Every Time I Love You (6 page)

CHAPTER
4

The gallery was filled to capacity. Small tables covered with velvet and white lace tablecloths held chilled bottles of Dom Perignon in silver buckets and subtly decorated trays offering the finest in pâtés, red and black Russian caviar, smoked Nova, Brie, Camembert, and delicate rye and wheat crackers.

Every painting on display had been sold within an hour after the first guest had arrived. The patrons who had not made purchases now wished they had, and those who now owned McCauleys were gloating over their newly acquired treasures.

Dressed in a long blue velvet gown designed by Oleg Cassini, Gayle idly twirled her strand of cultured pearls as she leaned against her desk and listened to Sylvia Guteledge, the art critic for the prestigious
Richmond Mirror,
rave about the eroticism of McCauley's paintings.

Gayle nodded politely now and then, but she couldn't really keep her eyes off the man of the hour.

He was actually in a tuxedo, of course an unconventional one. The coat wasn't exactly tailed, nor was it short, but made more to resemble the coats of an earlier era, perhaps a Civil War frock coat. His shirt was pink—which she had never imagined as a proper color on a man, but appeared exceptionally masculine on Brent. He'd consented politely to photographs throughout the evening. He hadn't behaved at all like an eccentric recluse. He'd been completely charming to everyone.

Gayle hadn't known what to expect earlier in the day. He had appeared at the gallery that morning in a pair of worn jeans and a T-shirt that advertised a heavy metal band. Artists were strange people—Gayle knew that from experience. She had wondered if Brent McCauley did not only mean to make an appearance, but to make such an appearance that the art world would gossip about it for the next ten years.

To her surprise, he hadn't chosen to move a single painting; he had approved all of her arrangements. She grew nervous showing him around, explaining her use of light and space within the gallery. And when they'd stood before his painting of the entwined lovers, she had found herself growing very warm.

Something bothered her. Haphazard snatches of her strange dreams came to mind. She tried to remember her dreams, but she couldn't seem to hold on to the memories. She caught her breath sharply, realizing that her dreams had left her with the same curious feelings as the painting...a yearning to be loved that way.

McCauley was watching her. Stuttering, she praised the painting's unique beauty. It deserved to stand alone upon the divider wall, singularly lighted, she explained, because it was the star piece of the show.

“You really do like it?” he had asked her.

“Yes. It's your finest piece.” She couldn't help it; she looked at the painting and realized that she was blushing again. Evocative, yes. With Brent McCauley standing beside her, it also seemed to be very, very erotic. She couldn't look at that painting now without imagining the two of them in such a pose.

It was embarrassing. She was flushing a deep shade of red. Because she knew...he was imagining the same thing. The two of them, entwined. Lovers for all time.

“It's strange, isn't it?” he murmured. She felt him behind her, looking over her head. If she were to lean back, her head would rest against his chest and her hair would tease his chin.

“What?” She asked him in a whisper.

“The feeling. Don't you see it? Can't you imagine it? As if it has happened a thousand times before.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You and me. I saw it, in your eyes. The two of us. There. In the painting. You've imagined the two of us as lovers. In the mist and shadow and light of the canvas.” He paused a moment. “A hundred times before.”

“I barely know you,” she said weakly, waving her hand dismissively.

“Last night you kissed me as if you knew me very well.”

“Oh, God, that again!” She moaned softly. “Brent, please, I just—I'm sorry. I don't pose—nude or otherwise—and it was very wrong of me to kiss you last night because I just don't—move that quickly. And now you're giving me a new line because of this painting—”

“It isn't a line and you know it. I see it in your face. In your eyes...in that marvelous color.”

“Brent—”

He interrupted her, brusque and businesslike. “I do agree; this wall is best. The lighting is very good.”

Gayle stiffened, her feelings somewhat hurt. She stepped away from him and surveyed his clothing. “Are you—” She broke off, hesitating.

“Am I what?”

“Are you going to change for the opening?”

He looked at her, looked at the Jolly Roger on his T-shirt, and laughed. “You think I should?”

“Well, I'm sure that Geoffrey would appreciate the effort.”

“You don't like what I'm wearing?”

“It's just lovely—if you are digging a new septic tank.”

He grinned, crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest, and stared at her. “If you were to ask, I'd come in nothing at all,” he murmured. There was a smile on his face and a challenge in the sensual amusement that lit up his eyes.

“A suit would suffice,” Gayle murmured. But, damn, she was imagining him naked again. Naked, walking toward her...

She turned around to flee into her office. “I'll see you this evening,” she called over her shoulder. At that moment, she didn't have the nerve to rise to his challenge.

The next time she saw Brent McCauley it was early evening, and the show was open. He was decked out in the intriguing tux, looking devastatingly handsome and completely at ease. He was so gracious and accommodating that Sylvia remarked to Gayle, “He can't be the artist! I do believe that Geoffrey has pulled a fast one here. He has dragged in this charming young man off the street to impersonate McCauley, that's what this is. A sham.”

“Sylvia, I assure you, that is the real Brent McCauley.”

“Well, where has he been all these years?”

“Painting, I suppose.”

“Actually, I knew a girl who modeled for him once, oh, three, four years ago. I believe he was living in Rome then. She told me that he was young and very good-looking, but then, one can never really trust these girls. So young! And the poor dear seemed simply brokenhearted that the man was entirely professional. So detached. But then, it must be unnerving, don't you think?”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, sitting there in one's birthday suit while the artist looks on as if the model is a vase of flowers.”

Gayle shrugged. “I don't know, Sylvia. I remember art school. Most of our models were students. It was one way to get through school.”

“It's one way to make a great deal of money, should a model become hot,” Sylvia said flatly. She adjusted her little pillbox hat—askew on her head; Sylvia seemed to be enjoying the champagne too. “I should have believed that young lady. And you!”—she wagged a finger at Gayle—”you might have given me a call, Gayle. I could have had a jump on all these others.”

“I didn't meet the man myself until last night,” Gayle told Sylvia. She sipped her champagne. Her sixth glass? She wasn't sure. She was certain that she'd have a miserable headache the next morning. Brent was talking with Riva Chen from the New York newspaper. Gayle knew Riva well, and she liked and respected her. She was of Oriental descent, a gorgeous girl, tall, with sleek ebony hair that fell to her buttocks. She and Brent were laughing. Gayle was appalled at the jealousy the sight of them together aroused inside of her. She had no right to feel anything that even resembled jealousy. Logic didn't help her any; she wondered if he were asking Riva to pose for him. She wondered if Riva might be saying yes. Riva probably had a glorious back, she was so slim and sleek.

Riva must have said something very softly because Brent leaned down to catch her words. He laughed. His face seemed to be very close to Riva's.

Sylvia sighed, interrupting Gayle's train of thought. “The painting I really wanted I couldn't buy. Someone beat me to it.”

“Oh?” Gayle smiled, forcing herself to pay attention to Sylvia. “Which was that?”

“The lovers. Oh, what a glorious painting!”

“Who did buy it?”

“Why, I don't know, dear. A very savvy collector moved quickly. It was sold almost as soon as Geoff opened the doors.” She sighed again. “Such a wonderful, wonderful piece. I shall write a column about it!”

“I'm glad, Sylvia.”

Who had bought the lovers
, Gayle wondered? She felt a little pang. She would have loved to have owned that painting. She would have loved to have studied it until she had discovered its secret, understood just why two figures embracing could eat away at her heart.

A lightbulb flashed brilliantly; Brent was being photographed with Riva Chen at his side. They made a beautiful couple, both so dark, graceful, and sleek. Riva was smiling and laughing. There was no doubt that there was a certain amount of chemistry between the two of them.

“Gayle?”

She turned around. Her head was already beginning to ache. It was Geoffrey...”Excuse me, Sylvia. Gayle, phone. Would you care to take it in my office?”

“Run along, dear, run along,” Sylvia said, adjusting her little hat again. “I see that Chad Bellows is all by himself over there. Perhaps I can pry a few secrets from him!”

She moved off, intent on her prey. Geoff smiled at Gayle and she shrugged. “Oh, the phone! Who is it?”

“Tina. She called to wish us luck. I told her to come on over, but she can't get away. Go take it in my office.”

“I really shouldn't—”

“You've been the perfect hostess. The opening has gone flawlessly. You deserve a reprieve.”

Gayle slipped off the corner of her desk and excused herself through the crowd of people to reach Geoff's office in the back. She sank into Geoff's leather chair and picked up the line.

“Congratulations!” Tina said. “Geoff said it's all been a smashing success.”

“Smashing,” Gayle agreed, twirling the phone wire.

“How's McCauley taking it all?”

“The perfect picture of charm.”

“You sound funny. Has he been rude? Bristling at criticism? He seemed like such a nice guy. And he's glorious to look at! Oh, well, a tiger when he's cornered, huh?”

“No. I mean it—he has been completely charming.”

“Then what's wrong?”

“He's out there with the Dragon Lady,” Gayle muttered.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Forget I said that.”

“Dragon Lady?”

Gayle inhaled, shaking her head ruefully. “Riva Chen. And I don't mean it. I think very highly of her. It's just that she's...I don't know. She's beautiful, I guess that's what I'm saying.”

“The green eyes of jealousy.”

“I can't be jealous. I barely know the man.”

“No one would have guessed that last night.”

“Oh, he's full of lines. He's probably asking her to pose for him right now.”

“He asked you?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“I refused!”

“Well, well, well! Then he's free to be looking for another model, isn't he?”

Gayle bit into her lower lip pensively. She couldn't help it. She just really didn't do things like casually undressing in front of virtual strangers.

“You still there?”

“Yes.”

“You sound funny.”

“Six glasses of champagne funny,” she agreed.

“Can you see him now?”

“No. I'm in Geoff's office.”

“Maybe you had better get back out there. Protect him from the Dragon Lady.”

“He probably doesn't want to be protected.”

“No! I meant that you should protect him for yourself.”

“I can't—”

“Well, I sure as hell could! Damnation!” Tina swore on a note of laughter. “Just once in my life—just once!—I'd like to sleep with a guy like that. A one-night stand would be fine. I work in a health spa—and I haven't met a guy yet who's ninety-five percent fat-free.”

“Tina! That's awful!”

“That's truthful. Go get him, sweetie.”

And do what with him? Gayle wondered. But she straightened suddenly, uncoiling the wire, determined. The champagne was giving her a headache; it was also suddenly giving her bravado.

“I've got to go, Tina. Talk to you soon.”

“I want details,” Tina warned her.

“There's not going to be anything to give details about, I promise you!” She hung up the phone. She felt breathless. Her heart was pounding too quickly, and shivers of anticipation were racing along her spine again. She hurried out of the office and back to the main salon.

Brent McCauley was at one of the little round hors d'oeuvres tables—pouring out two glasses of champagne. He arched a brow at Gayle. She was still breathless. She noted the champagne; she saw Riva, talking with Chad and a bearded art buyer in front of the painting of the lovers.

“Well, Ms. Norman, how am I doing? Should I still be cleaning sewers? I've done my very best to be on good behavior.”