Every Time I Love You Read online

  Brent told himself that surely that was it—the key to the violence of the emotion that swept through him at first sight of her. She was an artist's dream. The body magnificent. Not that he didn't appreciate most women; he did. And his adrenaline had certainly been sent into motion before.

  But not to this extent. Not so strongly that it was almost overpowering. Not so much that time and music and the very pulse of life seemed to stand still—light and darkness and shadow to seep away just because she was walking toward him, because their eyes met and some shimmering chemistry was being awakened.

  Her eyes were blue: sky blue, pure blue, innocent blue—a rather incongruous color when compared to the sophistication of her dress, her hair, even her easy smile. She knew that she was an attractive woman; that she appealed to men. Perhaps, Brent thought wryly, she even set herself slightly above the tongue-hanging appreciation she could surely accrue. Brent crossed his arms over his chest and a slow smile seeped into his own features. His eyes were still locked with hers, and hers with his. He felt definitely challenged. Alert, aware, tempted—excited. And more than ready to march to the fore. He smiled with a slow, sure assessment of the woman approaching him. You've met your match, sweetheart, he wanted to tell her. I'm the man who is going to call your bluff.

  Geoffrey Sable had reached the table with her. Chad was coming over with two other women.

  “Brent, this is Gayle Norman, my assistant, the lady who has been doing most of the work for the showing. Gayle, Brent McCauley. Oh, and these are two of Gayle's friends...”

  Geoffrey was still talking. Brent didn't hear him. Gayle Norman's hand was in his. Warm, electric. She was smiling at him, not a foot from him. Her smile had a haughty little curve to one side, as if she were longing to tell him that she wasn't in the least impressed by the fact that he was a great artist. It was all a lie, he thought. Or maybe she wasn't impressed with the fact that he was an artist. Still, she was affected. He could see her breasts rising and falling beneath the hugging black silk; he could feel the tenor of her heart, the beat accelerated.

  “Mr. McCauley,” she said simply. Her voice was music. Cool, melodious. She was fighting it; she knew that it was there, that shattering chemistry, but she longed to deny it.

  “Miss Norman,” he returned. He seemed to be testing the sound of her voice, she thought. Tasting it...

  He released her hand. He said something polite to the other two women. They all slid into the booth he had been sharing with Chad and Geoffrey Sable; conversation ensued. Easy laughter, easy chattering. It was a nice group, very relaxed. They were talking about the showing, about oils, about painting in general, about their expectations for tomorrow. He answered everything said to him; he replied—coherently—he believed.

  But she was sitting across from him, and his eyes never left hers. She knew the intensity of his interest. She tried to ignore it. She talked too. Her voice was clear and feminine. He liked it.

  And every once in a while, she would look back across the table to see if he was still watching her. When she discovered that he was, she would flush slightly despite herself, lower her eyes, and then jump back into the conversation.

  The band began to play something by Robbie Nevill. She sweetly asked Chad to dance; Chad jumped at the chance.

  Brent didn't mind. He sat back and watched. She was playing a game and he didn't mind it one bit. She was nervous.

  He danced too, with the redhead, with the pretty brunette.

  He always knew where she was. And he watched her still. He watched the curve and the sway of her back and, again, he convinced himself that his utter fascination was as an artist. He knew just how he would pose her, angled upon her derriere, legs flowing in a curve, her back rising gracefully high, her head tilted just slightly toward him, her eyes downcast, that rage of hair falling long over her shoulder so that its beauty was evident without hiding any of that glorious, elegant back.

  The number ended; another began. A slow song, Lionel Ritchie. She had been dancing with Geoffrey. This time, when they started back for the table, Brent grabbed her hand.

  “Want to dance this one with me?”

  Those blue eyes hit him, clean and pure. They fell over his features, forehead to chin. Her lashes swept over them.

  “I'm really rather tired—”

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Want to pose for me, then?”

  Her eyes opened again, full, honest. A ripple of laughter issued from her lips.

  “Here?” She countered skeptically. Umm, she could be cool. Very superior when she chose.

  “Anywhere.” He could deal with it.

  Her head rose high. “And just how would you want me to pose, Mr. McCauley?” She queried with weary sarcasm.

  “Nude, of course.”

  Couples were moving around them. He slipped his arms around her and moved her onto the dance floor. She stiffened; she acquiesced. They swept along in circles. She fit wonderfully in his arms. Lights spun around them. Her eyes were on his.

  “No,” she told him. “I don't want to pose. Nude or otherwise.”

  “Want to sleep with me, then?”

  She laughed. She had beautiful dimples. “No!”

  He pulled her closer against him, resting his chin against her hair. He breathed in the scent of it; he let his fingers fall over the bareness of her back, and he felt her flesh, smooth as the silk, ripple and heat to his touch.

  She leaned her head back and she stared at him, a brow arched in pure challenge. She wasn't about to do anything so gauche as shove against him nastily. She was going to tell him in eloquent silence that he was overstepping his bounds.

  He met that challenging stare...smiled slowly and pulled her closer, hard against his chest. She wasn't wearing a bra. He had known it, of course. Now he felt it. And she was either halfway frozen to death or feeling the same desperate ache he knew himself; her nipples were like hard, smooth marble. Her breasts were full and firm, flush against him. His arm was about her so tightly that even her hips were pressed against his, and everything he knew about her body, she had to know about his.

  Desperate...that was the least of it.

  Lightning might have jolted through him, hard, fast, searing. He burned throughout the length of him, experiencing another of those feelings that had seized him at first sight. It was shattering, as if he had been razed to the ground, body and soul. He almost seemed to black out; the world to disappear. And it left him simmering, seething, brewing...

  Hungry.

  She strained against his hold; he loosened it. Her arms were still about him, one resting lightly upon his shoulder, the other at his waist. There was something a bit frantic about the way she was staring at him.

  “The music,” she whispered urgently.

  “What about it?”

  “It's fast now! You have to—you have to let me go.”

  “Oh.”

  The music was fast; people were barely touching now as they danced. He'd been living in his own little sea, a place where the two of them had been dead tight against one another while life careened on around them.

  He caught her hand, his fingers twining around hers. “Come on, let's sit out a few.”

  He didn't lead her back to the table, but out into the night. It was probably cold for her, but he felt that he had to have the air. He slipped off his coat and set it over her shoulders and when they had walked down the street a ways, he suddenly backed her against the wall, leaning over her, his palms flat on the concrete on either side of her head.

  “Where have you been all of my life?”

  She offered him a captivating, knowing grin.

  “That's a hell of a line, if I've ever heard one.”

  “You have to sit for me.”

  “I most certainly do not.”

  “Please.”

  Everything seemed to echo sweetly in that single word. Gayle shivered slightly, not with the cold. He really wanted h
er to sit. She felt anew all the raw emotion she had sensed in his work. She felt the aching, the longing...the sense of something missing in her own life. He wanted her. It was a plea, but it wasn't exactly humble. It was probably the most humility she—or anyone else—would ever get from him. He was not a humble man.

  It was crazy. She had no intention of posing for him. She didn't trust him. She didn't trust herself. He was beyond a doubt the most sexually alluring man she had ever met. The most self-assured, audacious, confident, and charming. He was absolutely fascinating.

  “I don't—I can't see myself sitting there...the way that you want me.”

  “I'm an artist.”

  “I know. I've seen your work.”

  “I can be very professional.”

  She hesitated a moment. He was no old, bearded hermit. He was young, macho, and gorgeous. Ever since she had seen him, she had felt as if heated honey filled her veins, rushing through them. She wasn't terribly sure that she would have the strength to stand if he turned away. Her own palms were at her sides, braced against the wall.

  “I—can't.”

  “But you will.”

  “You are quite sure of yourself.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Don't be, Mr. McCauley.”

  “Brent.”

  “I won't sit for you, and that's that. I've never been a model; I never intend to be.”

  He sighed softly, dropping his hands. He reached his left out to her, entwining his fingers with hers when she hesitated, then accepted his touch.

  “You're giving up?” she asked.

  “Disappointed?”

  “No! No, I told you—I just don't sit.”

  They were nearing the door again. Gayle stopped, pulling back on his hand. “Mr. McCauley...Brent. I wanted to tell you, though, you are a wonderful artist. I've never seen paintings like yours. Your work is beautiful.”

  A slow, slow sensual curve caught one corner of his lip. He took a step back toward her, catching both of her hands, bringing them to his lips. She felt the brush of his kiss against her knuckles, very light. She might just as well have been branded, and her reactions started all over again. The palpitations of her heart, the gasping for breath, the spinning that tilted the world.

  “Thanks.” It was husky. He could have been a linebacker, a cowboy, Cool Hand Luke. But he was an artist. No—that was what he did. He was a man.

  “You don't want to be painted—immortalized!—by one of the great masters of the century, huh?”

  “I said you were good. I didn't quite say that you are Michelangelo.”

  He laughed, unoffended. “It was worth a try.”

  “Mr. McCauley, if you were me, would you consent to sitting in the nude for a man who was definitely coming on to you?”

  “Now that would depend, wouldn't it?”

  “On what?”

  “What you intended your eventual response to be.”

  “That's something else that I just don't do, McCauley.”

  “What's that?”

  “Respond—not the way I think you want me to. I don't just jump into bed with men. I'm sorry.”

  He was silent for several long minutes. He arched a midnight brow at her and spoke softly. “Did I ask you to jump right into bed with me?”

  “Yes—the third time you spoke to me,” Gayle told him dryly.

  “Sorry—and I didn't say that we needed to jump right into bed. I've got all the time in the world. And a response, well...that remains to be seen, doesn't it? And anyway, I'd promise to play fair. Honest. I am an artist. Maybe I'm not a Michelangelo, but then maybe I am one of the great masters of this century. Only history will judge. I'd never come on to you until you had a chance to dress. If you wanted to put your clothes on, that is. You might discover that you really had no desire to do so.”

  “You really are something!” She forced anger and disdain into her voice. She didn't know what she really felt. He was so blatant. She'd never met anyone like him.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “Tell me, do you do this with all your models?”

  “I've never done it before in my life.”

  He spoke flatly; she sensed the honesty. Kinetic energy swept through her, and she couldn't deny the excitement he aroused in her. She couldn't wait to be away from him, just to see if it would be possible to think of anything besides him once they were apart. He was a total stranger. They'd exchanged a few words, rather crude words!—and she was feeling as if they were long-lost friends. No. Lovers. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was just honest enough to speak his feelings aloud. It was surely a streak of curious chemistry, nothing more. And she wasn't like that, she simply wasn't. Her values were a bit old-fashioned, maybe; and though she didn't consider herself a prude, she did believe in getting to know a man properly. A handshake on the first date was all she believed in offering. And she'd never in her life—not even with Thane—been tempted to anything more.

  But this was different. This was frightening.

  She felt an impulse to run her fingers through his hair. To lean up and taste his lips. Oh, God, it was deeper than that. The impulse was to be with him. Bare, vulnerable, touching him, flush. Knowing him. Standing, just as the couple stood in his painting. Standing in a naked embrace that evoked every primitive feeling in a man and woman, passion and protection, lust and security, infinite tenderness, and a love that blocked out the rest of the world and stood tall before it.

  She realized how intensely she was staring at him. And that he, in turn, was watching her with fascination.

  She hugged his coat around her. “We should go in.”

  “I suppose we should.”

  But neither of them moved. Couples laughing and complaining about the cold, moved in and out of the doorway to the Red Lion. Occasionally, glances came their way. Neither of them noticed.

  She smiled suddenly. She couldn't quite help it. She liked him, and she couldn't forget the feelings that his work had aroused in her.

  “Have you ever been in love like that?” she asked him at last, rather wistfully.

  “I beg your pardon?” He looked at her quizzically, an ebony brow arched high.

  Gayle reddened, wondering if he were laughing at her sentimentality. She was thinking love, and he was thinking lust. “Never mind, I shouldn't—”

  “No, no—I'm the one who is sorry. You're talking about the painting. 'Jim and Marie.'“ He paused, then shrugged. “No, never. I've never been in love like that.”

  “Then how...how could you create such a thing?”

  “Imagination. Hope. That's the way people should be in love, don't you think?”

  “I don't know—”

  “Surely you have an opinion.”

  “All right! Yes!”

  “Do you know what it's like?” He asked her. She realized that he was still holding her hands.

  “That's none of your business—”

  His fingers tightened roughly around hers.

  “Have you?”

  She swallowed and shook her head. “I—uh—no,” she murmured uneasily, not meeting his eyes. Then she added softly. “Not like that.”

  He smiled, then laughed, then whispered against her earlobe. “Good. You've saved yourself for me.”

  His teasing words broke the spell. “You really are a pompous bastard, you know.”

  “Pompous? I object to the word. A little rough around the edges, perhaps, but pompous?”

  “Pompous.”

  “I prefer arrogant.”

  “You would. It would fit the image. But trust me—pompous is correct.”

  He laughed and put his arm around her shoulders. His incredibly dark eyes held hers, yet she was laughing too. And it felt marvelous. She was so warmed by his touch.

  “You really are freezing,” he told her huskily. “I'm taking you back inside.”

  He held her close to his side as he opened the door, ushering her in. The crowds were upon them again. Gayle was vaguely aware that he
ads turned toward them, that they drew attention. There were so many people around them. She glanced up at his face, and she very much liked what she saw. There was a sense of strength to his jaw. Intelligence in his eyes. Warmth and laughter. And he was just a bit arrogant—not pompous.

  Aware of her scrutiny, he gazed down at her with a questioning look in his eyes. She looked away quickly—she wasn't accustomed to being caught in the act of studying a man with such deliberation. But they were coming closer and closer to the table, and she knew that she was about to lose something. Him. Having him alone with her...and the unique intimacy they had shared.

  “I'd really like to get to know you,” she blurted out suddenly, and she prayed that it had sounded casual enough.

  He stopped, catching her chin with his knuckle, raising it to meet her eyes.

  “Isn't that supposed to be my line?” he teased.

  “Ah, but you've had so many lines already.”

  “Pose for me,” he demanded again heatedly.

  “I—”

  “You've the most beautiful back I've ever seen. I watched you, and I know exactly how I want you seated. It would be chaste, I swear it. No terribly intimate part of your body would have to show. My God,” he swore passionately, “I've got to paint your back.”

  “My...back?” She couldn't help it; she felt a little disappointed. She'd wanted to imagine that he had fallen head over heels with her face, her eyes, her lips...

  Her back? It didn't sound at all erotic.

  “Think about it?” he said. He was very determined and very professional. She realized it wasn't at all a come-on. He wanted to paint her—her back.

  “I'll bet it has dimples,” he said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Your back. Way down, on either side, just below the small of your back. Cute,” he added with a grin. He lowered his voice. “Sexy. Do you?”

  “You have the most incredible nerve,” she charged him.