Dancing Barefoot (5 page)

“And Carter?
Are you two still friends?” Diverting the conversation to his family and friends seemed like safer ground than their relationship, at least until she had food in her stomach. 

Tell him why you never returned. Tell him that you never intended to leave him, that
life got in the way and you were stuck. Explain. Get it over with, just say it.
She slapped cheese onto the bread without looking up.

“Would that surprise you if we were?” He sat the beer bottle on the counter befo
re walking toward the hallway. Like a caged animal, he prowled. “I know you think I’m too nomadic for relationships.”

“
I don't want to fight with you, I really don't.”

“Just making a statement.” Arms folded across his chest, he shrugged as he looked down the hallway toward her bedroom. “Yes, we’re still friends. Don’t you want to ask about Simone?”

“God, no,” she groaned. “I could care less about her.” 

“I thought you would be married to some safe accountant or
stock broker, someone more suitable than a vagabond like me.”  He grabbed the sandwich from her, his eyes hard and scrutinizing. “You're in your thirties now. As far as plans go, isn’t there a nice man and a house with a picket fence in your near future? And what is it called in the States? The PTA?”

God
, he knew how to piss her off. He couldn’t simply keep the small talk light. He had to go in for the kill. 

“Congratulations on your career,
Jacques. Must be thrilling.” She ripped off a piece of her sandwich and shoved it into her mouth without looking away from his eyes. 

“Exciting as hell.”

“Traveling the world, a new woman with a flick of your finger. Must me damn exhilarating.” She turned her back on him to pour herself a glass of water. No more alcohol. Not for a few days minimum. 

“The women are the best part.
I can’t keep them out of my bed.”

“Must get tiring, all that sex and travel.”

He said nothing. When she turned, he had walked from the kitchen and stood staring up the stairs toward the music. The expression on his face was more curious than angry.   

She thought of the drawing above the sofa and knew she didn't want him to see it. If he saw the easel, the paintings, the wine bottle...he'd know how screwed up she'd become
.

“Do you remember the first meal I made you?”
she asked to divert his attention away from the upstairs.

He grinned
without looking at her. “A pastrami sandwich on fresh baked bread from the market down the street.”  

“We had every window open to get some air because it was so damn hot our clothes were sticking to our skin.”

“So we took them off.” He moved up the stairs, his gaze locked on something above.

“
We drank an entire bottle of wine.” Her breath caught in her throat as she followed, sandwiches in hand.

“
We had gelato for dessert.” Thumbs in the loops of his jeans, he stood at the top of the stairs. “If I remember right, that gelato cooled us off in creative and erotic ways.”

She studied the way the material of his shirt stretched across his back.  “Must be why I crave Italian from time to time.”

Energy snapped off him as he moved toward the tattered sofa and muttered beneath his breath.

“Still mutter
ing and pacing,” she whispered. “I swore that when I saw you again I’d be cool and sophisticated, that I’d have all the right words.”

“Yo
u planned on seeing me again?” He stared at the painting hanging on the wall, his body rigid.

“Hoped.”
She dragged her gaze to his face. “I need to explain why I left.”

“
Is there really an excuse for leaving your fiancé without even a goodbye or a fuck you?” He frowned again, his eyes full of confusion when he met her gaze.

“
Probably not a good enough one,” she whispered.

“H
ow come you never looked back? Not once did you look back.” He closed the space between them with two slow steps. “You left me like I meant nothing to you.  When I got home, you had disappeared. Vanished. Now there's all of this...a painting of our place here, pictures of Florence in your living room, you're wearing my ring...but you never looked back, you never contacted me."

“I had responsibilities, no choices.” Regret rolled through her. 

“You had a choice.”

“No, I didn’t.” All of the reasons that had seemed important
felt insignificant now. "I went back," she admitted without looking at him. "But you were gone. I'd waited too long, other people were in the apartment, all of my things were gone, Luca didn't have any answers. You were no where to be found."

"What do you mean you went back? When?"

"About a month later...you were gone."

"A month?
That's impossible. You're lying." He stalked toward her until her back collided with her easel. His hands gripped the top of the canvas, arms pinned her where she stood. “I haven’t wanted to remember you in a very long time.”

“I suppose not.”

“But I have.”

“Me, too.” 

“Are you happy?”

“What do you mean?” She folded her arms across her chest. 

“Did you make the right choice? Leaving me? Leaving our life together? Tell me you’re happy and I’ll walk out of your life forever.”

“What does it matter? I can’t undo it.”

"But you tried to undo it, if you're telling me the truth. You went back."

"It doesn't matter anymore. You said it yourself. We're successful people, our lives moved on for the better." She wished she hadn't admitted going back to Italy looking for him. It made her sound pitiful and weak.

“So you have no regrets, is that what you're saying?”

“Of course I have regrets, but so what? What good does that do us?”

“That’s why I came here tonight, to see…”

“See what? I’v
e done what I said I would do. "Pride forced her head high. “I’m up for associate partner at my firm. I’m a good—no, great—architect.”

“You’re lying. You’re not happy.”
His hand framed the side of her face, forcing her to look at him. “I see it in your face. It’s like you’ve died. You're living in the past, which tells me you're not that thrilled with the present.”

“When did you get so mean?”
Too tired to fight, tears blurred her eyes. “Get out. Enough insults for one day. Just go.”

“Why a
re you still wearing my ring?” His voice was low and powerful in the small room.

“Why do you?”

“My ring.” Dark blond hair covered his left eye when he bent forward, only a breath away from her face. “Why are you wearing it? Does it mean anything to you or do you simply think it’s pretty?”

“Please go.”
She flattened her hands against his chest, but wished she hadn’t.  The feel of his hard body beneath her hands liquefied her bones. 

He slammed his hand against the
canvas, knocking it to the floor behind her.  “You just left. One day we’re living together, talking about creating a future, and then you disappeared.”

Her lungs def
lated like air from a balloon. Breathing ceased. "I needed to come back here to—”

“To be safe? To do the right thing?”
He had her backed against the easel. “You vanished.”

“You had my address. I didn’t disappear.” 

“You let me go without a word.”

“I said I was sorry.” Every inch of her quaked with re
strained emotion.  “Leave now. Go. Good luck with your exhibit, with your life, all of it. Just get the hell out of my home.”

“Do you know why I
brought your address with me? Do you?”

“You
wanted to tell me off, right? That’s why you came here, to hurt me.”

“I wanted to show you how much I don’t care.”

“Doesn’t that show me how much you really
do
care?” She lifted her chin, determined not to cry.

A fraction of a
n inch separated their bodies. She dragged her gaze over the opened buttons of his shirt, over his neck, over his lips until resting on the deep green of his eyes. Damn, the man rocked the word 'sexy'.

Boldness replaced caution. 

Standing on tiptoes, she smoothed her hands along the front of his chest.  Touching him again was like coming home from a long, exhausting journey.

He shook his head once as if trying to clear his mind.  Only once.  He stared at her lips.  His hands curled around her forearms, but he didn’t push her away. 

“Kiss me,” she whispered against his mouth.

“No,” he whispered as his hands
slid up her arms before cupping the back of head.

"I dare you."

"Never."

"I know you want to."

"I don't."

"Now who's the liar?" she asked, her teeth tugging at his lower lip.

Their mouths met in a kiss that melted her skin like candle wax, turning them into one being, one entity consumed by desire. To hell with the consequences. She needed this, needed him, here and now. Passion overrode all other thought or senses. Her hands stroked his back, kneading and searching. Every sense was alive with his touch, with his kiss. The need for him was an ache that burned deep. Hot. Necessary. Urgent. Primal

God, she had missed this, m
issed him.

They fell against the easel, knocking the canvas and paint in every direction. A tangle of limbs, they made eye contact for a moment, chests heaving, breathing labored.

He ripped her tank top in two and tossed the material aside. He looked down at her naked torso, a wicked grin on his face before squeezing her breasts, claiming them, and devouring her mouth with an intensity that bordered on decadent. 

She yanked his shirt free
from his jeans and shoved it high on his chest, needing his skin against hers more than she'd ever needed anything in life. Clothes fell away, bread crushed beneath their bodies, wine spilled from an overturned bottle at their feet.

"This is wrong," he muttered against her skin. 

"Right. Always right with us." She sank her fingernails into his shoulders.

"What the lady wants, the lady gets," he said, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

His hands worked at pushing her yoga pants over her hips while his mouth claimed her breast.

She looped her toes in the waistband of his underwear and yanked them over his thighs.  Her hands sought h
is erection while her back arched with every stroke of his hands and every lick of his tongue.

He ground himself inside her with the intensity of repressed rage. Her legs wrapped around his hips, holding him as close as possible as he plunged deep inside her. 

Sex had never been tame with him, but this was animalistic. This was raw.  Teeth sank into skin. Nails scraped against each other's bodies. They rolled together, locked as one being. Streaks of yellow and red paint lined their faces, stuck in their hair, no one cared.

Waves of pleasure rolled through her veins like a tsunami until all strength left her body. She laughed, breathless, as her mouth sought his again in
a kiss filled with satisfaction and surprise.

"Is this what you meant by a do-
over?" He shoved his hands through her hair, palms framing her face, and stared into her eyes. His chest rose and fell against hers.

"Not exactly but it'll do
," she whispered, still out of breath, heartbeat slamming like a caged bird's wings inside her chest.

His mouth sucked on her
lower lip, tongue teased hers. "I don't know what to do with you, Jessica Moriarty."

"You've always known exactly what to do with me, Jacques Sinclair." She repeated the words they'd always said to one another. She dipped her finger into the wet
yellow paint on the canvas beneath his head before smearing it across his chin and over his mouth. 

He grabbed her hand, linked his fingers with hers and stared into her eyes. Laughter faded.
“This shouldn't have happened. I lost control, I always lose control around you.”

He rolled
away and stared at the ceiling. Then he stood and pulled a piece of cheese from where it had stuck to his shoulder. Without looking at her, he dressed.

Rattled from the sex and his react
ion, she stumbled to standing, grabbed the blanket from the sofa and wrapped it around herself. Man, she was on a roll today with fucking up her life. 

He walked down the stairs without saying a word. 

She returned to the kitchen to find him still waiting. She'd hoped he'd gone. 

Back against the w
all, he finished buttoning his shirt. He hadn't bothered to wipe the streaks of paint from his face and hair; then again, neither had she. When he lifted his gaze to hers, he looked agonized.