Delaney's Shadow (36 page)
Authors: Ingrid Weaver
Tags: #mobi, #Romantic Suspense, #Paranormal Romance, #Fiction, #Shadow, #epub
“Then give me the chance to know the real man.”
“I already offered to unzip.”
“Stop being crude, Max. This isn’t you.”
“Seems to me that nothing has really changed. You’re still pretending.”
“And you’re still trying to run away before anyone else sees you. What are you so afraid of? How can you be so reckless with this connection we share? I used to think our friendship was rare and precious, but that doesn’t even begin to describe the potential of what’s between us. I don’t understand why you’re so determined to diminish it.”
“Hey, you want more, just say the word. What was it you told me? I’m a fabulous lover? Everything you could dream of?”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I don’t want to mock you, Deedee, I just want to fuck you.”
Her shoulders hunched, as if he’d physically hit her. She grasped the edge of the mantel to steady herself.
And I just want to love you, Max.
And I just want to love you, Max.
The words tore through his head. He clung to the contact, wrapping her in his thoughts, opening his own to hers. He wasn’t conscious of crossing the floor. He didn’t realize his body had mirrored his mental impulse until he felt the silk of her hair on his fingers. He slid his hand to her nape, tipped her face toward his, and kissed her.
That was all he did. A simple kiss. No groping, no tongue. He didn’t trick her mind into a climax or build a picture to enhance their surroundings. The pleasure that seized him came from something else altogether. A dumb chickenshit’s hunger to be loved.
He wished she had slapped him after all. It would have hurt less.
TWENTY-THREE
AT FIRST GLANCE, THE PAINTING APPEARED TO BE A peaceful scene from the countryside around Willowbank. A grove of apple trees, their blossoms just past their peak, dominated the foreground. Beyond them stretched the fresh green of a hayfield in early spring. Yet the longer Delaney studied it, the more she realized the peace was an illusion. Clouds billowed purple and black on the horizon, trailing shadows that swallowed the sunlight. Ragged pieces of a split-rail fence clawed at the tender shoots in the field. The trunks of the trees strained and stretched as if they were being drawn back into the ground. Between the ridges of their roots, drifts of fallen petals curled in brown-edged death. This was no idyllic landscape. It was a powerful depiction of fragility and passion and the struggle to survive.
Then again, she was no art critic. She might be reading more into it than the artist had intended. Seeing a sensitivity that wasn’t there. Attributing insight where there was only cynicism. Looking for love and tenderness in a heart that was sealed shut.
She swallowed, annoyed to feel the lump had returned to her throat. She was getting weary of this need to cry. She should be concentrating on the positive. In spite of the fact that she was being sued by her stepdaughter, despite the possibility that someone might be intent on harming her, at least she wasn’t insane. That was definitely a plus. There was no need to call Dr. Bernhardt or to keep making up screwy excuses, as Max had called them. Her subconscious wasn’t out of control. She wasn’t responsible for her friend’s attitude or his behavior. She’d wished Max was real, and he was.
The signature at the lower right corner of the canvas read J. M. Harrison. He had used his middle initial. If she’d come to the gallery when she’d first seen his photograph, she would have stumbled on the truth a week ago.
She moved to the next painting. According to the card that had been fixed to the wall beside it, it was titled
Inside Deedee
.
Inside Deedee
.
If she’d needed more proof, this was it. He’d painted her nightmare. Flames swirled across the canvas in bold, brutal swaths. Mud sucked at their edges. The tangle of agony that wove through the brushstrokes made her scars throb in remembered pain, until her gaze moved to the center, where a beacon of pure white spread calm amid the chaos. It was another depiction of contrast and struggle. Good and evil. It wasn’t clear which would win.
“Disturbing, isn’t it?”
She started at the voice. She turned to find a tall woman in a striking red suit at her elbow. “It’s . . .” She searched for a word. “Very dramatic.”
“You could say that about all of John Harrison’s work.” She smiled. “I’m Shirley Flindall. My husband and I own the Mapleview Gallery.”
Delaney introduced herself in turn. “I’m Helen Wainright’s granddaughter,” she added. “I’ve seen your brochures at the house.”
“Of course. How is Helen?”
“Feisty as always.”
“She must be busy. We’ve noticed an increase in our number of visitors this summer. We plan to expand into the space next door once things slow down in the winter.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s our policy to promote local talent, so we need more room. We have several very promising area artists.”
“Yes, I noticed there’s quite a variety here.”
“If you do decide you’d like one of John’s paintings, better not wait too long.”
“They sell well?”
“Yes, and we’re lucky to be able to offer what we do.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“He has an arrangement with a gallery in New York City that handles the bulk of his work. We couldn’t hope to reach such a large market here.”
“Is the gallery in Manhattan?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
That was where Max had claimed he’d gone once when she’d asked him where he’d been. He’d told her the truth about that, too, only she hadn’t been ready to believe it. “A friend mentioned it.”
“In spite of his success, he hasn’t forgotten how difficult it is to build a reputation,” Shirley continued. “He drops off a few pieces every now and then to help draw in customers for our others artists.”
“I see. That’s . . . nice of him.”
The bell over the front entrance tinkled. Shirley glanced past her and blinked. “John, what a pleasant surprise. We were just talking about you.”
Delaney didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to. She’d been feeling Max’s presence since she’d walked into the gallery. Now it burst across her back like sunshine.
“Should I be worried?” he asked, drawing closer.
Shirley laughed. “We were both admiring the piece you brought in last week.”
His footsteps stopped behind her. “Hello, Delaney.”
She found herself debating what to call him. She settled on the truth. “John Maxwell.”
“Do you like the painting?”
“I’m surprised you did it.”
“Why?”
“I would have thought you had enough material in your own imagination without stealing from someone else.”
His arm brushed her shoulder as he moved beside her. “I didn’t steal; I was invited to share.”
“Invited? You complained about being disturbed from a sound sleep.”
“Uh-huh. Seems fair to me I should make some money off it.”
“Well, I’m happy I could be of use to you. It’s interesting that you would criticize me for doing the same.”
Shirley looked from one to the other. “I hadn’t realized you two were acquainted.”
“We’re neighbors,” Delaney said.
“Oh, I see. Is there a problem with
Inside Deedee
? It sounded to me as if you were questioning its authenticity.”
Inside Deedee
? It sounded to me as if you were questioning its authenticity.”
“Not at all,” Delaney said. “There’s no one else in the world who could have done this except J. M. Harrison. That fact is staring me in the face.”
Shirley chatted with them for a few more minutes. She appeared aware of the strain between them and stuck to innocuous subjects in an attempt to defuse it. When the bell over the door announced another customer, she excused herself with obvious relief and went to greet the new arrival.
Delaney finally looked at Max.
She’d had more than twenty-four hours to get accustomed to the fact that he was real. It couldn’t have completely sunk in. Her pulse leapt at the sight of him. She found it hard to catch her breath. She’d once thought that she’d been the one who had made him sexy. No matter how powerful her imagination was, she should have realized she never could have created a man as attractive as this one.
He wore what she was coming to think of as his going-out clothes: polished leather shoes, tailored pants, and a silk shirt, all in black today. As usual, he wore no tie or belt or any jewelry for adornment. His features were arresting enough on their own. He’d replaced the white gauze bandage on his forehead with a smaller, flesh-toned one. Though his right wrist was still wrapped, he’d discarded his sling altogether. There was no sign of discomfort in his stance. She hoped it meant the aches from his bruises were easing. She’d felt his pain when he’d kissed her.
But she didn’t want to think about that kiss, or she was liable to start pretending again. He was watching her as if he was as starved for their connection as she was. Not the physical one he’d claimed he wanted but the bond of mind and emotion.
Or was she seeing what she wanted to see? She’d come to the gallery hoping to gain some insight into the adult Max through his paintings. All she’d learned so far was that there was much more she had yet to learn. “Why are you here?” she asked.
“I volunteered to watch your ass when you went out, remember?”
“I didn’t think you’d meant it.”
“Like I said, it’s a habit.”
“Under the circumstances, I would have expected you to change your mind.”
He shrugged. “I’m partial to your ass.”
“How did you even know where I was? Did you follow me?”
“I followed your thoughts. I recognized your surroundings.”
She rubbed her eyes. That must have been the reason she’d felt his presence. She’d assumed it was because she’d been looking at his work. “I find this awkward.”
“Why? I’ve got clothes on this time.”
“Things have changed, Max. You don’t have the right to dip into my thoughts whenever you please.”
“I didn’t dip, I just looked. I don’t need permission for that. It’s the difference between looking at your mouth and pushing my tongue into it.”
Her lips warmed. She pressed them together.
He ran his fingertip over her shoulder and down to the edge of the scar that curled around her upper arm. Though her blouse hid it from sight, he accurately traced its outline with his knuckles.
The repercussions of Max being real continued to mount. He was the only person besides her doctors who was fully aware of the disfigurement of her body. He’d seen her scars exposed in full sunlight—he’d even imagined kissing them—yet he continued to want to touch her.
No, he didn’t just want to touch her, he wanted to
fuck
her.
fuck
her.
It still hurt. She didn’t want to believe that her Max could be bad or mean. His crudeness had been a warning snarl. He didn’t want to admit he might need her emotionally, so he’d tried to reduce the bond they shared to its lowest level.
And she was continuing to make excuses.
She gestured toward the canvas, breaking the contact with his hand. “What does the white in the center mean, Max?”
“It means my palette knife slipped.”
“Would you like to know what I think?”
“Sure, why not?”
“I believe it means hope. You recognized that ugliness doesn’t have to win, no matter how terrible the odds appear. There’s a core of goodness inside us that has the potential to triumph.”
“And you got all that from a few smears of paint?”
“You did the same thing with that orchard,” she said, moving back to stand in front of the other painting. “The blossoms die, but new ones will take their places. The trees will still be trees; they won’t change their nature, no matter how many storms batter them or how much they strain to escape the earth.”
“You could have a career writing blurbs for art catalogues.”
“Why did you come back to Willowbank, Max?”
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