The Colors of Love (29 page)

Because she was a creature of passions, flitting from impulse to impulse, never looking back. Because Ricky, her own son, had needed more from her, but she'd been more concerned about her chances of becoming the band's lead singer than about saving her son's life.

* * *

When he emerged from his office carrying the painting, now wrapped in its outer shell of cardboard, he found Vanda at her desk. So far as he could tell, everyone else had left.

"What are you doing, Vanda? Quitting time's long past."

"You said you wanted all these notes typed before I left today."

"Go home. You can do them tomorrow."

Vanda looked at him doubtfully, and he saw that her eyes were red and swollen. Emma said he'd been cranky, but he'd had no idea he'd brought stalwart Vanda James to the brink of tears.

"Look, Vanda, I'm sorry if I've been—ah, difficult lately. I certainly don't expect you to stay late to do those notes. Go home."

He put the bulky cardboard-sheathed painting in his car and drove home, heard the phone ringing as he unlocked his front door. He fumbled the key and finally managed to get the lock open, set the painting inside the door, and strode the three steps to the telephone.

"Jamie—"

"This is Cyril Thurston calling."

He closed his eyes to battle the wave of disappointment. She'd sent the painting today, and he'd thought—He didn't know what he'd thought, knew only that Cyril Thurston was a devastating disappointment.

"Yes, Mr. Thurston?" He would go to her as soon as he got Thurston off the phone. He didn't know what he'd do, what he'd say, but somehow he'd make it right. He had to.

"...concluded our deliberations," Thurston was saying. "We've decided to go ahead with this project provided we can agree on scale."

"Scale?" He'd missed something here, something important. "You're funding my treatment center?"

"Yes, but as I say, we need to examine the proposed scale. Given the needs of the Seattle area, we believe the project should be scaled up. Can we meet tomorrow?"

Moments later, Alex hung up the phone with a sense of unreality. The Thurston Foundation wanted to back his project, but on a larger scale. This time, he'd insist that Dennis be present at the meeting, and he dialed Dennis's number to tell him.

"Didn't I tell you?" said his brother-in-law. "We'd have been wasting time with that proposal for the bank."

When Alex hung up the telephone, he was once again alone with the painting Jamie had sent. He reached for the phone again, dialed the first three digits of her number before he stopped, then dropped the receiver back into its cradle.

He remembered the day he'd bought the painting that reminded him of Ricky, how she'd confessed afterward that she felt uneasy, afraid he'd use her painting against her.

Wasn't that exactly what he'd done the night he walked out on her?

He winced and turned away from the telephone. How much did it take to destroy love?
A woman who loves you,
Emma had said, but that might not be true. She'd loved him when she painted the picture, but now...?

* * *

Although Jamie's car was parked outside her front door, she didn't answer when he knocked. He knocked again, harder. Then, when she still didn't answer, he circled her house. He'd climb up onto her balcony, bang on the window, and get her attention.

Was that any way to tell a woman he was sorry, begging her forgiveness by hammering on her window, bursting into her home? He should have phoned first. Maybe he should start with flowers. He owed her that, didn't he? A proper courtship, lover's gifts, and a slow seduction.

Her windows were dark, not a single light glowing inside. If the cat was there, Alex couldn't see it, couldn't see anything at all. He swung up onto her balcony and tried the sliding patio door, found it locked, and was torn between relief that she didn't risk herself by leaving it unfastened, and frustration because he needed to see her, to find her, to tell her he loved her.

* * *

Jamie's heart stopped as she rounded the corner and saw Alex's car standing in the drive beside hers. She swallowed repeatedly as she walked slowly toward her house, unable to clear the dry lump that had formed in her throat.

The painting must have been delivered by now. He'd know it was a painting by its shape, and her name on the waybill. When he found that painting in her studio, he'd been so angry. The fact that he'd come now, in the night, could mean the anger hadn't left him yet.

She saw a movement near her porch, then a shadow resolved into Alex's lean form as he stepped away from her house.

"Where were you?" His voice was quiet, too quiet.

"Walking."

"Alone, at night?"

"It's quiet here, very safe."

"I worry about you. I can't seem to help it."

She swallowed again. Maybe she had something wrong with her throat, a bad cold coming on. She couldn't seem to speak.

"Why did you send me the painting?"

She didn't answer, couldn't. Maybe in a moment, anger would come and she'd be able to speak, but until then her tear ducts were traitorously ready to flood and her voice couldn't be relied upon.

His hand touched her arm. "Will you come with me?"

"Yes."

Inside his car, the silence quickly became oppressive. She hugged herself and stared at his hands on the steering wheel as he crossed the bridge and drove to Capital Hill. In a neighborhood of town houses, he turned a corner and drove into a garage. When he shut off the engine, the garage door closed behind him.

"This is your place."

"Yes," he confirmed.

She didn't look at his face, didn't know if he was watching her. She stumbled out of the car and
told
herself she had to get through this, to pretend it didn't tear her apart to be near him without feeling his arms around her, knowing she'd never be able to walk into his arms again.

He opened a door and gestured her into an elegantly cool entranceway. She saw a big piece of cardboard sticking out of a clothes closet—the wrapping from her painting.

They ended up standing in his living room, cool leather furniture and white carpet, staring at each other across a glass coffee table.

"I told Jason," he said.

"What?"

"I told Jason about Ricky, about his death. I probably should have told him before, because I think it made a difference. I showed him Ricky's picture, and I think seeing an eight-year-old kid, knowing he died from insulin shock, made a real impact. I wanted to tell you. It was your idea, and you should know that you might have saved Jason's life."

"I'm glad you told him." Was this why he'd brought her here? To tell her about a patient?

"I don't know what to say to you, Jamie."

"Do you have to say anything?"

She saw his hands clench, hanging beside him, and in the odd numb way that had grown familiar, she wondered what emotion drove the flex of his muscles. Anger, she decided. He always seemed to be angry with her.

"I want to tell you about my brother," he said, and her attention focused with a sharpness that made her gasp.

"Ricky," she said. She wanted to touch him, couldn't with his eyes holding her away like this.

Something flexed in his jaw. "He had a diet, insulin injections, and the doctor said it was important, very important, that he stick to the regimen. My mother was busy, often away from home. She was a singer—a good singer, I guess, because she got a lot of work."

"Alex—"

"Halloween," he said, "I had a party. Ricky was a bit jealous, and I told him I'd bring him a treat home. Mom was home that night, otherwise I wouldn't have gone."

She reached for his hand, couldn't stop herself, felt something settle deep inside as his fingers gripped hers.

"When I got home, I—he—" The hand tangled with hers clenched painfully. "He'd dressed to go out trick-or-treating. They said he'd probably been fasting, thinking he could save up his sugar rations. He didn't believe it would really hurt him, despite the warnings, but
she—"
She heard Alex gulp air. "They'd called her with a singing engagement. She went out. I never forgave her for that.

"Maybe it wasn't her fault." He sounded weary, and she wondered when he'd last slept. "Back then I was certain. Now I'm not so sure, but for all her hugs and kisses, she wasn't there when he needed her. Neither was I."

She linked her other hand with his. "It wasn't your fault either, Alex, but I understand why you need to help children now, with your treatment center."

"When I met you—"

"You decided I was like her, that I would fail you too."

"You jump over a lot of territory. Yes, that's
exactly
what I thought. Because you were so—so vibrant, so—because I wanted you so much. I didn't realize it until today, until I really
looked
at that painting, but for the last twenty-six years, ever since Ricky died, I've been damned careful not to need anyone."

She felt a pulse beating in their linked hands, couldn't tell if it was his, or hers.

"I love you, Alex. I've loved you—I don't know, it seems like it happened when we were together in that alley, searching for Sara's cat. As if somehow, I recognized you, and just knew."

"Jamie..." She felt sensations flowing from his fingers like electricity, then he gripped her hands even harder. "I don't know how many times I hurt you. The first time I made love to you, I was so greedy for you I couldn't—"

"I tried to make you lose control." She gulped and admitted, "I told myself in the beginning that it would be an affair, just an affair. I'd never had one, and it was time, and God knew I wanted you. But when—that night, I was frightened because it was too much, and I knew then that it could never be just an affair."

She forced herself to meet his eyes. "What you said, about me using everything, everyone. It's true. Even then, when I knew I loved you, I knew it wouldn't last. I knew you'd leave, and I told myself that when you did, I'd paint my pain, I'd sell my pain. You were right."

He slid his fingers into her hair. "You're an artist, with an artist's eyes. It's part of who you are, not a failing." She saw him swallow. "I told you—promised you I'd never use your painting against you, but then I did exactly that. I saw in your painting how much I needed you, and it terrified me. And to protect myself, even knowing how much it meant to you, I still used your art against you, to judge you. I don't know how you can forgive that."

She stretched up on her toes and covered his lips with hers. He took control of the kiss, possessing her lips with a deep hunger that left her shuddering.

"If you do that again," he said raggedly, "I won't be able to say the things I need to say. I love you. God help me, if I hadn't loved you so much, I'd never have been such a brute to you. I wasn't ready to love anyone. I didn't know that until I fell in love with you, but I thought I could stay safe. I didn't realize how barren my life was without you."

She saw his eyes change color, and touched his face with wonder.

"I painted you like this," she whispered. "Exactly like this." She smiled and said softly, "I have one more thing to confess."

"I have a million things to tell you, too, but first..." His mouth found hers again and she joined with him eagerly, passionately, feeling him harden against her.

"This is a cold place to live," he said in a husky voice. "Your house feels so much more like home to me now."

His eyes spilled over with love, telling her how deeply he treasured her, how he would love her forever. Then he lifted her into his arms and carried her into his bedroom.

She saw the painting the instant he crossed the threshold with her in his arms. Alex, on canvas, reaching for her.

"Alex—"

"Yes," he said, lowering her to the bed. "I want you so damned badly, Jamie. I've ached for you. Not just here, in my bed, but in my mind. I ache for your voice in my ears, for the knowledge that you'll be waiting when my day is done, that we can build our lives together."

Words were lost as he kissed her deeply, thrusting into her mouth, sending hot waves of need over her chest, down her arms, across her belly. She placed one hand on his chest, and felt his heart hammer against her palm.

"I'd better tell you now," she said softly. "That first time, when you made love to me—when you asked if there might be a child, I wanted it to be true. I wanted your child. I cried when I learned I wasn't pregnant, Alex. I had nothing left of you."

"You had the painting," he reminded her, covering her hand with his. "You sent the painting to me."

"There's another," she admitted. "I painted another."

"I'm glad you couldn't give everything of me away. Jamie—Jamila—my love, tell me you're going to marry me."

Happiness burst inside her. "Yes. Yes, of course I am."

"Good, because without you..."

She felt dizzy from the love in his eyes and her smile lit from his. "Oh, yes," she breathed. "I would love nothing more than... than you—forever."

His eyes softened as he touched her. "I don't know how you can love me after the way I treated you, but I'm so relieved you do, my darling, because without you my life is black and white."

Joyfully, passionately, and with all the colors in her heart, Jamie gave herself to the man she loved.

The End