The Colors of Love (8 page)

"A smock," he said. When she'd unbuttoned her shirt, his heart had stopped. "You wear that for painting?"

"Hmm," she agreed, hanging it on the back of a chair.

He jerked a chair out and sat down. This wasn't going the way he'd planned. "We have to talk about Sara," he said grimly.

"Let me get the kettle first."

She turned away, her hips clearly outlined by the stretchy black fabric. He couldn't see the line of her underwear, cursed himself for looking. Clothes like hers should be banned from public wear. There wasn't a curve he couldn't see, and he ached to see her without the stretchy covering of black fabric, to know if her skin was as soft as he'd dreamed. To know if...

Damn it! He wasn't a horny teenager. He was a man, and he wasn't
looking
for a woman. He had Diana, a woman he knew he could trust, a relationship building toward intimacy, perhaps permanency.

If he
were
looking for a woman, Jamila would be the last one he'd choose.

As she lifted the kettle and turned to pour boiling water into the teapot, the line of her breast firmed. She couldn't possibly be wearing a bra, that soft curve...

She turned to the cupboard and reached down an earthenware mug, her buttocks bunching to seductive firmness as she stretched up onto her toes.

Christ!

"I'll have some," he growled. "Tea." He needed something to grip in his hands. Even more, he needed to get out of here. Five minutes, he promised himself. He'd accomplish what he'd come for, and get out.

She carried two mugs to the table, placed a warming pad, and then set the teapot on it.

"Tell me about Sara," she said, sitting on the chair with one leg curled up under herself. She placed her chin in her hand and focused green eyes on his face. "There isn't—is something wrong?"

"I have concerns." He settled his elbows on the table and realized once again that he was still holding her blackened lightbulb.

"You changed my bulb." Her laugh stopped short of her voice, a breath of amusement. She half stood and stretched one arm across the table to take the bulb.

He forced himself to hold his eyes on her face, knew he mustn't let himself see, really see, the soft rounding of her breasts inviting him to reach out, to take the weight of seductive softness into his hands.

He dropped the bulb on the table and announced, "I'm concerned about Sara."

She grasped the bulb and retreated to her side of the table. "She's sick? There's something wrong? Some injury?"

"She seemed perfectly healthy when I discharged her." That was good, he decided. He sounded like a professional now, not a man at the mercy of irrational hormones. "My concern is that she's a seven-year-old child whose father isn't very discerning in selecting caregivers."

Jamila nodded. "The woman downstairs," she said, "the babysitter. Why wasn't she in the apartment with Sara? That's bothering you, isn't it? It bothers me, too."

"I didn't come to discuss Mrs. Davis."

Her eyes widened, the green glowing brilliantly.

"You've asked Sara to visit?"

"Yes, she can visit Squiggles here." She laughed again, that almost-laugh that was more breath than sound. "I guess I'm Squiggles's foster mom ow. Isn't that a crazy name for a cat, but you see, Sara—"

"When's she coming?" His voice echoed harshly against the soft breath of her dying laughter.

"Wednesday afternoon." Her green eyes narrowed, as if she finally sensed that he wasn't here as a friend.

He should have done all this at the door, demanded answers standing outside her threshold. How had he ended up sitting at her table with a teapot between them, trying desperately not to notice how tempting she looked in elasticized black?

He cleared his throat. "Wayne Miller has no business sending his daughter off for an afternoon with a woman he knows nothing about."

She settled back into her chair, her arms wrapping her midriff protectively. He felt a moment of guilt, pushed it away.

Sara was his concern, not Jamila Ferguson's possible sensitivity to criticism.

"You're here to check me out?"

"Exactly."

She pushed her chair back as she stood. "Are you going to question me? Ask for references?"

He stood to face her with the table between them. "You have dangerous chemicals under your sink, and a front porch without a rail—that's a contravention of the building code, by the way. You don't even have a living room, just a painter's studio filled with poisonous substances. Where is Sara going to
be
when she visits? What will she do when you get a fit of inspiration and start painting—when you forget she's here?"

Her arms were hugging her body again, her eyes wide and... innocent, like a child's.

"You think I'll bring Sara in here and forget her, neglect her?"

"You let me in and started painting, then forgot I was here. I could have done anything, been anywhere in this house, and you wouldn't have known or cared while you had that paintbrush in your hand."

The breath she took filled her body with visible tension. "I didn't realize I needed to supervise
you.
I certainly didn't expect you to snoop through my cupboards, looking for evidence."

"Somebody has to."

Her head tilted back, eyes narrowed. "Have you come to forbid me to see Sara because I'm an artist and there's no rail on my front landing?"

"If it's in Sara's best interests, I'll stop you. The nurse said you mentioned references to Mr. Miller. I think that's a good idea."

Her chest betrayed her rapid breathing. Anger, he thought, surprised at the tension he sensed in her body. He hadn't expected her to control it.

"You want me to give you references?"

"Exactly." What the hell was he going to do with references? Go around asking questions about her, like a private detective?

"No. I don't believe you have any right to ask. You're not Sara's parent or her guardian. For some reason you've decided I'm unsuitable, but that's your problem, not mine."

She shook her hair back. "Sara's coming Wednesday after school. I invited her, talked to her father about it. He's entitled to references from me if he wants them. You're not."

"Perhaps not," he agreed, his jaw aching with tension. "However, if you won't give me references, expect a visit from a social worker between now and Wednesday."

He felt something at his ankle, looked down, and saw the orange cat rubbing against him. Had she fed the animal? Probably not, he decided irritably.

Squiggles rubbed against his ankle again, emitting a long meow.

"I don't suppose you've thought to take the cat to a vet," he speculated grimly. "He's been living on the streets. He needs to be checked for disease, parasites."

"I think that can wait until Monday when the animal clinics have regular hours, unless you want me to call one of the emergency numbers in the phone book?"

What he'd really like was to grab her and shake her, hard.

"I'd like you to take this seriously, show some sense of responsibility." My God, he sounded like a frazzled parent coping with an adolescent. What the hell was he doing here?

"I think you'd better leave," said Jamila. "Bill me for services if you like." She smiled, inflaming his temper even more. "For changing the lightbulb."

Chapter 5

"I met a man," Jamie announced as she stepped into Liz's office the next morning.

Liz looked up from her desk, frozen in the motion of signing a check. "That's an odd thing for you to say."

Jamie felt laughter bubble and knew it must be insanity, not mirth. She kept thinking flashing back to last night, staring across her kitchen table at Alexander, seeing his tension, his anger, his eyes—and remembering their kiss. She could have sworn that kiss was tangible, a tempting presence between them through his entire visit.

"What do you mean, odd?" she asked Liz.

The older woman signed the check with a flourish. "You've been struggling for years, learning your craft, honing your skills, working for the moment when you could support yourself as an artist. And now"—she tore the check out of the checkbook and held it out to Jamie—"you've just had a successful opening, you're here to collect a check for a significant amount of money..."

Jamie stared at the check. "You said eight paintings. This is—"

"We sold three more yesterday."

Three more paintings, and a check in her hand that she really hadn't believed in.

"Which ones?"

"Friday Afternoon,
and the two night studies of the Port Townsend lighthouse."

"I'll miss the lighthouse night scene." She remembered how the moon had turned the world to enchantment as she sketched, how magically the tall white lighthouse had stood at its post, sending its beam to fishermen and yachtsmen.

"You'll always miss the ones you sell."

She smiled at Liz's frown. "I'm not going to turn into a prima donna, I promise. I'll sell them. You know how much I've dreamed of this ever since I first came into your gallery on my twelfth birthday."

Liz slipped out from behind the desk to give Jamie a warm hug. "You've been so dedicated I worry about you. I must have introduced you to a dozen eligible, attractive men over the years, and not one distracted you from your painting."

"I'm not distracted. I've finished a new canvas—a man walking home in a midnight rainstorm."

"Him?"

"It wasn't intended to be him in the beginning, but yes—him."

"I need a coffee—herbal tea for you, then we'll sit on the sofa and you'll tell me all about this man."

But Jamie couldn't settle on the sofa. Instead, she went to the window, where she could see the blazing sun announcing spring, a woman hurrying along the street carrying an awkward bundle.

"He doesn't like me." She spun, placed her back against the window, and said, "The chemistry is amazing. I've never felt it before."

Liz gripped the coffeepot with one hand, the other suspended in midair. "What do you mean—
it?"

"Sizzle, heat, lust." Jamie laughed, emotion bubbling up from memory.

"You didn't—you and he didn't—?"

"I kissed him. Or—" She brushed words away with one hand, the feeling zinging in her veins. Could she paint this feeling? It would have to be an abstract, swirls of motion in the colors of awareness.

"Or—?"

"Or
he
kissed me. I'm not sure exactly, but—"

"—but you say he doesn't like you? Are you going to see him again?"

"Oh, yes." She remembered her anger last night, the way he'd stood in her kitchen, his voice harsh as he listed her deficiencies. "He wants me." She knew it was true, would have known even without the kiss that had stripped his mask away.

"He dislikes you? Jamie, be careful. I don't think—"

"He doesn't know me yet. The antagonism—it's chemistry, I think. His name's Alexander. I looked it up, it means
defender of man."
She laughed, couldn't contain the joy. "I don't know about
man,
but he's certainly a defender of children."

She couldn't remain inactive, confined in this room. "I have to go. I've got a cat to take to the vet, and I have to get back home, but—Liz, I need a sketch block and some pastels. I need to get something down, now, before I lose it."

"You know where they are." Jamie was at the door before Liz added, "Please be careful."

Jamie turned back and saw Liz's perfectly made-up face frowning with concern. She felt a wave of affection for this woman who had befriended her when she was a twelve-year-old child grieving the loss of her mother. Liz had given her the world of art, and over a decade of friendship and support.

"I'm not going to be careful. I'm twenty-eight years old, perhaps the only twenty-eight-year-old virgin in Seattle, and for the first time in my life I've met a man I—a man I want as a lover. It isn't about choosing or being careful. It's going to happen, I can feel it."

Alexander. What did his friends call him? Alex? Zander?

"Bring him here. I want to meet him."

"Yes, when I can. Don't worry, Liz. He won't interfere with my painting. You'll have your canvases."

She imagined Alexander walking through the gallery with her, looking at the paintings. Did he enjoy art? She knew so little about him... nothing, really, just the
feel
of him. In the hospital he'd been contained, confident, soothing to Sara's panic, touching her gently. Healing hands, she thought. What would it be like if he brushed her cheek with the back of one hand, the tingle of awareness racing across her face, down her throat?

Blue, she thought, but not cobalt or royal blue, or even aquamarine.

In Liz's back room, Jamie grabbed a sketchpad and pulled an easel to the window. Pastels... The
colors
weren't right, too weak, but she needed the shape in her mind, that tangle of sensation and apprehension like a wave from the sea, fearing itself as the tide swept: inevitably... blue, green tangled underneath, shades of black. The color of awareness riding on fate.

She worked intensely for fifteen minutes, then tore the page off. She needed paints, pure colors mixed with bold quickness. Not acrylics, but the brooding layers of oils, purity and sensation.