The Colors of Love (17 page)

If he didn't touch her, she could get through this.

"I'll stand," he said, "unless you're going to sit?"

She shook her head, managed to swallow without gulping, and successfully fought the urge to pull her hands out of her pockets and wrap her arms protectively around herself.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. "You weren't home last night, or this morning."

"You said you wanted to apologize."

"Yes," he agreed, cramming his hands into his pockets.

Jamie knew him well enough to know he must hate the turbulence she saw in his eyes. She wondered what her own eyes showed, what she would paint in them if she took up a brush and made this into a picture. She thought of the way she'd blithely announced to Liz that she intended to have this man as her lover, believing she could take a lover with passion and lust, yet without risking herself.

She hadn't understood, hadn't known he could get under her skin, hadn't realized how it could hurt. Knowing, understanding that his power would only increase if she let it go on, she understood that she could not afford an affair.

"Jamila—" One of Alex's hands escaped from his pocket to make a gesture she measured as frustration. "You're right, I've been unfair to you. I—you have this effect on me." He brushed his hair back impatiently, and she knew the risk was at its worst now, because he was going to be honest.

"What effect?"

He couldn't seem to stay still, began pacing the carpet. "You were right about Paula."

"You wanted to show me how a real woman cares for a child, how unsuitable I am to care for Sara?"

"You have this effect on me, have from the first moment I saw you. It's a chemical effect, and I—Somehow, I'm not rational around you."

"...and you're a man who hates being irrational."

"Yes, damn it!" He stopped pacing and faced her across the desk. "Taking you to Paula's was—I think I did it to knock sense into myself. To—" His hands traced a ragged shape in the air. "To talk myself out of you."

She told her heart to stop pounding, but her throat still felt choked. "What do you mean?" she demanded, but she understood exactly. "You wanted to contrast me with a woman you approved of, show yourself how unsuitable I am?"

His hands dove into pockets again, his eyes intent on hers. "You said it Thursday night. I was a bastard. I didn't want to be involved with a woman like you, didn't want to
want
you."

She'd sensed his unwillingness, at first, and it was a challenge. When she decided he would be her lover, she supposed that she'd planned to use whatever power she had over him—power she could
feel
when he was near—to draw him beyond unwillingness and into her arms.

"You don't know me," she said.

"I've had... unfortunate experiences with artistic people. Out there—" He jerked his head to indicate the gallery outside the office. "Looking at your pictures, I realized—You're right, I don't know you. I've no rational reason to believe you're in any way unsuitable for Sara to visit you. My prejudices got away from me. I'm sorry."

Her well-imprinted party manners told her she should tell him she forgave him, or accepted his apology. She was strangely unwilling to say any such thing, but he stood there, waiting, and finally she said, "I said some things I didn't mean, too."

He laughed then, and she smiled before she could tell herself not to. "I think you should go, Alex."

"Come to lunch with me, or at least coffee—tea for you."

"I have things to do here." She gestured to the papers on Liz's desk. "Besides, I don't think it's a good idea for us to see each other."

"You thought differently the night I took you to dinner. You said you wanted an affair." His eyes wouldn't let hers free.

"I changed my mind."

When he moved as if to step around the desk, she held her hand out to stop him.

"What's different, Jamila? What's changed?"

"I have work, a fall showing to prepare for. I don't have time to play."

"You took last night off. Wherever you were, you certainly weren't at home painting. Surely you could take an hour."

"Why? What's the point?"

He ran his hand roughly through his hair again. "I'd like to get to know you, without the arguments. Come out for a drink. Spend the afternoon with me, the rest of the day."

He smiled and she knew it would be madness to let him persuade her. He would never never really understand her, and she knew now that it mattered.

"We'll always argue," she said soberly. "You want to get to know me without arguments, but we're too different. Everything you disapprove of is at the heart of who I am. You know what you want, Alex, you were very clear about it the night you took me to Eduardo's. You want a certain kind of woman, a
suitable
woman. Her name's Diana."

He reached across the desk with one swift hand and captured her wrist. "I
should
want Diana, but all I can see is you. I need to find out what this is."

"But
I
don't." She wanted to tug her hand away, knew she'd risk losing the thin veil of control over uncertain emotions if she did. She forced her arm to relax in his grip, forced herself to concentrate on his eyes, to forget his fingers touching her.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked softly.

"Not you," she said, and knew she lied.

"Spend the day with me."

"I don't want you in my house, and I won't go to yours. I don't want an affair."

"Tea. You must want tea, even if you don't want a lover."

"Tea," she agreed. "Only tea."

Mercifully, he released her hand before he noticed that she'd begun to tremble. Sex, she'd told herself, lust, and it had seemed a game, one she'd never played before. Perhaps the antagonism had made her blind to the risks, but Liz had been right to worry when Jamie announced her plans so confidently.

She was in danger of beginning to like him very much, perhaps more than like. If they did have an affair, she'd better make certain she didn't fall in love with him, because she could never turn herself into a Diana, and would destroy herself if she tried.

"Shall we go?" he asked. "Are you done here?"

"For the moment."

When she picked up her purse from the edge of Liz's desk, he stepped back with formal good manners to let her precede him from the office. They found Liz adjusting a wall hanging in an alcove near the stairs.

"I'm going out for tea, Liz. I'll be back later."

"Take care," said Liz, and Jamie flushed because of course Liz would realize this was the man Jamie had talked about. She started down the stairs, telling herself Liz
wouldn't
say anything about that in front of him, surely she wouldn't? She was five steps down when she realized Alex had remained behind. She turned back and heard him tell Liz he wanted the boy with the dogs.

"You bought one of my paintings?" she demanded when he joined her at the bottom of the stairs. "Why?"

He held the door for her, but she balked when he led her toward his car.

"There's a deli on the corner. They have all sorts of teas, coffee too. Good coffee."

He shrugged and let her have her way, taking her arm as they walked to the corner.

"Why did you tell Liz you were buying the puppies?" she demanded when they were seated in the little deli.

"Why not? It's a gallery, they sell paintings."

The server appeared at their table wearing an apron over jeans and a T-shirt. "Tea, Jamie?"

"Thanks, Jen. And my friend wants coffee, that dark French roast."

"Coming right up," she assured them.

"I don't have a problem with you buying a painting," she hissed when they were alone again. "I just—no, that's not true. I
do
have a problem with your buying one of
my
paintings."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know
why
you're doing it, and I can't help wondering if you're going to use it against me."

"Against?" He looked astounded. "How could I use a painting against you?"

"Promise me you won't."

"I won't," he assured her. "I wouldn't." He picked up a creamer from a small dish on the table, then put it down again. "I was a bastard," he said in a low voice. "I would never use your painting to—I liked the boy, that's all. He reminds me of my brother."

"I guess I'm not sure if I trust you. Actually, I
don't
trust you." She had trusted him in the beginning, but now—"Why aren't you with Diana today?"

"She's in Venice."

Was that why he'd been attracted to her? Because his girlfriend was away. "When will she be back?"

"Five weeks. Four weeks now."

He didn't like talking about Diana, she could tell, so perversely she didn't change the subject. "Is that how long you've scheduled for us? Four weeks, then you can take up where you left off with Diana?" She forced her eyes to narrow, said, "I'm not sure it will last four weeks. We've nothing in common."

Anger flashed in his eyes. "I don't think either of us will be bored."

"Coffee," announced Jen as she delivered a mug to Alex, "and a pot of tea for you, love."

"Thanks, Jen. It smells lovely."

"It does," agreed Alex, sniffing his strong Java, and Jen went away with a smile. Alex leaned forward, the mug between his hands. "I told you, Diana and I do not have a committed relationship."

"You also told me that you will probably marry her."

"It's true. I expect I will marry Diana, or someone like her."

She carefully poured tea from the earthenware pot into her cup. "Before you do, you want me?"

"There's not much doubt about that." His comment was a low growl, and she couldn't stop her face from flaming at the memory of his hands on her, of the passion that had raged through both of them, especially when he added, "You can't deny it's mutual."

No, she couldn't stop her heated memory from showing in her face, but she could hold his eyes without pulling her gaze away. If she were wise, she would take an easel, her paint box, and a trunk full of canvases, put Squiggles in his cage, pack everything in the hatchback. She'd head south to paint those massive rocks that threatened the coast of Oregon, the sandy curves of the Pacific Coast Highway. If she went now, right now, as soon as she got home, she could escape.

"Yes," she said, "it's true that I want you."

* * *

"It's a good day for the water," Alex said as they emerged into the sunshine. "Spend the day with me, Jamila. We could pick up something to eat, catch the ferry to Bainbridge Island for a picnic lunch."

"I can't. Sara's coming."

"She can come too."

"No." Jamie stopped at her car and turned to face him. "This afternoon is Sara's. I'll go out with you tonight if you want."

"Seven o'clock?"

"Yes."

She thought he meant to reach for her, here in the street, perhaps to give her a light kiss of good-bye. To avoid his touch, she stepped back and onto the street. Then, with her car between them, she felt safe enough to say good-bye.

Somehow, she got home without smashing into anything, but she had to work to keep her attention on the road. Then she remembered that she'd told Liz she would come back to the gallery, but it was too late now. In half an hour Sara would arrive.

She checked the cat food in the dish—Squiggles had lots, but he wound himself around her legs, begging for the coveted tuna.

"Soon," she promised. "I'm going to let Sara give it to you."

Squiggles wasn't interested in waiting, but when he realized she wasn't going to give him anything but what was in his dish, he disdainfully picked up a piece of dry food and crunched it before stalking away.

Sara arrived wearing a bright red dress and a wide smile. "Where's Squiggles? He's still here, isn't he?"

"In my bedroom," said Jamie. "Go find him."

Sara returned with the cat in her arms, and once the ritual of feeding him was complete, she settled in the basket chair with him. Half an hour later, when her excitement over Squiggles had died down, she wandered over to the easel and stared at the painting.

"Weird," said Sara. "Is it all just colors and stuff?"

Jamie studied the painting, wondering what name she would give the work she'd created after dining with Alex's family. "It's about being angry, and being sad at the same time."

Sara cocked her head to one side. "If you painted me, would you make me mad and sad?"

"I'd paint you happy, wearing your beautiful red dress. Would you like me to make a drawing of you with Squiggles, so you can take it home with you?"

"Yes, please, Jamie." She twisted away, calling for the cat. "Squiggles, come on! We're going to be in a picture!"

Predictably, the cat twisted out of Sara's arms when Jamie suggested they sit together in the chair. "It's all right," said Jamie. "I'll do you first. Squiggles will come back and sit in your lap later and I'll get him then."

"My daddy says Mrs. Davis isn't going to baby-sit anymore," Sara announced. "He says we'll get somebody better."

"Do you like Mrs. Davis?" asked Jamie, sketching rapidly. She wondered if the change in baby-sitting arrangements had resulted from Alex reporting his concerns to the social worker.

"She's kind of grumpy," said Sara, "an' Daddy says this time we'll pick real careful, but we gotta pick somebody soon because he's off for seven days, then he goes back to work a bunch of nights."

"I hope you get somebody very nice," said Jamie, using charcoal to capture the look on Sara's face as she spotted Squiggles prowling back toward her.

"Here, kitty... over here."

Jamie added the line of Sara's arm as the girl reached for the cat, then quickly sketched the outline of kitten and girl as they poised on the brink of touching.

Shortly afterward, Sara became too restless to sit, but by then Jamie had the details she needed, and she worked on transferring the image to canvas while Sara followed Squiggles into the bedroom. Then she used pastels to color the original sketch, sprayed it with fixative, and presented it to an excited Sara.

When Wayne came to pick up his daughter at five-thirty, Sara threw herself into her father's arms. "Squiggles is way bigger, Daddy, an' he ate a big bunch of tuna, an' I got a picture—My picture! With Squiggles!"