Love Unlocked (11 page)

“You don’t need to worry about me. I can help you.”

“I don’t want to worry.” She could see he understood what she wasn’t saying. That she’d worry about him anyway.

Hudson’s inquisitive, searching gaze made her achy and wistful, wondering what he was reading on her face. Most people didn’t look at what was in front of them. Their obliviousness was one reason she’d been able to do what she’d done for so many years. People glanced at her and saw what she wanted them to see. Hudson had made a career out of observing and translating what he saw into color and shape and showing it to the world. What might he see in her? Someone worth redemption? Or a common criminal to pity?

She pushed the thought away. “Let’s sleep on it. Separately.”

“Sleep on what? Letting me help you?”

“That and...the other thing.”

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans like a boy denied a candy bar at the checkout line of the grocery store. “Sex,” he said flatly. “All right, if that’s the way you want it.”

“It’s the way it needs to be.”

Eve stayed up late considering the offer Hudson had made. He’d instantly jumped in to help, brushing off the scope of her past misdeeds. He seemed willing to face whatever might happen. Brave of him, if foolhardy. He could even get her into the stupid party where she could do all the needed reconnaissance, helping to ensure the success of the mission. She was terribly tempted to take him up on it.

It wouldn’t be the end of the world to have another person on the team. She mulled it over some more the next morning, leaning against the open French door and watching the thick marine layer over the ocean burned off by the June sun. It could be useful to have three people, and it would solve the problem of the party.

But the minute she started thinking about how to structure the job, she got sidetracked reliving their close call. She and Hudson had very nearly had sex. She’d wanted to, he’d wanted to. It would have been incredible. And probably muck everything up. Not that things were going so great between them. She had all but told him to stay away from her after revealing her second biggest secret in life.

He’d kissed her instead of running away. It almost seemed like he wanted to be with her, as if he didn’t care what she’d done to get herself to this place. As if he wanted to stay with her.

If he was along for the ride, she’d only be distracted.

If they stayed apart, she’d only be wondering what he was doing, worrying about him when she couldn’t do anything about it.

If they didn’t have sex, she’d be thinking about tearing his clothes off every time she saw him.

If they had sex, she’d be reliving that every five minutes, and probably trying to have it again. That was the way it worked.

She was definitely damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.

Eve returned to the house, checking her email and her voicemail for the sixth time that morning. No word from either John or Hudson. Since Friday was the party, and their deadline for delivering the painting was Saturday at noon, they had five days to plan. She’d worked under tight timelines before, but she didn’t like the way she was being maneuvered into a corner on this one, by Deacon, by John, and by Hudson.

She’d learned when trying to pick a difficult lock that if you didn’t fight it, you could find the flow and lean into it, finding yourself suddenly facing an open door. She had to lean into these circumstances to make it to the other side. If she played this right, she could be out of Deacon’s debt and keep everyone safe, to boot.

Resolved, she dressed in jeans and boots and retraced the route to Hudson’s house before she could talk herself out of it.

His truck in the driveway was the only sign of that the old Craftsman was inhabited. Eve, in work mode, strode to the house, her decision made, her speech prepared.

It took him a couple of minutes to answer her sharp knock. When he saw her, he grunted and left the heavy wooden door open, presumably in an invitation for her to enter. He stalked through the house, and she followed, getting the impression of a tidy, if dark, interior. He looked like he hadn’t gotten much sleep, and he was wearing an unlikely combination of a Giants sweatshirt covered in white paint stains, cutoff khaki shorts that were unraveling from all ends, and moccasins. Eve took the opportunity to check out his powerful legs. His attire didn’t bother her, but his gloomy look did.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Why don’t I make you a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t want a cup of coffee,” he said.

She smoothed her smile out into a neutral expression. She’d never seen him so grouchy, and she found it entirely too endearing.

“Well, I do,” she said. “I’m here to say some things, so you might as well be hospitable.”

He sighed, and took a left turn from wherever in the house he’d been going.

They emerged into a small, old-fashioned kitchen, and he rummaged through a cabinet until he came up with a dusty box of instant.

“This is all I have. Or there’s some tea.”

She masked her horror. “Tea, please.”

He turned the kettle on, and the simple motions seemed to relax him. “I don’t keep coffee in the house. If I did, I’d be wired all day long. Usually, I go to Maude’s, or the gas station.”

Eve shuddered, then grinned. “Now I understand why you’ve been dropping by. You wanted some real coffee.”

He looked at her sharply, and seemed to realize she was joking. “Well, you do make a mean espresso.”

“Why don’t we skip the tea and go into town? I’ll buy you lunch. I need to talk to you.”

“What time is it?”

“Eleven.”

“I’ve got to be at the nursing home at one.”

“All right.” She tried to imagine Hudson looming over the nursing home residents. Was there anywhere in town he
didn’t
volunteer?

He stood there, looking at her. Why wasn’t he getting ready to go?

“Do you want to change your clothes?” she said encouragingly. The forgotten teakettle clicked off, seeming to bring him back to the present.

“I’ve been working, or trying to. It’s not going very well.”

“Oh!” she said, surprised. “I’d heard....”

“That I’m a has-been?”

She widened her eyes at the note of bitter resignation in his voice. As if he would believe the worst anyone had to say about him.

“I’d heard that you weren’t painting,” she said neutrally. “But it’s not the word in the industry. I heard it around town. To the art world, you’re biding your time between exhibitions.”

He made a sound of disgust. “Yeah. I’m biding my time, all right.”

Confusion made her shake her head. Where was the arrogant artist who’d wanted her to sit for him? Where was the man who’d charged into her house and demanded her secrets and her body? She frowned. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

Hudson glanced down at himself. “You’re right. Why don’t I change? We can talk over some of Maude’s BLATs.”

“BLATs?”

“Bacon, lettuce, avocado, tomato. Make yourself at home,” he said, and he disappeared back the way they came.

She sighed. He couldn’t be managed. She didn’t know if she liked that or hated it. A little of both. At least, she had a unique opportunity to learn something about the man. Noticing things and seeing patterns had always given her an edge in the art world, so she turned her attention to her surroundings, absorbing the little details that told her more about who Hudson was than any line of direct questioning would.

The space was cleaner than she expected, for one thing. Maybe he didn’t use the kitchen that often. She peeked into the fridge. It held little more than a jar of pickles and some expired milk. Not a cook.

There was a laundry room off the back of the kitchen, and through the window in the back door, she could see the shaggy lawn, turning brown, that ended at a wooden fence that matched the house. Beyond the fence was a grove of trees. His home felt as remote as hers, though it was situated much closer to the center of town.

Eve made her way from the kitchen back to the living room. There were more personal touches here, a large oil painting of the ocean over the tidy fireplace, a cluster of framed photographs on a side table. She peered at the faces, recognizing Will and his family, little Jordan, Caitlyn, and Gracie opening gifts on Christmas morning. There was an older couple in front of a church, clearly Hudson’s parents. The pretty woman had Hudson’s dark features while the graying man on her arm accounted for Hudson’s height and strong build. The photo that made her laugh was unmistakably Hudson, his face smooth and unlined, oversized glasses framing his brown eyes. He couldn’t have been older than eighteen, and he was staring at a piece of art in a museum. She could see the canvas, but not its blurred subject. Hudson was in focus and his face shone with fierce wonder, even love, as he regarded it.

“My sister Stephanie took that photo.”

His voice came from over her shoulder, making her start a little.

“It’s wonderful, so evocative.” She turned to him. He had dressed in jeans, sneakers and an untucked flannel shirt.

“She was a good photographer. Maybe could have been a great one.” He stood next to her and touched the photo with a finger, as if handling it any further would cause him pain. “It used to remind me what I love about art, why I try to capture emotion on the canvas.”

Eve held her breath. Was he sharing something about himself? She trod carefully. “Used to? What does it remind you of now?”

He shrugged. “Failing.”

So they were back to one-word answers. She tried to lighten up the conversation. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“I don’t. I was going through a pretentious phase.”

She laughed again. “You? Pretentious?”

“Be glad you didn’t know me fifteen years ago.”

“Well, you were cute, anyhow.”

He rolled his eyes. Eve glanced at the last photo on the table, a candid portrait of a lovely young woman with hair the color of Hudson’s and Will’s.

“That must be your sister.”

“She died about a year after that photo was taken.”

Eve reacted to the pain that still resonated in his voice more than anything else. She went to him, pressed herself to his side. “I’m sorry. She was so young.”

Hudson shifted, first into her, then away. Uncertain, she backed up a step.

“Yeah.” His voice was gruff.

The moment became too intimate and she had no idea what to say. There was a long beat of silence, then he saved her by saying, “Do you want to see the rest of the house?”

A peculiar question, until she realized that he meant if she wanted to see his studio.

“Please,” she simply said.

Hudson never had people in his home, much less in his studio, but Eve wasn’t any acquaintance. Maybe if he let someone in, it wouldn’t seem like the place where his artistic impulses went to die anymore. She’d already shared so much about herself with him, and it didn’t come easily for her, either.

Showing her his studio was the only way he could think of to repay some of her trust in him, and to thank her for the many small kindnesses she continued to show him, from her amazing coffee to her unadorned sympathy.

Stephanie would have liked her. She would have said Eve was out of his league, but she would have liked her, and that thought eased some of the tightness in his chest.

He led her to the back of the house, where an old sunroom had once been. He’d expanded and turned it into another wing of the house, one built of steel and glass. The light flooded in through the enormous skylights and through the back wall, made entirely of glass. The industrial materials should have been jarring, juxtaposed with the heavy wood of the house and the backdrop of trees and mountains beyond, but instead, it felt like being out of doors, only with air conditioning and a killer sound system.

Eve was silent as she did a slow turn around the room. A drafting table sat in the middle of the large open space, pieces of paper covering it, an assortment of paint bottles, tubes, and jars on a long counter on the wall that the room shared with the house. The place was tidy. One of the two side walls was covered, floor to eleven foot ceiling, with photographs. The other held shelves of materials.

He was dying to know what she was thinking. He shuffled his feet, took his hands out of his pockets, and put them back in. He stood still when Eve stopped her survey of the room and looked him in the eyes.

“It’s a remarkable space.”

He could hear the hesitation in her voice. “But?”

“It’s very clean,” she said carefully.

“Yeah, well, it hasn’t gotten much use.” Was that all he was going to say? If he wasn’t going to tell her everything, what had he brought her here for? He breathed deep.

She wandered over to the wall of photos. He spoke to her back.

“I’m an abstract painter.” He ran a hand through his hair. “At least, I was.”

“What do you mean?” She was bent over a photo, speaking absently. “You’re famous for your landscape-inspired abstracts.”

“When Stephanie got sick, I was in New York. I was working really hard on getting ready for a show, and I was playing hard, too. Stephanie didn’t tell anyone how sick she really was. I knew she’d been in to the doctor’s for tests, but I couldn’t believe that my little sister could really have cancer. I guess I was in denial. I was kind of caught up in my little universe; I didn’t understand how serious her condition was. Then my mom called to say that Stephanie had taken a turn for the worse. She was dead before I could even get on a plane.”

Eve was looking at him alertly now, but he averted his gaze so he didn’t have to see the pity on her face. “I came out for the funeral, but I was all set to go back to New York, back to my studio, back to work on the show I had contracted for the following summer.”

“I remember that show,” she murmured.

“I couldn’t do it. I sent what I had, and they had to be satisfied with that. I couldn’t paint. All I could think about was how badly I’d failed my little sister. She lived right in town, did you know? She was a nurse. The most giving woman I ever knew.”