want
less. Of course she would.

She hurried to the bathroom and showered again, quickly, wanting now to be dressed before he returned. The green dress wasn't suitable country morning wear, but she had nothing else. Her handbag produced lipstick, and she painted a light coat of coral over lips that still tingled from last night's love-making.

She turned and studied the room, her face warming as she surveyed the bed. It certainly
looked
as if it had been used for lovemaking. She quickly pulled the blankets straight and fluffed the pillows.

No sign of Alex in this room, but of course they'd only brought the clothes they wore; they hadn't planned to stay all night. The longer she stood, waiting for him, the more self-conscious she felt. Better to go downstairs, to stride up to him and wish him good morning with a casual touch of the hand or a kiss. An affair, that's what they'd planned—if you could call it a plan.

He'd stay longer—
they'd
last longer if she kept it casual. She slid her purse strap on her shoulder and let herself out of the room. No key, and the lock fastened itself behind her. He'd taken the key, she supposed.

The corridor seemed different from last night, although the walls displayed the same traditional wallpaper showing women in parasols escorted by men wearing formal tails and top hats. She was the one who had changed. Last night she'd seen the world in colors of nervous tension and desire—this morning, she saw only uneasy, antique browns.

The dining room held a couple with a preschool child at one table, two men breakfasting with newspapers at another. No sign of Alex. At the reception desk, Jamie found the elderly woman she remembered from last year, knitting an endless gray garment.

"Excuse me—?"

The woman looked up, smiled softly, perhaps in recognition.

"Can you tell me where my—" She couldn't say
lover
to this grandmotherly creature.

"He went for a walk on the beach, dear," said the woman, saving Jamie the necessity to label the man she'd spent the night with.

"Thanks." She felt herself flush, as if this truly were her grandmother sitting there.

She almost ran out of the hotel, stopped herself on the front stairs. She had to grow a layer of sophistication if she was going to have an affair. It wasn't as if it was a big deal these days. Even Grandmother inside had looked more curious than shocked, although she must have known Jamie and Alex weren't man and wife. A man wouldn't bring his wife to a hotel with no luggage, wearing evening clothes, checking in without reservations.

She spotted Alex standing near the water across the gravel drive.

As she stepped away from the house, the wind caught her clothes and blew them against her body. She leaned into the wind, pushing it aside to cross to Alex. When she got to the sand, her heels sank in with the first step and she bent to take her shoes off.

"I'll come to you!" he shouted against the wind.

She stood unevenly on the uncertain ground, not knowing how to greet him, saved from talking by the sound of the wind in her face. She opened her mouth to say something as he reached her, she wasn't certain what.

Then suddenly she was in his arms, his lips warm over hers as he murmured, "How are you this morning?"

"I—all right." She flushed and pulled away. "I thought you might have gone to breakfast. I'm glad you waited."

"I took a walk along the shore, blowing away city cobwebs." He took her arm. "Watch your step."

"I don't need protecting." But she laughed, because he'd done it from the beginning, offering her umbrellas and rides, taking his jacket off for her in the rain.

He stopped on the edge of the gravel road. "Jamila, we need to talk."

"Last night you called me Jamie."

He didn't smile, even in his eyes. She told herself she should have known it wouldn't be simple. For a moment just now, when he took her in his arms and kissed her, she'd thought they could remain lovers, that she could let herself
love
being his lover for as long as it lasted.

"Talk about what?"

Surely he didn't mean to attack her again as an unfit companion for Sara Miller?

"I owe you an apology for last night." He touched her shoulder.

"Last night? What—why would—?" Heat climbed from her chest to her throat, then into her face. With the sun blazing down and his eyes troubled and dark, last night's passion flared in humiliating colors. "What do you mean, apology?"

"I shouldn't have—" He made a gesture with one hand and she saw a muscle flex in his throat. "I should have been gentle. I meant to be, then I lost control. That's unforgivable, and I'm sorry."

She remembered the moment when he'd stopped their loving, visibly fighting for control. She'd wanted him to need her so much that nothing mattered, and she'd touched him deliberately, needing him to lose control.

"I wanted it," she said simply.

"That's not the point." He turned his head, stared at the ocean, his jaw a sharp angle against the sea. "I lost control. This isn't a game, a painting you'll be finished with tomorrow. If you're pregnant—"

"I might be. It's possible." Something pulled deep inside at the thought, but she couldn't listen to it now. "Don't worry, I won't hold you responsible, Alex." She saw the predictable flash in his eyes, said, "You don't like that, do you? You want to be responsible for everything."

He gripped her arms and she threw her head back and dared him with her eyes. She wanted him to let loose and shake her, and then she'd fight, turn wild cat in his arms.

"Just for once," he growled, "take something seriously."

His hands bit deeper into her upper arms, and she made her voice deliberately soft. "Oh, no, Alex, I'd hate to ruin your perfect image of me."

With a muttered curse, he hauled her hard against him, taking her mouth in an angry kiss. At his touch, her tension exploded and she melted against him.

When he jerked his head back, her lips felt bruised and swollen.

"I want you," he said harshly.

"Yes."

He slid his arm around her waist and together they turned toward the hotel. Inside, they crossed the lobby. She thought Alex nodded to the woman knitting behind the desk.

"She must know," whispered Jamie as they started up the stairs.

"Does it bother you?"

They rounded the corner of the stairs and he turned her toward him. She said, "I want you to make love to me. That's all I know."

They stumbled upstairs and into the room. "This time," he growled as his mouth took hers, "This time I'll—"

"Touch me," she begged, her body throbbing. "Touch my breasts with your hands."

He slid the draped bodice of her dress down her shoulders, found her aching breasts and cupped them in his hands. Her knees buckled and she moaned into his mouth.

"Madness," he groaned against the soft flesh of her throat. "You drive me to madness."

"Yes... yes, please... oh, yes, right there..." She moaned under his touch and they sank together onto the deep piled carpet, surrendering to the red haze filling the well of passion.

Much later, he carried her to the bed and she pulled him down, pleased when he didn't resist.

"We do have to talk," he said.

"Not now."

How long did she have? A week? A month?

A month at most, because Diana would return in a month, and Alex intended to marry the other woman. Jamie would lose him, either because he wanted Diana, or because he didn't like Jamie despite the fact that he wanted her.

She placed her hand against his chest and felt the heavy beat of his heart, saw desire flare in his eyes as he bent to take her lips with his. She gave herself up to his touch, pushing aside the knowledge that the end was inevitable. Alex disapproved of her and always would. But for now...

For now, there was only Alex... his touch, his lips, the hard thrust of his possession as he took her spinning on a journey through passion, desperate need, and fulfillment.

Afterward, her flesh clung to his, and she thought that if there was a child, she could survive the pain. The child would need her, and she could never fail a child, a precious part of Alex that she would treasure forever.

She knew she mustn't let Alex see her desire. She knew enough about Alex to be certain that he would never willingly father a child unless he intended to be a parent in every sense of the word. He'd used protection this time when he made love to her, and he wouldn't let himself be distracted again.

He would choose to father a child with Diana. Not Jamie.

She slipped out of his arms and walked to the bathroom. She didn't look back, because in her mind she could see so clearly the image of Alex sitting in the bed, hand stretched out to her, eyes filled with love. Now, in this instant, if she turned and found anything less, she could not contain the pain.

As she lathered her body with soap in the shower, she closed her eyes and imagined Alex's hands sliding over her under the pounding water.

This wouldn't do at all. She must find some scrap of sophistication. She had to remember the day she'd announced to Liz her intention to have an affair. She'd been happy, zinging with sensual awareness and anticipation.

An affair.

She could do it.

"I'm hungry," she announced as she stepped back into the bedroom.

Alex was standing at the open window, looking out on the ocean. Naked. God, he was naked. She kept her eyes on his head, then on his face when he turned to her.

"Starving," she added brightly. "Shall we go down to breakfast?"

"We should dress first," he suggested, smiling.

"We might shock Grandma," Jamie agreed.

It was going to be all right. If they could smile together, she'd survive.

* * *

Alex had planned to use the drive into the city from Evensong House to talk to Jamila, and put what had happened into a rational perspective.

Instead, the drive passed in a silence that felt oddly comfortable.

"I have some work to do this afternoon," he announced as he turned onto her street.

"I'll be painting. Would you like to come to dinner?"

Would she paint them together—loving?

"Yes, I'd like dinner." He pulled into her drive, parked the car, and reached for his seat belt.

"Don't get out." She leaned over and deposited a light kiss on his cheek. "Come for dinner about seven."

Then she was gone, flying up the stairs to her door.

He wanted to follow her, to pound on her door and haul her away from her damned canvases, haul her into her bedroom—wherever she'd hidden the bedroom in that tiny house.

Insane that he could feel desire when he'd spent the majority of the last twelve hours in bed with her.

Because it defied all reason that he should want her, he slammed the car into reverse and backed out of her driveway.

Ten minutes later he flicked the button on his automatic garage door and pulled into his garage. When he opened the door to his condo, it felt empty, chilled. He turned the heat up and switched on lights, put a pot of coffee on in the kitchen. Next time, he'd invite her here for dinner. She would sit at his oak dining room table, her vibrant hair warming the room, taking the chill from his bones.