Mirror of My Soul (17 page)

She chose to ignore that, as he knew she would. “Did the way I act with him bother you?”

“It’s a part of you that fascinates me, but the Master in me does get a bit restive when I see your hands on another man.”

Enough that he’d had to take a few steadying breaths when he’d come upon the

intriguing tableau of Josh examining his angel naked. He’d had to take a moment to assess it, understand and force himself to appreciate the interaction, rather than break the fingers of a man whose hands created art revered all over the world.

“It’s different,” she said. She moved her hips over him, a stroke against his already hard cock. His fingers tightened on her buttocks, squeezing so a little breath left her.

“It’s like when I drink tea, do the ritual. It satisfies something I need to feel. A balance. Working with subs is like that. But with you, it’s different. It’s hard to explain.”

“I can’t describe it either.” He touched her hair, lifted it on either side of the comb clip, let it flow out of his hands, brush her bare back. He enjoyed the way she tilted her head back, feeling the sensation. “It’s like a vise around my chest, my heart, my mind.

It’s like if some part of my mind isn’t about you, with you, I don’t feel whole. I want to be with you. Whether just being with you where you are, making love to you, or watching you make tea. It’s obsession, but something so much deeper. It’s so deep that I know you feel it, too. It can’t all be coming from me.”

She considered that. “You know a lot of stalkers feel that way. And terribly

arrogant men.”

He smiled, a slow, lazy expression. “So they might. You don’t mind having me as a stalker, do you?”

“I think I can handle you. I have a bat for your hard head.”

“And I hear you know how to use it.” He lifted her hand to his lips. At her look, he raised a shoulder. “I regularly bribe Chloe for information.”

“I’m going to have to replace that girl with a retired Catholic nun who will see right through your charm, see what a bad man you are.”

He shuddered. “I much prefer Chloe.” His eyes grew serious. “You terrify me. He had a gun.”

“He doesn’t anymore. The police have it. I doubt he even has working internal

organs.”

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Joey W. Hill

He framed her face in his hands, commanding her attention with a little shake. “Do you know how it would tear my guts out to lose you?”

She shook her head, looked down, away, uncomfortable. Her body tensed and he

knew she was about to pull away. Tyler reined his temper back with effort.
Stop
pushing. She was brave enough to come here last night. Don’t scare her off sooner than she’ll do
it on her own.
He reached into a shady corner under the bench.

A wildflower, a delicate star in a shade of pure cream, came into the field of Marguerite’s lowered gaze a moment before it was brushing against her lips, the stem of the flower held in Tyler’s hand.

“I leave you alone for an hour and you’re lying out here naked with another guy.

Faithless wench.”

She tilted her head, dodging the flower and enjoying looking at him with the sun making the highlights of silver in his dark hair gleam. “Did you like his sketch?”

“I like anything that involves you.” He smiled as she reached out spontaneously and touched his throat, caught her fingers in the soft hairs of his chest through the open collar of his shirt. Her deft fingers even slipped one button to play more freely on his skin. “And yes, despite the fact I know his hellhound of a dealer will extort an ungodly amount of money from me to obtain the finished work, I liked it.”

“He must be doing well to have a gallery dedicated to him in New York.”

“He’s had that for a couple years. Josh is getting ready for his second tour of Europe. Milan, Paris, et cetera. That’s why Marcus is nagging him for several more pieces. His last one was auctioned off for a quarter of a million dollars.”

Her eyes widened. “I thought you were joking…he was joking. Who is he? Oh…”

Her hand went to her mouth. “He’s the anonymous Zone sculptor.”

“Actually, that was done by several of his protégés, under his supervision.”

“J. Martin.” Her hand reached out, caught his sleeve. “I didn’t know… I wouldn’t have… It will be all over Europe…the States…”

Tyler burst out laughing at her look of horror. “The only woman I know who

blanches at the idea of being immortalized in the art world. What if Mona Lisa had felt that way? Or Michelangelo’s David? Don’t worry, angel.” He stroked back her hair.

“I’m going to buy it. The sculpture, the sketch, it will all be mine.”
Just like the woman
that inspired them.
“I’ll enjoy it as privately as you wish.” His lips brushed hers. “As privately as I intend to enjoy you, over and over. Just let that be a lesson to you when you let strange men see you naked.”

Her grip eased, but something in her face made his eyes narrow. “Marguerite—”

She rose off him before he could tug her back down, reached for the robe. “I

wouldn’t have let him if I had known. If I knew it would cost you so much money. I can go talk to him, tell him not to…that I withdraw my permission.”

He stood, catching up to her in two steps, taking her arm to stop her. “He’s in prison.”

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Mirror of My Soul

She jerked free, her expression making that lightning change from malleable

woman to hostile wild creature, frustrating him. “And he doesn’t know where I am, who I am.”

“He hasn’t seen you since you were fourteen. It will be a sculpture.”

“He’ll know. You don’t know. You see? I can’t do this. I can’t…”

“You’ll let him put you in a cage, keep you from feeling, loving, because of the fear that it
might
bring him back to you again?” His control broke. “For God’s sake, have some faith in us, in me. Stop running from him. Stop being so afraid. You can do better than this.”

Something in her went still, frozen. He knew he’d said the wrong thing and

instantly wished he could take it back. She lifted her chin, spoke in a voice that was terrible for its low intensity, the enormous feelings that trembled behind the quiet words.

“It’s not about fear. It’s about never feeling clean, spending years scrubbing your soul raw so you can eat without feeling nauseous, can look in the mirror and meet your own eyes when you put on makeup, brush your hair. To learn to be strong, to run your life and not be a victim of it, knowing in your heart that everything you’ve built is sitting on a foundation that can sink at any time. And you build it anyway, on faith alone that it won’t be shattered, when everything in your life tells you that faith is a fucking joke, but you do it anyway.
You do it anyway
.

“Have you ever been completely helpless while someone is torturing you? Night

after night? I should have died on that building that day, but I didn’t. I’ve had to make myself a life, believing I should be dead, wanting to be dead because I couldn’t stop him from destroying them. I’ve done the best I can. The very best I can. And to have the person who says he loves me tell me it’s not good enough…”

Her face was strained, white, tearless, which made the brittle brilliance of her blue eyes even more terrible to see.

“Oh, Marguerite.” He closed the gap between them and pulled her in his arms

despite the fact she stood rigid. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

She shook in his arms, but the tight fist of fear around his heart eased a fraction as, an eternity of a moment later, her arms crept up, held him back. He stroked her hair, held her fiercely close, whispered to her, but the words were resounding in his head, pounding at him in a way he could not push away.

…to have the person who says he loves me tell me my best is not good enough…

He put his hands to her bare waist, though he felt as if he were the one naked. He even felt a tremor in his hands which he hoped she didn’t. Something was shifting between them. He’d hoped to reach the point she would open up to him the way she was starting to do. He hadn’t anticipated it would open up things in himself as well, things he’d thought he could keep out of their relationship.

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Joey W. Hill

With an effort, he beat it back and lifted her chin. “Your strength humbles me in every way. I’m a stupid bastard and I was taking out my frustration on you. Your fear tears at my heart. I don’t want you to have a moment of pain or worry.”

Her blue eyes studied his. He was afraid she saw too much of what was moving

there. “That is entirely unrealistic,” she said at last.

He felt a smile grow in his chest, sweeping the shadows back to their corners and knew Josh had it wrong. It was Marguerite who kept
his
nightmares at bay.

He cleared his throat. “I want to show you a special place on the grounds. Let’s go find you some clothes and good walking shoes so I can take you there.”

She gave him a long look, which reminded him uncomfortably of how she studied

her subs when they were trying to hide something from her, but at length she nodded.

“Okay.”

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Mirror of My Soul

She’d brought a loose cotton gauze dress that provided optimal comfort over her assortment of aches and pains from the prior evening’s activities. They walked hand in hand to the water’s edge and he took her on a path along it, explaining more of the history of the plantation, identifying different birds they saw, flower types she touched as they passed. Marguerite had felt the tremor in his hands when he asked for her forgiveness. As she opened her dark rooms to him, she was making the intriguing discovery that it was providing the key to some of his. She wanted to know this man she’d chosen to call Master down to his soul, in a way she hadn’t tried to do even with the submissives who had offered her everything.

However, she wasn’t as ruthless as her reputation. She suspected the past twelve hours had drained him as emotionally and physically as they had drained her, so for now they walked quietly, talking of easy things. At his prompting, she described the trips she’d made to South America, India and other parts of Asia for different tea auctions and plantation visits, the people she’d met there. His arm slid around her waist, bringing her closer as the day became cloudier and a breeze started to build in strength off the water. “We’re going to get a storm.” He eyed the sky. “We’re about halfway to where I wanted to take you. You want to keep going or turn back?”

She looked up at him. “Keep going. I’ll risk the storm.”

He tightened his hold on her and they resumed walking. “Marguerite,” he said

after a bit, his voice more serious. “I am sorry, about before. I’m an ogre like that, you know. I get impatient when the people I care about are threatened. When I feel helpless to make them feel better, safer.”

“A very male reaction. Men get angry and aggressive when things don’t go their way.” She stopped, gave him honesty. “And you do make me feel better, safer.”

He half smiled, but something deadly moved into his expression, something that startled her, though she had sensed it was in him from the first time they’d met. “I can have him killed. There are men who owe me favors, who wouldn’t even blink at

ridding the world of a piece of garbage like him.”

“I thought about it, several times,” she responded softly. “Even went so far as to make an inquiry or two. But…it’s not the right path. Not for either of us.” She tilted her head. “But thank you for asking. For offering.”

It was a remarkable exchange, Tyler reflected as they walked on, both of them now content not to say anything further on the subject. The first fat drops of rain began to fall and he grinned. “I told you. It’s going to get here faster than I thought. Can you sprint like that day at the tennis courts?”

“I almost beat you,” she reminded him.

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Joey W. Hill

Even with that, in the way of Southern storms the full force of the shower was on them in twenty more steps, a heavy rain that made the winding asphalt path slick and dark like a raven’s wing. Steam rose from the tarred surface, disrupted by the raindrops. She stopped, pulling her hand free to push her wet hair she’d left down for him from her face. He saw her eyes were laughing, her mouth quivering against the real thing.

“It’s like music,” she said, her voice rising over the wind. Lightning flashed over her, followed by the roar of thunder. His angel spread her arms and began to twirl, her hair spinning with her, the wet skirt fluttering with the wind, grabbing for slick purchase on her legs.

As it grew wetter, the dress’s white cotton fabric began to cling to her. When she twirled, she stepped into a puddle, splattering water on her ankles and the glistening curves of her calves. Gathering up her hair in her hands, she held it to the top of her head as she swayed with the movement of the wind, her eyes closing, her mind

obviously concentrating on the presence of the storm on her body. She undulated her upper torso with that rhythm, began to perform a sensuous dance with the elements.

Turning and jumping as lightly as a dancer, then stomping in the puddle with both feet with the abandon of a child. She opened her eyes, stretched out a hand and he took it, moving with her in a spinning dance across the path and back. Taking both her hands, he swung with her in a wide circle, mesmerized by the way the water rolled down her face and the top curves of her breasts, revealed by the scooped neckline of the dress. He brought her into him, a turn that put her back against his body. He held her there, nudging her head to the side to suck beads of water off the side of her throat. When his hand came up to catch a cold wet nipple through the cloth, her back arched, rubbing her bottom against him. She broke away, headed down the path as her laughter—
her
laughter
—called him to give pursuit.

Kicking off the comfortable slides, she ran from him in bare feet, her arms wide like wings, ropes of hair spilling down her back wildly like a glossy cape. His heart had wings of its own, as if he were a young man again with no weights on his heart, but with the wisdom of his present age to know what a tremendous gift this moment was.